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fleet-of-fiction · 4 months

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Jake Kiszka x Narrator & Sam Kiszka x OC.

Chapter One

Summary: The Jones Family are new additions to the sleepy community of Beech Run. A tight knit scattering of rural houses, where everyone knows everyone. Deeply religious and overbearingly strict, the daughters of the family are kept under lock & key by a fanatical Father and submissive Mother. They watch from bedroom windows as their neighbours, The Kiszkas, draw intense curiosity and desire to be free. Madness of youth , hope & obsession collide to bring the danger of forbidden love to poetic ends. (Era A/U)

A/N: I want to dedicate this fic to all my beautiful friends who have loved and supported me through what could only be described as a difficult time. Their belief in me as a person, who tries to be good even though I'm prone to making hellish mistakes, has been unwavering and as such I wanted to create a piece of writing that I felt they would enjoy and immerse themselves in. So, this ones for you @writingcold @sanguinebats @thewritingbeforesunrise @takenbythemadness @edgingthedarkness @katuschka @lvnterninthenight @its-interesting-van-kleep @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @gretavangroupie and everyone else who has been with me on this journey.

Warnings: Religious trauma. Parental trauma. Intense emotions including desire, obsession, grief and yearning. Loss of virginity. Explicit sexual activity. Heavy praise kink. Severe edging. Oral sex m/f. Fingering. Masturbation. Dirty filth talk.

Summer 1984

The Kiszka's were like catching that scent of freshly cut grass on warm summer air. Nostalgic for something I'd never had. Books that I dare not open because my love for the cover meant that I was too afraid to start something I knew I'd never be able to put down. They were Sunday morning distractions, like I'd never known a day without putting my hand to glass and letting their chaos drift in through the open window.

The first time I saw them I didn't know the sound of laughter could make my heart want to die. The sort of rambunctious envy I felt was a thief to any joy I might have found, standing in the dust as I carried boxes into the new house. Theirs was a summer of freedom. And mine was like trying to find solace in the darkness.

The girl was pretty when she smiled. I thought, perhaps, in some other life she and I could have been friends. Sometimes I imagined it, that she would knock on our door and ask for me by name. A delusion I centred within myself whenever I saw her ride by on the yellow push bike that was always leaning against their porch steps. The boys weren't like that, though. No part of me could imagine myself in that wild entanglement. Fires and swearing, ripping their shirts off in the midday heat to wrestle in the dirt. Guitars littering their garage door, riffs that drifted in on the wind making me want to rise from the doldrums.

It just wasn't like that for us. Any hope that I'd carried into Beech Run was dashed the moment my Father shook hands with the patriarch of our neighbours, and immediately insisted that we weren't to go near those people. Godless and bohemian. Without decency. Without enough fear of a faceless, impalpable being that seemed to rule over nobody save for us.

He was a pastor and we paid for that dearly. With our curfews and our diligence and our punishments if we didn't honour God precisely how we should. I stopped believing that an almighty power would have chosen this life for me a long time ago, but nothing felt more certain until we moved to Beech Run. Only the devil would have put us next to the Kiszka's.

"They're so pretty."

Jolene was sitting on the windowsill, playing with her hair as she admired them. She had that faraway look in her eye that most girls had when they were seventeen. Romanticising them, giving them entirely fictionalised morals and wondering what her name would sound like on their lips.

"Come away from the window." I warned, the torture of it something I had already decided I would not endure all summer.

She would bite down on her lip and sway against the glass. Insufferable. Lost in a sea of their sweaty bodies tearing across the front lawn, having water fights and jam sessions in the garage. All the things we were denied. She and I, lumbered with reading lists and prayer groups that made me want to rip out my immortal soul and offer it to the highest bidder.

"The tall one, he looks as if he might sweep you off your feet. He keeps tucking his hair behind his ear, I think I'd like to do that for him."

No good would come of it. I could see the whispering angels and demons perched on my sister's shoulders. Consorting with her. The fathomless ages of young girls who had come before her in their tragic echoes, doomed to desire and the shadow of a breaking heart hanging above her head.

"Come." I encouraged, "Sit and read with me a while. And then shall we see if Ben will take us into town?"

The freedoms allowed to our brother were tantamount to our lack of it. He was the eldest and therefore had the privileges of that. He was male, and existed in a world that Jolene and I did not encompass. Sometimes he would take pity on us and drive us into town to get an ice cream or watch a movie. Sometimes he would be cruel and drive there without even telling us.

"I'm fine here." She sighed, and I suspected she wanted them to see her.

I was far too practical to follow her into that folly of romance. I thought myself immune to it, happy to just read about it in books that would remove me from my present circumstances. Something which had made me a target, previously, for underhand comments as I walked down the school halls or sat in the library just turning pages.

"Fine, until you send yourself silly with all this nonsense." I sighed, putting my book aside and shimmying to the end of my bed.

"I want to know what it feels like, don't you?" She was a dreamer, a conjurer of a fate I could already feel the chill of spilling down my back. "To be taken for a ride in a car, and have them open the door for you. And kiss you goodnight, making you feel like you're the prettiest thing they ever saw. Don't you want that, Bonnie?"

If I had ever wanted it, the moment had passed. Perhaps I was hopeful once, but then hope could be so easily dashed. My sister was beautiful in an uncommon way. Simple and understated, the sort of beauty that was caught at the right angle and once perceived, it was devastating. With long auburn waves and a set of dreamy blue eyes, she had lips that were full and round in complete contrast to what I had to offer.

"No." I replied without hesitation. "I don't want deal with any foolishness, least of all from a man. Don't we put up with enough of that from our own dear brother?"

She rolled her eyes in contention. "It's not the same, and you know it's not. Brothers are nuisances. In the same way Dads are."

With that, I couldn't disagree. Ours was a formidable creature who liked to keep us so pure it was as if any man would contaminate us by breathing the same air. Something which had begun to take it's toll. I had given up, and Jolene was merely awaiting her chance to break all the rules.

"Oh, but not these boys." She sang, returning her gaze to the frivolities unfolding across the street. "These boys are handsome and good. I just know that they are sweet and kind and up close I bet they have all these little nuances that only stand to make them even more handsome."

She would walk into a pit of fire if it promised to love her and adore her. Willing to walk to her heart break like ascending to the gallows with a smile upon her face and would willingly do it all over and over again just for a taste of something like passion. A part of me envied her.

"Maybe you're right." I agreed, deciding it might be worth a peek. "Maybe they are handsome and good. And maybe they will take you riding in a car and kiss you goodnight. But that doesn't change the fact that Dad would never allow it."

There were three of them. The elder of the twins was a lithe and charismatic thing. With a mop of curls and a penchant for wearing his pants low enough that my Dad had balked at the sight of him upon introductions. The younger twin was a little more reserved, hiding behind a curtain of long dark hair. His smile was entirely unexpected just by looking at the depth and darkness of his eyes. Neither of which were mirrored in their younger brother, who had all the hope and exuberance of a puppy dog that hadn't been trained on how to behave around company.

And Jolene was right. They were so infuriatingly pretty. All three of them with the same magnetic curse that had drawn my attention whether I wanted it to or no. I was no better than she, leaning my hand against the glass so that I might see them better. Rolling my tongue around in my mouth as I tried to appear calm.

"I'll jump out of a thousand windows before I ever let Daddy tell me who I can or cannot love."

I believed her. There was something in the way she stared out of that window that made me truly believe she would never let such a thing come between her and her desires. And as I looked down at the object of her affection, he saw me for the very first time.

Shirtless and sweaty, his hair wet and slicked back. He raised a hand to his brow and stared directly into our bedroom window. His brother, coming to see what had distracted him, followed his line of vision. Raising his hand, the two of them drenched and flushed pink as they stood at the end of their driveway regarding us. And we, against our better judgement, stared back.

I often stood in front of the mirror alone, wondering how I might be regarded by another. It was a terrible thing to be young and have innocence imposed. I would trail my fingers down my breasts and imagine that the handsome boy who had peered into my window was standing in the darkness behind me.

I couldn't see him. He wasn't a perfect image. His face was blurred from the distance of where he'd stood in my memories of that day. But it was him that I summoned whenever I touched myself. There was no other who came to mind. It was always the younger twin, the one with the long hair who had dared to stand and watch.

Perhaps it was his boldness that had made him stay with me. There was something bookish about his demeanour, like he'd been written by a woman for other women to fantasise about. Simply by standing there in the summer heat, taking note of me. Like I wasn't a ghost, after all.

"Open the door, Bonnie."

His voice ran through me like the prickle of a stinging nettle against flesh. To hear it whilst I stood there, naked, made my skin crawl.

"Just a second." I replied, pulling on my robe and hurrying to obey.

My Father was on the other side, standing there with a sourness that questioned precisely why I had been in the bathroom quite as long as I had. He would ask if I had been partaking in a sin, but at the same time he wouldn't speak it into existence. He simply cleared his throat and nodded at me.

"Your Mother and I were thinking, for the service this coming Sunday, that you and your sister would like to say a few words about how welcoming our flock have been since we arrived here."

His suggestion drew an audible sigh of disappointment. That I would be expected to stand in front of our neighbours and peers as if I were somehow grateful felt like a deception in the house of God. I could imagine their faces, thinking us good little Christian girls and what perfect examples of the lord's word. A credit to our loving Father. And our Mother, who would sit there in her perpetual silence and allow it to unfold without so much as an uttering against it.

"Of course." I replied obediently, "As you wish, Daddy."

He nodded his approval, clenching his jaw as if he'd anticipated a different response.

"I'd like the congregation to see what lovely girls we have." He mused, the grey flecked moustache that sat above his upper lip twitching. "They need to see that their pastor is the head of a good, solid foundation."

I had already agreed to his demand. There was no requirement for him to stand there and justify it any further. I was consciously aware of my state of undress, and felt it necessary to continue to nod my agreement as I scurried back to my room.

"Oh, and Bonnie?" He caught my arm, firm but not enough to cause pain. "Please make sure your sister stays away from the window tonight."

He would feel superior and I would feel beholden to it. As I smiled and nodded, as if I somehow held the reigns of my sister's deeds. He was smug and I was left wondering how he even knew that she'd been standing there.

"Yes, Daddy." I muttered, knowing it would have been futile to try and convince him otherwise.

She was feigning sleep as I came into the room. Making rudimentary noises and shuffling about as if in dream. I dressed quickly and quietly and it wasn't until I had switched off my lamp and laid my head down that she decided to end her performance.

"Bonnie?"

I flicked the lamp back on. "Yes?"

"Do you think Daddy will let us go to down to the creek this summer? I heard the Kiszka's talking about it outside. They said there was going to be a heat wave and all the kids from Beech Run and the next town over would be heading there. I sure would like to go."

There was an effervescent hope in her voice. That somehow, if she could only say it out loud, it might make it come true. I ruminated on the right way to tell her I couldn't see it being a possibility, not wanting to shatter her dreams entirely.

"Perhaps, if Ben is there escort us, there might be a chance." I offered, knowing that our brother had no intention of escorting us anywhere during his first summer in a new place with all the freedoms and folly of a youth that was extended to him.

She was leaning on her palm. Playing with a thread on her pillow case, her mouth all smushed up as she contemplated what I'd said.

"I just want to be like all the other girls." She sighed, before turning over and signalling the end of her part in our conversation.

"Dad wants us to say a few words at service this Sunday." I told her, plunging the room back into darkness, "Maybe we'll tell them all how he keeps us here like prisoners."

I heard a small, almost indiscernible titter from Jolene's side of the room. But I let her be. Sinking into my bed sheets and trying to imagine I time where I'd ever been satisfied.

He was there, again. Standing in the darkness. Haunting me. His imperfect face just beyond where I could see, the shape of him calling out to me. A set of deep set brown eyes appraised me, squinting through sunlight to get a better look at me. And I replayed it over and over until it was scratched into my memory like an old cassette that had worn it's self down to white noise.

I just wanted to know his name.

It was a Thursday evening. When the wall clock in the kitchen stopped. Summer rain began to fall. My Mother lost her most treasured thimble whilst sewing a set of curtains in the chair by the front window. And my Father was berating us for a less than exuberant attempt at writing a speech for the up coming church service.

He had us standing there like sentinels. Brushing his disappointment over us as if we were his canvas. I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle, a deep rooted need to protect my little sister from this sort of tirade starting to bubble away beneath the surface.

"I don't feel your gratitude, Jolene." He scorned, scrunching her script up in his hands like it was a tissue he'd used to blow his nose. "Try something a little more heart felt."

She was on the verge of tears. I could see them welling up in the corners of her eyes. I looked over at my Mother and felt a sense of abandonment whilst she was still in the room as she searched for the thimble she had lost. Silently willing her to step in, to say something. Anything.

"We'll have something appropriate drawn up by Sunday." I assured him, waiting to be dismissed.

His dominance was always at it's most ferocious when I dared to even tread into defiance. Sometimes I wondered if he took pleasure in it. The way Jolene trembled beneath his word and I tried and fought in vain to protect her. I wasn't the one prone to rebellion and yet it felt as if I always took the brunt simply because I always tucked Jolene behind me, safely squirrelling her away from his overbearing eye.

"See that you do." He simply replied, waving a cursory hand that allowed us to leave.

I heard my Mother rejoice as the lost thimble was found. My heart sinking that this was her biggest joy. That she had barely taken note of her daughters and our pain and the way we were slowly sinking into oblivion. Why was I even trying to obey?

Perhaps I closed my bedroom door a little more aggressively than I'd intended. It caused the pictures on my wall to shudder. The bottle of perfume on my nightstand rolled over. And Jolene fell into her pillows, leaving the stains of tears in the folds of fabric.

"They'd never convict him a court of law because he doesn't beat us." She sobbed, screaming silently into blankets.

Perhaps he would have if the marks would've been translucent. I often wondered if my Dad had ever thought about beating us into submission. Sometimes the bloody veins in the whites of his eyes and the tiny speck of spit in the corner of his mouth as he raged at us made me wonder if he curled his fist up at just the right moment if he would strike.

"I thought, when we moved here, that things might be different." I dared to wonder, "But if anything, he's worse."

Jolene's face was all blotchy and pink. Sodden with tears and her hair stuck to her wet cheeks.

"He knows, Bonnie." She sniffed. "He knows that if we were given half the chance we'd be across the street. With those boys."

Would it have been so bad? To have known a summer of love? I was eighteen years old. Never been kissed. Never been taken on a date and had a door opened for me. I had tried so hard to ignore it, but I could no longer look away from it. The way I'd been spending more time on it, touching myself and imagining him in the place of my own hand.

"You don't care, anyway." She added, with a little more malice. "You don't want any of it. You're always trying to stop me from looking at them. You're always burying your head in a book, as if that will help."

Perhaps I deserved that. I didn't dare tell her that I'd had a change of heart, of late. That my usual stance had begun to shift. Where once I'd thought the wanting had passed, it had started to become an insatiable curiosity. Even my waking thoughts were plagued by it.

"That's not true." I confessed, laying a careful hand in her hair. "I'm sorry if I ever made you feel alone in this. I promise, you're not."

Her nose wrinkled as she looked at me. As if seeing me for the first time. Allied in our awakening interest in the boys across the street.

"I can't stop thinking about him, Bonnie. Every night before I sleep and every morning when I wake up. I wish I could wash him out of my mind. But he's there, all the time, looking up at our window."

"I know, I know..." I soothed, "I've tried to forget that they exist, too."

I'd forgotten to draw our blinds. In our haste to appease our ever demanding Father, I'd left the curtains open too. From the corner of my eye I noticed a light flicker on outside, drawing my attention. I turned and took note of the Kiszka house, the glowing square in the upstairs left quarter was like a beacon against the rural darkness of our street.

"Look." I said, waiting for my sister to follow my gaze.

It was the elder of the twins who appeared. A towel sat snugly around his waist as he ruffled another through his hair. He was lean and perfectly cut, not dissimilar to his counterpart. I felt a sudden shame at watching him, but there seemed to be no care for his close proximity to the window.

He was talking to someone. His mouth moving in soft intervals, as if engaging in a conversation we could not hear. I was enthralled, nonetheless. Wondering what he was talking about. Who he was talking to. He carefully ran his hands through his curls, making sure they were perfectly sculpted. His stomach taught and his arms raised above his head, but it was only inquisitiveness that made me continue to look.

I felt nothing until he appeared. Tossing his brother a clean t-shirt. Doing nothing of value. Padding around and making me feel like the most detestable of voyeurs.

"He's the one, isn't he?" Jolene asked softly, taking note of my how my breath hitched as he appeared. "We can't just pretend like this isn't happening."

"They don't even know we exist." I dismissed her, forcing myself to look away.

"That's not true." She replied fluidly, her voice rising like a song. "We were introduced when we first moved here. They've seen us watching them. Even if it's the only thing they know, it's that we exist."

I wanted so badly for it to be true. I watched him stand there poetically in the window, talking to his brother and running a hand through his long hair. Casual. No care within the world for him. And I envied not only the fact that I couldn't be close to him, but also that I ached to be him.

I didn't settle at all that night. Fretting, feeling as if I held all the anguish in the world in the pit of my stomach. Jolene had nodded off as soon as the light across the street went out. But I continued to stare at the void a while longer. Silent tears streaking my cheek, the salt on my lips like a bitter reminder that it was all I could do to let it out.

I could see my reflection in the glass. A spiritual spectre that didn't have a voice. I stood there in my white linen night gown, ruffled at the sleeves and thought myself truly a ghost. The window was cold to the touch. The night was cool and calm whilst within me raged a tempest.

I didn't want to go to bed and lay down and have my thoughts ruin me. It would have been nightmares that came to me, ones about being locked in a cage. And so I stood there, in the window I had promised not to let my sister stare out of.

