#the spirits of time smile greatly upon him | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dreamerdeity · 7 months

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𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔

*ೃ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : Choso Kamo x Fem. reader

*ೃ 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 4.1k

*ೃ 𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 : A hectic schedule and impending deadlines require you to be at your sharpest, yet you can't seem to get a second of sleep thanks to your heedless dorm-mate's nightly jam sessions. To scold him at first, you make your way over to his room, but suddenly he's teaching you how to strum a guitar, and suddenly again, you're somehow in his lap .

*ೃ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : Hand job, Praise kink (f. giving), unestablished relationship, cursing, slightly perverted behavior (?), 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, the rest, please proceed at your own risk.

*ೃ 𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 : YAYYY first Kinktober piece in my series!! This one's quite long only because it's Choso and I've recently (2 years and counting) been on my Kamo boys d riding shi so they get special treatment. Also, please do not report my work! I'm tired of getting flagged, so if you are uncomfortable, do not read.

⇄ 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Football season approached its grand commencement, dawning an atmosphere of vibrance and vitality upon a typically spiritless college campus (mid terms tend to have that sort of effect on people, you supposed). Every kid around the buzzy premises had begun to eagerly place their bets, ready to squander their humble savings on predictions pertaining to games they weren't exactly a part of.

But as elating as it all sounded to the average student with heaps of coursework and limited entertainment, opening week was an incredibly hectic time for you, and if you were normally indifferent about being on the cheer squad, you sure as hell hated it during this time of year. Because let’s just say, sore muscles and ill-functioning ankles weren’t exactly your idea of fun—Neither were tight ponytails that threatened to rapture a vein in your temple, however—oh however, setting all of that aside, there was one thing you always, always looked forward to: Catching a glimpse of Choso Kamo languidly slumped against the least congested corner of the bleachers--if he were lucky enough to score a corner seat, that is—his bored eyes barely following the figures of beefy men running around the field at breakneck speed.

His entire existence within the stadium was an anomaly of sorts as raging crowds jumped and screamed around him, and it baffled you to say the least; How he never failed to show up—all dressed up and equipped, mind you—but barely reacted. Why the hell was he here when he clearly looked like he'd rather be doing anything but this? Like, maybe, spending the evening in his lair (his room) all alone, drowning in stifling darkness (he refused to raise his blinds. ever). Though the more you saw him around the stadium, the more you looked forward to being there.

pretty weird, pretty sappy.

You often found yourself discretely glancing over at the crowds in search of him when a game was on, smiling to yourself with a giddy skip to your step every time you did. The circumstances were ordinary, unfavorable even—and you racked your brain left and right—for any logical justification to the sizzling concoction of emotions that bore itself into your psyche every time he so much as uttered a single unenthusiastic “Hi” your way.

Sure, he was aloof and mostly kept to himself, emanating a brooding air that bordered on intimidation as his sharp features wordlessly screamed “don’t talk to me” while you greatly contrasted him in demeanor, carrying yourself ever so vivaciously, always high-spirited and bubbling with energy, but something about him made your head spin. Perhaps it was the way he towered over you as he passed by in the hallways, his guitar case handle firmly secured under the grip of his ring-stacked fingers. Or maybe it was those tired half-lidded eyes that met your own for a speck of a second every time you encountered one another on the way to your neighboring dorm rooms. Granted, you’ve barely exchanged a full sentence over the past two years you'd "known" him, apart from the occasional “good morning”, and “the weather sucks today, doesn’t it?”, but damn.

Choso on the other hand simply didn't have a single fucking clue how to approach you. Despite his good looks, he was too awkward to pull the girls he wanted, and he didn't have much game anyway, he knew that much, though that never stopped him from stealing glances at your pretty round ass every time your skirt rode up your thighs a little too high while you passionately cheered for your team down by the field, or how his vivid imagination raced at a million miles per second every time he caught a whiff of your vanilla bean mist as you skipped past him with your friends. It seemed like you weren't the only one having a hard time, and yet the both of you were acting like cowardly hormonal teenagers, too afraid of laying your feelings out in the open for each other to see.

You fancied the man, that was the conclusion you'd reached, but boy did he love to get on your nerves sometimes. Matter of fact, you'd pray to whatever deity if it meant getting him out of the damn dorms and off somewhere with whatever friends he had for once, because at this rate you won't be getting any shut-eye for the rest of your days. You always heard him toying with that blaring guitar of his late into Friday nights, missing a single note and deciding to play the same riff again over and over until your eardrums threatened to pop. You swore it made you want to rip your hair out every time, and tonight was no different. You dramatically pull the covers over your head in an attempt to block away the ruckus, making a point of huffing and puffing dramatically, hoping he'd magically hear your distress and quit his shit.

To absolutely no avail. He did not quit his shit.

After what felt like an eternity of agitated tossing and turning, you get up with an exasperated sigh and stomp out of your dorm room, making your way over to Choso's to give him a piece of your mind.

"Open up, will you? I've been hearing you fiddle on that thing for an hour, ya know. Some of us need to sleep!" You knock a little too aggressively for his liking and shift your weight between your feet in awaiting. A few beats later, muffled shuffling echoes from within his room, and you can hear him groan in annoyance as he trudges toward the door.

It cracks open at first, timidly almost, like he was debating whether to step out there and confront you, or shut the door right back at your face. Under any other circumstances, you think you might've found that cute, how a grown man double your size was so unnerved by your presence, but right now, you needed sleep, and you needed to scold him. So you lightly block the door with your hand and he finally yields, stepping out in all of his glory.

Fuck.

Whatever bitter words you had planned to hurl at him stick in your throat. He looms over you in nothing but a black shirt that hugs his pecs a little too tightly, sweatpants hanging loosely around his hips, the hem of his boxers peeking just above the waistband. It just dawned on you that you'd never been in this close a proximity to him before, and you involuntarily trail your eyes downward, gulping at what you thought you saw under the thin fabric of his sweats. Probably packing a horse or two down there if you dare say. Stop being weird, damn it.

"Sorry. I'll play unplugged then." He tells you blandly, his guitar still hanging around his waist and his digits hover over what looked like the B string, giving you a view of the bulging veins and stacked up rings hugging his thick index and middle fingers. Pretty hands. Really pretty fucking hands. You wonder how it might feel to intertwine your fingers with his own, or trace the callouses on his palm, or maybe even have those fingers in your—

"You uhh...you good?" He clears his throat to grab your visibly wandering thoughts and you shoot upright like a child caught sneaking a bite of candy right before supper.

Great. You were staring. He caught you staring.

"Oh, uh. Yeah, you do that." You just smile like an idiot, having forgotten why you knocked in the first place at this point and quickly avert your eyes, haphazardly tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear in a failed attempt to busy yourself with any kind of movement, anything to dissipate the cloud of tension (or awkwardness, you tended to get delusional sometimes so you weren't so sure) that had loomed over the two of you.

"That song you were playing. It's really nostalgic. I didn't know you had a thing for the oldies." You beam at him with a tilt of your head, expertly deflecting from whatever he might have said after following your eyes that cast down. And maybe even an implicit apology for your irritated banging earlier

"Yeah? You know it?" His stoic eyes light up ever so slightly with a glint of enthusiasm, and you wouldn't have noticed it at all had you not been standing mere inches from his form.

"Yeah, my dad used to blast it in the car all the time I almost got sick of it."

"Well, he's got taste." His lips curl up in a faint smile, and he pauses for a moment, internally battling with himself at the inevitable prospect of having to cut this conversation short, so he does what any normal person would do, perking up slightly and gesturing behind him, "Hey, you uh, wanna come in? You could watch me play or something, I dunno."

This was the closest Choso was ever going to get to making a move. Quite frankly, he expected a rejection right then and there, and he would have preferred if you just got it over with as soon as possible instead of staring at him with wide eyes and an indecipherable expression, but you would have been a fool to decline his invitation. After all, this was your chance to get…closer to him. Whatever that may mean, and so you too did what any normal person would do...

"Yeah, sure!"

Accept his invitation.

It takes him a moment to realize you've said yes, going into a momentary stupor, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was...shocked. Though he doesn't hesitate in retreating to the side, holding the door open for you with his free hand. There was plenty of room to smoothly make your way inside, and yet you deliberately brush your hip against his arm as you wiggle in, fleetingly glancing up at him with a knowing smile, because, my god, there was no denying the fact that he caught onto your subtle gesture, pulse quickening and faint flush steadily creeping up his cheekbones as he averts his eyes some place else to avoid your own. He's so cute.

"Neat room." You trail off as you make your way around, unceremoniously plopping down on his gaming chair.

"Thanks. Your posture is terrible, by the way." He quips with a quirk of his eyebrow, making his way over to sit across you on the carpeted floor.

"Oh well, aren't you a peach, insulting me in my own home!" You glare at him, voice laced with feigned offense that hardly masks your amusement.

"Your own home? You're in my room."

"This entire building is the home in question."

"That makes no sense becau—"

"Shut up!"

“Ok sorry.”

My god, he really is so cute, and you wonder when was the last time your heart fluttered at a man as he pliantly drops the subject and crosses his legs, adjusting the guitar in his arms. He’s wearing Christmas socks in March, you note. Gotta marry him. When hes happy with his posture, he glances back up at you as you swivel and spin in his chair like a child.

“Got anything in mind?” He tilts his head to the side, calloused fingers absently strumming on amp-less strings.

"Something easy to play. I know a thing or two about guitar you know. You're not the only cool one here." You quip with crossed arms.

"That so?" Choso chuckles at your words, grabbing his pick and steadying his posture. " 'Kay, how about this?"

He starts off softly, a recognizable riff reverberating within the walls of his dark-lit room, and the notes are barely audible over the buzzing of the air conditioner. His eyes cast down to watch the movement of his fingers, head bobbing slightly to tone-less notes and foot tapping leisurely to the rhythm. You watch. Your eyes focus on his face, then fall to his dexterous hands, then back up to his face. Was he always this sexy? It takes you a moment to realize he had stopped playing, wrist relaxing and eyes following your own.

"'Smoke on the Water?' Really?" You snort at him with an incredulous look on your face and he frowns in return, his lower lip jutting out in an offended pout.

"What? You said easy to play. Besides, it'd sound better if I play it plugged, but somebody would have a problem with that."

He blinks at you. You blink at him. Then you burst into a fit of laughter, causing him to subconsciously replace his own pout with a smile that mirrors your own. He's so lost in every wave of your hand and shake of your shoulders that it takes him a second to register what you say a few seconds later as your giggles die down.

"You're cute. Like, really cute."

You're going to kill him.

"Ah, y-you too.." Great. How fucking lame, pathetic even. Did he really just say that?

"Teach me guitar... Mr. You Too." You say a little too breathlessly, a sweet lilt to your pretty voice that has blood rushing to places he'd rather it didn't. But god, was he supposed to just ignore the way you were looking at him right now? The way your arms squeezed those perfect tits of yours together over the thin silk of your sleepwear? The soft flesh of your thighs spilling past your tiny shorts? How was he supposed to foc—

"Sure." Swirling thoughts and rushing blood are set aside. He rises to his feet, taking a step toward your sitting figure and meekly handing you his guitar, something incredibly surprising in and of itself, because typically hell would break loose if a soul dared touch his guitar, but it was you. And he liked you. So damn much it almost hurt.

You take it from his hands, fingers brushing against his own. Awkwardly, you try to adjust the startlingly heavy instrument within your arms, struggling to set it at the right angle, huffing and puffing to yourself as Choso does nothing but watch you with a lazy snicker in your state of distress, and when you finally manage on your own, the notes come out far from what you had expected, deepening the frown on your face. Choso thinks you look adorable when you're mad, but he's not so cruel, so he senses your distaste at the muffled notes and plugs the guitar into the amp for you. His lips curl into a little smile as he watches your face light up.

"Woah! How does it literally sound so different?" You gawk in excitement at the rich timbre of crunchy notes.

"Trippy as fuck, isn't it?"

You hum in acknowledgement and rack your brain for the right notes to play. Which string was D again? More frowning. More pouting, and Choso remains unmoving, too fixated on your cute expressions to do anything.

He feels bad. Eventually.

"Here, let me help you." Gruff voice reassures you softly as he makes his way behind your chair, hunching forward, breath fanning against your cheek, and fingers planted over your own, so very gently guiding you to the needed fret. The distinct scent of cedar wood and whisky floods your senses and fuck, you don't even want to play anymore. You want him. All of him. Maybe if you just—

"Choso..."

"Hmm?"

You're not even sure what came over you, but your head is suddenly void of reason when you turn your face to his and crash your lips on his own. So soft. This is what you were missing? Fuck it, there's no time to be embarrassed of your boldness-out of the blue, not when he returns your kiss with as much fervor, lips melding with your own and tongue eagerly swiping over yours, and definitely not when he’s picking you up and throwing you on his bed, climbing right after you and situating you on his lap. Guitar lays forgotten as it haphazardly rests on the chair across the room. His thoughts are all of you, and you of him.

"This okay?" He mutters quietly, like he was embarrassed, cheeks flushed as he seeks permission to place his hands on your hips. You smile down at him, wordlessly placing your hands over his rough ones and guiding them to your curves. How could a man looking so strong be this gentle?

Before he could say anything more, your lips are on his again, tongue sucking on his own and fingers entangled in tousled strands of jet black hair, hips grinding frantically against his lap, feeling him harden under you with every delicate roll of your hips.

"Mmph.." He groans softly into the kiss, grip tightening impossibly on your hips as he guides your movements. Up, down. Left, right. Fuck, he's wanted this for so long he might cum in his pants from this alone. That won't do. What would you think then? He's got to hold out, he's got to—

"sh-shit." Pulling away from those glossy lips of yours, he buries his face in your neck, breath ragged and hands halting your grinding hips. You were so lost in your feels that it took you a second to put two and two together, glancing down and seeing the object of his distress; A dark patch of precum staining his sweats. What a development.

