kade

apollo finds you weeks later.

he's fully healed, radiant as ever, draped in gold and surrounded by the constant, buzzing hive of his beauties. they're feeding him grapes, tending to his hair, laughing at his jokes. he's the center of a universe he built to drown out the silence you left behind.

he dismisses them. it takes a long time because there are so many—a hundred women, two hundred, a thousand—and they cling to his golden robes like cooling shadows.

he smiles, he kisses brows, he gently tugs them away, he peels their fingers from his golden silk with a soft "not today, my loves," and "i have business."

he is gentle, because he is apollo, and the sun does not strike the flowers that reach for it.

the moment the gilded doors click shut, the mask falls. apollo closes his eyes, and the air around him begins to shimmer. a divine portal—a tear in the fabric of the realms made of pure, white-hot light—opens before him. he steps through the sun itself and out into the cool, damp air of the valhalla gardens.

he had come here to be alone. he had come here to mourn the fact that he saw you in the stands and yet, you hadn't come to his victory gala. but then, he sees you.

you are staring at a laurel tree with a look of such weary, bone-deep recognition that apollo feels the gold arrow in his chest twist. he stays in the shadows for a moment, just watching you breathe. you're real. you aren’t bark.

"you’re back," he says. his voice is a low hum, a melody he’s spent eons perfecting.

you don't turn around. your shoulders tense. "i am."

"i kept the leaves," he whispers, reaching out a hand, his fingers trembling. you step away. just one inch. but to apollo, it feels like a canyon opening up.

it stings. it’s a physical pain, sharper than any blade he faced in the arena. he is the sun! yet here you are, shivering as if he’s a winter frost. he reaches out, a golden hand trembling. "the arrow... surely after all this time, the effect has faded? we are in the end times. let me—"

"don't."

the word is a wall. he stops. he thinks about his palace filled with women who adore him. he can’t leave them. he won't. his pride is too big. he needs the harem to muffle the sound of his own heartbeat, which only ever thumps out your name.

"you’re still so beautiful," he whispers, his voice breaking. "it's unfair. i'm nothing compared to the way you hate me."

you look at him—really look at him—and for a second, there’s pity in your eyes. which is worse. so much worse than the fear. "go back to your harem, apollo. they love you. let that be enough."

"it’s not enough," he says, and the honesty of it feels like a sacrilege. "it's never been enough. a million voices calling me 'lord' and it doesn't drown you out. i sat beside that tree for a thousand years, talking to the leaves, hoping—praying—that if i was just patient enough, you’d come back."

"and i did come back," you reply, stepping toward the fountain. "and the first thing i see is you, draped in gold, surrounded by a thousand replacements."

apollo flinches as if you’d struck him. "they were there when you weren't. they love the light i give them. should the sun go out because one nymph refuses to look at it?"

"yes," you say simply. "if that’s what it takes to be left alone, then let it go out."

the silence that follows is deafening. in the distance, the faint, melodic bells of his palace ring, signaling the start of another feast in his honor. he can feel the pull of his duty—to be the sun, to be the god of beauty, to never show a single flaw.

"love—" he starts, using the name he hasn't dared speak in an age.

"don't call me that," you snap over your shoulder. "i'm not your 'love.' i'm just me. and i'm leaving."

he watches you go until the green of the garden swallows you whole. he stands there for an eternity, his hand half-raised, reaching for nothing. the god of the sun, cast in the long, lonely shadows. he waits until the scent of your skin—like rain and wild herbs—is replaced by the heavy, cloying perfume of the garden’s flowers.

he reaches up and touches the laurel wreath on his head. it’s cold.

eventually, the golden light around him flares, and he steps back through the portal. he returns to his home, to the silk-draped rooms and the endless praise of his beauties. they rush to him the moment he appears, their voices a sweet wave of adoration.

he lets them take his hands. he lets them lead him to his velvet couch. he smiles at them, and it is the brightest thing in the world, a sun that never sets. he tells them they are magnificent. he makes them feel like the center of his universe.

but his heart is still in that garden. he is apollo. he is the god who has everything. and as a hundred beautiful women press against him, whispering his name like a prayer, he has never felt more hollow.

and he would be the type of man who never asks for your opinion but somehow knows exactly what you want before you even realize it yourself.

if you’re tired, he’s already standing, his hand a firm, grounding weight on the small of your back to lead you away from the "vermin" without a single word of explanation to the people you were talking to.

he doesn't "escort" you; he moves you like a precious piece on a chessboard that only he is allowed to touch.