That warm glow from across the street reignited. It almost made me flinch. The way the darkness was all consuming, and then there it was. The light on in the room upstairs. I held my breath, as if somehow they'd be able to hear me. Lip trembling as he reappeared, this time alone. A look of forlorn sadness in his face as he went to pull the curtains closed.

He thought he could see something. He thought himself mad as he peered out further, squinting into the darkness as he caught the sight of me. It was in my mind to turn and disregard him, but I was rooted to the spot. Afraid that if I moved I would never feel again the way I felt right then in that moment.

I knew that he could see me. Certain as I knew that he was watching me right back. I could feel the pull of my heart strings dragging it down, into a flurry that churned my stomach like butter. He stood there, his forearm against the glass as he rested his head against it. Staring at me as if he couldn't quite believe I was real.

And then he raised his hand and waved. And I, inexplicably, waved back.

I sat in the choir loft as parishioners began to filter in. Gripping my insincere little speech in my hand, the paper felt as heavy as granite as I turned it in my hands.

I'd barely slept. Keeping vigil the past two nights, waiting for Jake to appear. That was his name. So graciously given to me, scrawled on a piece of paper as we exchanged messages from our respective windows.

It felt like poetry in motion. The first time he held up a crude scribble and asked for my name. It felt like I had been truly seen. I'd hastily scrambled for a pen and a notebook, holding it against the glass whilst he nodded his understanding. Waiting with my heart beating a muffled drum within my chest as he wrote something back.

He asked me why we never came to the creek. Why we never seemed to linger in the wide open spaces all around us. Why we were always in town with our brother. He seemed intrigued. Telling me about his passion for his guitar through page after page of rushed sentences.

The last of which had told me to wait for him in the choir loft before Sunday service.

Only a fool would have agreed to this. To sit there in my Sunday best, knees clicking together in consuming nerves of what I was about to do. Keeping a watchful eye on my Father as he stood at the podium and graciously welcomed his congregation. I'd never seen Jake or his family at church on any Sunday since we'd moved there. I questioned why he'd asked me to wait for him up in the rafters, but not enough to stop myself from agreeing to it.

"Bonnie?"

I clutched the hem of my skirt, knuckles white and my cheeks pale as I swallowed hard. He slid into the seat behind me. Graciously foregoing the seat beside me, I kept my eyes focused forward and felt as if I might melt into the very grain of the wooden pews. He leaned forward, resting elbows on the back of my pew, his breath warm and silken against the curve of my neck.

"Jake." I replied, my mouth suddenly ravenously dry.

What did I even anticipate that the pay off of this risk would be? Just to feel my own heart beating so wildly in my chest that I thought, perhaps, that I might pass out? To have a moment of stolen sin? I could smell the soap he'd used to wash with that very morning and the hint of coffee and toothpaste in the warmth of his breath. Was this ever going to be enough?

"You don't know how long I've wanted to talk to you." He confessed in hushed tones that forced me to close my eyes against the sincerity of the words. "Ever since you moved here. You've been somewhat of an enigma."

Nobody had ever spoken to me like that before. With careless want and an honesty that threatened to choke me. I could feel my palms grow sweaty, a compelling heat rising in my cheeks.

"We're not allowed to talk to boys." I replied earnestly, opening my eyes to a reality I did not want nor could I any longer tolerate.

He scoffed at the insinuation that he was a boy. "I'm twenty years old, I'm hardly that."

There was an innocent playfulness in the way he chased his brothers around their front yard. Their boyish natures belying their true age. I envied more than ever that they'd been granted that. Feeling naïve that I could have ever considered him a mere boy. Now that he was sitting so close to me, I could feel the urge to sin like effervescence bubbling off his skin. Something only men could feel.

"Forgive me." I faltered, bowing my head in solemn regret that I had been so fruitless in my estimation.

But he didn't berate me. "Oh, you're a caged little bird aren't you?"

If I could have let myself cry, he'd have witnessed a dam bursting. I sat there twisting my skirt, almost ripping the paper against it, letting hatred and regret and desire course through my veins. I hoped, more than anything I'd ever hoped for before, that he couldn't see the anguish.

"Are you ridiculing me?" I dared to ask, turning my head ever so slightly to catch him in my periphery.

I could see his lips parted as he lingered at my ear.

"No, never that." He reassured. "But I've seen the way he keeps you behind glass. I've seen you standing at the window watching us. And I tortured myself wondering if you knew that we had been watching you, too."

My breath stilled. "We?"

He boldly leaned a little further forward. Joining me in my gaze as I stared down at the growing crowd below. His chin almost rested on my shoulder, his hair almost brushed against my cheek. I couldn't stand it, the close proximity and the way I felt as if I couldn't move an inch.

"My brother Sam, and I." He confirmed. "He thinks your sister is damn near the prettiest little thing he's ever seen. But I told him no, that's not true. There's more grace and beauty in the older sister. She is where my mind runs to when I look towards your house."

To consider that he had thought of me made the centre of my chest begin to throb with a yearning I had never endured before. It filled that empty space between my ribs. Aching to crawl out and consume the rest of my body. I could scarcely breathe. My hand instinctively dropped the hem of my skirt and flew to my collar bone. Resting there as I tried to calm my beating heart.

"I didn't think you knew we even existed." I whispered, letting his confidence shine down on me, a part of me feeling fearless enough to make these confessions.

"On the contrary." He replied, sweeping his breath across my cheek bone, quite unintentionally as he lingered close to me. " I've thought of you often ever since you arrived. Wondering if you were ever going to make friends with my sister so that I could have the opportunity to talk to you. It was the greatest disappointment when we realised it wasn't meant to be."

His dream had been mine. The two of us worlds apart, and yet staggeringly close. Wanting the same wants. Needing the same needs. Laying his head down each night with that same blurred image of me that I had kept of him, too. God had finally answered my prayers.

"There is nothing more that I want that that." I replied wistfully, "But he would never allow it. We'd be punished. Called wicked. Or worse."

Jake shook his head and slinked back, taking away the heat of his body and leaving me cold.

"There's nothing wicked about the desire for connection." He surmised, tucking his hair behind his ear and pulling out a cigarette from his shirt breast pocket. Putting it between his lips for later. "You tell that air headed brother of yours to bring you down to the creek tomorrow."

"Ok." I replied quietly, feeling the essence of hope leave with him as he scurried away.

He didn't linger. I couldn't see his face in the crowd as I stood at the podium. He'd slipped out as easily as he'd slipped in, and I was grateful. I didn't want him to see me up there. Making a breath full of lies for ears that would have listened to any old garbage I could have come up with.

It was all I could think about as I talked about how the sanctity of strong family values held our bonds with God together. Something about honouring thy Father. As I pictured Jake sitting behind me, hot breath on my skin and the scent of his cologne still in the air I breathed. If I was wicked, I was already going to hell.

Ben was sitting in the car, his arm draped casually over the back of the passenger seat. His hair was neatly combed to the side, his shirt tucked into his slacks as he checked his teeth in the rear view mirror.

"We don't want to go into town today." Jolene complained, slumping into the back seat with a pout that she would never let our Dad ever see. "Why can't you just take us to the creek?"

He turned and pointed an ominous finger. I was inclined to bat it out of my way as I slipped in beside Jolene. Knowing she wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"You're going to town. I got a date with Harriet Dinsmore. I've been trying to pin her down for weeks. So don't start with all this going to the damn creek nonsense." He spat, carefully running a palm down the perfectly sculpted slicked hair that made him look uncannily like our Dad.

Jake had been unflinchingly correct in his estimation of our brother. For Ben, life meant never having to use much intelligence. He would fly off the back of our Fathers coat tails. No doubt becoming a pastor himself. Not for God but for the glory of it. But whilst he still held the keys to the car in his hands, I'd be smart.

"Oh, come on." I rallied, "You don't want your little sisters moping around while you try to court a pretty girl. We're better off at the creek. You can pick us up after."

I caught him roll his eyes in the mirror. "You would have me lie to Dad?"

Jolene popped her bubble gum, smirking as she stared out of the window over towards the Kiszka's house.

"It's only a lie if you tell Dad you're taking us into town with you. Has he asked where you're taking us?"

She knew there'd be a presumption made. But would use the semantics to her advantage. I felt a cool sense of pride in her, exchanging a knowing look as Ben rolled the thought around in his tiny little mind.

"Harriet Dinsmore? Isn't she the girl who works at the ice cream place?" I feigned interest. "She sure is pretty."

All it took was a few soft words about her hair. Her eyes. The way she served ice cream so deftly. She never spilled a drop. I wondered if he'd been so pliant before, if we'd had opportunities missed because we were so afraid of what our Father might do if he found out.

I was fuelled by that simple demand. That we get our air head brother to bring us to the creek. For what purpose, I didn't care. But I knew that if I didn't try I would reek of regret. And once Ben agreed to take us, I felt a sense of accomplishment that I'd never managed before.

Jolene was ratified in her excitement. Staring out of the window, beholden to a freedom so rarely afforded to us. We were given fair warning, of course, to keep to ourselves and not talk to any interested boys. To be on our best behaviour and not give him him any cause to have to tell Dad where we had been.

I did wonder what went through his mind as he dropped us at the side of the road, where the gate that lead down to creek stood open against a rickety old fence. I could hear voices in the distance. Jovial ones. And suddenly I was stricken with the stupidity of what we were about to do.

"Did he really say that?" Jolene asked, pulling down her little linen shorts and pulling fingers through her loose curls. "Did Sam Kiszka really say that I was damn near the prettiest thing he'd ever seen?"

If not for her, then for who? I set aside my reservations. Flattened down the pleat in my sun dress and pulled down the edge of my hat. I would make a fool of myself if it meant that she got to have just five minutes talking to the boy she liked. No more standing at the window wondering.

"That's what I hear." I replied, taking her hand as we sauntered through the gate and down the incline of the field towards the river bank at the bottom.

The tall grass weaved between my bare legs. Brandishing sleek little kisses against my inner thighs. The tips almost brushed against my crotch, each step like a feather dancing against my flesh. And it did not serve me well. I could see him standing on the embankment. Shirtless and long hair blowing in the warm breeze. I felt my stomach tie itself in knots over the sight of him, feeling as if the grass itself was inviting me to arousal as I walked towards him.

"Are you nervous?" Jolene asked, her hand still clutched firmly in the curl of my own. "I'm real nervous."

"Just stay close by." I soothed, "Don't leave my side, and we'll be just fine."

There were pockets of people dotted up and down the tree lined incline. Some were splashing around in the creek bed, where it met a wide opening that created a shallow pool, others were bathing in the sunshine. An array of colourful bathing suits on display. It was hot. The sort of hot where everything felt sticky and wet. There were balls and frisbee's being tossed around. Music playing from a boom box hanging from a broken tree branch. Beers sitting in coolers. Cigarettes and a sense that perhaps I'd bitten off more than I was willing to chew.

They were all there. All three of them and their sister, sitting in folding chairs and on blankets dotted around the clearing next to the water. There were a few faces I didn't recognise, too. Friends, no doubt. I didn't know where to look. It felt as if perhaps we were intruding, on account of the fact we weren't dressed appropriately for the occasion. We didn't even own bathing suits. It was apparent that we'd made a mistake.

Everyone was staring at us. Eyes boring into us as we approached. Jolene's hand squeezed mine. A silent plea for whatever we had walked into to stop feeling like a trap. Why did it feel as if I was feeding not only her, but myself to the wolves? They appraised us like creatures who belonged in a zoo. Eyes widened and sun shades slipped down their noses to get a better look at the Jones sisters.

"You came." Jake said breezily, greeting us at the edge of his little pocket. "I didn't think you would."

It was still in my mind to turn around and head back. But there was something in the way he wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand that made me willing to stay.

"You said to come." I hedged, every inch of me burning from the curious stares.

He was wearing a pair of denim shorts, cut at the knee. With a waist band so low I could make out the edge of whatever he had on underneath. With his body on unapologetic display, I didn't know where to politely look. There was only his eyes that could have accepted my gaze appropriately. And they were so intense I could feel myself wanting to back off.

"I did." He agreed, "And here you are. Let's get you introduced."

We accepted the seats we were offered. But declined the beers. Jolene sheepishly grinned as names were thrown at us and I tried so hard to commit them to memory. There was the Kiszka's; Jake, Josh, Sam and Ronnie. Danny Wagner and another friend from school, Lewis Dinsmore. Who's poor sister was stuck on a date with our unbearable brother. I was grateful for it, regardless. It provided an initial talking point which ingratiated us into the group, enabling me to calm my nerves as I sat there trying to act as if I didn't feel like a duck out of water.

"So, Bonnie. Are you a senior or did you graduate?" Ronnie Kiszka asked, hands on her hips as she supped on a bottle of beer and eyed the length of my dress.

"Umm, I graduated." I replied, "At our last school, in Ohio."

"So, what's the plan? College?" She continued, her questions posed innocently enough. But I felt like I was under the microscope. "I'm going to Michigan State in the fall."

"Oh, that's great." I tried to keep my voice steady and casual. "I'd love to go to college, but I'm needed at home to help my Mom."

Josh was sitting on a blanket, resting on his palms with his chin tilted up towards the sky. Languishing in a similar state of undress as his brother.

"Oh, is she sick or something?" He asked, pushing his shades up into his mess of curls as he looked over at me.

"No." I replied, looking down into my lap. "No, nothing like that..."

Jolene was more than happy to answer their questions. The intrusion didn't seem to phase her, she lapped up the attention like a neglected pup as I sat there wondering what they must have thought of us. Uncomfortable at the idea of it. Of them knowing our Dad would keep us at home rather that receiving a college education. That we were supposed to be somewhere else, and I wondered if any of them would know to keep our being there under wraps.

I couldn't hide my disdain. I smiled and nodded where required, but offered nothing in the way of conversation. I sat in the shadows whilst my sister took the reigns. Her desire to be part of something beyond our house was being fed to bursting and I could see the colour rise in her cheeks the more they enquired. Especially when Sam addressed her directly, their eyes finding each other in undeniable attraction. And all I could do was witness it unfold, hoping that my silence wasn't being mistaken for ill manners.

"You wanna get out of here?"

I looked up. Jake was standing at my feet, his hand extended for me to take.

"I probably shouldn't leave Jolene." I fretted, seeing how much she didn't need me.

"Probably shouldn't." He echoed, keeping his hand firmly offered. "Or is it because you're afraid of what might happen if you do?"

He'd been so kind. So humble. Introducing us to his friends and family. Like we weren't the spectacle we'd been when we first arrived. He'd been hospitable. Making jokes and including us in them. He'd made me laugh. Not just a giggle, but from my belly upwards. Making me radiate a smile that had been hidden for so long I hadn't even known I could smile like that.

"Afraid, of what?" I asked, although I suspected it was what he'd wanted.

He didn't say it out loud. There was only a hint of it in the way he curled his fingers up and urged me to go with him. I thought, perhaps, that he could see my uncertainty etched there in my face as I tried to fit in. All the things I wouldn't confess to. That I was afraid I'd spend my whole life never knowing what it truly felt like to be adored. Afraid that I'd always be a vessel for thoughts and feelings that would never be allowed to be expressed. Afraid that I'd never get to explore what it meant to be a woman. Fears that seemed to go unspoken. And yet, he heard me.

Jolene was sat with her chair practically on top of Sam's. Their heads bowed together in a conversation nobody else was invited to. I could see his hand edging towards coming to rest upon her knee, but he kept graciously stopping himself. Peering into her eyes instead, letting her ramble on about nothing in particular. Enchanted by her. And she, in turn, seemed entirely smitten with him. Blushing every time he tucked his hair behind his ear. Every time he threw his head back and let out the most infectious laugh I'd ever heard. He was being gentle with her.

"Come on." Jake said, "I know a spot we can go to."

Nobody seemed to care as he took one of the blankets and began to lead me away. Jolene looked over, silently watching as he took my hand. Too afraid that if she made a comment she would break the spell between her and Sam. I tried not to think too hard about it, grateful that people had finally gotten bored with our presence.

I would have let him take me anywhere. It felt like a sonnet that hadn't been written yet. The way he held my hand so casually, leading me back into the tall grass. All I could do was watch the way his hair moved in the breeze. Dancing against his flexing shoulder blades. His hips moving gracefully as he stepped between the long blades, blanket tucked under his free arm. The afternoon sun was beating down so hard, my cheeks began to burn. Grateful when he finally led me to a shaded area of tree's a little further down the creek where nobody else had bothered to venture.

I watched him as he laid the blanket down, flattening the grass and making sure we were shrouded by it. Inviting me to sit with him, the sound of flowing water and leaves moving in the dull wind as our soundtrack.

"You ever just lay in the grass and look up at the clouds?" He asked, rolling onto his back and placing arms behind his head.

I wrapped the hem of my dress around my knee's, conscious of the breeze as I laid down beside him. Through the canopy of the tree's around us, I could see wisps of cloud moving slowly against the brilliant blue.

"Not since I was a little kid." I replied, trying to remember the last time I'd done anything quite like this.

He was quiet for a brief moment. But it didn't feel like it needed to be filled.

"I hope you didn't get in any trouble yesterday. I don't think anyone saw me talking to you." He said, pulling out a small bottle of something honey coloured out of his pocket. "Sometimes people can't see what's happening right under their noses."

There was a flash of something in his grin as he lifted his head to take a swig, offering me some before dashing it onto the blanket at his side when I declined. I liked the way his side profile looked as I turned my head to look at him. There was something about the way his nose pointed at the tip, the way his mouth had the most enigmatic curl at the corners. It was obvious that he hadn't brushed his hair that day, but it didn't matter. It only served to suit him well.

