THE DAY THE STARLIGHT ARRIVED

⟢ zae ⸝⸝ twenty one. she. plsenabletxtaligncenter

ao3 \ rules \ wattpad

© ZAERILYN all rights reserved. please do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my work on any platform.

LOVE and deepspace、 恋与深空｡

ᯓ ★ CALEB

⌜ null ⌟

ᯓ ★ RAFAYEL

⌜ null ⌟

ᯓ ★ SYLUS

⌜ null ⌟

ᯓ ★ VALKO

ᯓ ★ XAVIER

⌜ null ⌟

ᯓ ★ ZAYNE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © 2O26 zaerilyn — please do not repost, copy, translate, or modify my work on any platform.

reblogs & interactions are deeply appreciated ৻ꪆ

valko looked unfairly good for someone who was just sitting on the sofa pretending to work.

he had one arm thrown across the backrest, his laptop balanced on his thigh, and a sleeveless black shirt clinging to his chest like it had personally been designed to ruin your evening. his burgundy hair was messy, his golden eyes were narrowed at the screen, and his glasses sat crooked on his nose before slowly slipping down again.

instead of fixing them properly, he took them off halfway and left them hanging from one ear, the frame resting under his jaw while he kept typing.

that was when you knew you were doomed.

you curled into his side quietly, pressing yourself against his warmth. valko only hummed and shifted his arm to make space for you, still focused on whatever boring thing had stolen his attention. his bare bicep was right there, strong and warm beside your face, the muscle flexing slightly whenever his fingers moved over the keyboard.

you reached out and squeezed it.

valko’s typing paused for half a second.

you squeezed again, softer this time, your thumb pressing into the muscle before letting go. it was firm, obviously, because he was built like a walking problem, but it still had enough give to make your brain go pleasantly blank.

“you’re doing it again,” he murmured, eyes still on the screen.

“doing what?” you asked, leaning closer like you had no idea.

“treating my arm like a stress toy.”

you smiled against his shoulder and gave his bicep another slow squeeze. “it’s a good stress toy.”

valko finally looked down at you, his glasses still dangling uselessly near his jaw. he looked annoyed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “i’m not sure i like being called a toy.”

“you love attention.”

“i love peace.”

you squeezed again, and one burgundy wolf ear popped into view.

both of you went still.

valko stared at the laptop.

you stared at his ear.

“don’t,” he said quietly.

you pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “i didn’t say anything.”

“you were about to.”

“your ear came out.”

“it didn’t.”

you squeezed his bicep once more, and the ear flicked so fast it betrayed him completely. the second ear appeared right after, twitching as if offended on his behalf.

you lost the fight and laughed into his arm.

valko sighed, closing the laptop with one hand. “you’re impossible.”

“and you’re cute,” you said, rubbing your cheek against his warm shoulder like you were trying to make him worse on purpose.

his ears dipped, and for one sweet second, he looked genuinely flustered.

that should have been enough.

but his bare arm was still under your hands, warm and solid and too tempting. you were already too comfortable, already half tucked against him, already thinking very little and feeling too much.

so you leaned down and bit his bicep.

not hard. just a quick, affectionate little chomp against bare skin.

valko froze.

his whole body went still beneath you, the kind of stillness that made your stomach drop and flutter at the same time. slowly, you pulled back and saw the faint press of your teeth on his skin.

“...oops,” you whispered.

valko turned his head toward you. his cheeks were pink, but his eyes had gone bright gold, sharp and warm all at once.

“oops?” he repeated.

you sat up a little, suddenly aware of how close he was. “intrusive thought.”

he looked down at the mark, then back at you. his ears stood tall now, very interested. “you bit me.”

“a little.”

“on bare skin.”

“your arm was right there,” you said, like that explained anything.

his expression shifted slowly, the flustered look melting into something much more dangerous and much more amused. he set the laptop on the coffee table without looking away from you.

“do you know what that means?” he asked, his voice lower now.

your face warmed. “that i need better impulse control?”

valko leaned in until his nose brushed your cheek. “it means you marked me.”

“i did not.”

“you left teeth on me, sweetheart.”

you tried to move back, but the sofa arm stopped you. valko followed easily, one hand bracing beside your hip, the other sliding around your waist. his body crowded yours in the softest, warmest way, all muscle and heat and that wild scent under his skin.

“i was just squishing your arm,” you said, weaker now.

“then you got greedy.”

his mouth brushed the side of your jaw, not quite a kiss yet. the closeness made your fingers curl into his shirt. “valko.”

“what?” he murmured, dragging his nose down the line of your neck. “you started it.”

you felt his tail appear before you saw it, the soft weight swishing behind him against the sofa.

“your tail is wagging,” you whispered.

he paused against your neck. “no, it isn’t.”

“it really is.”

“because i’m in alpha mode.”

you laughed, breathless and warm, and he punished you for it by nipping gently at your shoulder. not hard, just enough to make you gasp and clutch at him.

valko lifted his head, his golden eyes warm with amusement while his thumb kept brushing lazy circles into your waist. he looked far too pleased for someone whose tail was still betraying him behind his back.

“still think it was just a little bite?” he asked.

you swallowed, trying very hard to look unaffected even though he was close enough that every breath of his touched your skin. “it was.”

“mhm.” his gaze dropped briefly to your mouth, then back up again. “then why are you looking at me like that?”

your fingers tightened in his shirt. “like what?”

valko’s smile turned slow, all teeth and trouble.

“like you already know you started something.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out fast enough. he leaned closer, lips brushing the corner of your jaw as his voice dipped lower.

“you marked me,” he murmured. “now i have to claim you back.”

infold, count your days. give us valko back!!!

requested by thankgodmyphoneswaterproof ᰔ

5 TIMES ZUKO BURNED THE PALACE + 1 TIME THE MAID FINALLY UNDERSTOOD WHY

art cr @ oouyox on X

O1 | HOPELESSLY DEVOTED TO YOU

The palace staff had quickly learned to read the architectural warning signs. At first, the occasional flicker of the wall sconces was easy to dismiss as a normal side effect of living inside the Fire Nation royal estate, where ceremonial flames burned at nearly every corner and the Caldera heat had a personality of its own. A candle trembling during a tense council meeting was not unusual. A brazier roaring too brightly after the Fire Lord received bad news was simply part of palace life. Firebenders were emotional people, after all, and the palace had housed generations of them.

But then the Fire Lord got married, and suddenly the entire palace became one prolonged fire hazard.

Whenever Zuko was struck by a particularly intense wave of desire for his wife, his inner fire reacted with embarrassing honesty. The decorative flames burning in the iron wall sconces would surge upward, roaring to life in blinding, unnatural pillars of gold. Lanterns trembled on their hooks, curtains smoked at the edges, and the very air in certain corridors grew so thick and hot that walking through them felt like stepping into the throat of a dragon. It became common knowledge among the staff that if a hallway suddenly felt like a furnace and the torches were licking the ceiling, you simply turned around and walked the other way.

No one said anything directly, of course. This was the Fire Lord and Fire Lady, newlyweds and apparently determined to test the structural endurance of every room, corridor, garden, balcony, kitchen, archive, and unfortunately, the royal study. The guards developed a silent rotation around the affected areas. The maids began carrying water basins with the same exhausted professionalism soldiers carried spears. The council, with great suffering and even greater self-preservation, pretended not to notice whenever their notoriously strict, punctual ruler arrived at official meetings with his collar pulled suspiciously high and his hair slightly more ruined than court protocol allowed.

You, naturally, found the entire situation hilarious. Zuko didn’t.

“You’re ruining my reputation,” he muttered one morning over breakfast, glaring into his tea as if the jasmine leaves had personally betrayed him. His hair was still half-loose from sleep, his robe lazily tied at the waist, and the faint reddish mark just beneath his jaw was doing an absolutely terrible job of staying hidden under his collar.

You lifted your teacup with both hands, blinking at him over the rim with exaggerated innocence. “My love, your reputation survived banishment, piracy, treason, and that one unfortunate ponytail era. I think it can survive people knowing you like your wife.”

His golden eyes narrowed. “I do not merely like my wife.”

“Oh?”

His gaze flicked to your mouth, then back to your eyes with the grim seriousness of a man discussing military strategy. “I am devoted to my wife.”

Your heart did something terribly inconvenient inside your chest. Then Zuko, apparently deciding that ruining you emotionally before breakfast was perfectly acceptable royal behavior, added in a lower voice, “Obsessed, even.”

The candle between you burst into a sudden, dramatic flame.

Both of you looked at it.

From the doorway, the head maid closed her eyes and took a very slow breath. “Not again,” she whispered.

O2 | SEVEN MINUTES OF HEAVEN

The first major casualty of your absolute lack of restraint was the royal study. It had started as a minor disagreement over a passing comment made by a visiting Earth Kingdom dignitary, which really should not have escalated as quickly as it did. The dignitary had been harmless enough, charming in that polished diplomatic way, with smooth compliments and practiced laughter that clearly meant nothing beyond courtly manners. You had barely paid him any mind. Zuko, unfortunately, had paid him too much mind.

By the time the heavy doors of the royal study closed behind you both, the Fire Lord’s fiercely protective instincts were already simmering dangerously beneath his skin. The room smelled of cedar, parchment, ink, and the sharp metallic bite of ozone, a scent you had come to associate with your husband trying very hard not to set something on fire. He stood near the shelves with a scroll clenched in one hand, his jaw tight enough to cut glass, while you leaned against the edge of his massive oak map table and crossed your arms.

“You are being ridiculous, Zuko,” you said. The table behind you was covered in carefully arranged naval documents, trade routes, council reports, and one very important scroll that had taken three ministers nearly a week to prepare. “He complimented my diplomacy. That is literally his job.”