"So worked up just from this? You're so cute." You coo at him so sweetly, so softly he thinks he might just lose his mind, and your hands find his pretty, blushing face, gingerly cupping his cheeks to place a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and trailing down to his jaw. You nip and suck on his skin, sloppy kisses peppered along his jaw and down the junction of his neck and shoulder, a hand reaching under his shirt to brush against his abdomen, and just as he thought his heart couldn't race any faster, he could feel it vigorously thump against his ribs with the tickle of your breath against his earlobe.

"Just... let me. Wanna make you cum all pretty for me." You whisper so tenderly against his skin when your hand reached for the waistband of his sweats only for him to block it with a grip to your wrist, too flustered to have you see him that way. But, god, with the way your voice drips with honey, your soft fingers dance along the skin of his stomach, your warm breath teases his cheek, he's got no choice but to hand himself over to you. Let you have him whichever way you pleased. Make him feel good.

His grip around your wrist loosens and his hand rises back up to your waist. He's biting his lip, eyes so dazed already and you haven't even done anything yet. You search his features for any signs of discomfort, finding none and taking it as invitation to go further. You slowly reach into his sweats, palming him through his boxers and grazing your nails over his thighs. So agonizing.

"Please..." Choso whimpers, desperate, soft, and fucking hell, it's your turn to cover your face, a surge of electricity traveling up your spine from his voice alone. You don't respond, your actions speaking for themselves as you pull his twitching cock from within its confines and give it a few experimental pumps, slowly circling your thumb over his slit and smearing precum along the rest of his length. His breath hitches at the contact, tip so wet and sensitive as arousal dribbles down his cock in a shiny stream.

"You're so perfect like this. Doing so good for me, Cho..."

Stop it.

"You're gonna kill me if you keep saying shit like that..." He hisses so faintly you barely catch it, and brings his forehead to rest on your shoulder as your hand sets a rhythmic pace around his cock, twisting around the base when you glide down and the tip when you glide back up. At least if you couldn't see his face and him yours, he'll last longer. Maybe.

"Do you like it though?"

Of course he likes it. What kind of question even was that? Could you not see the way he involuntarily bucked into your hand with every word of praise you gave him? How a brilliant blush crept up his cheeks as you called him cute that first time around? How he could barely keep himself upright just now? But he tells you none of those things, instead, he nods against your shoulder, eyes closed and hands brushing up your waist so gently you almost melt into his arms.

"Yeah, keep talking—fuck, j-just keep talking."

And you do just that, dipping to suck on the exposed side of his thick neck as you murmur every honeyed word you could muster. "You like it, huh? Look at you bucking into my hand all pretty. Makin' me wet with all those sounds you're making." And fuck, he groans so loudly in acknowledgement, hips jerking upward to meet your strokes like a bitch in heat. You pump him as expertly as you've been doing this entire time, deft hand relentlessly gliding up and down, determined to make him cum all over you, to give you what you've been craving for as long as you could remember, because fuck was he so pretty like this, black strands damp with sweat as they stuck to his face, body shuddering with each and every touch of your hands, lips parted and his breath fanning against your shoulder, flush reaching all the way down to his neck. Hell. You might be the one to cum untouched after all.

"I-if you keep this up m'gonna—fuck..m'gonna cum."

You don't stop.

"Then cum. Wanna see your face when you do though. Wanna see how good it feels, Cho." You murmur desperately against the side of his neck, his face still nuzzled in your shoulder, but your tender coaxing drives him to meet your gaze, lips parted and breath picking up as his chest rises and falls in tandem with his jerking hips. His eyebrows furrow, his head falls back, he bucks violently into your hand, a throaty groan tumbles past his lips and he grips your hips so hard you're positive it'll leave a bruise.

"Oh fuckfuckfuck c-cumming..." He babbles frantically, so lost in the feeling and you stroke him vigorously through his high, watching as his cock twitches and a string of thick white shoots past your hand, painting your fingers and the hem of his black shirt porcelain. Delicately, your movements slow down, eyes not leaving his face for a single second, though he's too busy attempting to recompose himself to notice your relentless gaze.

"You did so good." You finally coo at him softly.

"Whatever." He murmurs, averting his eyes as fast as they met your own and covering his face with the back of his hand, post-nut clarity finally hitting him like a truck.

"Don't be like that!" You stifle a giggle and swat his arm, watching as he refuses to look at you like some teenager touching a girl for the first time, and you lean over him, gingerly bringing his face in your hands.

"Hi." You grin down at him, your hair tickling his face and giving him a good reason to close his eyes, avoiding your gaze even further.

"Hey."

"By the way, I have a question that's been eating me up for ages."

"What is it?" His curiosity piques, eyes finally meeting your own.

"Why do you always show up to games when you look half-asleep and bored out of your mind every single time?"

He eyes you incredulously. Out of all the things you could've asked at a time like this...

"Ah, my little brother is on the team. I've gotta be there for him somehow."

You're squeaking and giddily bouncing in his lap and he thinks you've gone crazy, staring blankly at you as you bring your hands to squish at his cheeks yet again. "That's so adorable! You're so adorable! Who is it? It's Yuji isn't it? I knew it! I somehow did. I'm so sure it is!"

"Whatefuh you shay, and yeah. Can you let go of m'face now."

"Right! Sorry--" You let his cheeks fall back into place and begin to rise from his lap, but he holds you back down with a firm grip to your waist.

"Where're you goin'? You didn't get to cum." He drawls, raspy voice hitting you right in your core as he leans closer, lips brushing against your own as he speaks again. "I'll make it up to you... 'Just let me.' "

Fine, you'll just let him then...

@kimhargreeves

#choso x reader #jjk x reader #choso kamo #kinktober 2023 #choso jjk #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #choso x female reader #choso smut #I'm crazy why is this 4k something words

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rebeliz7 · 5 days

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Dangerous

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader / Natasha Romanoff x Reader / Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

Request: 32 & 64 prompts for Wanda or Natasha or maybe both😏

32. “If you interrupt me one more time, so help me god.”

64. “You’re not taking me to bed. ever.” “Who said it had to be on the bed?”

…

“If you interrupt me one more time, so help me God.” Natasha threatens you, annoyed and left eye twitching.

She’s not being serious, at least not entirely, but you still raise your hands in surrender and lean back in your seat.

However, her eyes stay firmly locked with yours, and you have to smile at how worked up she seems. She rolls her eyes when you smile, just like you were expecting her to, and the meeting moves along.

You weren’t interrupting her exactly, but it’s become intensely apparent that your presence annoys the hell out of Natasha. Whatever the reason.

Not that you go out of your way to annoy her, that’s not the case at all. The thing is, and you’ve been aware of this for a while now, you make her nervous. So nervous that she doesn’t know how to deal with you.

No one else seems to be aware of that little fact, although the entire Avengers Team lives together for the time being. But Natasha knows that you know, which makes her angry.

Irrationally so, you must say.

“She’s gonna get you one of these days.” Clint warns you in a low voice.

“Yeah, but not today.” You joke, and Clint laughs softly to himself.

“You don’t wanna push Nat. Trust me.”

“Oh I'm not worried, trust me.”

…

The meeting ends on a neutral note, since Sam and Bucky lost track of their target on their latest mission. A team needs to fly out to Mexico to lend a hand and things will get a move on again.

Steve and Clint are going, and so is Shuri. This is not Shuri’s first mission, but you take it upon yourself to get her as ready as she can be before they fly out.

She’s grown on you, in a 'younger sister' sort of way. You guess it's because she’s younger than you, and so amazingly smart, that her awe for everything you guys do endears her to you greatly.

“Don’t get killed while I’m gone.” She tells you as you walk her into the hanger, and you’re tempted to laugh.

“You’re going on a mission with Barton, you’re the one that should be worried. I’ll be fine right here.”

“True, but Natasha is about to kick your ass into a coma if you keep pushing her.” She reminds you, and you huff indignantly.

“Why does everyone think she can kick my ass that easily?” You ask loudly, just as Clint comes out of the jet with a pointed look.

“Because she can.” He deadpans. “And she will if you don’t give her some space.”

“I didn’t hear any of that.” You pointendly tell him while Shuri gives you a goodbye hug. “Still trying to process this lack of faith from both of you in my fighting skills.”

“Keep it up.” Clint tells you with another look.

“That’s what she said.” You joke, and you hear Shuri laugh too. Clint chuckles and shakes his head at you, probably thinking that you’re gonna get your ass kicked for real.

“There’s a kid here!” Steve shouts from the jet, and you run back inside before that lecture reaches your ears.

…

When you walk inside the kitchen you find Wanda by the stove, stirring a red sauce and your spirits instantly pique up.

“Can I have some?” You ask, coming up behind her. She yelps in surprise, and you press a kiss on her cheek.

“You scared me.” She smiles, her cheeks tainting red at your proximity, and you lean against the counter as she turns off the stove before checking on the pasta. “Can you set the table? This is ready.”

She’s a pro at this, and you can't resist her cooking.

“It smells really good. My mouth is watering already.” You tell her as you set out two plates, and her cheeks grow redder.

You smile to yourself, and can’t deny that you’re almost inclined to kiss those cheeks again, but you resist the urge. You and Wanda didn’t exactly date, but you did sleep together a few times, and you thought of asking her out properly, but the timing was never right so nothing real ever came up from it.

Then she moved on -with Vision of all people- and you moved on too. Not that anyone was supportive when you started dating Emma Frost, and maybe you see their point now. Emma was a wild ride, to say the least.

Shaking your head to get rid of the memories, you pass Wanda the plates.

“Can you get another one?” Wanda asks you.

“This isn’t dinner for two?” You ask as you go to take down another plate, and she shakes her head.

“Natasha is here too. She went to take a quick shower, so she'll be here any minute.”

You smile to yourself.

...

Natasha is tempted to bolt the moment she sees you’re going to join them for dinner, and you grin when you meet her eyes. It must be infuriating that you can so easily tell what goes through her mind, when she’s spent her entire life training to be unreadable.

You know she hates it, and often wonders how you’re capable of doing it. To be quite honest, you have no idea either. You just have this sixth sense when it comes to her, that lets you read her like an open book.

But, you keep your mouth shut all through dinner. You behave, while Wanda and Natasha chat away. You even get seconds, and fill their glasses with more wine when they get low.

All in all, you don’t annoy Natasha at all while you eat, and you even offer to clean up while they move to the living room with a second bottle of red to continue their conversation.

You put the dishes in the dishwasher, wipe down all the surfaces, and when you’re done you take a beer from the fridge with the intention to leave them to it.

“You can join us.” Natasha calls out, just as you take your first sip.

“You sure?” You ask her, and she rolls her eyes, her go-to reaction whenever you open your mouth.

“As long as you keep the innuendos to yourself, we’re okay.” She sips her wine delicately then, and you -a mere mortal- become entranced with the shape of her lips, and the sensual way in which she drinks.

“Sure.” You clear your throat, and drink almost half of your beer in one go.

You’d be lying if you said that you’ve never thought of Natasha in other, much more naked circumstances, but you’re aware that that is never gonna happen, and you’re okay with it.

“You’re uncharacteristically quiet.” Wanda notices after a while when she comes back with yet another bottle of red, and another beer for you.

“I don’t want to annoy the pretty lady over there.” Natasha groans at your response, which only makes you smile. You almost can’t believe how easy it is for her to become agitated in your presence.

“You gotta try harder than that.” She deadpans, and Wanda takes the seat next to yours instead of sitting in front of you, like she was before she went to the kitchen.

“I’m not annoying, am I?” You ask Wanda, and she gives you this smile that you immediately feel drawn to.

You breathe in deeply as she gives you this look that makes hot electricity run through you, and runs her fingers through your hair. You do miss her, especially when she’s looking at you like this and her fingers are in your hair.

“You’re quite charming.” She says, and you think she might reciprocate if you were to kiss her right now.

“You see?” You look at Natasha, and she rolls her eyes, but not with malice.

“Maybe I just don’t like you.” She says before sipping her newly refilled glass of wine, and you clutch your chest in mock offense.

“You wound me.” You scoff while smiling, but deep down you do feel hurt by her words. Not a lot, but still.

“Natasha likes you.” Wanda tells you then, and you’d think she’s joking if the look on Natasha’s face wasn’t so telling.

“She does, huh?” You ask, mostly to yourself.

“I thought there were things we agreed on not sharing with anyone.” Natasha reminds her, and Wanda shrugs lightly, the glass of wine close to her lips as she smiles.

“What happens in the bedroom stays in the bedroom?” She asks, and with a start you realize that she’s slightly drunk, and oversharing is -unfortunately- her one obvious tell.

That’s how everyone found out that you two were sleeping together a while ago, and right now she’s just revealed that she and Natasha are a little more than just friends.

“I swear to God, if you even think of saying anything right now.” Natasha threatens you, and you laugh, your comeback at the tip of your tongue.

“She likes you too.” Wanda tells Natasha, her finger pointing at you, and you choke on your beer.

“You’re not seriously trying to play matchmaker here.” Natasha’s grin is otherwise telling of how amused she’s finding this entire exchange.

“What? It's not like I even had to look inside her head to know that.” Wanda says, and you finally put your beer down after getting your coughing fit under control. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

She has the audacity to shoot you a smug look, as if she wasn’t throwing you under the bus here.

“Well, no.”

“Great.” Natasha sneers.

“Okay, now hold on.” You speak up as Wanda laughs, and you take the glass of wine from her hands. She’s had enough to drink. “There are different levels of liking someone.”

“Educate us, please.” Wanda is trying to hold back laughter now, and you really - she’s just - she’s such a little shit.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly kick Nat out of my bed. But, I’m not interested in anything more than that. No offense.” You add quickly.

“None taken, and you’re not taking me to bed. Ever. So don’t worry about it.” Natasha tells you, and how can you not take that one? Sometimes she just makes it easy for you.