I started to feel as if I could climb on top of him. The way he laid there, the muscles in his arms flexed as he laid them behind his head. I'd never been close enough to ever drink him in. I tried to commit to memory all the little nuances that were entirely him, knowing that I'd think of him later in more detail than I ever had before. It made me nervous.

"Clever." I surmised, impressed by his critical thinking. "Do you often do things right under people's noses?"

He smirked and turned his head, knocking me off my steady perch and into a panicked mess as his eyes met mine. I didn't dare look away. I didn't want to make the obviousness of my gaze even more obvious. I hoped that he couldn't tell I could hear the great whoosh of my own pulse when he looked at me. But I suspected that he did, letting his eyes fall down the rest of my body before coiling back up.

"Not everything." He damn near whispered, leaning up to rest on his forearm. "Some things I prefer to do where no one else can see."

It was getting hotter. The air felt warm in my lungs as I breathed. Even in the shade, it was sticky and sweltering. My dress was becoming increasingly drenched, beads of sweat pooling between my breasts. He was glistening in the sun light, his neck saturated as sweat ran down the peak of his adam's apple. Both of us tangibly giving in to the impetuous heat.

"Like what?" I asked, reaching for the bottle to quench a dry thirst that was forming in my mouth.

It tasted like fire. Did nothing to alleviate the dryness, only served to almost choke me and make me cough. Much to his delight as he placed a hand to my back and waited until I'd composed myself before offering his arm for me to lay against as I sank back down.

"Wouldn't want your Daddy catching us here, like this. Would you?" He asked, the sweat of his arm sliding against the back of my neck. "Wouldn't want anyone catching us here like this. I like being here, with you, just the two of us."

The weight of what was transpiring between us almost felt too heavy to bear. I could feel it, travelling up and down my body in waves of undulated panic and arousal. He wouldn't stop staring at me. Making it harder for me to deny myself.

"I like it too." I confessed quietly, allowing him to curl his arm up, making me inch closer to his face.

All the hours of wonder couldn't have stood up to the reality of him. The sweet and gentle nature of him coveting me, with nothing more than a simple gaze and the support of his arm beneath me. He made no attempt to touch me further, and I almost felt like begging him would have ruined the moment.

"Don't you get lonely up there sometimes?" He asked, grazing his bottom lip between perfectly set teeth. "I see your face sometimes and I can't stand the way you look so sad."

Oh, he'd noticed. My heart soared and broke all at once. That he had known not only that I existed, but taken the time to notice my mood made me feel as if our lives were not merely shadows.

"Not lonely." I shrugged, settling on a different word. "Perhaps, sometimes, it's a little melancholy."

He wrinkled his nose and thought about it. Reaching for a blade of grass behind him and ripping it from the ground in order to satisfy his need to keep his hands busy.

"If you were mine I'd never want to see anything but a smile on that pretty face of yours forever more." He said, running the blade of grass against my cheek playfully.

I shrank away. The sensation of it too intimate for me to appropriately deal with. I giggled, but my unease was there in the way my eyes couldn't settle back on him.

"I'm sorry." He apologised, throwing down the grass and trying to settle the vibe between us back into something a little more innocent.

But it was too late. I could feel a familiar throb begin to beat away between my thighs. Latent misery in being unable to satisfy my desires kept me tethered to the blanket, unable to confess that I wanted him to do it again.

"Don't be sorry." Was all I could say, a little more passionately than I'd intended. "I'm just...well, I'm no good at this sort of thing."

He seemed to go quiet all over again. Looking down at our bodies side by side. Swallowing so hard I could see his throat flex. Like he, too, was lost in a sea of words he so desperately wanted to say but couldn't.

"You're not like the other girls." He gulped, pointing out one of my deepest flaws. "I don't want you to be like the other girls. They aren't worth the risk like you are."

How could he have known my worth? Beneath that starry eyed exterior, was he just as nervous as I was? It seemed to me that he could scarcely hold himself back as his eyes moved between my lips and my gaze. Flitting up and down as if in conflict.

"All I've ever wanted was to be like the other girls." I sighed, noticing for the first time that he had moved closer. "Other girls get to be taken out on dates and have doors opened for them. And have goodnight kisses."

The subtle shake of his head intimated that none of that mattered.

"Other girls don't write their name for me in notes I can only see from my window." He said earnestly. "Other girls don't drive me crazy every time I see them come out of their front door on a Sunday morning wearing those pretty little dresses."

I felt like I'd fallen asleep and I'd woken in a dream. I could smell the liquor on his breath he lingered so close. The heat of the day dissipating as the heat of his body took over.

"Other girls don't make me write songs for them, before I've ever even spoken to them..." He stopped, right before his lips would trespass against mine.

"You...wrote a song...for me?" I breathed into his mouth, fingertips digging into the blanket folds at either side of my stilled body.

"For a good Christian girl, you sure do make me feel damned." He posed, speaking with his lips a feather light touch away from mine. "Damned to write songs for a girl I can't ever have."

Was it not enough that I dwelled beneath his touch? Whatever madness made him think he could not have me, I wished for such a fallacy to be gone from his mind. If God had put the attraction that was so palpably clear between us within our hearts, why would God punish us for acting upon it?

True. I was a little apprehensive. Not for the punishment of God, but from a Father who truly believed his word and actions stemmed directly from the all seeing eye above. But, like Jake had already so pointedly said, we were here alone. Just the two of us. No other man nor God in sight.

"Have me." I whispered.

I heard him hold in his breath. Already so close to my mouth, all he had to do was let it happen. Nobody was ever free from temptation, and I was sordidly aware of my need to walk directly into it's aching path.

If God truly did exist somewhere between this mortal coil and the thereafter, I believed that he would not blindly lead me to be tempted beyond my ability. That I may be able to endure it. My spirit and my body in unison for the very first time.

"You would hate me if I did." He whispered back, "I'm wicked, Bonnie. So much more wicked than you could ever imagine."

I didn't believe that anyone quite so beautiful as him could ever truly be wicked. Perhaps wicked in the ways that only brought pleasure, if you were so inclined to allow yourself to enter into that sort of thing.

Was I? That sort of person? He was only two years older than me but exuded an experience which far surpassed mine. Even with his boyish charm and child like nature, he was a man nonetheless. A man that held me in his arms on a hot summer day with the wind chiming through the leaves above us and the softness of the ever trickling water as it ran over rock and earth.

Heaven.

"I ache to know wickedness." I pleaded, feeling insanity wash over me as he still refused to kiss me. "It's not for anyone else to decide."

That one sentence brought him to his conclusion. I could see it there as his brow knitted together delicately, his gaze intensifying.

"You don't know what you've done."

Perhaps not. But I didn't have space for regret. Not when he let our worlds collide. At first, there was nothing but the gentle feel of his lips as they brushed against mine. Softly venturing, exploring what depths he could take with me. A solemn pull back as he checked in with me, I could feel his hand against my balmy cheek. Alabaster turning pink as the blood began to pump harder in my veins. I was breathless without even having to move.

When he'd ascertained that I wanted it, he returned to me. Pressing his lips against mine a little harder. Letting his head tilt to the side, our noses pressed flush into each others cheeks.

I don't know what it was that I expected. Certainly not the rush of adrenaline as he opened his mouth. Nor the moisture gathering between my legs that was certainly not due to the weather as I felt the slippery tip of his tongue converge into my mouth. It was soft and slow, only brushing against mine with subtle intimation that he wanted more.

I suspected that this was purposeful. Nobody had watched us as closely as he had and not drawn the conclusion that I had never been kissed before. I suspected that he knew this was my first time. And he treated it as such. Sweeping his thumb against my cheek bone, letting me whimper softly into his mouth as he pulled away only to slake his hand around the back of my neck and pull me up into an embrace that had more meaning behind it.

And then he stopped. Forehead rested against mine, breathless and lips drenched in each other. He didn't let me go, clutched me harder in fact. Made me wonder if patience truly was a virtue.

"I have thought about this moment over and over." He swallowed, kissing me again so briefly I barely had time to reciprocate before he'd pulled away again. "And always, I'm painfully aware of your virginity. I don't want to hurt you, Bonnie."

Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was something else. I let my knees unfold, the hem of my dress crawling up my thighs. Immediately I was aware of just how tightly I'd been clenching them, my body immediately softening in his grasp.

"Take it." I offered. "It is yours."

He would have it. Retrieving his senses at the shock of such a thing, he ran a gentle palm down my stomach and his hand came to rest at my waist.

"You're not a good Christian girl at all, are you?" He ventured, kissing me with a little more fervence.

Although the presumption was made based on my willingness to part with my virginity and give it up to him, I knew I'd been a sinner for far longer than I cared to admit. My thoughts had been impure before we moved to Beech Run. The levels of depravity increasing ever since Jake had made his presence known. I wasn't a good Christian girl at all. Not behind closed doors. Not anywhere where thoughts were free.

"I've committed all manner of sins in my mind." I replied honestly, my tongue lilting against my teeth, prepared for another kiss. "Wouldn't you? If you couldn't do anything? Have anything?! Wouldn't you imagine what it felt like?"

"Oh, I would." He replied, licking into my mouth with all the urgency of a man who had been granted his greatest wish. "But I don't want you to imagine anymore. I want to give you everything you've ever wanted."

He laid me back down. Sinfully slow. Taking in the sight of me, hair fanned out on the blanket and my lips swollen. My breasts sitting comfortably beneath a modest neckline, my sun dress being something I would have worn to church. Wondering if he felt the same fear that I did.

"Give it to me, then." There it was, that little beg that had been threatening to spill out of my mouth ever since he'd put the blanket down.

His hand travelled further south. Parting my knees. He ripped another blade of grass and settled it between his thumb and index. Teasing it above my face in the air, making me nuzzle into his chest as I tried to run from it.

But he didn't run it against my cheek. I soon realised it was for a far more nefarious purpose. I dared to peek out from his embrace. A look of total devotion there as he swept the blade up my inner thigh. The almost breath like touch of it reminded me of how it had felt as I'd walked towards him. I held my breath. My dress sat just below where my underwear could be seen, everything else on display. And he unashamedly caressed me, using the blade as his guide.

"Soft little babygirl." He crooned, "It'd be almost cruel to ruin you."

I didn't need his protection from it. The inflection of annoyance at his suggestion that my virginity was something I wanted to keep was hard to hide. My expressions betraying me as I looked up at him.

"Lucky for you, I can be cruel." He added, marking his territory on my heart. "Would you like me to be cruel?"

"If the devil so wishes." I replied, "I fear I'm already ruined by my own intrusive thoughts."

The tip of the blade ran down the fabric which sat between it and my naked flesh. At it's most vulnerable spot.

"You don't have to be virtuous with me. Not anymore." He promised, "I'm not your Daddy."

It was clear invitation to step into my desires.

"Tell me I'm a good girl, Jake." I needed it. "You can be as cruel as you like, just tell me I'm good."

I don't know why I needed to hear it. Maybe there was a part of me that still dwelled in the church where I needed to be holy in order to exist.

His eyes widened at my demand. Staring at me, like I was Jesus on the cross and he had come to worship. He let the blade of grass go. Preferring to run his hand up my thigh instead. I shuddered. Let my lip curl into my teeth. Never taking my eyes off him as he brushed a fingertip against my moist crotch.

"Such a good fucking girl." Partnered with the curse word, his praise left me bound to him. "Does my good little girl want to get fucked?"

The abruptness of his question left me open mouthed. I wasn't shocked because it offended me, I was shocked because the answer was an unequivocable yes. They way he claimed me with that one, solitary use of the word my left me dizzy. Of course I was his. And all I could do was nod my consent.

"You tell me you're innocent and beg to get fucked with the same mouth." He breathed against my lips, hooking a solitary finger around the fabric of my panties, his knuckle brushing against my slit. "That's my extra specially good girl, isn't it?"

He was playing with me. Strumming me like his guitar, like a song written just about me. Pulling down my underwear until they sat at my knees, I was completely at his whim.

"I'm not going to fuck you, though." He said softly, raking those same calloused fingertips that had held my face as he kissed me through the sodden valley of my pussy lips. "Not yet."

I knew it was futile to beg. Not when he so gently and pliantly planed his fingers down the edges of what I could tolerate. He would bring me to the brink and tell me it was what I needed. Dancing with the devil, my sinful thoughts brought to light. I'd never been happier than I was right there on that blanket in the tall grass. In the shade of the grove of tree's that surrounded us, in the hottest summer I'd ever recall.

"You're so fucking beautiful." He said, leaning back into a kiss that was now familiar, his tongue edging into my mouth enough to send a flood onto his fingertips. "You tempt me so..."

"Anything, Jake." I breathed, "Anything you want, just tell me what to do."

He softly ran the pad of his thumb over my aching, swollen clitoris. I moaned, let my eyes close, turned my face away in fear that I would look ridiculous to him. I'd never dared to venture to that part of myself before. Letting the throb ebb and flow whenever I was aroused, never allowing myself a moment to indulge in it.

"Pull my zipper down." He instructed, rutting his hip into my side. "It's kinda uncomfortable down there."

In the furore of him touching me, I'd failed to notice his maddening bulge. I felt foolish and girlish, stupid for not realising he was aroused too. My hand wasted no time in releasing him. Pulling down his zipper and opening the button of his denim shorts. I didn't dare put my hand inside, still feeling a little trepidation of touching him back. But the relief was there as he eyes rolled back, grateful just to be free of the constraints against his hard on.

"I want so badly to sink my fingers inside you and ruin this pretty little pink thing." He murmured against my ear. "Tell me it's ok. Tell me I can feel you from the inside."

I couldn't bear it. The need to be penetrated coupled with the fear of whatever pain might accompany it. But he was too beautiful to deny. The tip of his nose pressed against my cheek, his breath warm and like fire.

"I'm ready." I replied, even if my mind had not been quite up to speed with my body, I still would have let him have his way.

Not simply because of the way he turned me on. But the way he made me feel so cherished whilst doing it.

"Relax for me, sweet girl." He whispered, lips pecking kisses against my temple, hands opening my thighs a little wider. "Just let me take care of you."

The sting of a single digit cast aspersions throughout my body. He was slow in his intention, hissing back a soft moan as he let it slide all the way to his knuckle. I fought against my body's responses to cry out in pain. It hurt. But everything else was a welcome distraction. His voice. His scent. The feel of his body next to mine. All of it.

"Look at you." He praised, railing his kisses back down to my mouth. "The goodest of all girls."

He began to slowly pull it back, savouring the way my mouth opened at the sensation of him sliding it back inside. He didn't attempt to add more fingers, or ruin me the way he'd promised. He simply enjoyed the way I felt. The way I showed him my devotion in simpering moans and errant panting. His middle finger buried deep inside, palm pressed against my wet clit. Completely at his mercy.

"You've bewitched me, Bonnie." He confessed in soft whispers, "With your tight little innocent pussy. And that fucking smile, I can't stay away from you..."

No church girl could ever do witchcraft any justice. But I believed him.

"Then don't" I urged, not knowing what it would mean when the time would come for us to pick up this blanket and leave.

"Never..." He buried his tongue into my mouth, venturing deeper than he had before. "Will you cum for me, pretty little sweet thing?"

I didn't know what he meant. And I wouldn't spoil whatever spell I had managed to weave by asking him. If I were a flower I could feel my petals begin to wilt and fall. How could I tell him that I didn't know what he asked of me? I didn't want him to stop until I was completely deflowered. And whatever it was that he meant by cum, I hoped that I could do it for him.

"Anything...anything you want." I moaned, louder, arching my back to feel his fingertips deeper.

"That's it, oh, you're close..." He said, curling his finger up inside me, in a beckoning motion that almost sent me over the precipice. "You'll know when you get there, my little Ingenué."

His use of another language was unexpected. And his face said it all as I bashfully smiled into another insatiable kiss. He was right, though. I did know when I arrived. There was nothing about it that was anything I could have expected. With no knowledge that such a thing even existed, I was ebbed towards it like I was blind and seeing for the very first time.

At first it was like a muffled song I could hear from another room. The melody was there, I just couldn't pick up the lyrics. All I could see was those beautiful, deep brown eyes of his with the dark circles beneath watching me in wonder as it cascaded over me. The song no longer muffled, the crescendo of a great symphony in my eyes as I finished against his palm. The way he looked so satisfied letting me know that I'd done good.

"Ssssh...sssshhh..." He soothed, "It's ok sweet girl, I promise...it's ok."

I didn't know that there were tears falling down my cheeks until I tasted the salt of them on my lips. The sweet relief of something I hadn't known I'd needed filling me up from the soul upwards. He slipped his finger out and pulled up my panties, making sure that I wasn't hurt.

"I feel so foolish..." I cried, "How could you want me? When I'm like this?"

"It's because of this that I want you." He reassured me, grabbing the length of his aching cock beneath his boxer shorts and adjusting himself to a more comfortable position. "Don't you get it? It turns me on. The thought of nobody before me. That you'd be mine, entirely. And I can promise you here and now, I will protect you no matter the cost."

I couldn't wrap my head around what the cost might be. Only the way he didn't expect me to touch him back in that moment. He started to soften eventually as we laid there together, his hand running gentle strokes through my hair as I calmed. And he tucked himself away, promising that he would save it for another time.

The afternoon was growing late as we packed up and sorrowfully left our quiet little spot. The grass where we had laid all flattened in the perfect shape of where our blanket had been. A sorry reminder that the moment had fleetingly passed. I kept catching his eye as he tucked it underneath his arm, and he reached out to take my hand again.

"What now?" I asked.

"I don't know." He replied, with equal sadness. "But something tells me it'll be worth it."