Zuko’s eyes flashed. “He complimented more than your diplomacy.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was honestly impressive you didn’t see the back of your own skull. “You know I only have eyes for you. Besides, you are one to talk. Honestly, with your history, I’m surprised you didn’t accidentally marry half the Earth Kingdom before I got here. Total womanizer.”

Zuko went completely still.

The scroll in his hand lowered slowly, and you realized a fraction too late that you had touched something far more tender than simple jealousy. Over the past decade, Zuko had mellowed into a composed ruler, a man capable of silencing entire council chambers with nothing but a look. But there were still old wounds beneath all that control, places where rejection and loneliness had carved themselves too deeply into him. Your teasing had landed somewhere dangerously close to one of them.

“A womanizer?” Zuko repeated quietly.

His voice was calm, and that was what made it worse. It had dropped into that dark, gravelly register meant only for you, the one that made the back of your neck prickle and your spine instinctively straighten. He placed the scroll down on the desk with careful precision, then moved around the table with slow, heavy steps until he was standing directly in front of you, crowding you back against the polished wood.

“My wife,” he said, his golden eyes burning with raw, defensive intensity, “I haven’t looked at, let alone wanted, another woman in years. I was abstinent before you invaded my palace, pointed a blade at my throat, and drove me completely insane.”

Your breath caught. The firelights in the study flickered at the edges of your vision, but you could barely focus on them with the way he was looking at you, as if the entire world had narrowed down to the space between your bodies.

“That was…” You swallowed, suddenly finding it very difficult to hold onto your smug little smile. “That was a very dramatic answer.”

Zuko only huffed, low and humorless, his mouth twitching like he could not decide whether he wanted to argue with you or ruin you against the nearest available surface.

“Anyway, you have a council meeting in exactly—”

“They can wait.”

“They really cannot.”

“They can,” he said, and there was something almost dangerous in how certain he sounded. His hands found your waist, scorching through the layers of crimson silk as he pushed closer, forcing the edge of the map table to press harder against the back of your thighs. The carefully organized naval reports crinkled beneath your palms when you braced yourself, and Zuko’s eyes dropped to the movement before lifting back to your face, dark and possessive and entirely too pleased with the way your composure had started to slip.

You opened your mouth to respond, but whatever clever retort you had prepared vanished the moment his lips brushed the side of your neck. Zuko had always loved you with a terrifying kind of intensity, and when his emotions caught fire, he had a habit of kissing like he was trying to prove something to both of you at once. Still, there was nothing uncertain in the way your fingers curled into his collar, nothing hesitant in the way you pulled him closer, dragging him down until his mouth finally crashed against yours.

The kiss wasn’t elegant. It was teeth and heat and months of carefully leashed obsession finally snapping under the weight of one careless accusation.

Zuko kissed you like he was still trying to prove a point, like every word you had thrown at him had struck somewhere too close to an old wound and he had decided the only acceptable response was to make you forget you had ever doubted him. One large, calloused hand slid up your spine, fingers spreading firmly between your shoulder blades while the other gripped your hip hard enough to make the silk wrinkle beneath his palm. You answered by biting his lower lip, and the low, broken sound that tore from his throat went straight through you.

“My lord,” you gasped against his mouth, freezing fingers twisting into the front of his robes. “You’re gonna be late—”

“Don’t care,” he panted, voice wrecked and rough. He shoved your skirts up with impatient hands and lifted you onto the map table in one motion. Scrolls scattered. An inkwell tipped over, spilling black across weeks of careful work, but neither of you noticed.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he pushed your legs apart. He freed himself with jerky movements, and the thick, scorching heat of his cock dragged against your inner thigh. You shivered at the contrast.

“Zuko—s-slow down—” The word broke into a sharp moan as he pushed inside you in one deep thrust, stretching you open around burning heat. The clash of temperatures dragged ragged groans from both of you.

He moved with none of his usual restraint after that, the table creaking beneath you as ruined scrolls slipped uselessly to the floor. Your freezing hands clutched at his shoulders, frost blooming beneath your fingertips before melting almost instantly against the fevered heat of his skin.

“You’re unbearable when you’re—ah!—jealous,” you managed between breaths, the words shaky and broken.

Zuko let out a breathless, almost pained laugh against your neck, hips never slowing. “And yet you keep giving me reasons.”

He shifted just enough to find the angle that made the whole room blur at the edges.

“Zuko—right t-there,” you gasped, head falling back as your legs tightened around his waist. The firelights in the study answered before he could, flickering wildly as his control slipped. Flames stretched higher in the sconces, throwing restless gold across the walls, while a nearby candle flared too bright and caught the corner of a discarded scroll.

Neither of you stopped.

Zuko moved with terrifying concentration, one hand planted against the table, the other gripping your thigh as if he needed something solid to hold onto. The room filled with heat, paper crumpled beneath you, and somewhere behind him, another small flame caught at the edge of an old tapestry.

“Zuko—ah, I’m g-gonna—” Your words dissolved into a broken moan as you came first, sudden and shattering. Your walls clenched tight around his burning length.

The cold rush dragged him over the edge right after. He buried himself deep with a choked groan, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you. His inner fire roared so fiercely that two of the wall sconces burst into tall, uncontrolled flames for several seconds before slowly settling.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the soft crackle of the small fires still licking at the edges of the room.

Zuko stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. His breath was hot and uneven against your neck. You carded freezing fingers through his messy hair and pressed a soft kiss to his scarred cheek.

“…You’re definitely late now,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

When Fire Lord Zuko finally strode into the grand hall—hair slightly mussed, ceremonial robes hastily straightened, and a very obvious trail of fresh dark marks blooming along the side of his neck—the temperature in the palace had spiked noticeably. The decorative fire sconces outside the royal study were still flaring brighter than usual.

Avatar Aang took one look at him, then at the faint sheen of lingering frost melting on Zuko’s collar, and choked violently on his tea.

The rest of the council suddenly found the table extremely interesting.

Zuko, however, simply took his seat with that terrifyingly composed Fire Lord mask firmly back in place. Though the faint, smug curve at the corner of his mouth gave him away completely.

He was exactly seven minutes late.

And he didn’t look sorry at all.

O3 | “SIR, I’M NOT PAID ENOUGH FOR THIS.”

The outdoor training courtyard was not safe from your antics either. The afternoon sun was blistering, turning the stone tiles warm beneath your bare feet, but the heat rolling off Zuko’s skin was even hotter. He moved across the courtyard with lethal precision, dual dao swords flashing in sharp silver arcs as he pressed forward. You met him strike for strike, your waterbending weaving through his aggression like a river cutting through stone. He had trained under masters, survived wars, fought prodigies and assassins and spirits, but you had learned his body in motion with a familiarity that made every sparring match feel less like combat and more like a private language.

He swung low. You stepped over the blade. He pivoted, and you caught the shift in his weight before he completed the motion, twisting your wrist and drawing moisture from the air until it hardened into a wicked, glittering blade of ice. With a sharp sweep of your ankle and a perfectly timed pull of water beneath his heel, you sent him off balance. Zuko hit the ground with a rough grunt, and before he could recover, you vaulted forward, straddling his waist and pressing the freezing tip of your ice dagger directly against the erratic pulse beating at his neck.

“Dead,” you panted, victorious and breathless, a smirk curling at your lips.

Zuko didn’t look at the blade. He looked at you.

His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his chest rising and falling beneath the open collar of his training robe. His golden eyes dragged slowly from your triumphant expression to the way your thighs pinned him in place, and the sudden clash of your freezing temperature against his scorching skin visibly wrecked whatever remained of his concentration. A soft cloud of steam curled where your bare legs pressed against him. His hands flexed once at his sides, then slid up to grip your thighs with desperate, reverent heat.

He had simply stopped trying.

“You’re distracted,” you accused, breathless and smug.

Zuko’s gaze flicked back to yours, dark and unashamed. “Well, you’re sitting on top of me.”

“That is a terrible excuse.”

“It’s a very convincing one.”

You laughed, delighted, but the sound barely had time to leave your mouth before his hand moved to the back of your neck and pulled you down into a kiss. The ice dagger dissolved instantly, melting into a harmless stream of water that ran over his collarbone and disappeared into the fabric of his robe. You meant to tease him for surrendering so easily, but then his hips shifted beneath you, and the thought scattered completely. Through the thin layers of training clothes, you felt the unmistakable hard line of him pressed against you, hot and insistent, betraying exactly why his focus had slipped in the first place.

Your breath caught against his mouth.

His grip on your thighs tightened, and when you moved by accident—just a slight shift of your weight over his lap—his reaction was immediate. A rough, strained sound broke low in his throat, his head tipping back against the ground for half a second before his golden eyes snapped back to yours, darker than before. The victory in your expression slowly turned into something far more dangerous.

“Oh,” you breathed, unable to stop the smile spreading across your lips. “So that’s why you lost.”

You shifted again, deliberately this time, just enough to make the heat between you drag in a way that stole the air from both of your lungs. Zuko’s hand slid up to your waist, holding you in place, but he did not push you away. If anything, he pulled you closer, guiding the slow, heated movement until the line between sparring and something far less appropriate blurred completely.

Around you, the courtyard seemed to inhale. The lanterns along the wall flared, the training posts began to smoke, and a nearby guard, who had unfortunately chosen that exact moment to enter through the side gate, stopped mid-step, stared at the scene, and very slowly turned around.

He did not get paid enough for this.

Two more guards followed him without a word.