and his touch would be so rare that every time it happens, it feels like a divine event. he’s not a cuddler, but he is incredibly territorial.

if a stray hair falls out of place, he won't tell you to fix it. he will simply reach out, his long fingers cool and steady, and tuck the strand back behind your ear.

it’s a terrifyingly intimate gesture because his eyes never leave yours while he does it—a silent reminder that he notices every single flaw, and yet, he has chosen to correct yours himself.

and if he were to kiss you, he wouldn't be intense about it. there's no desperation in a god like him. he'd simply place his hand on your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with just enough pressure to tilt your face up to his.

he would show love through absolute, unwavering standards. he doesn't give "participation trophies." if poseidon ever stays to watch you train or move, it’s because he finds your form flawless. as it should be.

he won't tell you "good job," but he will stare at you for a long, quiet minute before turning away, and that look—that brief moment where he actually sees you—is worth more than a thousand "i love yous" from a lesser god.

and he's the type to be silently jealous. he doesn't shout or pick fights with other gods.

if someone dares to look at you for too long, poseidon will simply turn his gaze toward them. he won't move a muscle, but the sheer, crushing weight of his intent will fill the room until the offender shuts their mouth and leaves. he doesn't do it to protect your feelings; he does it because no vermin has the right to gaze upon what is his. SMUT HCS HERE

poseidon is a man of absolute control, and that doesn't change when the lights go out. his desire is like the ocean—it’s calm and flat until it suddenly, wordlessly pulls you under.

he doesn't "initiate" with words or suggestive looks. he simply walks into the room, locks the door, and looks at you until the weight of his gaze makes you realize exactly what is about to happen.

and he isn't a fan of "risqué" behavior or sneaking around. why would a god hide his desires?

he finds the idea of public fumbling or quickies in hallways to be beneath him—the behavior of a clown who can't control their own impulses. he prefers the absolute privacy of his own space, where he can take his time without distraction.

and his kinks are all centered around quiet, firm dominance.

he’s a prone bone man through and through; he likes the view of your back and the way you look pressed down into the deep, expensive sheets. he doesn't need to see your face to know you're his; he can feel it in the way you tremble beneath him.

he wouldn't mind tying your hands behind your back, either—nothing cheap like rope, but a heavy, black silk tie. he wants you still. he wants you focused entirely on the sensation of him.

and he's incredibly iffy about bite marks or anything that "mars" your skin. he views your body as something perfect, a divine extension of his own space, and he doesn't want to see teeth marks on it the next day. however, he’ll leave a single, dark bruise on your hip where his thumb pressed too hard—a proprietary mark that only he will ever see.

he prefers the mouth—stolen, lingering kisses that remind you who he is.

his libido isn't high, mostly because he finds the "need" for sex to be a little too much, but when he decides it’s time, he is incredibly thorough.

he isn't a loud man, but he isn't silent either; when you move just right, he’ll let out a low, guttural grunt against the back of your neck. his praise is rare and sharp: "good. stay like that," or a simple, breathless, "perfect," when you finally break. it’s not meant to make you feel "good"—it’s meant to confirm that you are meeting his standards.

and for aftercare, he’s not the type to cuddle or whisper sweet nothings. he’ll sit up, compose himself, and then he’ll clean you both up with a damp cloth, his movements efficient and steady.

AT 15, avoidance becomes tiring; acceptance is quieter. he realizes that if he is to be the "perfect head", he must be the perfect fiancé for yours. conversations resume, polite and measured, like nothing ever changed. you talk about training and classes—things that don't require vulnerability. but the awareness is always there. every laugh is followed by the quiet understanding that this is not casual. noritoshi learns early that obligation can feel a lot like consent if you don’t look at it too closely.

AT 16, the idea of “someday” settles in. it’s not romantic, not yet, just inevitable. noritoshi becomes gentler with you than with anyone else—measured, respectful, and painfully considerate. he walks you home from training when he can. you correct his form when he overthinks. it’s subtle, contained, and careful enough to be deniable. it’s a kind of kindness that hurts more than distance ever did.

AT 17, jujutsu high forces proximity. shared missions, shared reports, shared danger. the engagement stays unspoken; principal yaga doesn’t need to know, and clan business stays clan business.

but then you almost die on a mission that goes south—a grade 1 that was supposed to be a semi-grade 2—and you're nearly gutted. the world narrows to pain and noise and blood. when it’s over, noritoshi doesn’t hesitate; he pulls you against him, one arm tight around your waist and the other braced between your shoulders, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip for even a second.