We walked back in contemplative silence. Content just to be together a few more moments until it would be cruelly snatched from us. I could see that some of the crowds had already begun to disperse as we headed towards the plunge pool. A little less heavy on the noise. I could see Josh and Danny standing by their little group, deep in conversation whilst Ronnie packed up the boom box and cooler. Lewis was idly folding chairs, stacking them up ready to be carried back to the road.

"Where the fuck did you guys go?" Josh asked, watching us approach hand in hand. "Was about to send out a search party. We might have to, if Sam and Jolene don't get back here soon."

I had no concept of the time. I could feel the coolness of late afternoon on my skin, where once it had burned. The sun was still beating down as earnestly as it had been, but it was a little further towards the west.

"Shit, what time is it?" I asked, bile rising in my throat as I began to wonder if Ben was waiting for us up by the gate.

"It's a quarter to six." Josh replied, shaking his wrist as he checked his watch. "Why?"

I let go of Jakes hand. Circling the area for a visual of my missing sister. I couldn't see her anywhere.

"No, no this can't be happening...Ben will be here to pick us up in fifteen minutes..." I panicked, visibly shaking as I ran down towards the creek edge.

I called out her name. But there was no reply.

To be Continued...

@caprisunsister @thewritingbeforesunrise @takenbythemadness @katuschka @its-interesting-van-kleep @lvnterninthenight @writingcold @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @edgingthedarkness @velveteencatch @lyndz2names @nina-23-45 @itsafullmoon @vikingisthenewsexy @char289

#greta van fleet #jake kiszka #josh kiszka #fanfic #greta van fleet fan fiction #gvf #fanfiction #gvf fanfiction #jake kiszka fanfic #jake kiszka x reader #sam kiszka gvf #sam kiszka fanfic #sam kiszka

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signedeclipse · 1 year

Note

Hi! May I request nsfw oneshot with Gyokko (in his true form) x fem reader? Don't have any specific idea just him being his mischievous, confident self while blushing like crazy. I thought I finally don't simp for him anymore, then I saw him animated when he was blushing after Muzan touched him and I'm back at it again 😅

Desire is Passionate [Gyokko X Reader]

Reader is Human Female | NSFW

Recomended Song - Into You by Ariana Grande

The days were long and boring for you, filled with an overly bright sun and plenty of people that found you repulsive.

Women your age were supposed to be married in your town, usually with a kid or three, staying at home to bring them up while the husband works in the market or something along those lines.

You were eccentric compared to most around here, which made you stick out like a sore thumb. You could never explain that it wasn't that men hated you, but that you had a partner waiting for you that they could never know of.

Well, never was a stretch. WIth how many went missing after they dared to lay hands on you, you were starting to think many had found out in their final moments.

Your day didn't start very early, only waking up around 3 pm so you could go out and sell some of the pots your lover had finished, of which most sat in houses costlier than your entire life.

They sold for a lot, being intricate pieces with handiwork almost unnatural, which it was. Your husband had been at it for over a century, and all of these pots were both a way of getting you by and spreading his reach to the furthest corners of Japan. It was impressive, and everyone believed you had made them.

Everytime you walk up the mountainside to your secluded home, it'd be one with guilt at the back of your mind. He encouraged you to take credit because who else could have made them? No one could know it was him. Still, the compliments you received were not meant for you.

When you could, you'd write them down and give them to him, hoping he would take them as well as you had. He had admirers out there.

You always made it home just in time for the sunset so when you opened the door you wouldn't risk getting sun inside. It also meant you could expect to be greeted.

"I'm home!" You spoke the moment you pushed open the door, pulling your shoes off while listening to the faint giggles from the studio peeking from the side of the home. It was made of glass, allowing the moonlight in, and in the day you usually had a thick canvas material pulled over it to create shade.

"My dear! I've waited all evening..."The old wooden flooring creaked beneath you as you were able to see past the corner into the studio, stepping down onto its ceramic flooring that was covered in a thin dust, and dozens of half-complete pottery.

Stemming from one of the only finished ones in the room was a tall figure, which had slip-covered hands shaking off the filth so he could swoon towards you.

"Good Evening, Gyokko!" You hugged onto the torso of the being, playfully slapping away any of the hands from getting your fresh clothes dirtied. "You woke up early, didn't you?"

Normally he wasn't up until an hour into the night, just to be certain. But from what you could see, he ripped off the cover himself and was already working on his next project.

"Surprise~!" His 'tail' of sorts had curled around you, keeping you still in his grasp. "I figured I would gift you my company today, since I ate so well yesterday."

Despite your protests, one of his hands had swept your hair out of your face, which left a streak of clay in it. It would be easy to wash out, but you still protested.

Gyokko was playful, especially if it meant mildly inconveniencing you.

When you ducked out of his grasp to do a light jog to the kitchen, your refuge behind the counter worked rather well at keeping him away. He could only tread so far before he had to move pots, and there weren't any finished ones in the kitchen.

Much to your surprise, the sound of heavy steps only registered after a pair of claws hands had lifted you up into the air, holding you there from your under arms like a sad, mopey cat.

You pouted at him, legs hanging limply in defeat, which only made the upper moon giggle further.

It was criminal how helpless, how absolutely adorable you were to him. You were his everything.

On the other hand, you had dropped your bag to the floor before he had picked you up, leaving you with no weapons to retaliate- not that you would- and staring at his form like you usually did.

Gyokko didn't hate this version himself, he loved it! But it meant his pots became useless, which defeated the point of a demon blood art. Around you though, it didn't change any circumstances, only made it easier to chase you around since you were always so keen on fleeing.

He didn't mind playing chase, and you didn't mind seeing him like this; talk about total eye candy.

His scales bloomed in colour when he was like this, lighting up his very, very generously muscular frame. His hair of sorts also grew out, giving off the same magenta and purple he had before. Each of his mouths curled into a grin, with one licking its lips. It was hard to register that his eyes were looking you up and down.

"You're like a little doll, aren't you?" He sat you on the kitchen table, though his body was pushing your legs apart, each webbed hand holding onto your wrists as if he were worried you'd crawl away.

You'd seen what he could do, watched him puncture flesh with his talons as if it were butter, seen his teeth break through bone, you knew he could do whatever he wanted- but all he did was lean in until you leaned in too, giving him a small kiss.

Not once had he forced you to do anything, and you could tell by the way his skillful hands were already moving to your waist and squeezing ever so gently that he was feeling out every groove your body had.

You couldn't help but smile at the fact that you had something so rare all to yourself, and a blush crept to his cheeks in response.

"Let me treat you, for all the hard work you do for me...!" His excitable nature hadn't died, as once he received your approval through kisses, he was pushing you down into the counter, towering over your lowered frame. This form was unnaturally large, in that his hips met with the perfect edge of the counter, making it so easy to push yours into his.

"Gyokko-" "Try to relax, I just want to feel you out..." His talons danced along the cloth of your dress, before untangling any knot and leaving the silk falling to the counter, making a nice blanket for you from the cold surface.

His eyes devoured you whole, admiring every flash of skin he got access to, like a treat. Something about it was a carnal desire, something about it made tingles race through your back when his claws tread so dangerously along your collarbone, palm falling flat between your breasts and dragging down your stomach.

The webbing between his fingers made his touch feel so warm, so complete as his other hands joined to pull your waist towards his further, grinding a need you could feel against your undergarment.

You'd watch him mould clay for hours, but nothing compared to how he would mould you into him, pushing into every curve as if you were another pot.

Yet he treasured you more than anything else he had.

With one hand holding you down from the divot below your ribcage, the other held onto your hip, keeping you in place as his hips then began to push back and forth into yours, shooting what felt like pure electricity into you.

"My muse, I've been so down on inspiration. I could really use a pick-me-up!" He wasn't shy, speaking his thoughts aloud and he leant down, one mouth kissing you briefly and the other nibbling at your blushing cheek, leaving a small mark similar to a couple of freckles.

Anytime you tried opening your mouth, he hushed you with a kiss, grinding his hips back again. The scales on his forearms brushing into your skin as he did so, feeling almost slimey; though they left little residue.

You took that as your cue to quiet down and allow him to do the talking, only letting out a huff of hair that just barely gave off a whimper.

But Gyokko wasn't all that patient at times, especially when it was something he craved so deeply for. His cheeks burned online the coolness of the rest of his skin, which left him with this dumb smirk on his face.

Just like that, the hand on your hip slices a finger forward, cutting through the fabric of your underwear and letting them drop to the floor, useless for the time being. The same finger dipped deep into your folds, before pulling back to see the slick wetness drip down between your thighs. He had been grinding absentmindedly, but he planned to do something with a lot more intention.

One of your arms snapped up instinctively, but when it tried to cover your mouth, it only found his free hand had already made its way, muffling the needy call.

"Come on now, don't complain so soon...!"

A chilling tap caused your body to freeze, feeling something slither up your thigh before curling its end, then another, and another, until a thick 'plap' noise matched the falling of a coiling tentacle that landed on your stomach, slithering until it stretched its full length out to meet just above your belly button.

Gyokko had a lot more than anyone could anticipate, with several slime-covered tendrils feeling all about your heat as he let out an over-excited and broken exhale.

He was built...different.

"Try not to move too much, it only gets them needier."

Author Note - I KNOW I KNOW WE ALL HATE A CUT OFF I wrote so much more than I antipicated and it projected to like 3k words so I wanted to cut it at a sudden but satisfactory spot. Sorry for projecting onto your ask Anon but THANK YOU!!!

Word Count - 1,672

Art Credit - Miso

#gyokko #gyokko x reader #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer oneshots #kny #kny x reader #kny oneshots #oneshot #reader insert #x reader #kimetsu no yaiba #kimetsu no yaiba x reader

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cuckoo-on-a-string · 1 year

Text

Younger Gods: Epilogue 2 (Quiet Storms)

18+ Smut

Younger Gods Master List

Morpheus x Female/femme!reader (female parts described)

Summary: Morpheus and the storm god enjoy (and make) winter weather.

A/N: Happy holidays, my darlings! Please enjoy this filth, I mean fluff, I mean... fluffy filth? Again? The next epilogue will be something more than smut, I swear.

Quiet Storms

Pale as the snow crunching under foot, Morpheus appeared entirely inhuman. His shadows looked so dark against the white fields he could be a hole in reality. A living void. Perfect and impossible. But he walked hand-in-hand with her through her little realm, and human or otherwise, for the moment, he chose to be with her.

She belonged to him.

He belonged to her.

And they strolled together.

The day before, she went to see Taliesin in the waking world, and the scene outside his window glittered with fresh snow. Ice hung from gutters and streetlights. Sunlight shattered in countless, twinkling rainbows, caught in millions of crystals, and she couldn’t look away.

She woke to a few inches of snowfall carpeting her realm, and her Dream Lord came through the door just as she was tugging on her boots and mittens.

They stepped out into a snowy fog. Nothing properly fell, but the grey sky felt like a blanket trapping the coziest cold she’d ever felt. And it really was cold. Her nose and cheeks went numb quickly, and her eyes watered in the wind whenever she looked up to Dream. He was always worth it, though.

A dusting of flakes scintillated in his hair. He looked wonderful every day, of course, but she loved seeing him in her weather, with a little rain dripping from the messy tips of his wild hair or lightning reflecting in his eyes. Just now, he looked like he’d been gilded with powdered diamonds, almost whimsical.

He turned from the wonderland she’d created to meet her warm assessment, and there was nothing whimsical about the heat in his gaze.

When he looked at her like that – with his full, endless focus wrapping her up in his attention – she was so happy she couldn’t bear it. She looked away and bit her lip, giddy, heart trilling a note too high to hear but deeply felt, dancing out through her ribs, tickling her lungs until she couldn’t quite breathe right.

She knew what that feeling was called. It filled the name he’d given her, and like he could hear her thoughts, he bent to murmur in her ear.

“Beloved.”

Actual, proper snow manifested from the fog, big, fat flakes of it swirling down to stick on her exposed skin as his breath summoned goosebumps down her neck. She shivered from the prickling cold and the rush of warmth in her belly. Smiling lips pressed the cusp of her ear, earning another shudder, and Dream tugged her closer by their joined hands.

“You are chilled.” His smile carried into his tone, lending a teasing lilt to his dark voice. “I should warm you.”

Turning just enough to reach, she popped onto her toes to land a peck on his jaw. “I’d like that that.”

She let to of his hand to take his arm, cuddling into his side as they turned back towards the cottage, his care mingling with his pride, filtering into the air around them like one of his shadows. Snug, smug, and secure. A bubble of their own that was part him and part her and entirely apart. The snow fell thicker, catching in her hair and melting on her coat. A flake caught in his eyelashes, and she watched them flutter with quiet appreciation as he cleared his vision. Dream had such lovely eyes. Whether they were blue and nearly human or dark with a thousand stars, they expressed his feelings much better than his words usually did. Even when he tried to keep a straight face, to remain firm and aloof, she’d seen emotion fringe his lower lashes in tears, had seen amused sparks when he tried to appear strict.

Just now, they were very soft. Warm. Like the sun came out and agreed to stay through the night.

If he kept looking at her like that, he wouldn’t need to do much at all when they got home.

The instant the door closed behind them, he pulled the scarf from around her neck. He let the fabric drag along the sensitive scars, drawing her attention to the cool air on her bare flesh as the garment fell free. He loved her neck. Maybe it was the history, or maybe it was a pet project of his – teaching her to savor all the wonderful things he could inspire in her most vulnerable places when she trusted him. And she did trust him.

She trusted him so much she loved him.

The snow was melting, dripping down from her hair to run over her skin. Dream caught the rolling drops in open-mouthed kisses along her neck, and the stark contrast of cold and heat set her alight. She pressed into him, groaning as he set about warming her an inch at a time.

She’d had plans to offer him mulled wine when they returned, to sit and drink together in front of the fire as she thawed, which might lead to spice-laced kisses between warm lips and all the sweeter things that came after. Matthew told her once that his master sometimes drank wine in the waking world. It seemed like a good idea, a seasonal, festive thing to spark a different kind of fire, but none of it mattered as he started plucking at the buttons to her coat. If he didn’t fuck the capacity for higher thought out of her in the next hour or two, she’d revisit the idea later. Dream was on a mission, and she happily took up service as his guide, pulling her arms out of the heavy outer layer so he wouldn’t be tempted to take his lips off her neck.

He never needed encouragement. He barely even needed a suggestion. Since their first tryst that broke in the bedroom – Taliesin hadn’t let her hear the end of it for weeks – Morpheus took every opportunity to touch her. Deep kisses in greeting. Clasping hands or linking arms when they went out. Finding clever ways to get his hands under her clothes and onto her skin. Never exactly rushed, but always eager. Always hungry for her in any way she’d have him.

She wasn’t complaining.

She didn’t have as much experience, and she lacked his confidence, but she felt the same. Every time he smiled for her, every time he pulled her in for a kiss, a part of her stopped to wonder. Me? Really? Are you really choosing me when you’re so wonderful? When I’m small, and you’re so grand it’s dizzying?

Happiness stunned her each time. She couldn’t worry over losing his affections because she was still in awe of winning them at all.

Coats off, boots discarded, mittens long since surrendered to a dark corner from which they may never emerge, the two moved towards the fire.

When he surrendered her throat for a kiss on the lips, he bumped her frigid nose and nearly startled. Long pale fingers brushed down her face as he pulled back, and he murmured, “You truly are cold, beloved. Come.”

Keeping one hand in hers, he pulled two blankets from the couch, arranging them in front of the fire. He would have her, but he would have her comfortable and well. He tugged her towards the nest before he even finished building it, but she stopped to open the hope chest in the corner – one-handed – to retrieve another, larger blanket, which she set to the side, ready to wrap around the both of them. His eyes lit in approval, and he pulled her down all the faster, eager to get her out of her clothes. She returned the favor. A dozen kisses interrupted their progress, but eventually they were both naked and protected from the growing chill by the furred cover she brought.

Morpheus drank her sighs and gasps like the wine she’d almost offered him. He arranged her in his lap with his fingers kneading her thighs as she straddled his, pressed chest to chest in the firelight. She kissed him just as eagerly, convinced she’d never have enough, that she’d burn alive with desire, no matter how much skin brushed over his, no matter how long he let her taste him.

Careful fingers slipped between her legs as his other hand came around her waist to keep her close. He didn’t break the kiss as he stroked along her drenched slit, following her as she jerked at the sensation. He made a meal of her moans when he circled her clit. Every whisper of friction set her alight, and she keened as granted the pressure her rolling hips chased. When she needed to breathe, he pulled back to introduce the kiss at a new angle. He barely left her at all, and only by millimeters. It rekindled her faith that he ached for her as badly as she craved him. That he found delight in her storms and her little cottage the way she lost herself whenever she so much as glanced in his eyes.

She had more freedom to move than she did in many positions they’d tried, when Morpheus hovered over her like an all-consuming storm, but Dream had lost none of his power. She was helpless as he toyed with her, slowly gathering slick, teasing her, and finally sinking a slow finger into her core. Her mouth fell open over his, soundless, and he plundered it as his finger continued its exploration. When he touched her, it wasn’t a preliminary exercise before he moved on to the main act. He studied her, searched out new shivers and groans, and he always took his time, enjoying the sensation as she fluttered along his fingertips, spasming against the brush of a knuckle or a curled digit.

He told her as much once, when she’d tried to hurry him along. At the time, she’d been convinced this part of her pleasure was an inconvenience, and she didn’t want to make him wait. He’d smiled down at her, the loveliest nightmare as she broke apart under his attentions, and asked, “You think this does not please me?” He ground his dick against her thigh as he continued working her through the aftershocks just to make his point.