By the time the flames around the courtyard settled, three practice posts had been scorched, one stone pillar had cracked from thermal shock, and Zuko had somehow managed to look both smug and completely ruined at the same time. You brushed ash off his shoulder later, trying very hard not to laugh, while he stood there with his hair destroyed, his robe uneven, and the kind of expression that made it very clear he had absolutely no regrets.

“This is why the staff avoids us,” you told him.

Zuko leaned down until his mouth brushed your ear. “Good.”

O4 | STEP ONE: CALL HIM ZUZU!

But the most chaotic incident happened in the supposed privacy of your royal bedchamber, fueled by three generous glasses of imported plum wine and your unfortunate discovery of Zuko’s old travel chest.

You were delightfully, shamelessly drunk, rummaging through the old belongings he had kept tucked away at the back of the chamber while he watched you from the bed with the wary patience of a man who knew his wife well enough to expect disaster. There were old cloaks, worn maps, a few dull blades wrapped in cloth, and several items from the years he clearly did not enjoy discussing unless he was already half-asleep and emotionally ambushed by your cold hands on his chest.

Then you found the mask.

The infamous wooden Blue Spirit mask stared up at you from beneath a folded travel cloak, its painted grin just as dramatic as the stories had promised. Your eyes widened. Your mouth fell open. Zuko, immediately sensing danger, sat up.

“No,” he said.

You slowly lifted the mask.

“No.”

“Zuko.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Zuzu.”

His expression tightened. “Don’t Zuzu me.”

You turned toward him with the biggest, most delighted smile he had ever seen, clutching the mask like a sacred treasure. “Katara told me about this.”

Zuko closed his eyes.

Of course Katara had told you. Katara had a gift, and it was not just waterbending, healing, or her terrifying ability to mother people into becoming better versions of themselves. No, Katara had the supernatural ability to make traumatized boys confess their entire life stories to her. Jet, Aang, Sokka, Zuko; somehow all of them had, at one point or another, looked into her kind blue eyes and decided, yes, this girl absolutely needed to hear the worst thing that had ever happened to them.

And now, thanks to her, you knew about the Blue Spirit, which meant Zuko was doomed.

It started as a joke, as most of your terrible ideas did. You had dragged the mask out of his travel chest with far too much excitement, demanded he put it on, and somehow managed to bully the Fire Lord of the Fire Nation into indulging you with nothing but sparkling eyes and a smile he had never learned how to refuse. The bargain had been simple, if deeply unfair: he would wear the mask, and in return you would sit sweetly in his lap—taking him fully inside you and staying there without moving.

Which, technically, you were doing.

The plum wine had left you warm and loose above him, your arms looped lazily around his neck while Zuko sat against the pillows with the last of his dignity barely hanging on by a thread. He was buried deep inside you, thick and throbbing while your walls wrapped snugly around his cock. He tried very hard to act like this was not the most unreasonable form of torture you had ever invented.

The mask stared back at you with its sharp painted grin, pale tusks, hollow eyes, and all the dramatic menace of a nightmare that had learned theater. It should not have been funny. It definitely should not have been romantic. But you, warmed by plum wine and your own terrible sense of humor, looked at him like this was the most delightful thing you had ever seen.

Zuko, unfortunately, had no idea what to do with that.

He had been perfectly willing to toss the mask aside the second you dragged it out of his travel chest, but you had whined so dramatically when he reached for it that he froze mid-motion, one hand hovering beside the painted blue grin.

“Nooo,” you complained, clutching at his wrist with both hands. “Keep the mask on.”

Zuko went still beneath you.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m extremely serious.”

“The mask is crooked.”

“That makes it better.”

“It does not.”

“It does,” you insisted, squinting at him with the solemn concentration of someone trying very hard to appear artistic while very drunk. The Blue Spirit’s painted grin stared back at you, all sharp teeth and dramatic menace, while the actual Fire Lord behind it sat painfully still beneath your attention. “You look very mysterious.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hot,” you said, then reached up with both hands to adjust the strap.

Unfortunately, your coordination had been murdered by plum wine. Instead of fixing it, you somehow made the mask tilt even farther to one side, turning the fearsome Blue Spirit into something lopsided, sulky, and deeply offended. You stared at him for one long, silent second.

Then you giggled.

It was such a small thing. A drunken little request, harmless and silly, made with your eyes bright from wine and your smile too soft to be cruel. Still, insecurity struck him faster than reason could. For one brief, awful second, his mind went somewhere old and ugly, back to every stare that had lingered too long on his scar, every flinch hidden behind polite manners, every person who had looked at the burned side of his face before they looked at him.

His voice came out quieter than he intended. “What, is the mask better?”

You blinked.

Then your expression changed so quickly it almost hurt to watch. The teasing vanished, replaced by something fiercely offended, as if the thought itself had personally insulted you. “No, silly,” you said, already reaching for the edge of the mask. “I just wanna tease you.”

Before he could answer, you pulled it off his face and yeeted it over your shoulder with absolutely no grace. Weee. The mask sailed through the air in a tragic little arc before landing harmlessly somewhere among the cushions.

Zuko stared after it, then he stared back at you.

Without the mask, his face was fully visible in the dim amber light of the bedchamber: the strong line of his jaw, the softness of his mouth, the old scar that had shaped him without ever making him any less beautiful, and the golden eyes that had once burned with anger but now looked at you with something so painfully devoted it made your chest ache. You cupped his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheeks with tenderness.

“Nothing beats your pretty face, Zuzu.”

Zuko went completely still.

There it was again, that impossible thing you did to him. You could tease him until his ears went red, bully him into wearing an old vigilante mask, laugh at his suffering like it was your favorite hobby, and then suddenly say something so gentle that it cut through every defense he had ever built. You were smiling at him like his face, scar and all, was not something to tolerate or look past, but something precious. Something beloved.

And because the spirits were apparently cruel, you said it while sitting so close, while your body was wrapped around his, while he was already buried deep inside you and trying very hard to pretend he was not losing every last scrap of composure he had left.

It made him want to come right there and then.

“Stop,” he rasped.

You tilted your head, still smiling. “Huh? Why?”

His hands tightened at your hips, not enough to hurt, only enough to keep you still. His jaw worked once, the muscle in his cheek jumping as he tried to gather whatever dignity had not already been ruined by you. “Just…” His voice came out strained, almost embarrassed. “Don’t move, unless you want to get pregnant.”

For one second, your wine-softened mind processed the warning.

Then your smile turned wicked.

“You do know I can just bend your—” You paused, waving one hand vaguely between you with far too much confidence for someone explaining absolutely nothing. “Your fluids, right?”

The gesture made no scientific sense whatsoever, but you delivered it with the calm certainty of a woman who had never once allowed anatomy, physics, or basic decency to stop her.

You leaned closer, lips hovering near his, mischief bright in your wine-soft eyes. “Besides, it’s not like that hasn’t happened before.”

Zuko’s eyes shut for half a second.

“That is not the problem.”

“Then what is the problem, my lord?” you asked sweetly, pressing slow, teasing kisses along the side of his neck, up the sharp line of his jaw, and finally near the corner of his mouth.

His breath left him unevenly, almost a laugh and almost a groan. He looked humiliated by his own body, but too far gone to pretend he was not completely ruined by you. “The problem,” he said, voice tight with restraint, “is that we have barely done anything.”

Your expression brightened with realization.

“Oh,” you whispered, delighted. “So this is about your pride.”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I’m very pleased.”

“Y/N.”

You shifted just enough to make his grip tighten again, just enough to pull a rough, broken sound from low in his throat. His teeth caught against his lower lip, his head tipping back against the pillows as if sheer stubbornness alone could hold him together. It was adorable, actually. Devastating, but adorable.

The more he thought about it, the worse it became. The warmth of you around him, your legs wrapped lazily around his waist, your hands still cradling his face like he was something worth loving carefully. Every soft movement, every breathless little laugh, every fond look you gave him pushed him closer to the edge he was desperately pretending he had not already reached.

So naturally, you moved again.

Ever so slowly. Teasingly. Just enough to shred whatever pride he had left.

The lantern beside the bed flared so brightly the room flashed gold.

Zuko’s composure broke all at once. His hands clamped around your hips, his whole body going tense beneath you as a low, wrecked groan tore from his throat and disappeared into the curve of your neck.

“Fuck, Y/N— I’m—” His voice broke into a wrecked groan. His hips jerked up once, twice, then he came hard.

You felt the first thick spurt of his cum shoot deep inside you, hot and sudden. His member pulsed strongly, again and again, flooding your walls with rope after rope of warm release. It was so much that it quickly spilled out around where you two were joined, slick and messy, dripping down his shaft and over your thighs every time he twitched.

Zuko shuddered beneath you, mouth open in a silent moan as another powerful spurt filled you. His whole body tensed, muscles straining, while the sconces around the room surged with bright blue-white flames that lit up the entire bedchamber for several long seconds. One of the hanging lanterns flared so intensely the flame nearly touched the canopy before settling.

When it finally slowed, Zuko was breathing hard, chest heaving, looking thoroughly ruined and a little mortified. A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, and his golden eyes were glassy with pleasure and embarrassment.

Then you looked down at him, unbearably pleased with yourself.

Zuko dragged one heavy hand down his face as if asking the spirits why they had made him fall in love with the most infuriating woman alive.

“Haa…” he breathed, glaring at you with absolutely no real anger. “You just love to test my patience, don’t you, my queen?”

A sweet, bright giggle escaped you, echoing through the quiet chamber. You leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his scarred collarbone, feeling his pulse jump beneath your lips.

“Oh, absolutely.”

His laugh was low and wrecked, his hands sliding carefully back to your waist.