AT 18, the words come out wrong, but they come out anyway. noritoshi never says "i love you" like it’s simple. it’s more careful than that: "i wouldn’t want this with anyone else. i don't think i could." there are hidden kisses, stolen moments, and promises made in the spaces between missions and expectations. it feels fragile and precious. for the first time, the future feels like something he actually chose.

then shibuya happens. the culling game looms and the clan fractures. noritoshi is ousted from the kamo clan, his birthright stripped away by kenjaku’s arrival.

the engagement is nullified before he can even speak to you—erased quickly and efficiently, like ink from a page. your parents inform you that you’re free now, free to choose someone else, and somehow that makes it worse. not being the heir is one thing, but losing you feels hollow in a way he has no words for.

you don’t see each other again. yet, even in the middle of a game meant for slaughter, he still carries your favorite ribbon in his pocket.

noritoshi kamo, whose marriage with you ended before it could ever truly begin, learns that some losses don’t need funerals to haunt you.

sometimes, years later, he wonders if what he felt was love—or if it was just something he was never allowed to keep long enough to understand. BONUS: the culling games are a symphony of noise—the sound of blood hitting the pavement, the hum of barriers, the screams of the weak. but in the quiet spaces, between the carnage and the survival, noritoshi kamo finds the silence unbearable.

he is sitting against a concrete wall, the air smelling of ozone and old dust. his bow is leaned against his shoulder, his fingers stained with the iron scent of his own technique. he is no longer a kamo heir. he is barely a kamo at all.

he reaches into his pocket.

his fingers find it immediately. the ribbon is frayed now, the silk worn thin and dull from where his thumb has traced the edges a thousand times too many in the dark. it’s a useless thing. it has no cursed energy. it won't stop a blade or a curse. it won't bring back his name, or your smile, or the life he imagined with you.

but it’s the only thing that wasn't decided for him by an elder or a bloodline. it's the only ghost he is allowed to keep.

he thinks about the "freedom" your parents promised you. he hopes you’re breathing somewhere safe, far away from the blood and the barriers. he hopes you’ve found a choice that doesn't feel like a heavy, golden cage.

SUGURU GETO the lioness is thinking about suguru geto—who is trying desperately to maintain his dignity while the floor tilts forty-five degrees to the left.

he’s swaying, eyes half-lidded, looking like a sleepy cat, waving a hand dismissively when you ask if he's okay. "drunk? me? impossible. i am simply... resting my eyes while standing. it is a meditation technique."

he tries to lecture you on the failures of non-sorcerers but slurs the word "monkeys" into "munkies" and then trips over his own expensive robes. he lands face first on the couch, mumbles, "just resting my eyes," and immediately passes out, looking peaceful and totally defeated by the alcohol. CHOSO KAMO the lioness is thinking about choso kamo—who starts the night stoic but ends it sobbing into his hands because the shape of a pretzel reminded him of brotherhood.

one minute he's babbling excitedly about a sunset he saw three years ago, clinging to your sleeve with wide, watery eyes because "everything is just so beautiful," and the next, the mood crashes entirely.

he's babbling, tears streaming down his face, talking about how much he misses yuji, misses his brothers, misses the quiet comfort of his past life. "look at me... i failed them all..." he looks at you with wet, red eyes and asks if you want to be his sibling too, just so he can protect you, before bursting into fresh, ugly tears that somehow smell vaguely of blood manipulation. RYOMEN SUKUNA the lioness is thinking about ryomen sukuna—who refuses to admit that a mortal substance could ever affect the king of curses, even though his eyes are definitely unfocused and his vessels are struggling.

he's sitting perfectly still, projecting cold power, but his mood is swinging like a pendulum—one second he’s oddly calm, smirking at his cup with a terrifying, almost pleasant look, then you ask him a question and he snaps, "silence, woman. are you dumb? do not speak to me."

he briefly leans into your touch before realizing the soft weakness of the act, immediately growling and shoving you away with controlled force. he keeps rubbing his temples, holding his head like he has a headache, oscillating between "i'm fine" and internally threatening to dismantle anyone who points out the redness of his cheeks. NAOYA ZEINN the lioness is thinking about naoya zenin—whose arrogance doesn't dissolve in alcohol, it just gets louder, whinier, and way more annoying.

he’s leaning back, face flushed, gesturing wildly while ranting about how nobody appreciates true zenin talent and how superior he is over absolutely everyone else. "do you have a problem? hah? you looking at me? only the best are allowed to look at me."