“Who said it had to be a bed?” You retort and her face turns red, and you’re not sure if she’s about to kick your ass or just shoot you on the spot.

However, you’re not expecting her to walk over, and kiss you dead on the lips. Which is exactly what she does.

When she pulls back Wanda is laughing, and you’re pretty sure you’re dreaming.

“Cat got your tongue?” Natasha asks when you finally open your eyes, and you swallow with difficulty.

Without waiting a beat you pull her back in, kissing her again, a bit more forcefully than she did first, and she kisses you back in earnest. A part of you isn’t sure of what’s happening, but the other part of you is enjoying this turn of events quite a bit.

“Well, well, well.” You comment when she pulls back, as if she’s finally realized what she was doing. If you’re smiling like a lunatic it’s only because you truly can't help it.

“Is anyone going to kiss me?” Wanda asks, and you break eye contact with Natasha to look at her.

“Come here, you needy monster.” You pull her onto your lap, and she straddles you with ease and familiarity. A pretty smile on her pink lips as she cups your face, and you wrap your arms around her waist.

Kissing Wanda is still heaven. You’re once again submerged in her world, and you still find it incredibly addictive. She bites your bottom lip softly as she rocks her hips forward to meet yours, and you can’t help but let your hands wander.

Grabbing a handful of her ass you pull her closer to you as she deepens your kiss, and you can taste the red wine on her tongue. Her breath is hot as she breathes heavily into your mouth, and your mind becomes fuzzy with want.

“Such a good kisser.” Wanda says against your lips, and you smile sweetly. She’s so adorable, especially from this angle, and the way she scrunches up her nose makes you want to kiss all over her face.

“Better than me?” Natasha asks, and to your surprise you turn your head to find her sitting right next to you.

“I’m not sure.” Wanda says with a false thoughtful look, and hidden smile.

Natasha doesn’t give her a verbal answer, instead you watch the redhead grab Wanda by the neck, and pull her down for an intense kiss that has Wanda moaning in a matter of seconds.

You watch them kiss while holding Wanda’s hand, and your throat dries up. You watch, and realize that this is actually happening. You watch until you can’t anymore.

Grabbing a hold of Wanda’s arm you pull her back to you, and kiss her hungrily. She’s still moaning, her hands now desperately pulling off your shirt, as you do the same with her sweater.

You hear Natasha softly chuckling next to you, but you’re already too wrapped up in everything that Wanda is to care about the world, let alone Natasha’s smug laughter.

“I’ve missed your lips,” Wanda says as she pulls back slightly, a tipsy smile on her extremely kissable lips.

You smile while your hands squeeze her bare waist, and you don't hold back from kissing her again. You’ve missed her lips too, and you hope she can read between the lines.

Her hands in your hair pull back lightly, exposing your neck as she moves to place heady kisses all over it. You’re breathing rapidly now, your hands massaging her breasts, as she licks a path up your throat, still pulling on your hair.

“Kinda feeling left out here.” Natasha’s voice breaks through the fog in your mind, and Wanda sits back on your lap, as she tries to get her breathing under control.

“I’m not sure of what's happening exactly.” Wanda says as you inch closer to her. Your hands are still on her, touching every inch of her exposed skin as you can, while she combs back your hair. You kiss her upper breast, careful not to leave any hickies, despite desperately wanting to.

She gasps, and you look up to kiss her lips, focusing on pinching her nipples now as she rocks her hips forward.

“You want to stop?” You ask after pulling back only the necessary amount to be able to ask her that.

“No.” She shakes her head, her hand gently caressing your cheek as she looks into your eyes. “I think I want you both.”

Instinctively you look towards Natasha, who is still holding her glass of wine, and sipping the red liquid delicately as she observes the two of you.

“Do you - ” Wanda grabs your chin, making you look at her. “Do you want me?” She asks, and you move to pull her ever closer to you. As if that’s possible.

“Always.” You nod quickly, and as you kiss the corner of her lips she turns to look at Natasha with the same question.

“You don’t ever have to worry about that.” You hear Natasha say, but you refuse to stop kissing every single inch of her skin to look.

“I don’t?” Wanda asks breathlessly, your mouth doing wonders on her neck, while your hands reacquainted themselves with the rest of her body.

“You don’t.” Natasha says, and she sounds much closer now. Her voice is more sultry than you've ever heard it before, and you pull back, if only to see the look on her face.

You watch her take Wanda’s outstretched hand as she stands, and pulls Wanda on her feet as well. You swallow with difficulty as you watch her kiss Wanda softly, lips merely ghosting over each other.

However fleeting the kiss though, you see Wanda’s legs quiver and Natasha’s arm wrapping around her waist to keep her upright.

“Bedroom?” She asks her with the confidence of someone who already knows the answer, and Wanda nods, as if in a daze.

You watch them walk away, and you try to calm your racing heart, but it’s difficult when Wanda turns to you from the hallway.

“You coming?” She asks you, and you’re pretty sure that your brain short circuits.

You stand up, picking up your unfinished beer, and down it in one go before you nod, and walk towards her.

“That's what she said.” You stupidly joke, and Natasha rolls her eyes expectedly, but now you see that the edge in her eyes isn’t entirely hate.

“Incorrigible.” Wanda smiles as she grabs your hand, and pulls enough for you to fall into step next to her.

“You’re dangerous.” You murmur close to her ear as you wrap your arms around her from behind, and she throws you a side glance, feigning innocence.

“I have no idea what you mean.” She says, and Natasha chuckles lightly as she unlocks the door to her bedroom.

“Sure you don’t.” She says as she pulls Wanda in for a demanding kiss, and you close the door behind you.

Well, you think to yourself, Natasha might actually end up killing you after all, but at least it’ll be pleasurable for the both of you.

...

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff #na #natasha romanoff x you #nat #natasha romanoff imagine #nata #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff

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ruibaozha · 4 months

Text

The Inconsistency of Nezha's Age, a Short Introduction.

Put very bluntly, Nezha’s age varies greatly depending on which story you’re reading and who’s retold it. He is not always a child or an adult depending on retelling, though my intention here is to highlight the sheer variety available first and foremost - and perhaps shine a light on the Indian dieties which may have influenced him. If these varied images are unwanted, please keep scrolling.

I happened to stumble upon a timeline error where Nezha’s brother Muzha is described to be using martial arts weapons referred to as “Hooks of Wu” which were specific to the 1800s, quite a long time after Canonization of the Gods was published, but also originating from a time period where numerous varied editions of that story were in circulation. Upwards of twenty different versions exclusive to the 19th century, actually.

The problem arises that Canonization of the Gods is meant to be occurring during the Zhou Shang conflict, that I will generously assume to be in 1045BCE, centuries before the Hooks of Wu would actually exist. It’s completely possible that the version Gu Zhizhong translated was one of these later editions as is makes no chronological sense for Muzha to have those kinds of weapons to begin with. So I have been on somewhat of a rabbit chase trying to pin down the edition Gu Zhizhong used.

Bearing such errors in mind, it’s easy to see where the confusion of Nezha’s age can come from. Before his origin story was integrated within Canonization of the Gods he would be roughly three to seven days old when his conflict with Ao Guang and the Lady Rock Demoness would occur - whereas within Canonization of the Gods he’s actually 6 or 7 years old.

Outside of that, a definitive age isn’t actually provided. Genuinely, within the scope of Chinese folklore and mythos it’s very rare to assign someone an exact age - which I do believe contributed heavily to the known discourse surrounding Nezha’s age to begin with.

He was imported as an adult from India, a child form not seeming to exist for a while until stories of Krsna were integrated to how the Chinese envisioned Nalakubara. Krsna, being an infantile disguise for the notorious Vishnu, also displays supernatural human strength and is actually successful in killing his father figure (1) — unlike Nezha.

As children, both Krsna and Nezha are able to wield heavenly bows and subjugate water spirits (2) while also being known to be dragon tamers (3). The inclusion of these stories to Nezha predates the sculpting of the Quanzhou Pagoda’s (which have been discussed briefly here) and are arguably the earliest evidence of Nezha being a dragon tamer.

Speculatively a child god combination of both Nalakubara and Krsna named Nana is likely where a majority of Nezha’s child attributes come from, based in the Scripture of the Supreme Secrets of Nana Deva - which would see translations within China during the Northern Song period of 960AD-1127AD. Nana would be described thus:

At that time there was a Deva called Nana. His appearance was exceptionally handsome, and his face beamed with a gentle smile. He was holding the sun, the moon, and various weapons. His numerous treasures and abundant jewelry shone more brightly than the sun and the moon. He made himself a luoye robe (4) from the dragons Nanda and Upananda, and a belt from the dragon Taksaka (5). He possessed the same strength as Narayana (i.e. Visnu). He too came to the assembly and sat down facing the Buddha … At that time the Buddha emanated great light from his dharma body of meditation. The light covered the entire Buddha Universe, reaching all the great evil yaksas, the various types of raksasas and pisacas (6) and all the evil dragons as far as the heavenly constellations. When the Buddhas light shone upon them they all awoke to the truth. The Buddhas light returned to him and, after encircling him three times, entered his head. It then reissued in seven colors from his brow, entering Nana-Deva’s head. When the Buddha light penetrated his head, Nana Deva displayed an enormous body like Mt. Sumeru. His facial expression alternated between terrifying anger and a broad smile. He had a thousand arms, and he was holding a skull (7) and numerous weapons. He was handsomely adorned with a tiger skin robe and skulls. [Mightily Strong] He emanated blazing light and terrifying strength. When Nana Deva displayed this divine body, the great earth shook, and all who beheld him were terrified.

Both Nana and Nezha share the same residence of Vaisravana’s palace, are known dragon tamers, and both were known to use belts. The Supreme Secrets of Nana Deva predate all known connections between Nezha and dragons, perhaps lending to Nezha many more elements than initially believed.

Though without concrete evidence stating one way or another, I can only present this information speculatively - especially as it seems difficult for some to understand that Nezha does enjoy a known adult and child form. This answer has already become quite long, so if there’s still confusion regarding this please feel free to ask for more details.

Bibliography:

(1) Goldman, “Fathers, Sons and Gurus,” pp.350, 364; Masson, “Childhood of Krsna”; Ramanujan, “The Indian ‘Oedipus’”; Silk, Riven by Lust, pp. 164-170.

(2) Harley, “Krishna’s Cosmic Victories”; Matchett, “Taming of Kaliya”.

(3) It’s worth comparing Matchett’s “Taming of Kaliya” p.116 with Canonization of the Gods 12.103. Nezha is five days old within the Ming era Sanjiao yuanliu shengdi fozu sou shen daquan, p. 326.

(4) Luoye is the Chinese term for a garment Indian men tied under the armpit, leaving their right shoulder bare. See Xuanzang, Da Tang Xiyu ji, T. 2087, 51: 876b, and Li Rongxi’s translation, Great Tang Dynasty Record, p.53.

(5) Nanda, Upananda, and Taksaka appear in various Buddhist lists of the eight dragon kings; see Foguang da cidian, pp. 6378,6405.

(6) The rakasas and pisacas are two types of Hindu ogres, who Buddhists demonology incorporated. Both types feed on human flesh. See Foguang da cidian, pp6673-6674 and 3851; Monier-Williams, A Sanskrit-English dictionary, pp. 871 and 628; and Strickman’s survey of Buddhist demonology in his Chinese Magical Medicine, pp. 62-68.

(7) Geboluo appears frequently within the contemporaneous Chinese translation of the Hevajra Tantra (Foshuo dabeikong zhi jin’guang dajiaowang yigui jing), no. 892 volume 18: 587-601.

(8) Zuishang mimi Nana tian jing, no. 1288, 21:358b-c. hi

#nezha #li nezha #lmk nezha #monkie kid nezha #the legend of nezha #nezha 2019 #nezha reborn #nezha lego monkie kid #third lotus prince #lego monkie kid

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veryace-ficrecs · 5 months

Note

Do you have any zosan fic recs?

Of course I do! Here are some

Zosan Fic Recs

all the hidden love, beneath by Giosele - Rated M

His eyes flicker towards the more discernible scars, the deep ones with smooth taut skin. The ones his hands have traced hundreds of times. Then Sanji spots the fresh, poorly stitched wound dancing across Zoro’s flank. The shoddy quality screams Mosshead. “Moron.” Sanji crumples his cigarette and flattens it underfoot in one smooth motion. “Idiot. You stupid, reckless swordsman. Stay here, I’ll get Chopper.” -- The crew is a wreck after Enies' Lobby. Despite being a wreck himself, Sanji tries to take care of them all.

you got time, you're on the mend, babe by steeringwheeleater - Rated T

“He doesn't trust me, and he obviously doesn’t want the captain to know.” “He doesn’t want me to know, either.” “He knows that you know, Cook.” “What the hell are you talking about?” Sanji’s shoulders creep up again. “… Sorry.” Robin adjusts her stance from one leg to the other; her nearest analog to rolling her eyes. “You’ve been too gentle with him to be subtle, Cook. It’s like I said: you’ve been defending him to the others.”

Kept Down, Helped Up by Gay_as_fuck - Rated T

Zoro's near death in Wano strains the crew, the latest in a long line of risk taking. A very stressed Nami solves this problem by throwing Sanji at it.

In Tandem by lemon_drop48 - Rated M

"I wanted to make you laugh." The honest admission felt dumb the second it came out of his mouth. It's too breathy, he's still out of breath from a distinct lack of oxygen recently. And there's no way the cook understands - Sanji throws back his head in laughter. For a moment there isn't even fear that he's laughing at him. Sanji's laugh is beautiful, and seeing that huge smile spread across his cheeks in genuine mirth felt like it was priceless.

revelations by cloversome - Rated T

It's been three days since Zoro blacked out. When he finally awakens, he finds his spirit is detached from his still unconscious body.