And the night, of course, was only beginning.

O5 | THE FIRE LORD IS A SUCKER FOR HIS WIFE

Tucked deep behind the private wing of the palace, the moon garden was quieter than the formal courtyards and far more intimate than the public terraces. Zuko had commissioned it shortly after your wedding, though he had tried to be painfully casual about the entire thing, as if personally designing a secluded garden filled with your favorite flowers, a koi pond cold enough for your waterbending, and shaded stone paths made specifically for evening walks with you was not the most obvious confession of devotion in the world. It had a narrow pond lined with black volcanic stones, clusters of red fire lilies blooming beside pale moonflowers, and a curved stone bench beneath a low maple tree whose leaves looked almost black under the night sky. The servants rarely entered unless summoned, the guards only passed the outer gate during patrol, and the entire place was usually reserved for those rare moments when the Fire Lord wanted silence with the only person he could never bear to be away from for long.

Naturally, that peace didn’t last.

You found Zuko on the stone bench long after midnight. Stripped down to only his outer robe hanging loosely from one shoulder, he stubbornly braved the biting cold as if the freezing night temperature meant nothing. His long hair had slipped free from its tie, dark strands falling over his face and sticking to the damp line of his neck. The moonlight caught the hard planes of his bare chest and abdomen, tracing silver along old scars, tense muscle, and the familiar golden warmth of his skin. One arm was draped lazily over the back of the bench, but the pose was too deliberate, too careless in the way only Zuko could be when he was trying to pretend something didn’t hurt.

Then you saw the blood.

A dark smear stained the exposed skin of his upper thigh, where a shallow but ugly cut had torn. It was not fatal, not even close, but it was bleeding enough to make your stomach twist and your irritation rise immediately behind it. Zuko, of course, looked more annoyed at being discovered than concerned about the wound itself, because apparently becoming Fire Lord, surviving assassination attempts, getting married, and promising to stop carrying the entire world on his shoulders had done absolutely nothing to cure him of his lifelong allergy to asking for help.

“You’re bleeding,” you said.

Zuko glanced down at his thigh as if the wound had personally inconvenienced him. “It’s just a scratch.”

“It’s leaking.”

“That is usually what blood does.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

The lantern beside the koi pond flickered once, as if even the flame knew he had said the wrong thing.

With a long, suffering breath, you crossed the garden, gathered your skirts in one hand, and crouched down between his parted knees before he could argue again. Zuko’s expression shifted immediately, the sharp edge of his stubbornness catching on surprise. You ignored it, drawing water from the koi pond with a smooth curl of your wrist until it rose in a clear ribbon and wrapped itself around your fingers. The moment your glowing palms settled near his thigh, the moon garden filled with soft blue light.

“You should have called me,” you murmured, keeping your eyes on the wound as the healing water spread gently over torn skin.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You woke three guards, two ministers, and probably half the turtle-ducks by bleeding through the royal hallway, but yes, thank you for sparing me.”

His mouth twitched. “The turtle-ducks are strong. They will recover.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You married me.”

“Still questioning that.”

His quiet laugh was low and tired, but it warmed the space between you more intimately than any flame. You pressed your thumb near the edge of the wound to guide the healing water deeper, and Zuko’s breath caught despite his best effort to hide it. The muscle beneath your hand jumped. His fingers curled against the stone bench, long and tense, while the lantern above his shoulder flared a little too brightly.

You looked up.

He looked away with the stiff, guilty dignity of a man who knew exactly what his own fire had just confessed.

“Zuko.” you warned him.

“I know.”

“You’re doing it again.”

“I said I know.”

“You’re injured.”

His jaw flexed. “It is not related.”

“You’re sitting here half-dressed, bleeding on a garden bench, and somehow still finding a way to be embarrassed because your wife is touching your thigh.”

The faint color climbing his neck betrayed him completely, but he still had the nerve to look offended. “You’re kneeling between my legs and scolding me. I’m reacting with impressive restraint.”

The words landed between you with enough heat to make the glowing water tremble around your fingers.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The wound was nearly closed now, the angry red line fading beneath the blue light of your bending until only smooth, warm skin remained beneath your palm. You should have stood, smacked his shoulder for being reckless, and dragged him back inside before the night patrol circled past the outer gate again. The moon garden was private, yes, but not unguarded; there were still soldiers beyond the walls, servants in the nearby corridors, and a very official expectation that a secluded garden built for quiet walks would not be used for anything else.

Or so everyone kept insisting.

Instead, your hand lingered against his thigh for one second too long, and Zuko’s golden eyes darkened beneath the loose fall of his hair.

The look he gave you made the koi pond steam.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said.

You blinked up at him with exaggerated innocence, though your hand was still resting a little too comfortably against his newly healed thigh. “I’m healing you.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m just naturally joyful person.”

“Joyful person, huh? No wonder you threatened to freeze a councilman’s tongue this morning.”

Your expression didn’t change. “He interrupted my breakfast.”

“That doesn’t support your argument.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it, soft and bright in the quiet garden, and just like that, whatever remained of Zuko’s restraint seemed to fold in on itself. His expression changed, irritation melting into something far more dangerous and far more tender. He looked at you the way he always did right before the palace lost another curtain, like your laughter was the only sound in the world that mattered and his fire had no idea what to do with the feeling.

His hand lifted from the bench and touched your chin, tilting your face up with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“The wound is healed,” he murmured.

You glanced down. It was. Completely.

“So it is,” you whispered.

“You’re still kneeling.”

“Well, duh, you’re holding my face.”

His thumb brushed once along your chin, then higher, grazing your lower lip with the kind of careful heat that made the entire garden feel suddenly too quiet.

The moon garden went very still around you. The koi pond steamed faintly at the edges. The fire lilies glowed red beneath the lantern light, and the night air warmed until the scent of maple leaves, water, and Zuko’s familiar cedar heat wrapped around you like a warning.

You forgot whatever clever thing you were about to say.

Instead, your gaze dropped, which Zuko noticed almost immediately.

His thumb stilled against your mouth. “Y/N.”

There was warning in his voice, but not nearly enough conviction behind it. Not when he was still half-dressed on the stone bench, hair loose around his flushed face, newly healed thigh still warm beneath your hand, and looking at you like he had already lost the argument before it began.

You tilted your head with exaggerated innocence. “What?”

“You know what.”

You pressed a slow kiss to the inside of his newly healed thigh, right where blood had stained his skin only moments ago, and Zuko’s breath fractured so sharply it nearly ruined his attempt at dignity. His fingers curled against the stone bench before slipping into your hair. His touch was impossibly gentle, as though holding on to you was the only way to keep himself from falling apart.

“I’m very thorough.”

His eyes narrowed. “That is not what thorough means.”

“It is when I’m the healer.”

You looked up at him.

Moonlight painted silver across his bare chest, the hard lines of his abdomen, the old scars scattered across his skin, and the faint sheen of sweat gathering at his throat. His long hair hung loose and messy, a few strands clinging to the sharp line of his jaw. He looked like a man who had survived wars, assassination attempts, exile, palace politics, and half the world trying to break him.

And somehow, this was what undid him.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he breathed, voice rough and helpless.

Your smile softened for half a second. “Wrong,” you murmured playfully, kissing him again, slower this time. “I’m going to make you feel better.”

Zuko’s laugh came out low and wrecked, barely more than a breath.

Whatever answer he meant to give disappeared when you tugged the rest of his robe aside and freed him. He was already achingly hard, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. You dragged your tongue slowly from base to head, savoring the way his thigh muscle jumped under your free hand.

Zuko let out a shaky exhale, head tipping back against the bench. “Hah—Y/N,”

You answered by taking him into your mouth, slow and wet, sinking down until he bumped the back of your throat. A low, broken sound escaped him—something between a groan and a sigh, like the tension he’d been carrying all night was finally cracking.

You worked him with lazy, deliberate strokes of your mouth, one hand stroking what you couldn’t take while the other rested possessively on his uninjured thigh. Every time you hollowed your cheeks or swirled your tongue, his hips twitched, fighting the urge to thrust.

The muscles in his abdomen flexed visibly with every stroke of your tongue as his breathing grew more uneven. You could feel him throbbing, getting impossibly harder against your tongue.

When you looked up, his golden eyes were fixed on you—dark, overwhelmed, and completely unguarded. The sight made something warm bloom in your chest.

It only made you greedier. So you slowed down, cruelly deliberate now, learning the exact rhythm that made his breath catch and then denying him the moment he got too close. Every time you felt his thighs tense and his member start to throb harder against your tongue, you eased off, licking lazily along the underside or sucking softly on just the head until his hips twitched with frustration.

His fingers tightened in your hair, not forcing you, but clearly fighting the urge to. “Y/N…” His voice was hoarse, almost pleading. “Don’t—ah—don’t tease me like this.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, lips glistening, and looked up at him with a wicked little smile. “But you look so pretty when you’re desperate.”

Zuko’s eyes shut, his jaw clenching as if the words had struck somewhere embarrassingly deep.

You sank back down immediately, taking him to the back of your throat in one smooth motion. Zuko groaned, head falling back against the bench as his hips jerked. You could feel him getting dangerously close again—thick and pulsing on your tongue—so you pulled back once more, stroking him slowly with your hand.

He let out a wrecked sound, half curse, half whimper. “You’re cruel… but—fuck, hah—you’re so beautiful.”

You hummed around him in response, the vibration pulling another quiet curse from his lips. You took him deeper, faster, letting the wet sounds mix with his ragged breathing and the gentle ripple of water. One of your freezing fingers traced the sensitive skin just beneath his cock, the sharp temperature contrast making his whole body jerk.