With his finger buried inside her, moving slowly, she clung to his shoulders to steady herself. He’d never let her fall, not unless he wanted to shift her to a new position, but she needed something to touch, something to hang onto as every flickering nerve tried to explode. She felt almost too good with him, and while he never frightened her when they were like this, she scared herself a little. She imagined she’d unmake her own soul and he’d consume it by accident, or something would break because a person wasn’t supposed to climb such heights without crashing back down. True safety was a new concept, one he eagerly helped her understand, and each time he made love to her, she worried a little less.

A second finger crept inside, working her open as Morpheus pressed her closer, offering an answering groan through their kiss as she whimpered into him. She was close, and she suspected he read the signs of her impending release like a fortuneteller – in her trembling thighs, in her unsteady rhythm against the heel of his palm as it pressed against her clit.

“Let me feel you like this.” He spoke against her lips, still reluctant to put any distance between them. “Let me feel you.”

She had no defense against Morpheus’s voice. It swallowed the daylight so it could introduce the stars. It rippled over her skin like a velvet kiss, soothing, and urging, and flooding her thoughts. Enraptured and too far gone to stop herself anyway, she did exactly as he asked.

He kissed up her quivering sigh as she came, helping her navigate her way back to earth so she could melt against him. Turning her face into his neck, she took the opportunity to breathe. Woodsmoke, sweat, and sex filled the air. The hand on her back moved in broad circles, almost innocently compared to his other hand, which kept two fingers sheathed inside her.

Wind sent the windows shivering in the frames, and Morpheus kissed the crown of her head.

“Are you warm enough?” Sneaky fingers stroked deep inside, stirring banked embers to new life.

She looked up at him through her lashes, smirking, mimicking a look he’d often sent her as he drove her to fantastic distraction. Mischievous and far from sated. “Not yet.”

He hummed, answering her smirk with his own. “Good.”

The fingers left her, and something much larger nudged her entrance. He took a brief moment to coat himself in the fluid all but dripping from his fingers, and every bump and shift conjured unwitting little noises from her. Without asking if she had the stamina to ride him after her first orgasm – she did not – he picked her up by the hips and set her higher on his lap. As he lowered her, he pushed inside, stretching her open until their hips were flush.

His hands rubbed up her hips to her waist, curling possessively into the natural dip. When he found the grip he wanted, he began to move. A shallow thrust to ensure she was ready. A groan. A deep roll of his hips that drove him in to the hilt as he tugged her to meet him.

In this position she was a little taller than him, and he looked up at her like something wonderful. Regarded by stars, she felt her love returned. It moved between them, a silent song, and it grew in her chest like the waxing moon. Making her glow as he tenderly destroyed her.

She writhed with his rhythm, robbed of the breath she’d just caught, panting open-mouthed as his pace quickened.

The movement sent the blanket sliding from her shoulders. It gathered just over their joined hips, leaving her chest very naked and very close to Dream’s hungry gaze. His hands didn’t leave their grip on her waist, determined to drive himself even deeper as he leaned in to worship her breasts. Her nipples hardened long before she even joined Morpheus in their little blanket fort, but the cold air set them tingling, and Morpheus’s hot mouth sent rippling shocks of delight down her spine. She folded around him, breathless, cradling his head as her fingers caught in his midnight hair.

The fire crackling beside them might as well be ice. Heated flooded her veins, ready to combust as he thrust up into her.

“Morpheus.” Begging. A prayer. A promise.

He groaned into her chest, and her heart skipped a beat. Or he’d stolen it. The beat or the entire heart – impossible to tell.

Once she’d said his name, she couldn’t stop. It became a wild chant as she raced towards her second breaking point. “Morpheus.” She didn’t want to let go. “Morpheus.” She didn’t want to stop. “Morpheus.”

But he didn’t give her a choice. Somehow she found enough air to shout as she fell apart, and she took some satisfaction in drawing Morpheus with her over the edge. He always looked a little frantic when he came. He was so rarely out of control, and he chose to surrender that kingly command in these moments. With her. Inside her. A true lover who’d fallen in love with her long before he fell in lust.

They tumbled into the blankets together, still tangled up.

As Morpheus gathered himself and pulled out, he arranged the blanket back over them, and she nuzzled shamelessly into his chest. Warm and content at last.

He chuckled, arranging an arm around her so she wouldn’t roll away when she inevitably dozed.

“It occurs to me, Beloved,” he said, “you might’ve wished your realm cold as an excuse to be close.”

What a thought. She liked it.

“Mm.” She rubbed her cheek over his pale skin, just as warm as she was, and she hoped just as happy. “And if I did?”

If she had, it wasn’t intentional, but now he’d gone and given her ideas.

He smiled, kissing the tip of her now-toasty nose in the softest gesture he could muster. “Then perhaps you should try snowing us in.”

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #morpheus x oc #morpheus x female reader #younger gods

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whynotaskmagiconch · 1 year

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JTTW Character Analysis 1: Sun Wukong

Who is the protagonist of Journey to the West?

Some people think the protagonist of Journey to the West is Tripitaka, but this is not accurate. It is true that before this book was written, the protagonist of all the stories and legends of the scripture retrieval was Tripitaka. Those stories all started from Tripitaka’s past, and the monkey protecting him only appeared halfway through the story. However, the author of Journey to the West wanted to create a different story, focusing on a different protagonist. He mentioned little about the background of the Tang monk (even the story about his past was added as an appendix by someone else later) but focused on the story of Sun Wukong’s great havoc in the Heaven Palace. The first protagonist of Journey to the West is undoubtedly the Monkey King.

Characteristics of Sun Wukong

Sun Wukong is a very complex character representing the mind and heart. He cannot be summed up simply as “an impulsive demon” or “a great hero”. His qualities come from the combination of “monkey”, “human”, “God and Buddha”, and “demon”.

Wukong is NOT the stereotyped image of a silly and impulsive monkey. He is intelligent and talented. He practices both Buddhism and Taoism, and his understanding of Buddhism is even far above that of Tripitaka. Wukong comforted and relieved his master with Buddhist teachings countless times, which shows that the mind always leads people forward. For example:

In chapter 24:

“Wukong,” said the Tang Monk, “tell us when we shall be able to reach our destination.”

“You can walk from the time of your youth till the time you grow old, and after that, till you become youthful again; and even after going through such a cycle a thousand times, you may still find it difficult to reach the place you want to go to. But when you perceive, by the resoluteness of your will, the Buddha-nature in all things, and when every one of your thoughts goes back to its very source in your memory, that will be the time you arrive at the Spirit Mountain.”

In chapter 32:

As master and disciples walked and enjoyed the scenery, they found another mountain barring their way. “Disciples,” said the Tang Monk, “please be careful. We have a tall mountain before us, and I fear that tigers and wolves might be here to obstruct us.”

“Master,” said Pilgrim, “a man who has left the family should not speak as those who remain in the family. Don’t you remember the words of the Heart Sūtra given to you by that Crow’s Nest Priest: ‘No hindrances, and therefore, no terror or fear; he is far removed from error and delusion’? Only you must Sweep away the filth of your mind, And wash off the dust by your ears. Not tasting the most painful of pain, You’ll never be a man among men. You mustn’t worry, for if you have old Monkey, everything will be all right even if the sky collapses. Don’t be afraid of any tiger or wolf!”

………

“If Master wants true leisure, it’s not that difficult! When you achieve your merit, then all the nidānas will cease and all forms will be but emptiness. At that time, leisure will come to you most naturally.”

In JTTW, Sun Wukong’s enlightenment and Buddhism are the highest among the pilgrims. Besides his wisdom and excellent fighting and magic skills, because of his seven years of odd jobs for the Patriarch Subodhi, Wukong has learned many things:

The Patriarch then ordered the congregation to lead Sun Wukong outdoors and to teach him how to sprinkle water on the ground and dust, and how to speak and move with proper courtesy. The company of immortals obediently went outside with Wukong, who then bowed to his fellow students. They prepared thereafter a place in the corridor where he might sleep. Next morning he began to learn from his schoolmates the arts of language and etiquette. He discussed with them the scriptures and the doctrines; he practiced calligraphy and burned incense. Such was his daily routine. In more leisurely moments he would be sweeping the grounds or hoeing the garden, planting flowers or pruning trees, gathering firewood or lighting fires, fetching water or carrying drinks. ——Chapter 2

Therefore, Wukong mastered a variety of knowledge, as shown in the story afterwards: poetry, sewing, carpentry, medicine, law, cooking knowledge, business talent, and so on. The author gave all the knowledge he knew to this monkey because the mind has a powerful ability to master the most extensive knowledge. It can transform into anything it wishes (72 transformations) and can travel 108,000 miles in one somersault (one second your mind is at the North Pole, but the next it may fly to the South Pole. Have a nice mind trip).

Wukong is a very charming character in terms of ability and personality. He has tons of merits. He is clever, humorous, optimistic, brave, decisive, goal-oriented, persistent, and very loyal to his master. Wukong is emotionally forthright and natural. He always laughs, cries, and curses freely without cover. Even the rod in his hand is an externalized feature of the mind. If he is not happy, he can simply raise the rod and hit. So that rod:

A spirit beam filling the supreme void—

That’s how the rod behaves accordingly.

It lengthens or shortens as one would wish;

Upright or prone, it grows or shrinks at will. ——Chapter 7

Besides, Wukong aspires to freedom, has little sense of hierarchy, and has the idea of equality.

“He (Wukong) has become quite chummy with the various Stars and Constellations of Heaven, calling them his friends regardless of whether they are his superiors or subordinates.” ——Chapter 5

In the story, we can notice Wukong uses the same manners when facing the Jade Emperor (the highest god ruling the three worlds) and the ordinary woodcutter on earth, which seems common in modern society. However, it is extremely rare in the feudal society of China. In Gao Village, Wukong was the only one noticing the worn-out straw sandals of Gao Cai, a servant in Gao Village. When Wukong was leaving, he even left money for Gao Cai to buy straw sandals.

Flaws of Sun Wukong

So what about Wukong’s flaws? He surely has many of them, including the characteristics of “monkey”, “human” and “demon”.

Monkey——He is impatient, impulsive, mischievous, easily provoked, and a big troublemaker.

Human——He is arrogant, condescending, overly competitive, likes to be flattered, and shows off at every opportunity.

Demon——He is violent, wild, disobedient, and hard to control. He killed a lot of people.

These are also the drawbacks of the human mind. Wukong is powerful but he lacks control. In chapter 7, the author described him as:

Truly his form was

Tumbling round and round,

Bright and luminous;

A form everlasting, how imitated by men?

……

He could be good;

He could be bad;

Present good and evil he could do at will.

This is not only the image of Wukong wielding the rod, but also a symbol of an exposed, glittering, beating heart. The heart (mind) is precious, powerful, and can be good or evil. It can accomplish great deeds of kindness, or cause tremendous damage. Therefore, it needs to be disciplined. Sometimes the good and evil of the mind lie in a single thought, which is also shown in chapter 17. To subdue the demon, Guanyin transformed herself into a monster:

When Pilgrim saw the transformation, he cried, “Marvelous, Marvelous! Is the monster the Bodhisattva, or is the Bodhisattva the monster?” The Bodhisattva smiled and said, “Wukong, the Bodhisattva and the monster—they both exist in a single thought. Considered in terms of their origin, they are all nothing.”

Wukong represents the mind, and his name means “wake-to-the-void”, which has a similar connotation to the text above. To control the “mind monkey”, Guanyin taught Tripitaka the Tight-Fillet Spell. In chapter 14, she said to Tripitaka:

“I have a spell which is called the True Words for Controlling the Mind, or the Tight-Fillet Spell.”

Some people asked since Wukong can chop off his head and grow a new one, why can’t he get rid of the fillet on his head? The reason is that the fillet is a cultural metaphor for the control of the mind, so it can’t be removed that easily. Journey to the West is a book with profound metaphors while keeping the story entertaining. The other characters in the story are also interesting. I’ll analyze them later.

#jttw #journey to the west #sun wukong #character analysis #xiyouji #the monkey king

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evolutionsvoid · 6 months

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The Godly Fluids and The Four Humors, the very essence of the world and everything within it. From these divine fluids comes life, granting us being and filling our bodies with their holy presence. Ichor is what birthed this world, and from it came The Four Humors that created man and beast. For there is divinity within the body, holiness within our juices. The great godly corpses that built the foundations of existence flow with these blessings, covering the land with its power. From the bone dust of the marrow wastes, to the pungent ripe muck of the fecal swamps, all know the grace that has fallen upon this world. There is beauty in bone, hair and flesh, but where the true essence can be found is within the fluids and humors. Within them is the power, emanating from every drop and puddle. It is called "Energeiai," the aura that can can be felt and woven. For many, energeiai is simply an explanation for every blessing and feeling these humors can bring. The rush that comes from imbibing Blood, the gentle calm that washes over one when cleaning a wound with Phlegm, the pleasant burn of Yellow Bile tingling the tongue or searing away filth, and the opening of the mind when drawing from a Black Bile stele. All the wonders of the world, attributed to this incredible energeiai. This, however, is only the touching the surface of what this essence can provide. Below that lies a bottomless well of possibilities, and there are those who seek to tap into this limitless potential.

While the mortal body is composed of The Four Humors, it is possible to tap into a single fluid and bind yourself to its essence. With enough consumption and exposure, one is able to align themselves with the likes of Phlegm or Yellow Bile. There are many routes to become one with a single humor, though the most common is to join the sect of the Church that focuses on that fluid. The Church of Divine Wealth has many parts and people, and connected to them are smaller churches that idolize a single fluid. Becoming one with the fold will give you access to purified humor to partake, methods to enlarge the corresponding organa and particular cheriai to perform to further strengthen your bond. Those who align themselves with a particular humor are not heretical, nor do they violate the personal quest for Eukrasia. They have simply just altered the essence of their form, where their perfect balance has now shifted. It should be remembered that everyone's Eukrasia is different, so this conversion is simply changing the levels each humor needs to achieve such enlightenment.

With enough practice and alignment to a particular humor, one can call upon its energeiai and weave it with their very essence. They can summon the element within its nature and express it in a variety of ways. To do so requires particular amounts of the humor, which the user must provide to perform such magic. While one can simply carry vials and skins filled with this liquid, the more devout of this practice have learned how to tap into and expand their body's supply to meet these needs. This is a major reason for aligning oneself with a particular humor when it comes to magic, as one can alter their own body to be the perfect vessel for its flowing grace. Those who have mastered this practice are unmatched compared to those who fuel their magic through outside sources.

With each fluid, the magic and its effects are different, thus birthing their own unique spellcasters and energeiai weavers:

Yellow Bile: Born from the liver, Yellow Bile has a fiery nature, which includes those who align with it. Everyone knows that Yellow Bile is a combustible substance, as it is used everywhere as fuel for things like cooking, lighting and forging. The burning of this fluid creates yellow flame, a common sight in every village but also a potent weapon. Those who become one with Yellow Bile will be able to summon this fluid and combust it with a mere thought, creating swirling tongues of yellow flame or lobbing explosive gobs of it. This magic is good for burning through armor and setting the whole field of battle ablaze. When dealing with infections or vile poisons, yellow flame is perfect for cleansing them. To tap into the body's supply, casters of this fluid tend to either pipe in clearvein directly into the organa to draw portions out, or they surgically install a cannula to have a direct hole to the bile. The Yellow Bile is pulled from there in liquid form, then set alight in the hands of a masterful weaver. Since Yellow Bile is the fuel, it is important to produce as much as you can. Thus, Yellow Bile practitioners gorge upon fatty foods and bitter greens to up their bile production, which makes it typical for a feast to occur the day before a big battle is to ensue.

Phlegm: Born from the brain, Phlegm flows with the calming waters, bringing peace to mind and body. Phlegm is the fluid of healing, encouraging wounds to close and flesh to mend. From its serene waves comes clarity, which is why the Philosophers submerge themselves in its comforting embrace. In most cases, Phlegm casters use this fluid for healing and support, fixing up fellow soldiers or taking the edge off their fear and doubt. However, one should not be quick to think it a pacifist's fluid, as Phlegm can be tuned to cause harm and pain. Potent fogs of Phlegm can numb the nerves of the enemy, making them fumble with their weapons and fail in operating their limbs. Bubbles of concentrated Phlegm can put a foe to sleep, shutting their brains down mid battle. On the flipside, some casters have created agonizing rain clouds that assault the nerves with painful high powered drops of fluid. Those who align with Phlegm will get their fuel by tapping into their very brains, either inserting clearvein into the base of the skull or exposing the whole organ beneath a transparent helm. Phlegm calls for clear mind and deep thought, which results in many users meditating after eating up their reserves to quicken the resupply. The consumption of snail meat is also used from time to time.

Black Bile: Born from the spleen, Black Bile is as dry and sturdy as earth and stone. Its cold and dry nature has been found to be the perfect vessel for knowledge and fact. Black Bile is typically seen in a crystalline form, where its etched surface and charged core allow it to contain a multitude of information. This fluid is one of memory, logic and efficiency, which is why the Scholars revere it so. Libraries and archives are filled with these crystals, storing countless decades of knowledge within their shells. Though a fluid of fact and education, it is very much a weapon of war when needed. Crystal shards can be formed and fired, and summoning Black Bile spires from the earth can impale foes. Those who think challenging Black Bile mages up close is a good idea will find them coating their staffs with the fluid and hardening it into a crystalline weapon. In a pinch, it can be showered over themselves and hardened into a stony armor. Their staffs may be connected directly to their organa, or some have been able to grow crystal wands straight from the source. These handy shards are good for a single spell before disintegrating, or they can be stabbed directly into a foe who gets too close. After a battle, these magic users may collect and reabsorb scattered crystal shards to restock their reserves, while others content themselves on a meal of termite and fungus.