Demon's Deception by Maik_Morrow - Rated T

Summary

Having read an article about the ‘Demon of the East’ years prior to joining the Strawhat crew, Sanji was confused. He didn't understand how the man he heard would be a ruthless monster could be so different. All he saw was a caring, kind and gentle man. Until he understood the reason some time later.

It’s In His Kiss by Hazel_Athena - Rated G

They reach the island of Bise early in the new year.

unintended consequence by itsmylifekay - Rated T

Imagine person A making person B a friendship bracelet, expecting person B to never wear it, but when it’s given to them person B puts it on and is rarely seen with it off. A group of marines charge, Zoro slices through them, and in that instant Sanji feels his own eyes grow wide. Because there, on the arm now outstretched towards him, steel glinting in hand, is the stupid bracelet he’d given Zoro. The bastard is actually wearing it.

Language of love by averybidisaster - Rated E

It irked Zoro that upon meeting him, a whirlwind of limbs, blue eyes and a cigarette dangling from his cocky smile, something in his gut flip-flopped, instead of the usual, clear feeling he usually got when he met men, like a natural yes/no answer. Obviously, the lovesick fool greatly admired women, ceaselessly shouting his love for them at any opportunity. But he had met many a man like that who still sought to warm his bed- and Sanji was... well, Sanji . His simple existence riles Zoro up like no other. And why does it matter to him what the shitty cook’s preferences are anyways? OR Zoro secretely learns French to understand Sanji. Because that’s obviously the easiest way to learn if the cook likes men.

Did You Know Marimo Came In Pink? by wiillowwriites - Rated T

After some some accidental tickling turns into something very intentional, Sanji’s the first of the two to notice that Zoro seems to be enjoying himself. Zoro isn’t quite sure what to do with the realization, but Sanji has an idea.

waiting by tinyjet7 - Rated G

zoro watches sanji hand out treats to everyone but him.

Ink by BleuReivers - Rated T

He’d gotten the first one for no reason other than he’d simply wanted it. Had ever since he’d first laid eyes on one of the cook’s ink during his Baratie days. It had taken him a while to actually get it and for a while he’d been convinced he never would. But, as the years went on and he crossed paths with more and more people who bore elaborate and, honestly, beautiful tattoos, the desire grew until he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

ham and rice by hailure - Rated G

"I'll get that bastard gets all the food he wants and then more. You don't need to forfeit your protein serving for that." "Oh, now I get it." Zoro's face turned mischievious, his nose bridge tinted with red now that the alcohol was briefly kicking in. "You're worried about me." After their victory in Wano, Sanji is not amused that Zoro just can't seem to eat properly.

Here’s To Us by TextlessNovel - Rated T

In which sharing a drink can tear down walls in a way that Sanji and Zoro never expected.

#veryace asks #one piece fanfiction #one piece #zosan #one piece zosan #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #strawhat pirates #straw hat crew #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3

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boobo13cambridge · 11 months

Text

A Mother's Remedy | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé x f.Reader

Warnings: none just Papa Kylian fussing over his “perfect hattrick”

Summary: You fall asleep on Kylian after spending the whole day taking care of the triplets who had the flu.

A/N: Hello, everyone! I’ve been trying to get all my previous requests done. I hope you guys like this one, it was way too cute to write. My requests are open again if you guys want to send me more. As always, please leave me feedback and don’t forget to reblog. I would greatly appreciate it. Enjoy, lovelies ❣️

The room was filled with a soft glow, courtesy of the bedside lamp casting its warm light upon the scene. The day's exhaustion had finally caught up to you as you lay nestled in the comfort of Kylian's arms, your head resting against his broad chest. It had been a long and arduous day, one that tested your strength and patience as you cared for your three precious children who were struck down by the flu.

The abrupt shift in weather proved overwhelming for your spirited young boys, whose boundless energy knew no bounds. They loved playing football outside in your backyard, and wouldn't miss a match at the Santiago Bernabeu if they could help it. Watching their father play was their greatest joy, and you couldn't help but fall in love each time seeing your precious four-year-olds donning their father's jersey proudly, their voices joining in unison with the fervent chants reverberating throughout the stadium. Ali, being the eldest among the trio, would often lead his younger brothers, Zain and Ilyas, in a rendition of the French national anthem before playing their ‘friendlies’, as he liked to call them, in the yard. Kylian found it absolutely adorable, officially dubbing them his ‘favourite hat trick’.

Kylian's fingers gently caressed your hair, soothing away the remnants of stress that clung to your tired mind. His touch was a balm to your weary soul, bringing you a sense of peace and tranquillity. The rise and fall of his chest against your cheek served as a rhythmic lullaby, coaxing you slowly to sleep.

As your eyes fluttered closed, the image of your children flashed across your mind. Their little faces flushed with fever, their once lively eyes dimmed by illness. My poor babies, you thought as you snuggled closer to your husband. You had spent the entire day tending to their every need, feeding them medicine, wiping away tears, and comforting them through the long hours of discomfort.

A few hours earlier…

As the sun cast its golden rays across the room, you woke up with a sense of anticipation for the day ahead. Stretching lazily, you slowly tried to get out of your husband’s embrace, the latter’s arms tightening his hold not wanting to let you go.

"Bébé, stay just a few more minutes," he murmured softly, nestling deeper into the curve of your neck. Letting out a quiet giggle, you turned towards him, placing a tender kiss on his nose and gently caressing his cheek.

"Kyky, I have to go wake up the triplets and get them ready for school," you explained, a fond smile gracing your lips.

"Mmmhhh, d'accord. But give me a kiss first," he playfully whined, his lips puckering in an adorable pout. Shaking your head affectionately at his antics, you indulged his request, pressing a chaste kiss on his waiting lips, before deftly extricating yourself from his embrace and making your way towards the room where your precious cubs slept.

The triplets' room was conveniently situated just across the hall from your own, one of the many reasons you both decided on this house after Kylian signed with Real Madrid. As you opened the door to the bedroom and stepped in, the sound of faint whimpering halted your movements.

Alarm surged through your veins as you rushed towards the beds, the scene that greeted you shattered your heart into a million pieces. Lying in their beds, your little ones were flushed and perspiring, their small bodies consumed by fever. The sight of their usually bright and energetic faces now pale and tormented sent a wave of panic coursing through your veins.

Laying your hand on their sweaty foreheads, you felt how warm they were.

“Maman…” whimpered Ilyas the youngest of trio, slowly opening his eyes, “Je me sens pas bien.”

“Oh, mon pauvre petit chou. Maman’s here now,” you said, gently caressing his face.

As you continued to caress Ilyas's flushed face, offering him reassurance and comfort, the other two boys, Zain and Ali, began to stir from their sleep. Their delicate brows furrowed in response to the discomfort that plagued them, their faces contorted in the grip of illness. The sight was a poignant reminder of their vulnerability, igniting a fierce determination within you to ease their suffering.

With a heavy sigh, you braced yourself for the demanding day that lay ahead. Gathering your strength and summoning the resilience that only a mother possesses, you whispered soothing words to Ilyas, gently coaxing him to rest as you hear the distinct sound of Kylian’s footsteps approaching.

"Ils sont où mes petits footballeurs?" your husband boomed, entering the room with a wide smile that quickly faded upon witnessing the state of his babies. His expression transformed into one of deep concern, etching lines of worry across his handsome face. "Mon dieu, what happened?"

"They have a fever, Ky. They're burning up real bad," you replied, your voice laced with concern as you watched Kylian's eyes flicker with worry.

"Papa... Arrête de parler si fort, t’es pas un haut-parleur là," Zain weakly croaked, his voice barely audible, but still managing to convey his cheeky spirit, even in the midst of illness.

Kylian, ever the doting father, couldn't help but chuckle softly at Zain's response. "Roh là là, regarde le tit gamin," he remarked affectionately, a playful glimmer in his eyes. "Even while sick, he'll give his dad cheek, eh?"

Moving softly across the room, Kylian approached Zain's bed, his presence exuding a comforting warmth. His large hand gently rested upon Zain's fevered forehead, the contrast between his cool touch and the heat radiating from the young boy's skin sending a shiver of concern down his father's spine. Soft words of comfort and reassurance spilled from Kylian's lips, offering solace and a father's unwavering love.

After giving Ilyas a soft kiss on his cheek, you stood up, knowing you needed to make some food for your little ones and help them regain their strength. Your heart ached at the sight of Ali, still sleeping restlessly in his bed. You quickly made your way to his side, gently brushing his dark tousled hair away from his forehead, and placing a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"Ky, can you stay with them? Get them a wet towel for their foreheads. I'll make them some porridge and give them their medicine," you suggested, softly running your hand through your oldest’s hair.

"Sure, mon amour. You go ahead, I'll take care of them," Kylian reassured you, his voice filled with tenderness. With a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, you left the room, your mind racing with the urgency to prepare a comforting meal for your hungry little ones.

In the kitchen, you swiftly gathered the necessary ingredients, your hands moving with practised efficiency. As the porridge simmered, you took a moment to grab your phone and dial your mother's number.

With years of experience as a mother herself, she was a source of guidance and wisdom in times like these. You explained the situation and sought her advice on caring for your sick cubs, soaking in her comforting words and practical tips.

On the other end of the line, your mother's voice greeted you with warmth and concern. "Hello, my dear. What's going on? You sound worried."

"Hi, Mom," you replied, your voice tinged with a mixture of relief and anxiety. "The triplets are down with a high fever, and I'm not sure what to do. They're feeling really miserable."

"Oh, sweetheart. I'm sorry to hear that," your mother empathized. "First, make sure they stay hydrated. Offer them small sips of water frequently. And if they have any appetite, light, easily digestible foods like porridge would be good."

You nodded, taking mental notes. "Yes, I'm making them porridge now. It's almost ready."

"That's a good choice, my dear. Warm and comforting. It will help soothe their throats too," your mother advised. "And don't forget to give them their medicine. Keep a close eye on their temperature and monitor their symptoms. If things worsen or if you have any concerns, don't hesitate to call their paediatrician."

"I will, Mom. Thank you so much for your guidance," you expressed your gratitude, feeling a sense of reassurance wash over you.

"You're welcome, my love. Remember, you're a wonderful mother, and you'll get through this. Trust your instincts and remember the best remedy is a mother’s love," your mother encouraged.

As you hung up the phone, you turned off the stove and took a moment to collect yourself. The conversation with your mother had given you a boost of confidence, reminding you of the strength and resilience within you.

Carrying the tray of steaming porridge and Tylenol back to the bedroom, you found Kylian gently coaxing Ali to wake up from his restless slumber. Your heart ached as you saw the worry etched on Kylian's face, his focus solely on their oldest, who seemed to be more affected by the fever than the others.

"Ali, mon petit lion," Kylian murmured softly, his voice filled with tenderness. "Wake up, Maman is bringing some food. It will make you feel better, je te promets, mon coeur,"

Placing the tray on the table near Ali’s bed, you placed a hand on Ali's forehead, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. His eyelashes fluttered, and his drowsy eyes slowly opened, revealing a mixture of confusion and discomfort. His weak voice quivered as he tried to speak.

"Mama... Papa," Ali croaked, his voice barely audible.

"We're here, mon amour," you reassured him, your voice gentle and soothing. "You're going to be okay. Just take your time and try to eat a little. It will help you get better."

With Kylian's support, you lifted Ali into a sitting position, propping pillows behind him to provide comfort. The fragrant aroma of the porridge filled the room, its warmth wrapping around Ali like a healing embrace. Kylian scooped a spoonful and blew on it gently to cool it down before offering it to Ali.

"Open wide, Ali," Kylian encouraged, his voice laced with both concern and determination. "Just a little bite. It will give you strength."

Ali hesitated for a moment, his tired eyes meeting yours and Kylian's. The love and support shining in your gazes seemed to embolden him. With a deep breath, he parted his lips, allowing Kylian to feed him a small spoonful of porridge. The taste brought a flicker of renewed energy to his weary body, and he managed a faint smile.

"Good job, Ali," you praised him, your voice gentle. "You're doing great."

As Kylian took care of your eldest, you attended to your other two brave little boys, who patiently waited as you served them each a bowl of warm food. Zain and Ilyas were capable of eating on their own, but as the ever-doting mother, you couldn't help but worry, despite their constant reassurances that they could manage. You moved back and forth between your sons, gently wiping the sweat off their foreheads and assisting them in drinking water. Once all three boys finished their meal, you and Kylian administered fever medicine and gently coaxed them back to sleep, hoping they would recover soon.

Seeing them in such a state made you feel helpless. Usually lively boys, they now lay there, struggling with high fevers. Observing your worry, Kylian tenderly wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close to him and planting a kiss on your hair.

"Don't worry, my love. They'll be fine," he whispered softly as you sought solace by burying your head in his chest. "I can't help but worry, Ky. Especially Ali, I've never seen him like this before."

"Shh, he'll be alright," he soothed. "If you stress too much, you'll make yourself sick, and that's the last thing you want, right? The boys will be back to normal soon, my heart, okay?"

You nodded, releasing a faint sigh, as Kylian slowly closed the boys' room and led you to your shared bedroom. He was right; there was nothing more you could do but allow the fever to run its course and nurse your children back to health in the meantime. You felt grateful to have your caring husband by your side, knowing that despite being in the middle of a busy season, he always prioritized his family.

As you gently lay down, resting your head on Kylian's chest, you prayed for your family's well-being, filled with immense gratitude for your own mother, who had spent countless nights fussing over you to ensure your well-being. Your mother's words echoed in your mind, reminding you that a mother's love is the best remedy. With that thought, you allowed yourself to drift off to sleep, serenaded by the soothing rhythm of your lover's heartbeat.

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe smut #kylian imagines #kylian mbappé #kylian x reader #kylian mbappe imagine #footballer blurb #footballer fanfiction #mother #motherhood #father #parent #mom #kylian mbappe x you #kylian smut #kylian mbappe x y/n #kylian fluff

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yourlocaltreesimp · 1 month

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Chain getting complimented by their crush!