The second time you pulled him back from the edge, he lost whatever pride had been keeping him silent.

“Please,” he rasped.

For once, he looked less like a ruler and more like a man entirely at his wife’s mercy.

You looked up at him with a wicked, affectionate smile, still stroking him fast and tight. “Cum for me, Zuzu.”

For a heartbeat, he tried not to.

You saw it in the sharp clench of his jaw, the way his fingers tightened in your hair without pulling, the way his breath caught and broke like he could still argue his way out of surrendering. Then his restraint snapped quietly, then all at once.

The Fire Lord came with a choked, broken groan, his hips jerking up uncontrollably as the first thick, hot spurt flooded your mouth. You moaned around his pulsing cock, swallowing greedily, but there was too much—thick ropes of cum kept shooting across your tongue, so much that it overflowed almost immediately. It spilled from the corners of your stretched lips, dripping messily down his throbbing shaft and over your fingers as you kept stroking him through it. The sheer amount of it made your thighs press together, heat pooling low in your belly at how desperately his body was giving in to you.

He shuddered hard beneath you, muscles taut and trembling, his long hair sticking to his sweat-damp neck and chest. His golden eyes were half-lidded, glazed with raw pleasure as he watched you take every drop like you were starving for him.

The koi pond steamed violently. A nearby fire lily bush glowed red-hot before slowly dimming.

When it finally subsided, Zuko was slumped against the bench with his chest heaving, your husband looked beautifully ruined. You pulled off slowly, licking your lips clean with a small, satisfied smile. A thin string of cum still connected your bottom lip to him before it broke.

“Good boy,” you teased softly.

Zuko stared down at you for a long moment, something raw and helpless in his expression.

“…You’re impossible,” he finally whispered, voice hoarse and wondering, as if he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You pressed one last soft kiss to his thigh and smiled.

“Isn’t this exactly what you wanted, my lord?”

His smirk deepened at your question.

Clearly, you had not realized how much danger that pretty little mouth of yours had put you in.

Zuko was still flushed, still catching his breath, still looking far too ruined for a man who had any right to recover so quickly. But his hands were steady when they reached for you, sliding beneath your arms and pulling you up into his lap before you could even think to escape.

You landed against him with a soft gasp, your skirts spilling messily over his thighs. The warmth of him pressed through the fabric, unmistakable and already returning, and suddenly your teasing smile did not feel quite as victorious as it had a moment ago.

“My wife always knows best, doesn’t she?” he murmured, his voice low against your mouth.

O6 | UPDATE: THE FIRE LADY IS FINE

By the end of the first month, the palace had adapted with the grim efficiency of a nation recovering from war. The maids carried water buckets as part of their standard duties, the guards learned which corridors to avoid based on heat patterns alone, and the council stopped scheduling meetings too close to breakfast, lunch, dinner, sparring sessions, diplomatic arguments, late-night kitchen raids, library research, moon garden strolls, or any moment where the Fire Lady happened to smile at her husband for longer than three seconds. The palace seamstresses quietly reinforced your gowns, the head chef hid the good towels, and the royal archivist posted a handwritten warning outside the study that simply read: NO OPEN FLAMES NEAR NAVAL DOCUMENTS, which everyone understood was not actually about candles.

Zuko pretended to be offended by all of this, but you knew better. For all his muttering about dignity and decorum, the Fire Lord was utterly hopeless. He had spent years learning how to contain himself, how to swallow rage, how to make his fire precise enough to serve a nation instead of destroy it. Yet somehow, all it took was your hand on his sleeve, your mouth near his ear, your laughter pressed against his throat, or apparently the simple act of healing a wound on his thigh, and the most powerful firebender in the world became a walking architectural threat.

The newest maid finally understood after one night, when she heard your bright, breathless laughter from behind the royal chamber doors, followed by Zuko’s low voice murmuring something far too soft to be anger. The sconces outside the hallway flared blue-white, the temperature spiked, and suddenly every vague warning from the senior maids made horrifying, embarrassing sense.

By dinner, her diary had only one update:

DEAR DIARY,

thankfully, the fire lady is fine.

the furniture, however, is not.

After that, she stopped asking questions and started carrying a water bucket like everyone else.

These days, the palace staff had been working very hard. If they were lucky, you had already set the fire down with your bending before anyone arrived. If they were not, they had to manually put out the flames before replacing another curtain, cushion, napkin, table runner, practice post, garden lantern, or emotionally unfortunate bread basket. Still, no matter how violently the sconces flared or how many unfortunate pieces of furniture fell victim to the Fire Lord’s complete lack of restraint around his wife, the flames never once touched you.

Even when his control slipped because of you, even when desire made the air shimmer and the palace lights burn brighter than they had any right to, Zuko’s fire always curved away from your skin. It burned around you, sparked above you, and curled through the air like devotion given shape, but it never hurt you. It would never hurt you. His fire had been raised in anger, sharpened by war, and forced for years to survive on pain, but with you, it had learned something gentler, something warmer, something sacred.

With you, his fire had learned love.

And love, no matter how brightly it burned, would always know how to keep you safe.

this is part of the sublimation ( my zuko fic ) universe! read more chapters

this oneshot took me like ~8 hours btw. i need everyone to clap because what the hell </3

anw i alr finished the atla la s2 n it was so good !! altho they skipped n reordered some parts, but it’s prolly bc of the budget... welp, i can’t wait for the movie to come out.

come get a 𑣲𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 like me-gumi . . .

art cr @ kimama__12 on x

꣑ৎ MEGUMI HAD ALWAYS THOUGHT HE WAS A DECENT PERSON :)

quiet, maybe. emotionally constipated, according to nobara, which felt rude but not entirely false. he was blunt when embarrassed, painfully calm when he didn’t know what to do with his feelings, and weirdly committed to pretending he didn’t care whenever you stole his hoodies, even though he kept leaving them in places you could easily find.

then he started dating you.

and apparently, dating you had reduced him to some sort of victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

three months into the relationship, and megumi still acted like your touch needed a warning label. you could kiss his cheek outside the campus library and he would look away like he had just been caught committing tax fraud. you could lean against his side during movie night, warm and sleepy, and his whole body would go still for half a second before he remembered that boyfriends were, in fact, allowed to be held.

you thought it was cute.

megumi thought he needed professional help.

because it wasn’t just the soft things anymore. it was the way your shirt slipped off your shoulder when you stretched. the way your thighs pressed together when you sat on his bed. the way you looked after training, skin warm from the sun, hair messy, laughing with your water bottle pressed to your lips like you weren’t personally dragging his self-control behind a building.

he wanted to be normal about you. really, he did. you were his girlfriend, not some divine punishment sent to test whether his dignity could survive physical affection. you deserved a boyfriend who was calm, respectful, and not quietly combusting every time you hugged him a little too close.

megumi tried very hard to be that boyfriend.

unfortunately, wanting you had started eating through his self-control like a curse with expensive taste.

the dreams came first. vivid, feverish, humiliating things that left him waking up with a harsh gasp, his hips jerking up into the mattress to chase a ghost. your voice would linger near his ear. your skin would press flush against his. your mouth would be somewhere it shouldn’t be yet, sweet and needy and completely unfair. the details always blurred as reality crashed in, but the physical aftermath was painfully clear. he’d snap awake aching and rock hard, his chest heaving in the quiet dark, the front of his sleep pants ruined and uncomfortably sticky. he would just lie there, face burning into his pillow, before dragging himself out of bed to wash the evidence away, feeling like an absolute criminal by morning.

every time, it was you.

of course it was you.

you were his first serious girlfriend. the first person he actually wanted to be good for. the first person who made him think about things he immediately wanted to bury under concrete and never speak of again. maybe, hopefully, someday you would be his first in other ways too.

the thought alone made him shove his face into his pillow and silently consider becoming religious.

oh, he was so cooked.

the worst part started after evening training.

the campus field was still warm from the afternoon sun, grass damp beneath everyone’s shoes, the air filled with the sound of yuji complaining that nobara kept aiming for his head. you had dropped your gym bag near megumi’s by the benches, half-zipped because you never really closed anything properly, then wandered off to refill your water bottle.

megumi had summoned rabbit escape for control practice. nothing serious, just a few white rabbits scattering through the grass while yuji tried not to step on them and nobara accused him of weaponizing cuteness. one of the rabbits, smaller than the rest and apparently born with no morals, hopped toward your open bag.

megumi saw the flash of pink before anyone else did.

his body went very still.

the rabbit tugged something soft from the side pocket and sat there proudly, your panties caught between its little teeth like it had just won a prize.

megumi moved so fast he almost tripped.

he scooped the rabbit up, turned his back to the field, and pulled the fabric away before yuji could glance over. his heart was beating too hard for something that was, technically, laundry. just laundry. normal laundry. laundry that absolutely should have gone straight back into your bag like a normal boyfriend with a normal brain would do.

“don’t,” he whispered to the rabbit.

the rabbit blinked.

you called his name from across the field, smiling as you lifted your water bottle. “gumi, you okay?”

megumi panicked.

he shoved the fabric into the pocket of his track jacket.

“yeah,” he called back, voice flat enough to pass as normal if nobody looked too closely. “fine.”

just for now, he told himself. he would put it back later. when nobody was looking. when his pulse stopped acting like he had robbed a bank.