Blood: Born from the heart, the energeiai that comes from Blood is electrifying and exhilarating. There is no wonder why this fluid is taken as a stimulant, or used to jolt a sickened body back to working order. Its spark is seen as the fluid that keeps us all going, our bodies moving and shaking. Imbibing Blood and bleeding off stagnant or "bad" Blood is commonly used to improve one's energeiai levels and general health. It is why holy leeches from the Church are so prized, as they can be a lifesaver for an ailing village. The same jolts that power us can be used to fry foes in war. In the hands of a weaver, the Blood is turned to a crimson bolt, which is unleashed in a variety of ways. Some sling bolts like javelins, while other unleash a torrent of deadly electricity from their hands. In some cases, they may turn the lightning onto themselves, charging their flesh into overdrive and going berserk. Their fuel is provided through bleeding, cutting into their own flesh to anoint themselves with the crimson fluid. Blood weavers move in a dance-like flow during fights, masterfully drawing blood from their bodies after each cast. Some skip the subtlety and instead flay their own bodies, so that they may constantly shed this valuable fuel. Though masochistic and damaging their own flesh, mages of this sort should be kept far away if one battles them, as your own Blood can serve as fuel. Spellswords with flaying blades have learned how to shred their opponents and use their bloody remains as weapons for further slaughter. For those in the need of a quick crimson bolt or charge but don't want to self-flagellate, squeezing engorged leeches in one's fist can provide.

Ichor: Born from the gods, Ichor is the golden fluid of life itself. While it leeks from the bodies of those buried far below, it is a prize that can only be appreciated and not touched by mortals. Ichor is an immortal fluid, one that humans cannot handle. To drink it is to charge your body with godly power, which is more then mere flesh can contain. Those who are poisoned by Ichor imbibing will find their muscles snapping and bones shattering with each movement, while your organs rupture from being in overdrive. Death by Ichor is having your own body pull itself apart from the seams, leaving victims a wretched pile of broken meat. With this, those who seek to use the energeiai of Ichor cannot pull it from their own bodies, or even properly touch it. Instead, the fuel from their spells must come from outside sources, be it Ichor contained in vials, staffs or intricate equipment. Weaving Ichor creates facsimiles of life, birthing temporary entities to serve your will. Ichor wielders will use Ichor energeiai to charge the surrounding environment and form these life constructs, so they may rise and crush their foes. However, this art is extremely rare, as Ichor is jealously guarded by the Church of Divine Wealth, as such a Godly Fluid belongs in the hands of proper authorities. The priests and protectors of this fluid are charged with ensuring it is never tainted by bumbling mortals, and that its blessings are properly sanctified and handed out. As some would say, the Church is fine in giving the people soup, but they will fight to the death to ensure they control the ladle. Any practitioners of Ichor magic are those who are aligned with the Church and are in the higher levels of it, as they are the ones who have access to the Godly Fluid. Some outsiders have slowly built a connection to Ichor through blasphemous use of unofficial ambrosia, but this process takes an incredibly long time due to the minute doses and it will also draw the ire of the Church if they find you making this godly food without their blessing.

Alkahest: Born from the rot of gods, the use of Alkahest in any way is forbidden by the Church of Divine Wealth, especially so when it comes to magic. The deathly fluid is considered extremely dangerous and volatile, and few would risk tampering with it and face true death. As a result, there is little to no research into harnessing the energeiai of this horrid fluid, and many are content to believe that wielding such a thing is impossible. There are none who have bound themselves to this deathly essence, no one who would dare risk such a thing. This is what the people believe, as this is what the Church proclaims, but yet.....

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"Magic of the Humors"

Here's a little something new for Fall of Ichor: wizards! We got ourselves a fantasy world of fluids, thus we need some magic! Indeed, there is no Alkahest pictured here, as that magic is incredibly forbidden. But that isn't to say there isn't folk who wield it in some shape or form! Perhaps they shall be revealed later!

This is also a response to hearing that modern pop culture has made wizards dull looking and boring. So here is my answer and fix! Flay yourself for the good magic! The power was inside you the whole time, right in your liver!

#magic #wizard #mage #blood #phlegm #black bile #yellow bile #ichor #the four humors #fall of ichor #art #drawing #gore #body horror #fluids are magic!

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askfriskandcompany · 1 year

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So here are the things I've noticed she tends to answer in lore asks.

TQ really likes things pertaining to certain characters, Sans, Undyne, Frisk, Chara, Papyrus. Secondary characters like Muffet or Grillby tend to not get a lot of attention. Interestingly, you can actually increase the odds further if you phrase a question like you'd insinuating a character is a bad person and she's give you an answer that clears their name.

She also like answering questions about ghosts, skeletons, and Temmies specifically. Such much so they have their own pages

Send in a lot of asks, but diversify what you ask. If one batch is too samey, you tend not to get them answered.

She also doesn't usually answer long multipart asks anymore, unless she's been suffering backlash for something or is otherwise upset and you try to cheer her up.

Don't expect to get anything on things that live in the Void. She's outright said that she won't elaborate because they're supposed to be eldritch and explaining this removes that quality

A good way to get TQ to answer a question is to tie it to social justice. A lot of our information on monster discrimination came from asks related to this and one asker actually got us a look at the forms it takes in Mexico

Contradictions also tend to get answered. If you see something she's created for AFAC that doesn't line up with something else she's said, ask why there's a discrepancy. Anyone else see that compilation of circles around Alphys's chest?

As for picking something to ask, it's really not that hard. Inspiration can come from anywhere. I've literally come up with stuff by looking around my room and following a train of thought. For example, the information on how monster scorpion venom works came from seeing a copy of a deltora quest book on my shelves and remembering that there was a scorpion that tried to sting Leif. But if it had actual venom, the rules TQ established for removing a piece of a monster's body state it would turn to dust, but that would mean it wouldn't be poison anymore, but it's a scorpion, and BOOM. An ask was formulated

If CS or Mia want to do their own analysis go for it. I can't really help with how to get into the comic

Cheers

So I've just been read to filth. XD;;;

That said, I have laxer rules pertaining to asks I just kinda answer on the blog as opposed to asks that get on the comic.

-TQ

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hausofmamadas · 7 months

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| To live and leave fast |

⁂

Pairing: Andrea Nuñez x Horacio Carrillo

For @narcosfandomdiscord NarcOctober - Day 16 (+ a bit of Day 15 tbh)

Prompt: Day of Surprises (+ a smidge of Day of Absolute Filth) - create a fanwork that focuses on dreams (+ a smidge of character's moral corruption)

Word count: ≈ 2.3K

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, Real Big Sad, angst with some smoochin'

What was he doing here? He couldn’t answer her. The blankness of before was all he could conjure up and that vast emptiness set him on the edge of panic. okay sjsjs the way I told myself that I was gonna stop at 800 words and it becamekfjs this. So again, imsorryforeverything but uhh yea, I barely proofread this so the Spanish is prolly rough and so is everything else but hey! We can just blame it on it’s all a dream, right ….? Right??? Anyway, enjoy some shockingly non-antagonistic and sometimes tender back-and-forth btwn these two and probably the most ooc Carrillo to ever exist bc I’ve never written for him before. Idk why I’m so obsessed with this crackship but I am and it is what it is

⁂

Her voice rang out, “So, tell me. How long do you really think you can go on like this?” almost in time with the flashing red light that cut through the half-broken blinds, filling the dank, dingy room.

Carrillo tried sitting forward from where he must’ve fallen asleep slumped against something, presumably the wall of someone’s living room. No, not someone’s living room. No one’s living room. Because the place was a mess, covered in old takeout wrappers from Tijuana’s finest dining establishments, broken glass, cobwebs, and dust that would’ve been more befitting of an ancient tomb than this place. The smell of vodka or maybe rubbing alcohol burned his nose but he couldn’t pinpoint where it might’ve been coming from.

Was he even still in Tijuana? Huh. Well, that would have to wait till later. Anyway, he didn’t need to know what city he was in to know he was in an abandoned safe house. Which narco faction it belonged to didn’t make a difference. This one had to have been empty for at least a month, probably more, judging by the disarray. That and the insect activity. From Escobar to El Señor de los Cielos, the pace of the narco-lifestyle only lent itself to living and leaving fast, and whatever got left behind was usually beside the point.

Okay, but how’d he get here.

Maybe if he asked her, she’d stop looking right through him from where she stood across the room, arms crossed, leaning back against a mostly empty bookshelf that housed a few old books, some technical manual for car engines, and what looked like some old issues of Penthouse or some other stag magazine. High brow reading. He wondered if sicarios knew how much of a cliche they all were. Just once he’d like to meet one who enjoyed basketweaving, or birdwatching, or who was sentimental about their girlfriend. Anything that broke type. Then again, when it came to breaking type, he wasn’t in the best position to judge.

“Ay, por favooor, cabrón.” Startled, he jerked forward at the sound of her voice. “Remember when I told you that you were straight out of Central Casting for a war movie?” Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she scoffed, “Who are you to talk about breaking type, hombre?”

What the hell. How’d she– He didn’t– Or, had he— Was he talking out loud this whole time?

He sat up straighter and a pain lit up his right side, going from dull to blinding. Hands already at the damp spot on his shirt, trying not to scream, he could tell the wound there was bleeding more now from the pressure of sitting up. Wait no, that was good. Actually, he could use that. Inhaling with the strength of his whole body, he pressed his fingers down, jamming them into the wound, and let the pain accumulate in his chest and ribcage, then exhaled, hoping his breath would send the sensation up further to his face, his forehead, activate the muscles there to share the load of his heavy eyelids.

He didn’t think he was talking out loud, but then, he must’ve been since she’d answered. That meant something, he knew. He couldn’t focus though. Why couldn’t he focus? What’d it mean? Oh right, blood loss. It was worse than he realized. But why wasn’t she helping him? No matter how furious she was with him, that wouldn’t have been like her, standing there while he bled out.

“Ay pinshe Carrillo, no seas mamón. I was helping but you fought me the minute I started trying to clean the thing. And then,” brows knit in his favorite it-is-what-it-is position, she pointed to a puddle by his feet, “you knocked the bottle out of my hands,” then shrugged, looking around the room absently. “And vodka was the only thing I could find in this place that even comes close to sanitary. So, I had to wait for you calm down or pass out before I could do anything.”

He had no memory of that. In fact, he had no memory of anything before that dingy little room. Which was weird. He’d been hit in the head enough times that lapses in memory weren’t an altogether foreign experience, but usually he could remember something from before. Sometimes it might be hours before whatever disaster, but he at least remembered. Now, it was just blank. It occurred to him that he might be–

“–and you might be in shock,” she finished aloud.

Jesus, was he saying everything he was thinking? He watched her and waited, seeing if she’d answer more questions in his head.

That light outside kept flashing, bathing the room in a deep shade of red that danced off the broken glass, creating macabre shadows that skittered up the walls, across the floor, the ceiling. Through the blinds too, it cast alternating stripes of red and black on her face. It would’ve been beautiful if it wasn’t so sinister-looking. Well no, it made her more stunning, in a haunting, alien way, even though she looked how she usually did: hair messily pulled back, a few strands hanging in her face, wearing a tank-top and that button-up he’d found at the Salvation Army in San Ysidro. He couldn’t focus. That’s right, he’d gone to drop off some old dining chairs he had no use for, caught it out of the corner of his eye hanging with the rest of the men’s button-ups. And instantly thought of her. Why couldn’t he focus. The pain finally reached his eyes.

Again, she answered his thoughts. “Well, as much as I wanted to fight you for fighting me,” she looked down, pinching the collar of the shirt and wiggling it back and forth like a dollar bill, “I didn’t get far enough in the process of dressing your wound to ruin it. And it is one of my favorites. I have to give it to you, tigre. Your attention to detail is the stuff of legend, and they were not wrong.”

At that, he smiled tiredly. She rocked forward, kicking off the bookshelf, and strode over to him, bits of glass crunching under the gummy, rubber souls of her boots. Doc Martens. So practical. They really were, the two of them, the same sometimes.

“Andrea,” her name came out in a whisper and a wince as he clutched at his side. He looked down in a daze that no matter how many times he blinked, how wide he forced his eyes open, he couldn’t shake. “How’d th– what happened? What are you doing here? How’d you– ,” he grunted, shifting his weight to his good side, “mm– get here?”

“Te he seguido, obvio.”

What? She follo– he hadn’t even briefed anyone on the raid at Agua Caliente until right before. Trujillo would never. Walt? No, after the debacle in Juarez, he was too wrapped up needing this win to jeopardize it by talking to a reporter. Even one as dogged and persistent as Andrea. And yes, she was resourceful. But resourceful, not psychic.

It felt like a lifetime of sitting there trying put it all together and he didn’t remember when she’d started making her way towards him, but she was already kneeling next to him now, slowly removing his hands from his side. Her eyes and forehead pinched in such a way that would’ve amplified his concern if he weren’t so out of it.

Her fingers felt cold around his neck. “Árre, we need to get this off,” she said, unbuttoning the collar of his uniform.

He was alarmed when his hands brushed hers and he saw they were covered in some dark substance. Oh, blood. Strange, it looked pitch black in this light. Andrea continued working her way down, pulling each button gingerly, so as not to hurt him more. The closer she got to his stomach, the more her hands began to resemble his, covered in black.

“Dale, mija. ¿Me vas a explicar lo que haces aquí ya o qué?”

He wanted to rub his thumb across her lip as it curled up in a smug smile. “Why? Should I not be here? You want me to leave? Sure,” she craned her neck around, and called out into the empty room, “I’ll just be on my way then and let someone in this massive crowd of eager, good samaritans help you.”

He chuckled thinly. When she faced back to him, she began untucking his shirt as delicately as possible. It hurt like a sonofabitch but it was going to hurt no matter what they did, so he softened the corners of his eyes, trying not to make her feel bad.

She continued. “The better question I think is, what are you doing here?”

Once he was free from his dress shirt, she grabbed both sides of the hole in the white shirt underneath and tore it wider to get a better look at the wound. Blood leaked out in streams down his stomach to his waist. It appeared to be a large gash from some kind of shrapnel. Much too jagged for a knife. The harsh sound of air through her teeth was a good indicator of what kind of shape he was in.

Alright so, shrapnel. But he couldn’t remember an explosion and there was no evidence of one having happened there in the room. What was he doing here? He couldn’t answer her. The blankness of before was all he could conjure up and that vast emptiness set him on the edge of panic.

He’d been doing a passable job not reacting too viscerally with his face, but when she started rifling through his pockets on either side, he grimaced, growling, “Ay, Andrea! Qué coño estás haciendo, porfavor.”

Paying him no mind, she held out her hand like a surgeon waiting for a scalpel. “Knife.”

He jutted his chin toward his feet. Spotting the shiny silver clip, she grabbed the knife from his boot, flicked it out, and made an incision in the hem of his uniform shirt. Catching the free section in her teeth, she tore down the length of the initial incision, and started packing the vodka-soaked gauze that she’d managed to hold onto after his freakout onto the wound and tying it with the strips of cloth cut from the shirt. When she pulled hard, securing the final knot, he nearly keeled over.

“Aycarajoperdónperdónperdóname,” she said, catching him by the shoulders.

She stayed there, acting as his scaffolding until the pain subsided. He lifted his chin to rest his forehead against hers and catch his breath. Just in her wanting to help him, the assurance of her fingertips against his shoulders, he felt her helping him. He couldn’t remember a time he was so grateful for another human being. Grateful in the way only she could make him feel.

Speaking half to her and half to the ground, he tried putting the pieces together, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. For some reason–“ but lost the words when he’d barely gotten started.

“What?”

“I don’t know. It’s– I have this strange– I have a feeling we’ve always been here. And will … always be here.”

Andrea nodded, eyes closed, like she knew exactly what he was talking about. It might feel like a trap if they didn’t have each other. She was always more than enough.

After a beat of silence, she pulled back and looked at him sadly, like she knew something he didn’t. Which was odd given what she asked next. “Horacio, por favor, necesito saberlo. Why? Why did you do it?”

Why’d he do it? Why’d he do, what?

“I know it’s in there, I know you remember. You have to, or you’ll never make it out of here.”

He shook his head, squinting his eyes, confused and cranky like a kid prematurely woken up from a nap. “Make it out? I’m not gonna make it out. Not unless you help me. Look at–“ he motioned to his side, “Ni siquiera puedo andar, mija.”

“Yes, you can,” she insisted calmly, her eyes full of an inexplicable mix of hope and resignation.

What did she know that he didn’t?

“I don’t know anything you don’t know. You just don’t want to know it. But you have to try, tigre. Eso es la única manera de vengarte a él. No more cutting corners. No more deals with the devil. Eres mejor que eso, ya lo sabes.”

The devil. The devil. The flashing red light. Deals. Deals with the devil.

Ah. Calderoni. That. That fucking deal.

His own C.I.s in exchange for Calderoni’s intel on Agua Caliente, el Hipódromo, Carlos Hank Gonzalez. A bigger fish than the Arellanos. Even though he knew exactly what the family would do to the informants. They’d have to stop building bridges in Mexico to hang people from. He showed up in Tijuana to clean up Rebollo’s mess and gone ahead and made his own.

Still, she was never part of the deal. But he could guess how that happened. In some boardroom meeting he conveniently wasn’t present for, somehow “journalist” and “informant” got conflated. They were wise not to include him. Not only would he not have agreed, he would’ve ensured not a single one of them made it out of there on two feet and breathing.

So, is this what it’s like watching the boulder come crashing down the mountain for the hundredth? Thousandth? Millionth time?