PT: 1 Time, Twilight & Wild

PT: 2 Sky, Four & Legend

Inspired by a submission from @fandomsarefamily1966, Thank you so much lovely! Hope y’all didn’t miss this series (or forget about it lmfao)

۵♡۵

Sky

Look, we know our boy is love-struck. It doesn’t take a genius to find that out.

Immediately weak in the knees with how hard he’s swooning.

Know that one panel of him with all those hearts around his heads and that wobbly smile as his inner circuitry just melts?

You could walk away and he’s just so enthralled in you, beautiful, amazing, talented, stole his heart from his chest you.

“Mornin’ Sky!” He was certainly glad that the first thing he heard upon waking up was your chipper, sing-song voice.

It was secret to about no one that he was trying and failing to court you. He couldn’t help the way his heart raced and his lungs didn’t draw air. But he was more that ok to have you consume his every waking thought so long as- shitheprobablyshould’verespondedtoyoubynow

“Good morning” He smiled, perhaps a little too wide for someone he ‘held as a close friend’ But then again, how could he care when it was your hand that ruffled his hair with a stifled laugh.

“You’re cute when you wake up” Platonic love his ass- He was sold. Yours until the end of time and his spirit had been laid to rest at long last. He leaned further into your hands, sighing as your nails scratched his scalp.

He’s such a hopeless romantic.

But he’s fine if it’s for you.

Four

Utterly hopeless like Sky, but a different brand.

For him, all it takes is the slightest bit of conformation that he is, in fact, wanted and cared for by someone he cares for so that he crumbles.

And that’s a tough psyche to break, contrary to a lot of belief.

Under most circumstances and situations, he is calm and rational. The colors usually had their harmony, one carefully managed by each pushing and pulling at the consciousness to retain a personality.

But you? You make that fly out the fucking window.

Any sense of previously held sense gets abandoned in favor of you. Memorizing you, cherishing you, loving you— if you’d let him.

The second he found an empty clearing his mind had already unraveled. The loose strings of thought had already been unwoven, each voice loosing and sense of sensibility within a short few minutes.

“Hylia above-“ Blue immediately took to kicking the nearest rock, trying to rid himself of such a foreign feeling.

“No use calling on her” Green sprawled out across the grass, staring into the wide expanse of sky in an effort to coax his mind off the linger of your voice.

“Not now anyway. Not with our devotion spent elsewhere” Vio sat beside where Green had laid, trying to find some footing within this. Logic usually held no place within love. Yet why was it that you captured him to?

“Where we’re thanked so greatly and paid in kisses” Red, stood unmoving from exactly where he split.

“Forehead kisses” Blue mumbled in correction

“Bet you wish they were somewhere else, don’t you?” Violet quipped, looking over his shoulder as Blue had an epiphany… or an aneurysm. It was hard to tell.

“Guys.”

“I know I do.”

“We know.”

“Guys!”

“Among other things.”

“We know!”

“Guys!” Three heads swiveled to look at him.

“Are we going to do something about this or are we going to just…” He gestured vaguely to his surroundings.

“…”

“…Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Legend

Would rather die that admit he caught feelings.

Not that he hates that he loves you. Quite the contrary. There’s a very soft, very precious part of him that loves you.

A part of him he used to bear freely.

The part of him he’s learned to hide away behind layers of prickly attitude and rude jabs.

But make no mistake, he holds you to a high degree.

He almost reverts in a sense, flipping back to that gentle loving before remembering who he’s learned to be.

“I love your rings” You whisper absentmindedly as you fiddle with his aching hands, massaging out his weary joints. It’s the most comfort he’s had in a long while, i’m multiple ways. His knuckles eased of their hollow sting, His hands warmed by the hold of another’s, his heart full and well tended to.

One day, he wishes he could give you one. Perhaps one with a protection charm…. The resistance cover…. one from the binded pair?

That thought makes him happy— a ring on your finger.

“Enjoying yourself there, Vet?” Twilight teased from behind him somewhere.

“Fuck off.”

#submission #linked universe #legend of zelda #linkeduniverse #link x reader #linked universe x reader #link x you #lu sky #lu sky x reader #lu four #lu four x reader #lu legend #lu legend x reader #fir’s library

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spiriteddreams · 1 year

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pre-game rituals with pro!itoshi sae <3 cw: possibly ooc sae a/n: omg spirit writing for blue lock!! and ofc i'm starting with the one and only itoshi sae and skipping through time bc i can :D

thinking about itoshi sae, who takes his pregame rituals seriously. he follows routines to the "t" and refuses to stray from them. he's not sure when they started, but all he knows is that once they began, he couldn't stop. perhaps it's a sports thing, the lucky charm he hopes will bless his mind and body before he steps onto the turf field. he revels in the peace and calmness of the sidelines before his feet cross the sidelines and he feels that rush of adrenaline upon the field.

sae's sole pre-game ritual used to be lacing his cleats before taking the field. it's a habit he's been unable to shake, one that he must do before every game. he'll untie his laces as the team prepares to jog onto the field, just to re-lace them before jogging onto the field. he blocks out the roar of the crowd and the excited race of his heart as he thinks about the game ready to be played. he doesn't care if he'll get amused sighs from his teammates, or calls for him to hurry up. they can wait one second for him to ask for good luck before he claims his spot as one of the best players in the youth league.

and then you stumble into his life and his pre-game rituals change in an instant. he still ties his laces, puts one kneel into the turf as his head looks down in focus. but when he looks up, his eyes find yours, right where you stand. he's been in this position before and when eyes meet yours, he relives every blissful moment that has led up to then. forget how cliche it is, because you beam at him and for a moment, it's just you and sae.

you could be in the crowd or in the vip box, wherever you've told sae you would be, and he would look up and find you in an instant. he watches as you blow a kiss to him, a silly gesture and unnoticeable to anyone else around you. but sae is only focused on you as he indulges in your games and pretends to catch it (subtly of course), and press it to his heart. he thinks he can feel warmth blooming beneath his jersey, as if you're pressing a kiss right there and reminding him to play to his best. you're eyes will forever be saved for him only, his biggest fan, stubborn lover, and every other nickname that he's coined whether bluntly or softly in the privacy of your own home. he thinks the way you smile when he completes that ritual is more than enough to bless him with luck.

to anyone else, it's just another pre-game ritual that the star has started to do. he'll let the fans and the media chase after ideas that lead to dead ends. they can run in circles and propose wild ideas, sae doesn't care. because your kiss, that one that you blow to him amidst a sea of fans, is for him alone. and for you alone, will every goal be dedicated to. the ring on your finger is proof of that.

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 a/n: funny story i've only seen sae for like 2 seconds but man.... he has my heart already

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae #sae itoshi #blue lock fluff #spiriteddreams writing #spiriteddreams

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gojoidyll · 7 months

Text

Infinity

Yandere ! Gojo Satoru x F ! Reader

Part 1 | my broken maid

Warnings | abusive parents, mentions of death, grammatical errors, etc.

Notes | this fic will be using she/her pronouns for y/n. Also this is a reincarnation fic, so Gojo's name will not be "Satoru" in this part. And please let me know if you want to be in a taglist for this series !! ^-^

Summary | And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you.

Infinity Masterlist

year 1020 AD

GOJO SHINYA watched carefully. His blue eyes piercing into the back of a young maid dressed in a tattered kimono that she had to stitch up the patches herself, she worked tiredly, quietly, and most of all - she worked obediently. Her name, as he recalled, was y/n l/n. The firstborn of the l/n clan. But depsite being born in such a esteemed family she was hated all because she didn't inherit her family's cursed technique or the ability to see cursed spirits. For this reason, both her mother and father sought to have another child, and that they did. This time a young son of five years old who has already shown signs of having both inherited his father's and mother's techniques.

When he first visited the clan as it was his duty as the next clan head of the Gojo clan and the next lord of the land, his first thought upon hearing the news and seeing the girl was simply a 'how pitiful' and he went on about his day.

However, as luck would have it...he would get to know her, little by little.

He would learn that she was soft hearted and soft spoken. She never got mad, even when her own family was berating her or yelling at her. She never raised her eyes in defiance. She never yelled back. She never even slammed the sliding door.

He would learn that she was a lovely singer with a voice of an angel. Her little lullabies echoing quietly in the garden's of the l/n estate as he would find himself wandering around as talks with the l/n clan have concluded and he was given free reign to explore the place.

He would learn that she loves flowers and even tries to protect them when her own mother would come out and start ripping the small plants from the ground saying how y/n was "undeserving of such things as pretty flowers". Gojo knew he wasn't meant to witness the scene, but his six eyes allowed him to see a lot of things. He even got to see how y/n cried over the deadening flowers and how she would replant them in hopes that they would grow back.

He would learn that she flusters easily. As when she had caught his gaze unexpectedly one hot March afternoon, she had blushed profusely. Her (color) cheeks heating up greatly as her eyes would fixate onto the ground. Her hands gripping the broom a little bit more tightly as she resumed her sweeping. She was so cute, he mused.

So, he would learn and learn and learn many things. She was gentle, caring, soft, and cute too. He found that he wanted to hold her close as the weeks turned into months and months turned into a year as he would find himself visiting the l/n clan many times in hopes of seeing her.

The head of the l/n clan. Sojiro. Would take pride and his ego would visibly swell as THE Gojo Shinya would frequently visit his estate. Gojo honestly hated the man and wished that y/n was the clan head instead. At least then he would have someone pretty to look at instead of an ugly man, and ugly five year old who wouldn't stop smiling, and an even uglier wife who would eye him like a piece of meat.

But Gojo would tell himself that it was worth it. He would get to see y/n (even though it was at a distance) and he would get to make treaties and deals with the esteemed l/n clan. He kills two birds with one stone.

"You will offer this land to us?! Are you certain my lord?!"

Gojo gave a stiff smile and gave a dismissive wave of his hand, "please, I'm no lord yet. So, technically this land here is just a promise for when I come into power. Though, when I do become lord, I hope you will give me something else in return along with your devote loyalty."

Sojiro could only bow to Gojo. His forehead meeting the floorboards, "of course Lord Gojo, whatever you wish from us will be yours!"

Gojo clapped his hands together as a smile adorned his face, "splendid! I'm glad to hear it, but for now...I'll wait to tell you what I want. Once I become lord of the land and take my title as the head of the jujutsu sorcerers, i'll gift you the land and then tell you of my desires from your family. Will that suffice?"

"Of course Lord Gojo!"

Gojo smiled happily as he stood up, "good then! I think I'll take a small walk around the grounds and then take my leave. See you all in the next coming of days."

The family bowed, hell, even the five year old did after his mother urged him a little. But Gojo didn't care. His focus was to see the cute little maid he has been secretly pining after.

Well, that was until he had opened the door and walked right into said girl he was looking for. A crash sounding as a mess of dirty water and rags spilled at their feet. And when their eyes locked. Oh, the fear he saw within her (color) hues. He wanted to hug her tight and tell her it'll be alright, bit refrained from doing so. Instead, he watched as she got on her hands and knees. Head bowed to the floor, lips trembling as she apologized over and over and over again. Her tattered and mis-matched kimono getting dirty and wet from the cleaning water.

"I'm so sorry, Lord Gojo."

Her voice would tremble. Shake and quiever. He didn't need the six eyes to know that her parents and even little brother were glaring daggers at her. Oh, how he wanted to sweep her off feet and whisk her away right then and there. But it wasn't his place. He wasn't exactly a lord yet after all.

Sojiro would quickly apologize as well as he would get his bearings. And as Gojo found himself in a new pair of clothes and ushered out of the estate. He had wished to see y/n one more time. But the head of the l/n clan seemed eager to usher him out most likely because he wanted to "discipline" his oldest daughter for causing such a mess. When in reality it was Gojo's fault just as much.

But he decided to leave it at that. Merely smiling and saying it was alright. Waving a dismissive hand as his usual walk around the grounds was postponed. He reckoned he could see her again (properly) some other time. Hopefully without fear in her eyes.

But alas.

Gojo Shinya would not see her again.

Because apparently she was beaten to death that same night. When he heard the news he had a sort of .. fell into silent fury dwelling within him.

A girl he had fallen for from a distance so easily taken from him depsite him being a sorcerer and having the six eyes.

For the rest of his days after that, he vowed to find her again for it was written in books of old that pure souls with tragic endings got second chances.

So with reincarnation embedding itself into the deepest parts of his mind, he vowed to see her again. For he had a tragic end too. I mean, he didn't end up with her after all, right?

#jujutsu kaisen #jjk #gojo satoru #gojo #female reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x reader #yandere #yandere gojo #yandere gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n

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rel124c41 · 24 days

Text

SUNDO. jade leech

This is the beginning: you walk into Osaka Bay, sound asleep. This is the end: you are dragged into Osaka Bay, wide awake … and screaming.

tags: japanese mythology & folklore, religious imagery & symbolism, yokai AU, attempted rape/non-con, inspired by Den lille Havfrue by Hans Christian Andersen, sleepwalking, yandere, blood and gore, immortality, declaration of love, did andersen want to fuck fish? i think so!

word count: 9,114

Timid, you step into the water.

Behind closed eyelids, the muscle and nerves of your eyeball flicker like insect wings. Your eyelashes may rest delicate in the closed oyster position but your eyeballs move alert underneath the thin skin.

By closing your eyes, it allows you to see a new world. Sight often blocks and trumps other sensations. With purpose, you narrow yourself to reflect upon the touch of a breeze, the sound of cicadas, and the shape of water embracing your ankles. You spread yourself out, imaging yourself in the wind, and then your eyes pulse under your eyelid skin.

You fly deeper into the lake with a yell of, “I see you!” And suddenly, you shrink down to the size of a six year old child from your adult body, missing your top left canine tooth and wearing a kimono pattern with abstract art of yellow squares and violet rectangles.