꣑ৎ DECENT PERSON, MY ASS.

that night the dorm room was too quiet. megumi sat on the edge of his bed with the lights off, only the faint glow from the campus path outside slipping through the blinds. the pink panties were still in his pocket. he hadn’t even taken his jacket off yet. his fingers brushed the soft fabric when he finally reached in, and the second he pulled them out his stomach flipped.

he should throw them back in the drawer. he should wash them. he should do anything except what he was about to do.

instead he leaned back against the pillows, breath already shaky, and unfolded the delicate pink material. the little bow caught on his thumb. the scent of you—warm skin, faint floral detergent, the ghost of your body—hit him so hard his cock twitched instantly in his sweats.

“fuck… i’m sorry,” he muttered, like you could hear him. like apologizing to the empty room would make this less pathetic.

he shoved his sweats and boxers down just enough, his cock springing free, already flushed and leaking. he wrapped the panties around his length slowly, the silky fabric cool against hot skin, and the first stroke pulled a quiet, broken sound from his throat. the little bow dragged under the head and his hips jerked up without permission.

megumi closed his eyes and let the thoughts flood in.

he imagined you in his lap, thighs spread over his, wearing nothing but that exact pair. the way you’d smile at him all teasing and fond when you felt how hard he was. the way you’d rock against him, grinding the soft fabric right against his cock while you kissed that spot under his jaw that always made him weak. your voice in his ear, low and sweet, calling him “gumi” like you knew exactly what you did to him.

his hand moved faster, twisting a little at the head, the soaked panties sliding obscenely over his shaft. pre-cum darkened the pink almost immediately. he pictured pushing the fabric aside, sliding his fingers through your slick folds instead, hearing that tiny gasp you made whenever he touched you somewhere new. he wanted to bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you were shaking. wanted to hear you moan his name while he finally pushed inside you, slow and careful and so fucking deep.

“shit— you’d feel so so hng g-good,” he whispered, voice hoarse. his strokes turned messy, desperate. the wet sound of fabric and skin filled the room and it only made him harder. “so warm… so tight… f-fuck, i want you so bad—”

the guilt twisted sharp in his chest, but it only made the heat worse. he was disgusting. he was a terrible boyfriend. and still, he couldn’t stop. he pressed the panties tighter in his fist, close enough to feel the soft fabric against his palm, imagining your hand instead, your mouth, the way you’d look up at him with that bright, wicked little smile while you took him apart.

his thighs tensed. his free hand fisted the sheets. when he felt himself getting close, some ridiculous, half-functioning part of his brain still had the nerve to panic.

not on them.

megumi jerked the fabric away at the last second like it was something precious, something he had no right to ruin, and buried his face into his forearm as the feeling hit him hard and sudden. his hips stuttered, breath breaking into a choked sound he barely managed to swallow, body trembling through every shaky wave until the room went quiet again.

for a long moment, he just lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling like it might offer judgment. it didn’t, duh.

which was rude, honestly.

the pink panties were still clutched safely in his hand, untouched and soft, still carrying that faint trace of your perfume, your laundry soap, you. megumi looked at them through half-lidded eyes, flushed and ruined and still careful enough to fold them against his chest like that somehow made any of this less insane.

megumi, once again, told himself he would return it before this got any worse.

꣑ৎ JOKE’S ON YOU.

by the next afternoon, it had gotten worse.

not because of the drills, though they were annoying. not because yuji kept trying to turn sparring into a competition no one had agreed to. worse because you were sitting beside megumi on the bench, digging through your gym bag with a frown while he wrapped tape around his wrist and pretended the top drawer in his dorm didn’t exist.

“this is actually so annoying,” you said.

megumi kept his eyes on the tape. “what is?”

“my new pink pair is gone.” you pushed aside your towel, lip gloss, and spare shirt with growing offense. “i swear i put it in here after changing yesterday. it had a little bow and everything. very cute. now it’s missing.”

megumi’s fingers paused for one single heartbeat.

“maybe you left it in your room.”

“i checked.” you sighed like you had suffered a real tragedy. “twice. i think the campus laundry ghosts have chosen me.”

“sorry for your loss.”

“thank you. i’ll need snack compensation.”

“for underwear?”

“for emotional damage.”

he looked at you then, and you looked so genuinely annoyed that guilt twisted through him, sharp and hot. you weren’t suspicious. you weren’t accusing him. you were just talking to him the way you always did, dragging him into your little complaints because he was your boyfriend and that was supposed to mean something simple and safe.

megumi swallowed.

he would return it tonight.

probably.

training picked up again after that, saving him from having to speak. the two of you sparred under the sun until sweat slid down the side of his face and his black shirt stuck lightly to his back. you were quick today, playful, laughing whenever he dodged too easily and calling him a show-off when he pinned your wrist for half a second longer than necessary.

by the time you both stopped, megumi was warm, tired, and dangerously close to forgetting how to act normal.

he turned away and lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

the movement exposed his stomach.

you went quiet.

megumi lowered the fabric just enough to see you staring, eyes fixed on the lean lines of muscle along his abdomen and the sharp dip disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. your expression changed slowly, surprise melting into something bright and wicked.

“wow, ’gumi,” you said, stepping closer. “i didn’t know you had nice abs.”

his whole body locked. “don’t say it like that.”

“like what?”

“like you’re enjoying this.”

“i am enjoying this.”

that should not have affected him as much as it did.

you reached for him before he could escape, fingertips brushing the exposed skin near his ribs. megumi’s breath hitched so quietly he prayed you didn’t hear it. your touch slid lower, still teasing, still light, tracing the firm plane of his stomach until your fingers grazed the line near his hip.

his body betrayed him immediately.

megumi caught your wrist, quick but gentle, and shifted his hips back just enough to save what remained of his dignity. you blinked up at him, then smiled like you had just discovered something valuable and planned to become a menace about it.

“sensitive?” you asked.

“annoying,” he said, voice too low.

“you’re blushing.”

“it’s hot outside.”

“mhm.” your eyes flicked down for half a second. “sure.”

he was going to die on this field.

then yuji’s voice cut through the air like divine punishment. “are you two flirting or are we training?”

megumi let go of your wrist so fast it was embarrassing.

you only laughed, bright and shameless, before stepping back like you hadn’t just put him through five stages of grief in public. nobara, of course, saw enough to make her grin sharp.

“they’re flirting,” she said. “badly, but still.”

“we’re training,” megumi muttered.

“sure,” you said, attempting to tease him. “whatever helps you sleep at night.”

it did not help him sleep at night.

꣑ৎ SPICE UP UR LIFE, COME GET A FREAK LIKE ME(GUMI)...

later that day, after practice ended, megumi returned to his dorm alone and opened the top drawer. he stared at the folded pink fabric tucked beneath one of his shirts. outside his window, campus lights glowed soft and yellow. on his desk, his phone buzzed.

y/n: still mourning the pink pair </3

y/n: she was cute, she was soft, she was taken too soon ☹

y/n: snack compensation tomorrow? ✌︎㋡

megumi stared at the message until the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

then he looked at the drawer again. “i’m a terrible person,” he muttered.

from the corner of the room, one of the rabbits twitched its nose like it agreed.

he should have shut the drawer. he really should have.

instead, megumi opened it again, slow enough that the wood barely made a sound. the pink fabric sat folded beneath one of his shirts, soft and damning, carrying the faintest trace of your scent. his fingers curled around it before he could talk himself out of it, and for one shameful second, he pressed the fabric directly over his nose and mouth. his eyes fell shut as he dragged in a long desperate breath.

your scent—warm, sweet, and intoxicatingly familiar—flooded his lungs, pulling a low, ragged groan from the back of his throat. his knuckles turned white as his grip tightened.

oh, he was disgusting.

worse than that, he was hopeless.

because for all his restraint, all his discipline, all his quiet little attempts to be the perfect boyfriend you deserved, fushiguro megumi had one serious problem.

he was a freak for you.

and you still had no idea.

the 𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 manual ✰

♯OO1. minors dni. this blog may contain mature / nsfw themes.

♯OO2. i write based on mood. if i’m not feeling a request, i probably won’t write it, and it’s nothing personal. sometimes the brain says “omg yes” and sometimes the hands say “girl, absolutely not.”

♯OO3. reqs are basically suggestions, not royal decrees. you can drop them in my inbox, i can stare at them lovingly, forget about them, get possessed at 2 am, or write them three business months later. that’s showbiz, baby <3

♯OO4. don’t repost, copy, translate, or feed my works anywhere without permission. reblogs, comments, and screaming in the tags are very sexy though, please continue doing that.

♯OO5. i do write dark romance, but let’s use our brains a little. i’m not writing extreme torture porn, blood-related incest, pedophilia, or anything that makes me want to close the laptop and go stare at a wall. dark romance is fun. prison documentary behavior is not.

KISS ME,  beneath the milky twilight ‧₊˚⏾ .⋅

megkuna teaser dropped and i immediately wrote megumi fluff as a coping mechanism </3

𝒎𝒆𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒊 had never considered himself the kind of person who got distracted by someone’s mouth.

that sounded like something gojo would tease him about until the end of time. something loud and annoying and impossible to live down. megumi could already imagine the sunglasses sliding down the bridge of gojo’s nose, that stupid knowing smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

oh? our megumi has a crush?

he would rather get swallowed by a curse.

and yet, there he was, standing beside you on the quiet street near the park, trying not to look at your lips.

trying, and failing.

the worst part was that you weren’t even doing anything.

you were only leaning against the railing by the sidewalk, laughing softly at something nobara said. the vending machine beside you hummed quietly, spilling a soft, white-blue glow over your face while the sky above the trees faded into that pale, milky kind of twilight that made everything feel a little too intimate.

your fingers were wrapped around a cold can of soda, your hair falling over one shoulder, your smile warm beneath the evening light. every now and then, your tongue darted out to taste the lip balm you had just put on, and megumi felt his thoughts trip over themselves every single time.

your lips looked softer than usual.

glossy. plush. a little pink from where you had pressed them together after applying the balm.

megumi’s gaze dropped for half a second before he forced it back up to your eyes.

he hated how aware of you he had become.

he had always noticed you, of course. it was difficult not to. you had been placed in his life so naturally that he had not realized when your presence had become something he searched for without meaning to. he noticed the way you tilted your head when you listened. the way you smiled to yourself before you laughed. the way you nudged his shoulder when you were teasing him, gentle enough that it felt like a secret instead of a joke.

but now, because of one stupid game, all he could think about was the way your mouth had felt against his.

it had happened two nights ago.

truth or dare had been yuji’s idea, which meant it had been a terrible idea from the very beginning.

nobara had been bored. gojo had been absent, thankfully, and the three of you had been reckless enough to believe that a quiet night could stay quiet with yuji itadori involved. the game had started harmlessly enough—stupid questions, mild dares, nobara making yuji do push-ups while reciting dramatic love confessions to a pillow.

then the bottle had spun toward you.

yuji had grinned like he had been handed a weapon.