Carrillo’s face fell with understanding. “But I can’t lose you.”

“Sí, pero lo tienes que hacer. You have work to do. Because I love you. And you love me. And you owe me. And,” she rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek, and then flashed a dangerous smile, “I want you to burn the whole motherfucking thing to the ground.”

Then, cradling the back of his neck with both hands, she leaned in, lips christening him on the forehead, each of his eyelids, the tip of his nose, coming to a close at his own. There was a finality to the kiss that made him dig in deeper as if he could hold her here without lifting a finger, an urgency she returned so fiercely, when they broke away both their lips were swollen and flushed. Not without passion, but it wasn’t carnal so much as the pure desperation of goodbye.

“Going after those pinshe shingamadres is the least you can do.” He hadn’t even registered tears at his eyes until she brushed one with her thumb that had escaped down onto his cheekbone and mused, “After all, you are the reason I’m dead.”

∴

Slapped with a blast of air, his whole body jolted back to life, as he came to in a cold sweat, ceiling fan taunting him from above while he gasped for air and shivered against the damp sheets. He was so used to waking up violently like this, it didn’t even scare him anymore. Confused him a little, maybe. But reassurance was quick to follow and his breathing slowed as he relaxed, because ah, yes, he knew how to deal with the nightmares now.

Like clockwork, he reached for his life preserver, turning and throwing his arm over to the other side of the bed, expecting to feel the warmth of her back, her shoulders, hear her steady breathing next to him. But his hand sailed straight through empty air and landed on the cold, vacant spot of the mattress instead.

He almost doubled over. Pain unlike anything.

Worse than when Trujillo first delivered the news to him in his office. Much worse. The perpetual renewal of shock that this was real and the place in that dingy room in his head was not, only sharpened the blow each time. But he deserved to be wounded and wounded like this over and over again. After all, he was responsible, she was right about that.

She wasn’t here to help him with the nightmares anymore. Now, she only lived in his.

═

taglist: @narcosfandomdiscord @ashlingnarcos @drabbles-mc @narcolini

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narcosfandomdiscord · 7 months

Text

narcos october masterlist ii

This masterlist is for days 11-25 of the @narcosfandomdiscord's october prompt event, which you can read about here and join in!

For days 1-10 of the event, check out masterlist i, and for days 26-31 of the event, check out masterlist iii.

(Note: character x character indicates a romantic/sexual relationship; character & character indicates a platonic one.)

October 11 — Day of Fun

Create a non-visual, non-fic fanwork: quiz, game, playlist, incorrect quotes.

↳ Narcos Incorrect Quotes by @proceduralpassion — many characters from OG & MX

October 12 — Day of Death

Kill a character who lives in canon.

↳ Behind The Curve by @drabbles-mc — Hugo Martinez Sr. & Hugo Martinez Jr, 1.4k

↳ It's You by @proceduralpassion — Rafa x Reader

October 13 — Day of Life

Create a fanwork in which a character avoids their canonical death.

↳ Adamant by @drabbles-mc — Enedina x Claudio, 2k

↳ Undefined by @artemiseamoon — Danilo x OFC, 1.1k

↳ I'm The Sky To You by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x OFC, 1.1k

↳ Chasing ghosts and choices by @hausofmamadas — Enedina x Claudio, 1.7k

October 14 — Day of Support

Create a review, response, or analysis of a Narcos or Narcos Mexico fic, in the style of an Amazon review or a NYT book review or something like that. Please keep it constructive and positive, no roasts.

↳ In defense of Wonderbread White: Eureka!Character moments by @hausofmamadas — Steve-centric fanfic analysis

↳ she's got the range by @ashlingnarcos — analysis of the #narcoctober fics written by @drabbles-mc

Quote prompt: “I got you.”

↳ Debts Paid by @drabbles-mc — Navegante & Salcedo ficlet

October 15 — Day of Absolute Filth

Create a smut fanwork that includes three different kinks and/or sex acts (basically you could tag it with at least three tags that are Pure Filth).

↳ Control pt 2 by @artemiseamoon — Verdin x OFC 1.5k

↳ First on Speed Dial by @drabbles-mc — Steve x F!Reader 1.5k

↳ XTASY by @proceduralpassion — Rafa x Reader 1.4k

October 16 — Day of Surprises

These prompts were revealed at the start of the day.

Create a fanwork that focuses on dreams, either literal or metaphorical.

↳ not in this life by @narcolini — Güero x Reader ficlet

↳ Crumbled to Dust by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo x F!Reader (+OC Diego Ramirez), 1.2k

↳ TO THE SMASH N GRAB CREW by @hausofmamadas — Smash & Grab Crew, also Kenny x Cici, gifset and meta

↳ One Uniform by @proceduralpassion — Trujillo focused ficlet

↳ To live and leave fast by @hausofmamadas — Andrea x Carrillo angst and smut, 2.3k

October 17 — Day of Rare Treasures

Create a fanwork about a character that only shows up in one (1) season of the show. the rarer the better honestly

↳ Marta fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ One day at a time by @artemiseamoon — NYC hairdresser from Narcos S3, trauma recovery, 1.2k

↳ Cómo Puedo Ayudar? by @drabbles-mc — Sal & Cece Garza, 1.7k

↳ Denouemont by @proceduralpassion — Dani x Walt ficlet

October 18 — Day of History

Create a fanwork about characters experiencing, participating in, or witnessing a real life historical event (could have been depicted in canon or not) e.g. moon landing.

↳ The Moon Landing by @garbinge — Javi & F!Reader, 1.3k

↳ Get To You by @proceduralpassion — Javi x OFC, 1.2k

Create a fanwork about two exes meeting unexpectedly.

↳ Ninety Days by @drabbles-mc — Walt x GN!Reader, 2.9k

October 19 — Day of Hurt

Create a fanwork about a character so emotionally or physically hurt that they can’t help but start crying even though they don’t want to.

↳ Could've Been It by @proceduralpassion — Javi x OFC ficlet

October 20 — Day of Comfort

Create a fanwork about a character getting exactly what they need from someone unexpected.

↳ Best Bet by @drabbles-mc — Carrillo & Connie, 1.3k

↳ Walls Closing In by @proceduralpassion — Amado x Reader ficlet

October 21 — Day of Women Who Will Step On You For Free

Create a f/f-centric fanwork.

↳ At Your Service by @drabbles-mc — Andrea x F!Reader, 1.3k

↳ Don't Question by @proceduralpassion — Maria Elvira x F!Reader ficlet

October 22 — Day of Cross-Fandom Pollination

Create a fanwork that includes at least one Narcos character and at least one character from another fandom.

↳ Flying In (1) by @drabbles-mc — Narcos OFC & multiple Narcos and Mayans MC characters, 2.8k

↳ Family Reunion by @drabbles-mc — Steve & Rick Flag (from Suicide Squad), 2.3k

↳ A Bad Habit by @artemiseamoon — Chepe x OFC, Lalo Salamanca x OFC, Better Call Saul crossover ficlet

↳ Borgias & Narcos Mexico crossover fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ And You? by @garbinge — Jax Teller (Sons of Anarchy) & Steve ficlet

↳ The Job by @proceduralpassion — Billy Russo (The Punisher Netflix) & Miguel ficlet

The occupational hazards of living by @hausofmamadas — Rust Cohle (from True Detective) & Barrón, 4.5k

October 23 — Day of Threes

Create a fanwork that includes three items you can currently see.

↳ Sweet Dreams, Angel by @proceduralpassion — Steve x Connie ficlet

Create a fanwork including three canon characters. extra difficult version: three canon characters that have never met.

↳ Acquaintances at Best by @drabbles-mc — 3 characters are: Steve, Jorge Salcedo, Don Berna, also Steve & Javi, 2.7k

October 24 — Day of Monsters

Create a fanwork about a character turning into a supernatural creature.

↳ Wolf Pack by @artemiseamoon — Ramón & OC ficlet

↳ Amado as an angel fanart by @tofuwildcard

↳ Night of the Comet by @proceduralpassion — Walt x Reader ficlet

Quote prompt: “The world isn’t made up of heroes and monsters. Just broken people balancing between the two.”

↳ Hard to hate up close by @hausofmamadas — Andrea & OC, 3.2k

October 25 — Day of Wow, That Escalated Quickly

Create a fanwork that begins in a canon-compatible place, but ends up going somewhere more dramatic.

↳ Distant Echoes by @proceduralpassion — Carrillo x Juliana ficlet

#narcos fanfiction #narcos imagine #narcos mexico fanfiction #narcos #narcos mexico #narcos mexico imagine #narcoctober

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10piecechickennuggy · 6 months

Text

Magic and Secrets, ch. 6 - Sanji x Witch!OC

WARNING: Mature content ahead!

DISCLAIMER: I do not own One Piece or the art featured above. This is a fan-created work featuring an original character.

Read Chapter 5 Here

Read Chapter 4 Here

Read Chapter 3 Here

Read Chapter 2 Here

Read Chapter 1 Here

An off-key melody echoed through the mansion’s halls. Dark pigtails bounced as Vera skipped down the long corridor, a basket filled with freshly laundered sheets in her hands. The setting sun cast golden shadows along the girl’s smiling features.

It’d been a good day. The first in a long time - longer than the ten year old girl could remember. Vera had been able to complete all her assigned duties and even had the rare opportunity to eat lunch with the other slaves. Her mind was still replaying the conversation she’d had with Laura over a shared pastry.

“Laura, what do you think Germa is like?” Crumbs stuck to the young girl’s lips as she spoke.

The older woman giggled, her strawberry blonde tresses falling in front of her face. “Lady Vera, you mustn’t talk with food on your face.”

Vera’s eyes grew in realization of her messy appearance, her cheeks reddening at having it pointed out. She quickly whispered a few magic words and the offending crumbs disappeared. Still not trusting her own magic, she then grabbed a rag and used it to wipe her face just to be sure.

Laura laughed louder now. The rag Vera had rubbed on her face had been previously used to polish the furniture. Now, the young witch’s cheeks were smudged with brown streeks.

“Here, let me help you.” Laura brought her sleeve down to cover her thumb before dipping it into her cup of water. She brought the damp fabric to the girl’s cheek and began rubbing the marks away. “I’m sure it’ll be lovely there.”

Vera frowned, her features contorting into a comical expression when coupled with her dirtied skin. “What if he’s mean to me? And what if his father or siblings are mean to me?” Her lip began to quiver.

“Shh.” Laura patted her head once she’d finished wiping the filth from her cheeks. “I’m sure Prince Sanji will make a fine husband. And if his family is mean to you, he’ll protect you.”

Once certain that Vera had been sufficiently reassured, Laura stood and dusted off her apron. “We should get back to work. There’s still lots to do before the master and mistress return.”

Thoughts of a dashing prince swooping in to rescue her now dominated Vera’s mind. She hummed and sang a happy tune, not caring if any of the other slaves heard. Her key was off, wavering between sharp and flat with every other verse. But who would correct her? The portraits of her ancestors which adorned the hallway?

Turning, she reached the master bedroom; her destination. She quickly stripped the bed of its used linens and began replacing them with those she’d been carrying. As white fabric billowed through the air and came to rest upon a plush mattress, her song continued.

Vera was lost in her thoughts, imagining another of countless scenarios for her future. If Laura said he’d be kind, then he would be. The woman had never been wrong as long as Vera had known her. Her marriage would be a happy one.

She jumped when the bedroom door slammed open.

“Quit that incessant screeching!” Misericors came barreling through the doorway, Vera’s mother clinging to him. Both were glaring at the girl.

“I-I’m sorry, sir!” Vera bowed before her stepfather, fear overrunning her previously happy mind. Had she tempted fate by allowing herself a moment of splendor?

“You haven’t finished your work yet?!” His voice was booming, dwarfing every other sensation the young girl might have felt in that moment. “It’s nearly dusk! Must I remind you of your place?!” He reached out, roughly grabbing one of Vera’s pigtails and bringing her forward. He leaned down and forced her to meet his gaze, now at eye level.

Vera gulped audibly.

“You are a slave.” Her stepfather’s breath smelt of alcohol as he sneered in her face. “Maybe you need something to burn that fact into you.”

The smile that overtook his features was nothing short of menacing. He took a moment to look off into the distance, formulating a plan. He chuckled at his own imaginings before bringing his attention back to the girl in his grasp.

Praesentia smirked at her husband, a hand resting on his chest as the man rose to his full stature. “She’ll never forget if you do that.”

Misericors yanked on Vera’s hair, dragging her out into the hallway behind him. The girl grabbed at her scalp, attempting and failing to relieve any amount of the pain her stepfather was causing. Tears fell down her cheeks as choking sobs ripped themselves from her throat.

Before long, the trio found themselves in one of the mansion’s many sitting rooms. A fire roared in the hearth, illuminating the space and casting stark shadows. Misericors threw Vera’s body aside. She crashed into a coffee table, knocking the objects that sat upon it to the floor. Glass shattered upon impact, spraying towards the girl.

She brought her arms up to cover her face, causing them to take most of the damage. Shards of glass embedded themselves into her skin, drawing ribbons of blood which trickled onto the carpet below.

From her kneeling position, the young witch stared down at her arms - now decorated with stripes of crimson. Colorful swirls and patterns reflected the fire’s light, appearing like glitter. The sculpture had been priceless. Vera closed her ryes tightly and braced herself for a beating.

When the sound of metal scraping stone broke the silence, she turned towards the hearth. The cruel grins her mother and stepfather wore sent paralyzing shivers straight to the core of her being. When the glow of red-hot iron came into view, the girl knew what was happening.

She’d seen the mark before. All the slaves in the mansion had it on some part of their body. The more well behaved slaves had theirs in places which were more easily hidden. Laura’s was in the center of her chest, right below her clavicle.

Vera screamed.

She willed her body to move, but fear cemented her to the ground. Her lungs began to burn, her throat feeling like it was closing. She couldn’t stop screaming long enough to take in a single breath.

“Shut it!” Her mother’s boot made contact with Vera’s left cheek. She landed on her right shoulder atop the shards of rainbow glass. Her screaming ceased, tears falling as she attempted to push her body upright.

Praesentia moved behind her daughter and held her down, a hand covering the girl’s mouth.

As her stepfather moved closer, Vera began to thrash against her mother’s hold. She tried to shout, but the sound was muffled by the hand over her lips. Her eyes darted around the room, unsure what she was searching for.

When the branding iron met her arm, the pain was indescribable. Blood boiled and skin melted under the searing metal. The smell was horrendous, trails of steam wafting into the air as her arm was cooked. A silent scream ripped itself from her throat.

In an attempt to ease the pain, she bit down on the nearest object - her mother’s hand. In an instant, she was released and the branding iron was removed. However, the overwhelming agony did not cease. It felt as though her entire arm was engulfed in flames. She clutched the marred skin as her mother kicked her again.

“You little brat! You bit me!” Another blow, this time to her back. Praesentia then leaned down, forcing her daughter to meet her eyes.

Vera stared through hot tears, her dark orbs wide in shock at what had just transpired. Her mother gripped the collar of her shirt, pulling her in close before growling her next words.

“You deserved this.”

***

Soft cotton gauze was held firmly in place beneath an adhesive bandage. “There, nice and snug.” Law patted the spot he’d just finished dressing, smiling as Vera flinched away.

“Oww!” She held the location gently and glared at the surgeon. “Stop that!”

Law chuckled, his deep voice reverberating off the wooden walls of the sick bay. “What? The witch can’t handle a little pain?” He leaned back in the chair, tattooed arms crossed over his chest. “I’d have figured after everything you’ve been through, a few stitches would be nothing.”

Vera sighed, looking down at her hand. She’d been helping Sanji prepare vegetables for dinner and slipped, cutting her thumb quite deeply. “Remind me why Chopper wasn’t the one to patch me up.” She refused to raise her eyes, preferring the view of floorboards over Law’s golden orbs.

The surgeon stood, returning unused bandages to their home within a cabinet. “Nose-ya had another invention blow up on him, so Tony-ya is a bit preoccupied at the moment.” He turned to eye the woman, taking in her features. “Would you have rather waited?”

The witch scoffed, standing from her seat on the examination table. “Thanks.” Her response carried undertones of frustration. With clenched fists, she began walking toward the door.

“Just a minute.” Law had extended his leg, blocking her path. “Have you given any more consideration to my offer?”

Keeping her eyes focused on the exit, she brushed past the man. “My answer is still no.”

Overcast skies greeted Vera when she returned to the Sunny’s main deck. Silently hoping that a storm wasn’t in their immediate future, she took a moment to gather her thoughts.

Resting against a wall, she leaned her head back and looked up. A gull flew overhead, its mottled body almost disappearing against the gray haze of sky. Her hand raised to her arm, gently rubbing the spot where her slave mark rested beneath black fabric.

Law had been persistent these last few days. He took her initial rejection with a nonchalance that suggested disinterest. But in their following interactions, he’d not failed to remind her that his offer still stood.

Why was he so insistent on learning about her past? Were her scars really that interesting? Or was he just nosey? Vera was willing to bet on the latter.

Brook’s voice brought her attention to the ship’s helm. The skeleton in question held a violin and bow, obviously intending to treat the crew to a song before dinner. “How’s your hand? That looked like a nasty cut!”

The girl smiled, thankful for her crewmate’s concern. “Just fine. Law stitched me up good.” She held up her now bandaged thumb for him to see.

“Very good!” Brook nodded, inspecting the masterful wrapping. “Would you mind showing me your panties as well?”

The girl laughed nervously, darting her gaze back to the kitchen. “Not today, I’m afraid.”

Brook joined in her laughter, though his was clearly genuine. “Perhaps next time, then.” He began to play his instrument, soft notes complimenting the crash of waves along the ship’s hull.