In the water, a boy laughs and says, “That can’t be true!”

“Yes it is!”

“But your eyes are closed!”

Eager hands squirm and dive through the water. Fingers reach out like hawk talons, squeezing unsqueezable water. In your hark of the earth, you hear the fierce splashes of you punching into the water to grab your friend. Laughing, you trip over yourself, falling breast first in water, managing to pick yourself up in time just as the lake licks at your throat. Three different voices laugh at you but you only hunt for one.

“I swear, I see you!”

“No way!”

In your attentiveness of your surroundings, you feel the smile that grows on your face. Water leaps up at your cheeks like sparks of a fire. When you laugh, salt slips in your mouth. Suddenly, you change angles and reach to your right instead of your left. The water there moves in a panic. Laughing, you bring up both your hands, readying to push them into the water.

The sun is warm. The water is cool. From the tree, in the breeze, thousands of leaves say in one voice, “My little Muyūbyō. My little sleepwalker. You are going too deep.”

“Mom?”

The hanging leaves are green and lush. “You’re going too deep, (Name).”

You wake up. The rainbow of ways one can wake up is endless and numerous. However, no one really considers waking up to be a varying, changeable state of things. Each unique rise into the waking realm differs slightly.

Today, you wake up like a crab has pinched firmly the tendon running down your upper hamstring. Today, you wake up shin-deep in the lake. Your mother is right. You are going too deep. The water usually stays up to your ankles. The sight greatly disturbs you and your hamstring tendon drums with the full body pain.

That boy. You wonder on the identity of that young boy. Why could you not catch him if you had him right in your sight? Your seeing varies often; sometimes the world is as clear as newly polished glass and other times you are trying to look through a looking glass that is grime and sand stained. His voice – his voice was almost as familiar as your mother's warning.

Eyes enucleated, you would always know your mother’s voice.

Backpedaling, you move and watch until the embrace around your legs slides down goosebumped skin and lies quivering around your ankles.

You look at the sunrise peering over the lake. Hinode starts the upward ascend, pink and orange light falling over the world. Water almost shimmers around your ankles with the welcome benevolence of the rising sun.

Yet with its welcome comes the banishment of the only company you have. Well, for the most part. Even the mischievous kappa, river spirits, will vanish with the sun. You look for them nonetheless, knowing you make sure to fall asleep with cucumbers in your nightwear; food for the yokai, just to certain their volatile hungers are quelled.

You —

You have always been able to see yokai.

Your parents have called you blessed because of it. As a sleepwalker, you are closer to the spirit world than the normal, spirit-blind citizens of the island Kyushu. Despite being blessed, your parents kept your habit of sleepwalking out of the village’s hippocampus — as they would surely see it as a mark of possession.

So much for parental precaution, you are already seen as the village’s resident boogeyman even without them knowing you move in nightly rest.

Perhaps it is a fault of your own.

Perhaps the blame lies on your parents.

You can pinpoint where it went wrong though. Since the incident, you have known you would be kindred to the boogeyman. Despite all the piling up evidence, there is no clearly given perpetrator. Who does the blame of the crime go to for being a boogeyman against one’s will? The crime of that day and then the crime of being yourself. You: eldritch evil in human clothings.

Sekia (the walking world) and ikai (the ‘other’ world), you walk between those and that is a crime.

You would never point the fingers at your God though. The very thought of it makes your stomach tighten like rope and you press your palms flat into your abdomen to resist the urge to puke. God, your last remaining parent.

Shinto is an indigenous faith in Japan but you are born of a time period far too back to even toy with the idea of calling it indigenous. Shinto believes that one is born fundamentally good but struggles with evil spirits. You are born with a mark of evil. Born bad, you defy the religion you preach, practice, and love as if it is an old friend.

Despite that, where you live is in a Shinto shrine, atop a mountain, by a lake.

And, with a frown blemishing your pretty face, you look behind, up at the mountain you have to climb to go home.

Behind the Shinto shrine is a clothesline for drying cottons and silks. It stretches, a pinned butterfly wing, from tree to tree. All that hangs from them is only wet at the bottom. You squeeze the bottom of the nightwear you put there the previous day. Still damp. Ah, if only the elevation was not so high up. This would dry up quicker if I was living off the mountain. It is April and spring is ushering in. Still, it is mildly cold at the isolated point where you live.

You do not think you could stomach the air down in the village. Thin air is all you know. Adapting to glutinous air would be like drowning on land, a paradox regarding your lungs. You pull your nightwear off the skin covering your twin lungs, one hand on each tomoerio of the yogi.

It gathers delicately around your hamstrings before you pull it around the crook of your elbow. Straightening it out, you add the damp fabric to the clothesline. One arm cupping your nude breasts, you compare the height of water to previous nightwear. There is slight discoloration, the bottom a dark gray and navy blue and the rest white and blue as cornflower.

You tense when you look down the clothesline. Finding by one by one that the height of damp decreases in a staircase pattern. It would make sense. Ones that have been on the clothesline longer would be less soaked. But you know better.

You have been going deeper. You have no idea why but you have been walking deeper into the lake.

When you were very young – on the journey to turn two years old in a month or so – you were found in the lake. Above, in the mountaintop, horrified, mournful screams stabbed the air. Your name – screamed with tears and fright in each letter – soared like a tengu bird. Sleeping upright, you were unaware until a hand grabbed you and wrenched you back into the world.

“(Name). Oh my, (Name), my baby!”

When your fretful mother realizes years later that you cannot stop sleepwalking, she only asks one thing of you: to not go deeper than your ankles. You claw at the softest on your chest to get your heart to stop pounding so fretful. Next time, you will reel yourself back before you disobey.

There are a hundred eyes peeking through the paper sliding doors and a trail of footsteps that are too petite to be yours trailing across the cypress wood floors of your home. These are curing images to your heart.

With a smile and hum, you trail a finger across the wall. Multiple eyes blink at the motion like a herd of butterfly wings twitching at a breeze. Leaving behind wet, much larger footprints, you walk through the Shinto shrine to your bedroom. It is time to dress for the arising sun. The sticky smell of stale sulfur and sea trails after you. The yokai of your father’s Shino shrine welcome this familiar scent.

You never had any childhood friends. Quite a desolate thought, yes? Not entirely for you. Never having childhood friends, you cannot sensibly yearn for it with a desperate longing or be saddened by the statement. You never had any childhood friends.

For some reason, you have false snippets of a sekai, a waking world, with a childhood friend with one sun eye and one moon eye. Blended between the realities like you are. And an odd shattered dream made by your hippocampus made of yearning you do not have.

Origami is today’s shared activity. With slices of colored paper the boy has gifted you, you take to folding them into numerous animals. Creasing paper between your fingers and pinching edges with your nails. You work diligently on yours, spine facing the mountain.

You squish down the snake-head-shape the paper has fallen into until you get the diamond you want. With a prideful smile, you continue, fold by fold. You pull bottom up and get an open mouth; when you push both edges inward, you get the squashed wings done, halfway there.

Spine facing the lake, your companion continues on with his. His nails are whetted like a cleaver so he gets preciser and cleaner edges with his origami. Despite the fact he could make something more challenging, his design is simpler and less complicated than yours. He is just finishing up the tail by folding the right corner of the tiny triangle into the middle.

“Azul’s been making a lot of frogs. He says each frog he makes is another coin his future self will soon have.”

“There must be a whole army of them by now then!”

“A militia is more appropriate. I worry one day he will find himself lying down in the grave he has made, drowning under washi paper. The folly of his want.” The boy says this with a facade’s frown; there is really no concern in his mannerisms.

“You say that like you aren’t greedy.”

“Hm … not for things like money, other things.”

You miss the way his eyes burn and shine because you are working on modeling the paper body of your animal. You enjoy your time spent with Jade, this fabricated friend your hippocampus made of the clay of your brain, dearly.

“Food?”

“Ah … well, I suppose that is one of the other things.”

“What else are you greedy for?” You cannot fathom that Jade wants anything more to eat. He is very gluttonous like his brother and octopus friend besides his lithe, feminine frame.

“For one thing –”

“Aha! Finished!”

Eager and proud, you hold up the origami animal. Your creases and folds are not too pristine but the product of effort is still majestic. A crane. The bird said to live a thousand years. “Pretty isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Let’s switch ours.” Your hands make a grab for the origami fish in Jade’s hands.

“But it is the first time you have been able to make a crane successfully. Most people want to keep milestones.” He cannot fathom why you are so eager to share. “The crane should stay with you.”

“But I want to share it with my best friend.”

You wake up like the clap of a baseball in a mitt. Your eyes fly open as the baseball is thrown with a resounding bark of fetch, soaring like an arrow and returning to the second glove. A consciousness thrown between two gloves. The left side of your face feels numb and medicated.The water is up to your shins again, disobedient. Backpedaling without hesitation, you scratch at the side of your face. It feels like a cluster of barnacles are weighing down west facing skin.

You yawn as the sun, the hinode, comes up. A thousand years. What a long time; you could never fathom living such an infinite amount of time. Salt and grime staining your nightwear, you step onto the shore. You would never want to live a thousand years like this.

Another never of yours? You never had any childhood friends.

There are no absolutes in Shinto.

“This is impossible,” you whisper.

“There are no absolutes,” a man replies.

Somehow and someway, you are being wedded. Done with your fruitless attempts to open your eyes, you resign to verbally negotiating your way out of this lucid dream. You have to get out of here but the water has hardened to cement around your legs. You are unsure if this is a fabricated dream, a fabricated memory of a fake world, or if this is the ‘other’ world. Unsure of where you tread, you desperately want the sun to break apart this nightmare.

That is impossible. I am a miko. A miko must be unmarried. I am my father’s helper and I cannot be wedded.

The man replies to your thoughts: That is not true. You are not a miko. The priest is dead. You can be wedded.

No. I cannot wed.

The white kosode kimono covers over your skin like a constant itch. Somehow and someway, without opening your eyes, you know that you are wearing wedding attire. You feel the distribution of another set of legs in the lake. There is an awful weight on your finger.

There are vows being spoken by a siren’s voice. A trickling scale on a piano voice. It feels oddly like you cannot create new memories. Your dreams and thoughts evaporate like trickling sand, stolen. Everything dwindles and moves away like retreating waves.

Do you relinquish your immortal soul to this man?

Do you?

“Yes.”

“My love, a snake is coming.”

You wake up, off-kilter. You fall immediately due to that poor balancing board provided by uneven rocks. With a gasp, your hands go out to catch you, splashes resounding as you kneel down in the water. Another fierce splash follows. You scream as you watch a mamushi dive into the water where you were standing.

“Aa-Agh,” you gasp as you scramble up. “AH!” The world feels like trickling sand, all cascading down around you. A stumbling body turns wildly as the snake attacks. It bites the air and jumps in the water.

Its venomous fangs however are directed at the rising sun. Protectively, it attacks air. The mamushi does not attack you or your retreating, repeatedly falling form. You do not remember what you had just dreamed, pink sunlight on your back.

The only evidence that the impossible happened are your fast, retreating footprints embedded into the shore. But even those washed away with the brine of water, trickling away, stolen.

Tiny footsteps litter the inside of your shrine. After so many years, the footprints have become an infestation comparable to cockroaches, a black sole and five dotting toes. Prints from a zashiki warashi, a ghost girl. They are only seen by children and the house’s owner, but they stay visible to you because you became the owner of the house when you stopped being a child.

Zashiki warashi are said to bring good fortune and be guardians of the house they inhabit. You have had no problems unlike the slight troubles you have had with the eyes in your home. However, a little otherworldly company does not bother you like human company.

Footprints unsourced from a tangible body and eyes unsourced from a tangible head. How odd that you have grown used to that.

You make sure to avoid stepping on the trails of footprints as you walk through the honden, the main sanctity. You notice that the ghost girl’s footprints seem to avoid the heart of the shrine. Behind a cupboard that is seldom opened lies your God, the heart, your last remaining parent. You pass the cupboard and make your way to a window.

You watch the sunrise, contemplative. Sunlight intrudes in long rectangles and breaks the steady zig-zag lines of the zashiki warashi’s footprints. You kneel, clothed in wet nightwear, feet damp.

You remember the day of your parents’ death. It was the only day you awoke in bed instead of ankle deep in water. Thinking you were cured, excitement fueled your feet to the entrance of your father and mother’s bedroom. Excitement skids and burns down to ash as you hold the paper sliding door open, looking upon an empty bed.

It took only a few minutes to find them because even a fool could have guessed where this would end.

For some unlucky reason, you never slipped when walking down the mountain to the lake. Your mother worried it would happen so often. The image of your foot kissing and missing the ground. Like a ram miscalculating his step, you would plummet in her mind, body crunching and breaking as it ping-ponged down a dangerous slope.

Throat thick with salvia, you find them with a terrified cry. You press yourself tightly into a tree, weeping and screaming your miserable mind’s woes into the sekia.

Below you, they lie. Bodies bent like a cluster of twigs snapped for a fireplace and flesh smudged with blood and dirt. Bones point out elbows and knees, breaking the blanket of skin. Wrists and ankles are turned in unnatural positions. Their eyes stare up at the morning sky, the lilac pinks and blue amber of the sunrise like a colorful coffin above them. Up there, their God.

The incident made you the village’s boogeyman. Even if you were the good priest's daughter, their little blessing, the only suspect left for the crime was you.

“You were so wrong. I am not a blessing.”

The window gives no reply. Done with the standoffish nature of the glass fixture, you stand up. The seaweed squishes under your feet, salt grinding into your soles.

“And I am sorry that you were wrong.”

Lakes do not carry seaweed like this.

There is a hand around my ankle.

You wake up. Not violently like the times where your dreams throw you and not softly like your dreams kiss your eyelids open. Instead, you wake up like you have already been awake. No disturbance. Miraculously, there is no disjoint between dreaming and waking. So there is no need to find your footing as you look down.