“dare,” you had said, brave in the way only someone who trusted their friends too much could be.

nobara’s eyes had narrowed with immediate interest.

“kiss megumi on the cheek.”

megumi had frozen.

you had frozen too, but only for a second before you laughed, soft and nervous.

“his cheek?” you had asked.

“unless you want to aim somewhere else,” nobara had said sweetly.

megumi had shot her a glare. “don’t be weird.”

“you’re the one making it weird,” she had replied, delighted.

yuji had leaned forward, practically vibrating. “come on, it’s just a cheek kiss. megumi can survive that.”

megumi had wanted to say no. he could have said no. you would have backed off instantly if he had looked even slightly uncomfortable, because that was the kind of person you were. careful with him. gentle in a way that made his chest ache sometimes.

but then you had looked at him.

“is it okay?” you had asked.

and megumi, cursed with terrible instincts whenever you looked at him like that, had nodded.

“yeah,” he had muttered. “it’s fine.”

so you had shifted closer on your knees, your smile turning shy at the edges. megumi had stared at the wall over your shoulder, determined to survive the next three seconds with whatever dignity he had left.

you had smelled like clean laundry and the cherry lip balm you kept in your bag.

he had felt the warmth of you before anything else. your hand had landed lightly on his shoulder to steady yourself, and megumi had turned his head without thinking because yuji had said something at the exact wrong moment.

your mouth had brushed his.

barely.

just a soft, startled press that lasted no longer than a breath.

but it had been enough.

enough for you to gasp quietly against him. enough for megumi’s pulse to kick hard beneath his ribs. enough for nobara and yuji to lose their minds in the background while you pulled away with wide eyes and your fingers still curled in the fabric of his shirt.

“i’m sorry,” you had whispered.

megumi had stared at you, unable to form a single useful word.

your lips had still been parted, shiny from the balm, and for one horrifying second he had wanted to lean forward and do it again.

properly this time.

instead, he had looked away so fast his neck nearly hurt.

“it’s fine,” he had said, voice too quiet.

you had nodded, flustered and pretty and completely unfair.

the game had continued eventually, but megumi had not heard a single thing afterward.

since then, his mind had become a traitor.

in training, he remembered the small sound you had made when your lips touched his.

at dinner, he remembered how soft your mouth had been.

in bed, staring at the ceiling long past midnight, he imagined what would have happened if he had not turned away. if he had placed a hand against your cheek and kissed you like he meant it. if he had felt you smile against his mouth. if you had leaned into him instead of apologizing.

it was pathetic.

he knew that.

and still, when you stood beside him now, close enough that your shoulder brushed his under the quiet glow of the vending machine, megumi forgot how to breathe like a normal person.

“are you mad at me?”

your voice cut through his thoughts so suddenly that he blinked.

“what?”

you were watching him with a small crease between your brows. the others had wandered farther down the sidewalk at some point—nobara dragging yuji toward the next vending machine because apparently one drink was not enough—which meant it was only the two of you near the park entrance now.

“you’ve been quiet,” you said.

“i’m always quiet.”

“not like this.”

he looked down at the soda can in his hand. “i’m not mad.”

“then are you avoiding me?”

megumi’s jaw tightened.

he could lie. he had never been good at lying to you, but he could try. he could say he was tired, or that training had been rough, or that he had been thinking about an upcoming mission. all of those things would have been easier than the truth.

the truth sat heavy in his throat.

you shifted closer, your voice softening. “megumi.”

there it was again.

his name in your mouth.

he hated that something so simple could undo him.

“i’m not avoiding you,” he said.

“you kind of are.”

“i’m trying not to.”

your eyes flickered over his face, searching. “did i make you uncomfortable? with the dare?”

“no,” he said too quickly.

you paused.

megumi cursed himself silently.

a little smile touched your lips, hesitant but there. “no?”

his gaze dropped before he could stop it.

your mouth was glossy again.

of course it was.

you had probably reapplied your lip balm while he was busy pretending he had any self-control left. the soft shine caught the vending machine’s glow every time you moved, and megumi felt warmth climb up the back of his neck.

you noticed.

because of course you noticed.

your smile grew a little, shy enough to make his heart do something stupid.

“megumi,” you said again, quieter this time. “were you thinking about it?”

he looked away.

that was answer enough.

the silence that followed wasn’t awkward exactly. it was too warm for that. too full. it settled between you like a held breath, delicate and charged, with the trees rustling softly behind you and the last of the twilight stretching pale above the park.

“i was too,” you admitted.

his eyes snapped back to yours.

you laughed under your breath, embarrassed, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “thinking about it, i mean.”

megumi stared at you.

for once, he didn’t have a single thought.

you bit your lower lip, and the movement nearly ruined him.

“i know it was an accident,” you said. “but i kept wondering what it would’ve been like if it wasn’t.”

megumi’s heart pounded once, hard.

somewhere farther down the street, yuji’s voice echoed faintly. nobara answered him with something sharp, and then their footsteps faded toward the corner.

neither of you moved.

megumi looked at you, really looked at you, and found no joke in your expression. only nervousness. hope. a softness that made him feel braver than he usually allowed himself to be.

his hand rested close to yours against the railing. close enough that his smallest finger almost touched your knuckles.

he should have said something. probably something smart. something careful. something that would make this easier for both of you to understand.

but then your gaze dropped to his mouth for the smallest second.

and megumi stopped thinking.

he moved slowly at first, giving you time to lean back, to laugh it off, to tell him that he had misunderstood. you did none of those things. you only went still, eyes widening slightly as his fingers brushed your cheek.

your skin was warm beneath his palm.

his thumb moved once, barely there, and your lashes fluttered.

that was all it took for megumi to kiss you.

your lips were just as soft as he remembered, only warmer now, sweeter when you sighed quietly against him. the taste of cherry lingered between you, faint and dizzying, and megumi’s chest tightened like he had been holding his breath for days without realizing it.

you kissed him back.

that was what made him lose himself a little.

your hand curled around his sleeve, tugging him closer in a way that was almost shy, almost desperate, and megumi followed before he could question it. his other hand found yours against the railing, fingers sliding carefully between your own until your palms fit together.

he had imagined this too many times.

he had imagined it during quiet walks back from missions, when your shoulder brushed his. he had imagined it when you laughed at something yuji said and looked at him afterward, like you wanted to see if he had laughed too. he had imagined it in the dark of his room, shamefully soft and half-awake, wondering if your lips would feel the same when you wanted him back.

they did.

they felt better.

you smiled against his mouth, and megumi almost forgot how to breathe.

when he finally drew back, it was only by a few inches. his forehead rested near yours, his breath uneven, his eyes half-lidded as they fell to your lips again.

you looked dazed.

megumi felt the smallest, most dangerous spark of pride.

then you let out a quiet laugh, breathless and sweet, your fingertips brushing the corner of your mouth.

“i think you missed a spot,” you murmured, like you weren’t about to ruin him all over again.

megumi stared at you.

the tips of his ears burned red, and this time, he lifted the back of his hand to his mouth, covering it as if that could hide the way his expression had already given him away.

his eyes flickered back to yours, softer now, caught somewhere between embarrassment and want.

then he lowered his hand slowly, his mouth curving in the smallest, shyest way, and leaned in again.

he barely got the chance.

“i knew it!”

you and megumi jolted apart so quickly your shoulders bumped.

yuji stood a few steps away with two cans of soda pressed against his chest, eyes wide and shining like he had just witnessed a miracle. beside him, nobara leaned against the vending machine with a bag of chips tucked under one arm, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

megumi’s face went blank in the way it always did when he was one second away from losing his mind.

“itadori,” he said quietly.

yuji pointed at him with one trembling hand. “you kissed her.”

“i have eyes,” nobara said, rolling hers. “we all saw.”

you covered your face with both hands, heat rushing up to your cheeks. “oh my god.”

megumi shifted closer to you on instinct, like he could somehow shield you from the embarrassment while his own face was flushed down to his neck.

nobara’s grin widened. “i wonder what gojo-sensei will say about this.”

GOT DROPPED INTO A DATING SIM RPG, still gotta work ☹

art cr @ Yaochii on pins

The mission had been supposed to be a simple extraction. Track the Grade 1 curse, exorcise it, and make it back in time for Gojo-sensei’s obnoxious Friday night movie marathon.

You should have known better.

A flash of blinding, cotton-candy pink light erupted from the alleyway, swallowing both you and Yuji whole. When you blinked the spots from your eyes, the gritty Tokyo alleyway was gone.