By the time she’d reentered the kitchen, dinner was nearly ready. Sanji praised her dedication to completing her work, but insisted that she sit and wait for the final side dishes to finish cooking. He’d even set the table in her absence, leaving the witch with nothing to pass the time.

She chose to seat herself at the island and watch the cook as he worked. Long, slender fingers expertly cleaned the filth from a used pan. Long blonde bangs obscured cerulean eyes as smoke puffed from delicate lips.

Vera couldn’t believe she’d taken so long to put two and two together. Had she suppressed her memories from childhood that deeply? The man before her was an exact match for her betrothed’s photos, despite how much he’d grown.

But it was obvious he didn’t recognize her.

His demeanor betrayed nothing of his royal upbringing. And when questioned about his origins, Sanji only spoke of growing up in the East Blue - across the Red Line from his birthplace in Germa.

Was he intentionally hiding his past?

Vera wasn’t sure of the right way to proceed. She could tell him the truth and dredge up both their pasts, or continue on as before and carry the constant reminder of her former life alone.

Would Sanji even care if she told him?

They were betrothed as children. The pair had never met until their adult lives, both living as completely different people than their childhood selves. They were pirates, not a prince and a celestial dragon.

Would he hate her if he knew?

The celestial dragons were despised. Sure they were the nobles of the world, but to regular citizens they were monsters. Cruelty was synonymous with the title. And though Vera had been raised as a slave and subsequently abandoned her life in Mariejois, she had still been born as one of them.

And then there was the problem of Vera’s own feelings.

No one could deny that Sanji was an attractive man. But he was also kind, chivalrous, and the best cook Vera had ever seen. He always put his crew - his friends and nakama - above all else. His obnoxious flirting with every girl he met was concerning, but he was a true prince down to his core. A wonderful person. Just thinking about him made Vera’s heart flutter.

She rested her head on the cool granite of the countertop.

Before long, the crew gathered and dinner had been served. The conversation had been boisterous, though Vera barely participated - too distracted with her thoughts.

Both Law and Zoro had made attempts at bringing her attention to the present moment. Zoro had tried asking about her favorite alcohol, if she liked napping, even what books she liked reading. Law had made a passing comment about her appearance. Something flirtatious she didn’t quite catch, which only got a rise out of Sanji.

When her plate and beverage had emptied, Nami invited the witch to join her and Robin for a bath. She accepted, not caring that they would see her scars or slave mark. Her friends had proven that they weren’t bothered by them - just concerned for her. But the girls didn’t pry, and so Vera had grown more trusting towards the two.

Warm, soapy water filled the Sunny’s enormous bathtub. Floral scents wafted through the steamy air, providing a spa-like atmosphere. Vera sat at the edge, her knees to her chest while the other women washed each others’ backs.

“Your turn, Vera!” Nami’s energetic voice broke through the witch’s consuming thoughts. The navigator’s long orange locks were held in a clip atop her head. Her blue tattoo was on full display along with the rest of her body. From her slender form to her large breasts and smooth skin, she was undeniably beautiful.

Vera complied silently, standing to join her friends in the deeper water. She turned, presenting her back which Nami began scrubbing with a soft sponge.

Meanwhile, Robin had grabbed a bottle of shampoo and offered to wash Vera’s hair. When she nodded, the archeologist went straight to work.

“Your hair is so soft!” Robin exclaimed, her hands covered in suds.

“Thank you.” Vera blushed and looked down at her naked form. She should feel embarrassed - vulnerable and exposed. She’d not bathed with anyone else since infancy. The magnitude of trust she held for these two women surprised the witch.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask.” Nami had finished washing Vera’s back and began scrubbing her own body. “What’s up with you and Sanji?”

#black leg sanji #one piece #one piece oc #one piece sanji #sanji #sanji vinsmoke #vinsmoke sanji #cat burglar nami #god usopp #monkey d luffy #roronoa zoro #trafalgar law #nico robin #brook one piece #tony tony chopper #franky one piece #one piece x oc #trafalgar one piece

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aesopsharpmybeloved · 2 years

Text

Father Paul NSFT Alphabet

Guess who wrote another headcanon piece when she should have been working on that Halloween fanfic? 👀👀

@daincrediblegg also wrote an incredible Father Paul/John Pruitt NSFW alphabet and I recommend you check it out !

This is Father Paul Hill from my AU (the way he is in all of my stories), however, therefore he is neither John Pruitt, nor a vampire (you know the drill by now). He's still a hot priest soft boi, tho <3 Enjoy.

✨NSFW, GO AWAY CHILDREN ✨

gif by @chellestrash

Father Paul Hill NSFT Alphabet

TW: pure filth, enjoy 👍

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Father Paul gets incredibly cuddly after sex. Mind you, he's always quite cuddly, but he's just extra affectionate right after the two of you made love. He's perfectly able to snuggle you for hours, sharing tender pillow talk or napping for a while, depending on where you currently are and how much time you've got. He can even help you clean up, if you so wish, and will definitely join you in the bathtub or the shower, if that’s where you’re headed. He's very fond of drawing invisible patterns upon your skin everywhere he can reach. Sometimes, this leads to another round of fun activities..

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He used to have no favourite body part before your relationship started, but now he's grown quite fond of certain aspects of his anatomy, especially the ones you seem to like. His eyes, for example, which he never thought were anything special, but seeing your own eyes becoming so tender and filled with love when your gazes connect makes his heart sing. He also likes his hair, because you love combing your fingers through it and he became very fond of his arms, which have enough strength to lift you up easily and hold you close and tight.

When it comes to your body, he loves everything, really, but he's particularly fond of your own eyes, deep inside of which he believes lie the secrets of the universe, your hands, which can bring both comfort and pleasure, your lips that press kisses upon his skin and leave burning warmth in their wake, and of course your smile. Be it playful and mischievous, filled with love and longing, or stretched with pure joy and amusement, he could stare at it for hours.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

One wouldn't have guessed so, but the priest can get positively filthy. Just the mental picture of you being filled or sprayed with his seed is enough to bring him ever so closer to his peak. 'Holy shit, Paul!' was all you could muster to moan out the first time he went down on you after he finished inside, lapping up your combined releases. Once you reached your high again, you could only lie boneless upon his bed, way too out of it with pleasure to protest when he kissed you, your and his come clinging wetly to his lips. "Paul Hill, I have made a monster out of you."

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Having his way with you right there, in the church, turns him on way more than it should, he thinks. He’s already breaking his vows with you, but to do so right in God’s house? It’s absolutely and utterly blasphemous and totally enough to get him excommunicated if anyone ever found out. The thing is; it not only turns him on, in a way it makes him actually feel closer to God himself, closer to heaven. Seeing as love is the greatest thing God ever created, it just feels fitting to celebrate it in front of Him, as if showing your appreciation. He always makes sure there isn’t a speck of dust out of place after, of course, taking extreme care to inspect every millimetre.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

No prior experience whatsoever, this man was a virgin through and through before your affair began. Therefore, at first, his technique leaves a little something to be desired and he needs some guidance. Luckily, he's a quick learner and very eager to please you, so once you point out what you like and how you like it, you can bet he's going to be very enthusiastic in following your directions to the letter and then some.

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Paul loves it when you ride him, because he gets to see you take your own pleasure while giving him his. Not to mention the sight of you, your breasts bouncing with each move while his cock disappears inside of you only to reappear a moment later. He only enjoys the view ever so long, before he feels the need to pull you down for a sloppy kiss, his arms holding you so absolutely close while his hips are thrusting up to meet yours.

He pretty much has a taste for all positions in which he can kiss you on the mouth and watch your face as you fall apart before him. On the occasions he feels more dominant, he'd use his body weight to trap you beneath him and move extremely deep within you, making you hold onto anything you can reach for dear life, as every thrust of his hips makes your breath catch in your throat.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.)

He's not overly goofy during the lovemaking itself, but he can get rather playful after, his mind light with post-orgasmic bliss. Then he's all smiles and good-humour, engaging in some cute-dirty banter and making you giggle softly, or gently running his fingers against over-sensitive areas, making you lightly whine and shy away slightly. He never goes too far, of course, for after the little wave of mischievousness comes a large, insistent need to cuddle.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Not very hairy at all. He's got dark armpit hair, but his chest is otherwise bare. There is however a happy trail going from his belly button down, and the carpet does match the drapes, in both colour and texture. He doesn't really need to trim, as the hair down there doesn’t get too messy.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

He is Intimate with a capital 'I'. Mainly because he simply doesn't see what you do as just sex, but rather a lovemaking. That's his biggest motivation, after all, he loves you and he loves sharing pleasure with you. He can get so intense about it too, making you nearly sob in pleasure, your mewls constantly muffled by his hungry, passionate kisses. Even the quickest of quickies is extremely intimate and full of emotion.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Paul hadn't really felt the need to do so before he met you, his occupation having a large influence on that. He only really started realising his body's needs after he was already in love with you for a while, and it was then it hit him like a tidal wave. At first there were the dreams, and he felt guilty despite not being able to control what his mind got up to when he was sleeping. Sometime later though, he caught himself thinking about you as he lay in bed, still awake, his hand unconsciously travelling south. His inner battle lasted for several minutes and a few prayers, before he gave up and began very lightly stroking himself through his pyjama trousers. And after that he just couldn't stop indulging. Nowadays though, he barely has any need to engage in any fantasies and pleasure himself, seeing as he has the real you and his fantasies are made reality.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He's very fond of you taking control and has absolutely no problem with sometimes finding himself bound to the bed and blindfolded. He whines and begs when you edge him, but secretly loves every minute of it. If you have any kinks, he's more than willing to experiment with you, unless it's something really hardcore, or something that could end with one of you being hurt - he makes it clear there are some things he simply won't do.

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

Bed is his favourite, of course, because it's comfortable and convenient, seeing as he likes to cuddle after lovemaking. However, he is perfectly able to enjoy your coupling absolutely anywhere, as long as he doesn’t have to worry too much about the two of you getting caught. Every once in a while, you enjoy some quality fun on the Uppards, but you have also openly blasphemed in Saint Patrick's itself. Several times. The confession booth was a clear choice, of course, but two times the pastor actually took you right on the altar. You stared, with half lidded eyes and mouth opened in a silent moan, at Jesus hanging on his cross, gripping Paul's shoulders and marking his clear skin with imprints of your fingernails, while the priest fucked into you hard and deep, worshipping you in the house of God.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

One of his major turn-ons is your physical closeness by itself. When his large hands settle just above your backside and pull you flush against his body, and you look at him with eyes so lustful and innocent at the same time, his blood rushes everywhere at once, eventually settling in his nether regions and he feels so alive, so filled with adoration and yearning. He shivers when you whisper sweet nothings into his ear and your hands glade over his torso, until they run up to settle in his hair and pull at it. He’s honestly ready to go once you show your desire for him, once he sees his own need reflected in your eyes.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

As mentioned above, he wouldn’t do anything that could result in physical harm. He’s okay if you ask to be spanked a bit, or perhaps handled a little roughly, but don’t ever ask him to outright hit you, or degrade and humiliate you. Not only would he be horrified to do that, it’d also be a major turn off for him. So do not ask for that, if you don’t want the evening to end uncomfortably and unsatisfactorily for both of you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Paul prefers giving. It’s not that he doesn’t like it when you go down on him, as he’s got quite the opposite problem - he loves it too much. He gets rather shy, because of all the noise he makes and just how early and quickly he finishes, often without warning. You don’t mind, of course, and still perform on him quite often, making him feel both raptured and doomed.

There’s just something so absolutely beautiful about being able to bring you so much pleasure and listening to your sweet voice rise an octave higher while your most sensitive parts are under ruthless attack of his lips and tongue. Not to mention he always lunges for you like a famished man faced with a 5 course meal, sending vibrations into your very core as he hungrily laps at all you can give him and moans at your taste.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Honestly depends on his mood. On most occasions Paul likes to take his time, enjoying the connection of your bodies completely and thoroughly, his every move laced with sensuality and passion. He likes to find that perfect little spot within you and land every hard, deep thrust right against it, making you shiver and curl your toes. However, he has no problem with being fast - cue:

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Oh, the priest likes a nice quickie. Mind you, even quickies are romantic and sensual with him. They usually happen in a semi-public place, and more often than not, he’s actually the one to initiate them. The confession booth in Saint Pat’s of course comes to mind instantly, but you also found yourself desperately clinging to each other in the bathroom of the rec centre, many times over at the Uppards and once even in the school’s supply cabinet. Both of you often have to cover the other’s mouth to muffle any sounds that try to come out, and it’s usually over way sooner than either of you would prefer (even though it is supposed to be quick), but you still find yourself braced against the wall with your legs around the priest’s slim waist fairly often.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

Paul is more than willing to experiment a bit and try new things, as long as you set some boundaries. Safewords too, if need be. But he isn’t too fond of taking large risks, or taking them often. Even though your quickies happen in semi-public places, father Paul always tries to go above and beyond to make sure you wouldn’t get caught by anyone, and that your lovely little sin is never found out about. He does so to protect you mainly, though, rather than himself.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He’s definitely good to go for at least two great rounds in one session, his recovery period lasting about 20 minutes, during which he likes to focus his entire attention on you, using lips, tongue and fingers on your erogenous zones expertly. He’s able to do more, though, as long as he’s given some more rest between rounds, maybe even a short nap. Therefore you won’t be disappointed if your idea of, let’s say, an anniversary, is to make love the entire night - just make sure you both have a free day after that.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He doesn’t own any toys himself, but if you do and you want to somehow try to implement them into your play, he won’t be opposed to it. You have to explain them to him, though, and show him what to do with them. As always, he learns very fast. While he doesn’t own any ‘official’ toys, he does sometimes use other objects as toys. Ice cubes, for example, or a long soft feather for teasing.

While quite curious about the use of toys (especially those fluffy handcuffs which are truly impossible to get out of without a key - as he found out first hand), he is quite content to rely on his fingers, mouth and cock, prefering to use toys only every once in a while, to spice things up a bit.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Paul likes to tease you sometimes, but always very gently, and only after he’s gained some confidence. At first, it really was you doing all the teasing, but sometime later he too acquired a few ways to make you whine for him. There’s the dirty talk, for one: you have no idea how anyone could make getting bent over the rectory table while surrounded by half-written homilies sound so gentle and romantic, but Paul sure did, and kept his promises too. Then there’s the worship, which can sometimes be so long and intense, you actually beg for the priest to take you already. All hands and lips and teeth and between that he recites the Song of Solomon to you. It’s a sweet kind of torture

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He’s pretty loud when you’re alone and out of earshot of anyone. The priest is always a little shy about the sounds he makes at the beginning. He goes as far as trying to muffle them by kissing you, or burying his face into your neck, releasing only short whines and groans every now and again. However, as he ultimately starts losing himself in pleasure, his volume rises and his moans and whimpers grow in number and intensity, as well as volume. He sometimes says prayers, he sometimes curses, he sometimes yelps outright blasphemies. As he nears his peak, his voice often breaks under the amount of raw bliss. And every single sound that leaves his pretty lips is like angelic music to your ears.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Quickies in the confession booth are one thing, but being completely enveloped by your hot wet mouth while he was actually listening to a confession is something quite different, isn’t it. He’s not even sure why on earth he ever agreed to it in the first place… Except he kind of is. The day was slow, daily mass empty, save for Leeza and Annie, and you were nearly sure nobody would come to make a confession when you arrived at the church, and proposed having some lovely time in the confessional.

You had to drop to your knees quickly, so the person entering the opposite booth wouldn’t see you straddling the priest’s lap, as that would be obviously distinguishable even through the privacy screen. Father Paul was certain you did what you did at least partly because the person on the other side of the screen was Beverly Keanne. And Bev had the longest confession he’s ever heard, or it at the very least felt like it. Paul took every single breath oh so carefully, his jaw was shut painfully hard so as not to let out a single sound, and his eyes were closed in deep focus. He could’ve stopped you, could’ve pushed you off his shaft, but in a twisted way, he was ridiculously enjoying this. Meanwhile, you were happily sucking on his cock, but slowly and steadily, so he wouldn’t have too much trouble pretending he wasn’t just getting a blowjob inside his church while ‘Holier-Than-Thou’ Beverly Keane sat not a metre and a half across from him.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He’s rather big, at 7 inches while flaccid and growing an additional inch when aroused. Uncircumcised and with a few lovely defined veins. It’s best to be very relaxed before penetration, because his girth does stretch a lot. He curves just the right way to hit that little bundle of nerves deep inside of you.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Ever since you became physical with each other, his sex drive rose considerably, to the point of him actively seducing you fairly often. Despite that, Paul remains a gentleman and he can actually control his libido; when you’re tired, or aching, or simply not in the mood for love-making, he backs off immediately, no questions asked, no hard feelings. He knows he wouldn’t be able to enjoy himself knowing that you’re doing something you don’t want to do at that moment. He sees it as basic human decency, but you are still grateful to him, knowing not all men are like that.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Depends on the day he’s had - if he’s tired, he just holds you close, exchanges a few sweet words and nods off several minutes later. Usually though, he prefers to stay awake just to be able to talk some more with you, share more kisses, more embraces. He’ll watch you fall asleep, stroking your cheek as he observes your eyes becoming heavy and your face growing more and more relaxed. Then once your breathing has evened out, he’s content to close his own eyes and join you in your dreams.

I hope you enjoyed reading this filth. As always, you can find this and the entire series on AO3. I love your guys’ feedback <333

#midnight mass #midnight mass fanfiction #reader insert #father paul hill #father paul #father paul x reader #father paul x you #headcanons #father paul headcanons #alphabet #alphabet challange #nsft alphabet

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