You and a garappa stare at each other. His yellow eyes blink up at you, flicking water. Skin fern green and dotted with a dalmatian pattern of dark forest green is mostly submerged underwater. The only part of him that rises above the water is his snout and the webbed thumbnail around your right ankle.

In your ribcage, your heart pounds hard like a frog moving to a lilypad before it settles completely. Your one heartbeat length terror came from a single thought: God, he is huge.

Garappas and kappas can only be told apart by size. A garappa has limbs much longer than its twin, stretching out twice the typical size of a kappa. His entire arm is equivalent to your leg. Dizzy eyes track over his lengthy form. If he stood up, the estimated height would be about nine feet.

Rocks may be under your feet but you feel like the ground is shifting sand, webbing itself through your reality. At least, the garappa seems to not be hostile right now. Who’s to say about later?

You look down at the hand embracing around your ankle. Distorted under the water, it looks like your ankle and his hand are off center from the goosebump flesh of your leg above water. Solid flesh, green contrasting to brown, ripples together in up and down motions. You are so dizzy.

Touch-taste senses are a peculiar faucet of aquatic life. Octopus can lay their suckers upon a prey and drink up the sweetness of fear like a butterfly with nectar. You wonder what kind of taste the garappa might be siphoning from cold pores.

“Foon foon foon.” The garappa says, mouth of his snout circling to form the soft Os.

You do not fool yourself into thinking that is a friendly sound.

Garappas are elusive and cowards. This male might have been biding his time waiting for weeks of your sleepwalking to know if you were a threat or friend. To be caught by him and his inhuman strength means this was premedicated. Garappas are extremely fond of pranks and mischief, this you remember.

But what are you forgetting?

“Foon foon foon,” he says again.

“Hoon, hoon, hoon,” you reply, trying to replicate the call of his.

His eyes squint at you from behind the waving mass of black hair. It trails across his face like seaweed but his bright yellow irises are easy to spot among the ebony. His hold on you readjusts slightly at the sound of your voice, not tightening or loosening, just twisting around the indents of where your fibula and tibia met like someone using a pepper crusher.

There is definitely intelligence in those golden suns but that is not really the cause of unease. The unease comes from his size; the image you paint of him standing up and crowding over you. His legs would perhaps end where your collarbone starts.

Please do not stand up. Please do not stand up.

You wonder back to your taste. Would the spice of fear be hidden in the dish of your normal taste or would the spice of fear be an overpowering burn? The heart kept in your chest is very calm. It is tranquil as a sheep, resting in the dropped palpitations of sleep. Perhaps this is still a dream.

Then, the garappa starts to pull. It is a light, hesitant tug. When you hold firm, toes curling up to press tighter into the rocks underfoot, he lets up. His hold goes back to being concrete, unmoving even though the dilating ripples of water suggest different. You and him lock eyes again.

Then, the streamlined face vanishes and you are looking up at a sky of stars. You gasp as water hugs the back of your cotton yogi. A rock cushions your skull’s rapid descent and you wince. The hand on your ankle tugs and tugs.

As if the harsh kiss of the rock breaks a spell, you finally remember what you were trying to recount about the mischievous, prank-loving garappas. You look over the valley of your body, clothed in blue yogi nightwear, the supine side of you soaking wet, remembering. Garappas are known to be sexually aggressive.

“DAMNIT!”

Your arms move fast, grabbing at the sand and rock beside your chest, trying to lift yourself up. A fearful cry escapes you as the next tug disorients your arms and causes you to spill deeper into the lake. You watch wide-eyed as a webbed hand peels back the left side of your nightwear.

“Cut it out! Get off me! Get off!”

Ripples of water jump around your struggling form. You were correct about his measurements. The entire arm is the size of your leg. He trails it up past the gray and blue camellia sewn on your garment. You scream as you feel the touch of soft tissue of webbed fingers on your inner thigh.

A lucid part of you thinks the taste of your fear must be explosive.

You twist violently in the oppressing grip like a fish caught in a net. Chilled fingers grab at rocks around you, trying to pull yourself up onto shore. Your free leg kicks at the shoulder of the garrapa. Warmth blooms on your face when you are dragged again and a cut from ear to cheek is birthed.

“Get the fuck off!” You scream as loud as a banshee. Around you, summer cicadas answer your cry with their own melody and you hear a foon foon foon, almost like a laugh bubbling under the water.

And, just as webbed fingers hover over the apple of your sex, the world falls still and silent. Even the everlasting cicadas stop for the only time in their life. In the bubble of unreal quiet, you stare over your body at the hand dug into the skull of the garrapa.

The piscine hand is the color of tooth white. The knuckles are gradients of green bleeding off into an ebony black. You can tell because the only part of the hand that is not sunk into the garappa’s skull is a single thumb. The thumbnail is sharp as a knife, pressed in the mass of black hair. The arm trails down the neck and back of the garrapa and is indistinguishable under the black water.

You watch the garappa twitch. Still alive despite the four fingers bayonet through his head. His golden sun eyes stare at you as his hand moves down and wraps itself around your lower thigh. He squeezes hard as the four fingers press down, pull out, and press down once again, almost sensually erotic in their motions.

“Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo.”

You watch pleased as a trail of blood runs down the streamlined snout. Good. Die; never swim again; die-die-die!

Your respite is short lived as you are suddenly pulled down. A terrified cry rockets out of your throat. The hand burrow in the garrapa’s head stops in its descent back into black water, contemplative. The alive yet rigor-mortis grip is desperate and relentless on your thigh.

“Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo-Fo.” The dying garrapa coos like the cicadas chirp. If I go down, I will take you with me.

His circular mouth falls still, an empty O. You watch as red rushes up in an inking squirt to the surface of the night lake. Then, with a breakneck speed, the garappa and pearl white hand disappear. The now blood-stained water rises and moves like scales as their interlocked bodies go under without another word.

The cicadas start to make noise again. The marble surface of the lake reshape back into its flat, glossy appearance. Just a different color. On trembling arms, you start to shift yourself to sit with your posture up straight.

You glance down at the purling motions of your yogi. Under the cotton lies the amputated hand, torn at the shoulder, and now stuck on your thigh in true rigor-mortis. Mind blanking, you stand back up, ankle deep in red water.

Latched garrapa arm swinging between your legs like a front facing tail, you walk out of the lake, soaking wet all over.

You scrape yourself up the summit like a stubborn earthworm. Shaking hands grab familiar tree branches to hoist yourself. Frost-nibbled feet press hard into sediment to keep yourself up. At the top of the summit, just outside your home, the two lanterns of the entrance are lit. You shake harder and shiver harder with the cold.

The lake is on the backside of the shrine, so you slowly round the building. Inch by inch, more of the entrance is revealed to you beyond the thumping glow of lanterns. Two stone lion-dogs, komainu, guard protectively under the gold. The long tongue entrance grows with each hesitant step you take. Resting your hand on the Shinto shrine, you look towards the offering hall.

A man with silver hair kneels, hands clasped in prayer. His cheeks are tinted a pink from the chill of morning.

“I am not taking prayers at this time, Sir. Please return another day.”

The man does not startle at your voice in the same capacity that you startled at the sight of him. His words erode in his mouth before a smile pulls up his lips. You think his eyes are blue. It is hard to tell with glass obscuring them. He is wearing spectacles that look like the melted pattern of a tortoise shell.

“I did not know God was on a schedule. I suppose I can see why. The importance of transactions, why, those can keep someone quite occupied. I am a bit disheartened to see my deal is not worth His time.” The man’s smile is sympathetic like he knows you are suffering.

You grimace at your slip-up. Wanting to be inside, you round around the front porch area so you can meet with him at the entrance. You wonder what he must think of you, soaking wet, leaving behind puddles. “I’m terribly sorry, Sir. You may continue. I cannot offer the services of a Shinto shrine today however. My deepest apologies.” You bow.

“It is no worries. I just came to check if you were okay and make certain that you are.”

“If I’m,” your eyes flicker up in confusion. Straightening, you imagine your face must be the face of confusion like you are a spirit-blind person seeing yokai for the first time. Why would anyone? Does he not know you as the village boogeyman, someone that no one would dare check upon. “I’m quite fine, Sir.”

“Certain?”

“Certainly.”

The silver-haired man seems very pleased at that. Enough to the point where he stands up. Gratitude fills your lungs, almost relieving yourself of the chill. You hate that this is the first human interaction you have had in years and you are so happy to see it be gone.

Maybe you should try to be hospitable. That thought dies as you watch the man. Why, that is really curious – “Sir?”

“Yes?” His tone is acquiescent.

“The direction to the village is that way.” You point past the torii gate and the two guardian lions. He had been rounding the front porch, walking in the damp footsteps you had left behind. The man blushes an even heavier pink at that.

“Ah, my apologies,” he amends sheepishly. He stalks towards you and you wholeheartedly expect him to slip past. Instead, his presence surprises you for a second time. He grabs your salt encrusted hands and holds them dearly. “I am glad to see you in good health.”

You blank at the touch of his hands and go completely vacant at his sincere words. Like a stuttering fish, your lips move up and down wordlessly. Where did that even come from? “Do I know you?”

“I’m afraid not, godfather.”

He squeezes your hands and lets go. His spectacles are a beautiful pattern. The strange man walks off, towards the village, but his gait makes it look like he is walking in the wrong direction. You watch him until he vanishes into nothing. To make certain that he leaves.

Shaking and clenching your hands to get the blood-flow back to them, you enter the shrine. There are no armies of footprints waiting to greet you. You grow colder.

You are hot to the touch.

After such a grievous experience, you develop a fever as May births herself into the world, stabbing April to death. It lasts for a week longer than a normal fever should. Having to climb back up a mountain for an hour each morning is not any aid to the medicinal herbs you take. And now, when you want to rest, you cannot even do that.

You have already taken the bath salts. Inhaling the cathinone crystals, you walk from one end of the shrine to the other end like the ghost of a sailor haunting/walking a shoreline. You sniffle each time you feel the tickle of the drugs in your nose. Walk. Walk. Walk. Do not fall asleep no matter what.

Tonight is hyakki yagyo, because of course the night parade of one hundred demons falls upon the night you want to gain any semblance of rest after debilitating illness. The parades are inauspicious and untrackable.

The hordes of eyes in your walls watch you walk, relatively close to make indents into the flooring by method of your repetitive pacing. Mokumokuren, that is what the eyes in your walls are, an infestation yokai. They take a fancy to inviting in other yokai instead of protecting as the little girl does … did.

You can not risk going outside because of the yokai parade. Thus, due to your sleepwalking, you absolutely cannot fall asleep. People foolish enough to go outside during a hyakki yagyo or peek through their windows are killed or spirited away. It is considered divine punishment for looking upon that which must not be seen.

I have been looking upon yokai since my birth, would this parade really harm me? You never bother to test the floating theory, leaving it to trickle away until the next hyakki yagyo commences the following month. However —

“PLEASE! PLEASE HELP ME! SOMEONE LET ME IN!”

You have never had someone pleading at your door on a night like this. The horde of eyes watch as you consider the bottle of drugs in your nightwear pocket. You only inhale the crystals to stay alert and awake during night but they do cause hallucinations.

“One of your friends,” you ask the cluster of eyes peering through a Swiss cheese wall. One blinks a wet, sticky eye at your question. Then all of them blink when the stranger outside your door starts pounding on the front door.

You hold your hands over your breasts anxiously. Inside the bottle, your drugs gleam like coarse Himiylaian sea salt under the one eye made of light. The lantern is your only company, you remind yourself, not a human or a yokai.

You are alone and will remain alone until death.

It is probably an onmoraki at the door. A bird-like monster who has a talent for mimicking human voices. Onmorkai appear near temples, particularly in the presence of neglectful priests. It is almost too predictable of the yokai. Impiety needs no originality as all the old tricks have always worked.

You wish someone was here but you cannot remember their name. But you have always been alone?

Before you know it, your hand is opening the door. You stare down at the flesh like it is a foreign parasite, like a person stares at a leech after removing a limb from black lake water. When did you even – Why is your memory like this – Before you know, a sun and moon eye are staring down at you.

“Godfather! Priest!” You blank at the stranger’s jovial voice, completely singing a different tone when compared to his previous fright. He is frighteningly tall. “Oh thank God, you are here.” The man laughs. And with a flourish, he steps inside your shrine.

“I – I –”

“Good priest,” you blank when the man gets on his knees. He grabs your hands and squeezes them tightly, holding them over the ring of his teal hair. “I am indebted to you. I swear I was almost killed because of those yokai. A garrapa came from the lake and tried to –”

“A-A garrapa?”

“Yes, good priest, but thanks to –”

You slam the door shut, wrenching your hands from the man. Slamming the door with the man now inside the shrine. Quickly, you turn and start to look for the materials to make a protective talisman.

You miss the grin curling on your guest’s lips.“Not a fan of yokai, godfather?”

The tone used this time is soft and worrying. You turn at the volatile changes of his voice. The man still kneels on the ground, downturned eyes following your movements. He is frowning sympathetically at you.

“Yokai – why I –”

“I’m not. Awful spirits. Killed my twin.”

“I can’t –” you trail off as you search the wooden box in the honden frantically. An honorific fuda should be in here — and — and you have bottles of ink inside your bedroom right! Just a simple protective ward to keep yokai out. You might miss the company of the eyes but you will make those sacrifices. A human hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it up from the mouth of the wooden box before you can grasp the card plate.

“Ya didn’t answer my question. Not a big fan of yokai?” There he goes, switching his tone again. This time is deadly like he is barely concealing a thousand years of bottled up rage.

“I –” You fumble with your words, feeling akin to a child being scolded. Is it psychosis from the bath salts or are you losing your mind – this feeling is so – his eyes are so familiar but also completely alien. “Just garrapas. I can’t with garrapas.”