Instead, you stood in the middle of a lush, hyper-saturated fantasy forest, complete with glowing fairies and comically large mushrooms. But that wasn’t even the weirdest part.

“Uh… Y/N?”

You turned at the sound of Yuji’s voice, and your jaw practically unhinged. Gone was his standard Jujutsu High uniform. He was now strapped into a set of gleaming, surprisingly tight medieval knight’s armor that left his incredibly toned arms entirely bare. A bright crimson cape billowed behind him, despite there being absolutely no wind.

You looked down at yourself. You were wearing what could only be described as the most stereotypical, impractical “rogue” adventurer gear imaginable—straps, buckles, and a cropped cloak that did absolutely nothing to hide your curves.

Suddenly, a booming, theatrical voice echoed from the sky.

“Welcome, brave heroes, to the Domain of the Star-Crossed! To escape this realm of fantasy, you must defeat the Demon Lord and seal your victory with an act of true, unbridled passion!”

You stared at the sky. You stared at Yuji. Yuji stared at you, a furious blush spreading from the bridge of his nose to the tips of his ears.

“Did that curse just trap us in a… a dating sim RPG?” you asked, deadpan.

Yuji rubbed the back of his neck, his armor clanking loudly. “Man, Fushiguro is never going to let us live this down if he finds out.” He met your eyes, his honey-brown gaze softening with a mix of embarrassment and determination. “But, uh, we better play along, right? I’ll keep you safe.”

And so the quest began.

The “Demon Lord” turned out to be the Grade 1 curse you were tracking, now wearing a comically small golden crown. It unleashed a horde of slime monsters that bounced toward you with malicious intent.

“Stand back!” Yuji yelled, fully leaning into the heroic knight persona. He leapt into the air, his fists crackling with cursed energy. “Divergent Fist!”

He punched a slime so hard it erupted into a shower of glitter rather than curse blood. You didn’t let him have all the fun, though. You drew the completely unnecessary pair of daggers strapped to your thighs, channeling your own cursed energy into the blades, and sliced through the remaining horde, perfectly syncing your movements with his.

It was an exhilarating, chaotic dance. He covered your blind spots; you cleared the path for his heavy hits. Even in this ridiculous fantasy setting, your teamwork was flawless.

When the Demon Lord finally lunged, aiming a lethal, spiked tentacle right for your chest, Yuji didn’t hesitate. He threw himself in front of you, taking a glancing blow to his shoulder to shield you, before delivering a devastating, Black Flash-infused roundhouse kick that shattered the curse’s mask.

The monster disintegrated into a cloud of pixels, and a loud, triumphant Victory! fanfare played from the sky.

But the forest didn’t fade away. Instead, a glowing blue holographic screen materialized in the air, looking suspiciously like the dialogue interfaces you used to click through during your daily commissions in games.

Which was exactly how you and Yuji ended up locked inside a dimly lit, ridiculously lavish tavern room that smelled like roses and cheap wine. And, in true, agonizing RPG fashion, there was only one bed.

Yuji was currently standing on the opposite side of the room, rigidly inspecting a completely unremarkable wooden chair. His armor clanked with every agitated breath he took. A floating pink bar hovered above his head:

“So,” you started, crossing your arms in a futile attempt to cover the exposed skin of your midriff. “An affection meter.”

Yuji cleared his throat, his honey-brown eyes darting everywhere except your face. “Yeah. Guess the curse really is a dating sim.”

You sighed, your fingers twitching by your side. You half-wished you were back at your desk, the familiar, heavy resistance of your mechanical keyboard under your hands instead of the cold metal of your daggers. At least grinding for primogems made sense. This was just cruel.

“Well, we aren’t going to get out of here by staring at the furniture,” you reasoned, taking a deliberate step toward him.

The moment you moved, another holographic window popped up between you two.

You stared at the glowing text, a furious blush exploding across your cheeks. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“What?” Yuji asked, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder. He read the prompts, and you actually heard the sharp hitch in his breath. The pink bar over his head immediately ticked up to 〔70%〕.

“Don't look at it!” you hissed, trying to swat the floating screen away.

But as Yuji reached out to help you, his hand brushed against the interface. Instead of closing it, his armored gauntlet swiped open a new tab.

The room plunged into a deafening, agonizing silence.

You slowly looked up from the glowing blue text to look at Yuji. His face was entirely flushed, a deep, vibrant crimson spreading all the way down his neck and into the collar of his cape. He looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

“I—I didn’t write that!” Yuji stammered, frantically waving his hands to dismiss the screen. “The Domain is just—it’s messing with us! It’s making stuff up!”

“Is it?” you asked, your voice dropping an octave.

A sudden wave of boldness washed over you. For months, you two had danced around each other. The lingering glances, the unnecessary physical contact during training, the way he always made sure his shoulder was pressed against yours on the subway, and those late-night co-op sessions where you’d grind through your dailies together until 2 AM, his voice a sleepy, comforting hum in your headset. The tension had been a tightly coiled spring, and this ridiculous Domain had just snapped it.

You took another step closer, backing him up against the heavy oak door of the inn room.

“Because your affection meter just jumped to eighty percent, Yuji,” you murmured, tilting your head up to meet his wide, panicked eyes.

“Y/N,” he breathed, his voice coming out dangerously raspy. His back hit the wood with a dull thud. “You’re making this really difficult. I’m trying really, really hard to be a gentleman right now.”

“I don’t want a gentleman,” you replied softly, reaching out to trace the cold metal edge of his breastplate, feeling the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart beneath it. “I want to clear the quest.”

You didn’t even need to select Option C.

Yuji let out a deep, guttural groan that vibrated straight to your core. His restraint shattered completely. Large, calloused hands completely abandoned the clunky gauntlets, dropping them to the floor with a crash as he grabbed your waist, hoisting you up with superhuman ease.

You let out a startled gasp as your back hit the heavy oak door, your legs instinctively wrapping around his armored waist.

His mouth crashed down onto yours. It was nothing like the soft, hesitant first kisses from the movies. It was hungry, desperate, and completely consuming. His lips parted yours effortlessly, his tongue sweeping inside to taste you, mapping your mouth with a possessive heat that made your head spin.

You tangled your fingers into his thick, spiky pink hair, pulling him flush against you. The cold metal of his armor bit into your exposed thighs, but you didn’t care. The friction, the heat radiating from his skin, that uniquely warm scent of sunshine and boyish sweat, it was intoxicating.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he growled against your lips, his thumbs pressing firmly into the soft skin of your hips. He trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jawline, biting lightly at the sensitive column of your neck. You let out a breathless, needy sound, arching your spine to press closer to him.

His hips ground flush against yours, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was rock hard, the heavy ridge of his arousal pressing intimately against you through the thin layers of your rogue skirt and his trousers.

You whimpered, a surge of pooling heat settling heavily between your thighs. You reached down, your hands desperately tugging at the straps of his breastplate, needing it gone, needing to feel his bare skin beneath your fingertips.

“Ngh, Yuji—” you gasped, your nails digging into his broad shoulders.

DING!

“Wait, no—!” Yuji shouted, his eyes snapping open.

CRACK.

The scent of roses and the soft velvet of the inn vanished, replaced instantly by the pungent smell of garbage and the humid night air of Tokyo. Gravity asserted itself, and you stumbled as the oak door behind you disappeared, turning back into the brick wall of a damp alleyway.

You were both back in your standard, dark Jujutsu High uniforms.

The Domain was broken. The mission was over.

You and Yuji stood perfectly still, chests heaving, clothes rumpled, your lips swollen and thoroughly kissed. The silence between you was deafening.

Then, the distant honk of a Tokyo taxi snapped you out of your daze. You blinked, the intoxicating haze of the fantasy world evaporating as reality abruptly crashed back down on you. You two were back, safe and sound. And more importantly, you had exactly two hours before Gojo-sensei’s movie night.

Two hours of glorious, uninterrupted ‘me time’. You could finally log in, run your genshin dailies and maybe do a few pulls before you had to be sociable again. Plus, you just really needed some excuse to run from whatever was going on right now.

“Well!” you clapped your hands together, stepping back and aggressively smoothing down your rumpled uniform jacket, actively avoiding Yuji’s gaze. “Mission accomplished! That was… definitely a weird curse. Anyway, I’m gonna head back to the dorms, take a shower, and grind some levels before movie night. See ya—”

Before you could even pivot on your heel, a large, warm hand clamped firmly around your wrist, stopping you dead in your tracks.

You slowly turned back to look at Yuji. His pupils were still blown wide, a deep flush coloring his cheeks, and his chest was rising and falling rapidly. The golden-retriever energy was completely gone, replaced by something much hungrier, and significantly more indignant.

“Hold on,” Yuji breathed, his voice dropping to a delightfully raspy pitch. He tugged on your wrist, effortlessly pulling you right back into his personal space. “Are you kidding me right now, Y/N?”

“Uh… no?” you squeaked.

“You can’t just—” Yuji let out a frustrated, breathy laugh, his free hand raking through his messy pink hair. “You can’t just do that, drive me absolutely crazy, and then go ‘cool, see ya, I’m gonna go play games’! You have to take responsibility!”

“The Domain made us do it!” you argued weakly, your heart hammering against your ribs all over again as he stepped closer, backing you right up against the damp brick wall of the alley.

“The Domain made us kiss,” Yuji corrected, his golden-brown eyes darkening as he leaned down, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear, sending a fresh shiver down your spine. “But you were the one who pushed me against the door. So, your dailies are going to have to wait.”

hi so new anatomy of a favor chapter is finally up 🧍

hopefully there are still survivors here reading this fic lol. pls keep me in ur prayers so i can finish this story and stop disappearing every other week 🙏