My best friend’s a yokai. You think but do not vocalize it. Because it is a false thought caused by the bath salts and a faulty memory.

He brightens up. “That’s good! That’s really good, priest. I just wanna check.”

“I’m so-sorry about being so erratic. I just —“

“A talisman. Don’t worry, I’ll help! My name’s Floyd, godfather!”

Your new acquaintance seems eager to leave minutes before the first fingers of pink and orange peer over the horizon. After calming down, the two of you shared tea and refused to look out the windows due to the parade. He is an eager talker, not letting conversation fall still at all. He talks like he has been wanting to talk to you forever. You are glad he wants to leave early despite the parade. A good priest would advise against it but you want him gone.

Something about interacting with him is familiar yet alien.

Cobalt skies turning more cerulean, you and Floyd take to walking outside. As he busies himself with petting your stone lion-dogs smugly, you carry a torch. Dark still lingers with hesitation. You banish a bit of it by lighting the torches by the torii gate. Orange dances on the ground like a wagging wave.

Blanketed by shadows, you turn to look up at Floyd, standing behind you as you lit the last lantern. He is staring up at the gate.

“Are you sure you will be alright leaving a whole hour before sunrise,” you contradict your own agenda with your words.

“Yeah, got to go check on my brother. Make sure he ain’t messin’ anything up.”

Wasn’t his brother killed? The orange from the second lantern dances like a snake. “Sir,” you hesitate when his eyes descend from the gate to you. “Do we know each other?”

“Course, little priest, I just spent all hyakki yagyo talkin’ with ya! Ahehe!” Then happily, the man walks off, down past the torii gate.

Inside the two lanterns, the fire stirs with his departure, locked in a swaying dance.

The fire goes up like a mountain-climber. Wall to wall, it ascends like a sticky hand falling in reverse. In amber and scarlet waves, it weasels through the holes in the sliding doors and eats up the structure like a caterpillar on a leaf. Hypnotic and great, the fire acids through more and more of the Shinto shrine’s stomach.

You cannot live here anymore. You have known for a while these religious bowels held you in a painful kidney stone.

Raising up the torch, you kiss it to the main scanatary’s wall and watch all the wood smolder. Man-made clouds of gray lie heavy on the ceiling, the finely tuned acoustics of the building rumbling with the crackles and pops. Onward, you move until you reach the heart of this system. The cupboard where the sacred object, cloaked in cloth like a newborn, represents your God.

You have no idea what the object could be. Your parents died before you turned sixteen and thus you never got to learn what the yorishiro, the sacred object, is. It could be a single comb or a paper crane or a child’s shoe.

It does not matter when you raise up the torch, holding the flames so they may embrace the cupboard’s two doors. You hold it until fire successfully transfers. Then, as destruction curls over the piety, you leave the heart, walking down the vertebrates, until you reach the anus.

Behind you, the Shinto shrine burns. In front of you, you see nothing as your eyes are as blind as two spider-eggs, glossed and webbed over. You feel the earth distinctively however, water undertows and rough sediment.

The fire, blindingly bright and energetic, speaks. “Good priest, you have done well. The night is near its end.”

You wake up. You wake up like someone has driven a knife into your heart.

Coupled with a pained groan, your eyelashes flutter open. The pain in your chest is defibrillating and runs over your shoulders with a hot white electric current. It feels so unique and so awful. Rapidly, you shove your hand into your yogi and touch over the layer of skin. Your heart hammers against the skin like a woodpecker.

“Oh my God,” you groan, spit running off your lips from the excruciating pain. Coughing around the phlegm, you press your hand hard into your skin, hoping pressure would mimic the job of a tourniquet. Your heart remains relentless.

More spit runs off your bottom lip like a long, opaque slug. He stretches and plops into the lake around your waist. Bile will not be summoned so you settle with fruitlessly spitting into the lake, groaning in pain. Phlegm hangs like snot on your lip as you look up, expecting to see golden sun-rays that will cure you.

Before you stand a man.

Those features seem too feminine to make him a man. His thin, cupid bow lips are just a bit too delicate to be a man’s. It looks like his skin is breathing marble and pearl. Monolids and upturned, his eyes are alluring as a concubine. A sun and a moon eye, shining with something indescribable when the two of you make eye contact. Is that genuine love in his womanly eyes?

“Who … Who are you? Why do I?” His eyes are distantly familiar yet juxtaposingly alien to you. Your vision blurs and his face shrinks and distorts, causing his eyes to overlap into an eclipse. Blinking and spitting, you clear your head. “Why do I know your face?”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” For a second, you think him narcissistic until he says, “The omagatoki tonight is beautiful.”

A sudden chill causes your hairs to stand on end. Those dueling eyes seem to brighten in the pitch black dark. If he were any further from you, it would be impossible to see him. He too stands waist deep in the lake with you, many inches taller than yourself.

The sudden acknowledgement of existing as prey washes over you. “It’s omagatoki already?” Of course it is. The moon lies behind the man like a dot engulfing a canvas. You blink your eyes thrice as if there is a plastic filter cutting into them.

How did you not notice the telltale signs: cold wind blowing, the strange scent in the air like fish or blood, a sudden chill that causes one’s hairs to stand on end. It is as dark as if you were an explorer in the deep sea. It is omagatoki; how have you not noticed?

The spirit realm is so active around you.

“Who are you,” you ask again, full of questions.

“Me? Why, I am wounded that you do not recognize me. That would be like if I asked you: who are you? Who are you, (Name)?” You stay silent. “A niiyomjei perhaps?” A newlywed bride, he coos.

“I am no yamahime.”

A filthy yamahime is a mountain princess, but they are alternatively called mountain woman or newlywed bride. In a rare pleasure of luck, you have only encountered a yamahime once despite spending your entire life sharing the same home as them: the mountains.

You remember standing guard in front of the Shinto shrine, on the cusp of your thirteenth birthday, arms folded as the yamahime laughed and laughed. The laugh of a mountain princess is a lethal poison, those who hear are either dead or driven mad. Blood snailing down your ears, you stood her down for a sleepless night, refusing to let harm to befall either mother or father.

“Do not call me such a word.” You spit like a cobra at the man.

“My apologies, I misjudged that such a pretty woman as yourself would be honored at the comparison. I would never think to lessen your humanity down to a yokai. Though, why, I have always thought of you as the mountain princess you are.”

The moon backdrops on his body like a halo. All his features are dark besides his eyes and the outline of him pressed tight to the glowing night sun. “And, a newlywed bride? That is a true statement by all measures.”

“I am no bride. I am my father’s shrine maiden – a miko.” Mikos must remain unmarried to help out in a Shinto shrine. Coupled by your isolation, that question seems world-breaking insanity. This man is ridiculous.

But you are no longer a miko. You graduated when you made two graves; you are a priest. A Shinto priest – man or woman – is allowed to marry and have children. This is all insanity.

The man puts his hand to his mouth, closing his eyes and frowning delicately into his fist as if that statement is a physical injury to him. “Come now, (Name),” his moon and sun eyes shine like beetles when he opens them, “the priest is dead. Your father is dead. And you will find that your own priesthood is no longer required.”

“As long as there is a shrine, I’m needed.” The water around you is wrong and peculiar. Weightless and nebulous water clings up your thighs, ending an inch below your belly-button. You have to get back to your ankles. You do not want to cause anyone to worry that you have gone too far in.

“There are guests up there. You really should not disturb their prayers,” the man says as you start to turn, barely making it ninety degrees.

“I am the shrine’s priest, it will be fine.”

“They should go undisturbed; it will only take a moment. They want to explore the shrine inside too. Talk with me some more, bride.”

You ignore that word, unpausing your body. Your yogi floats around like a giant jellyfish cape and you must leave. “No one can get into the shrine, even if it is omagatoki. They would be banished. The yokai of the shrine would recognize a stranger.”

“Only by scent. And you smell like salt water every morning. It is safe to say my brother and boss can continue their prayers unaided and uninterrupted.”

The man, padding through water as he walks over to you, gently takes your left face in the cradle of his webbed hand. His features may be human but you can feel the slime as it sticks. The bone white of his palm almost glows under moonlight. With soft eyebrows, he looks upon you with idolization.

“Why do I know your face?”

As serious as a grave, he says, “I was there. In your dreams. And even when they weren’t dreams, I was still there.”

Each innard organ of yours stirs like a bed of worms at his exigent tone. “Yo .. You’re a umi nyobo … no, a umi no otto.” A sea wife, but then you correct yourself, a sea husband. His features might be delicate but his voice is entirely a man’s. You remember two things about them. Very strong. Very dangerous.

You jerk your head away from the hold of a piscine hand. Frantic, you twist your body away to get back up shore, to lower the embrace the lake has over your body back down to your ankles. You make it only one step before you stop. Eyes facing the mountain, you stare in horror.

Beyond the summit, between the armies of trees, a thick plume of smoke rises up and points it black fingers up to the twilight hours.

Fumbling with your mind, you are drawn back to the present as the man attacks you. He wraps his arms like chains around your waist, pinning your arms. Water stirs around the bottom of the contact. The world tilts as he suddenly pushes you down. Water floods into the front of your yogi, spilling down between your breasts. You fight to be upward and he allows it, leaning his body over you in an acute angle. Water comes to a respite.

Both of you fall still, your chest heaving heavy. He presses his flat chest to your spine. The left side of his face lands on top of the crown of your head. For a minute, you two stay statue-like.

“If you can remember my face and species then you must know my name.”

“I do not,” clenched teeth grit together. “I do not know you,” you deny.

“Yes, you do. We grew up together. You were my only friend. I was your only friend. I gave you a fish to keep you in good health and you gave me a crane in the promise of our life together. As a child, we do things unclouded by hesitation. Don’t you remember that?”

“I was only a child. I had no way to understand that,” you bargain.

“But you participated in our wedlock as an adult. Just a month ago, at night, didn’t you?”

“I can’t remember.”

“I will help you remember. All your dreams and all your thoughts, they will be ours.” A piscine hand carefully picks up wet tendrils of hair from the humid skin of your body. He tucks it behind your ear where cold sweat accumulates. “I’ve only thought and dreamed of you, (Name). I only ever wanted to share an eternal life with you by my side.”

“That’s impossible,” you shiver when he draws a claw over the bridge of the bone in your ear, down to the lobe. “Yokai and humans live in different worlds. The sekai and ikai can’t –”

“I know. I know but you promised. You promised to share that immortal soul humans have with me; the immortal soul that yokai lack. I will be turning you into an umi bozu.”

Umi bōzu … a sea priest.

You have never seen one; you never want to see and much less want to become one. They may look humanoid but they are truly a monstrous sight. Shoulders and a head rising and appearing from rough, killing waves. Giants. Umi bōzu are as tall as a coastal redwood tree, incomprehensible in size. More fearsome than a whale to a sailor and more dangerous than a plague to a newborn. Black as shadow with bulbous, white-blue eyes, umi bōzu are titans of mystery.

Some believe they are the progenitors of the sea and others … believe they come from drowned priests. You watch the smoke move serpentine into the skies. You are almost grateful for the rough, constituting grip because you feel you are going to pass out with the thought of becoming one of those behemoth sea monks.

“I’ll – I’ll wake up. The sun isn’t up. I still have time to wake up.”

There is no way that fire is real. And even if it is real, it is not made by your hands – his brother and his boss –

“You say that the yokai of your shrine would vanish my brother and boss, but you forgot that those eyes are a sign of infestation. Mokumokumen invite other yokai in. You knew that and left them alone to watch you. It is almost like you were waiting for this … the consummation of our marriage. How duplicitous you are.”

“Jade. Jade, wake me up right now.”

His face splits apart in a smile unseen. He knew you remembered.

“You are awake, my wife. You are.”

It is almost disorienting how calm the water is. You feel like a riptide is tearing you up and throwing you left and right. Around your sandwiched waists, you and Jade stand in completely still waters. The current fluidly pushes at your legs but it is like a docile comfort. All is calming and accepting except for yourself. In the air, the scent of blood and fish swims with the breeze.

“Don’t you see that I love you? That I have only cared and protected you. That one garrapa, you must remember that,” you jolt at the reminder. “Though I am a bit sad to learn you remember him so well, you must remember the end of it too. I even sent my boss to make sure you would be in good health. (Name)?”

You see it clearly: your body distorted into a giant as tall as the Great Wall of China is long, a nebulous black form of head and shoulders surrounded by turbulent waves as a tiny ship is thrown left and right with the force of your existence. A ship carrying twenty plus men comparable to a rubber duck in a child’s tub.

You cannot become that monster. You cannot become an umi bōzu. Please God please.

Feverish, you chant Norito, a Shinto prayer only said by Shinto priests. It is a prayer to God to prevent bad things from happening. The words fly off your lips like a flight of birds taking off. You feel like your mind is an empty cavern.

Lord, give me one more chance.

“I really wish this could precede differently; your tender disposition is something I do not wish to upset.”

“God, help me,” you cry.

Jade listens to your tongue wag like it is the sound of a babbling brook. “The shrine is ash, dear.”

Waiting a minute longer, the sea husband grabs your face with his webbed hand. The last of your prayer is whispered as he tilts you to look at him, backdropped by the mammoth moon. His sun and moon eyes shine. “I have waited long enough. Let us start our honeymoon. Let us say goodbye to the sun.”

Then, Jade’s nails cut into you, making gill-shaped marks in the breast of your chest, just over the space where your lungs sit.

And as he drags you down, you scream the last scream of your mortal life.

#twisted wonderland jade leech x reader #jade leech #twisted wonderland x reader #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere jade leech

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planetkiimchi · 8 days

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this turn of events | d.sc

featuring: guard!winwin x royalty!reader

word count: 1172 words

author's note: every time i write something with wayv i can and will make them speak in chinese / their dialects if possible, so i guess we can’t really be surprised that when i say “their language”, i really just mean wenzhounese. i can’t speak wenzhounese myself, so i’m trusting google on this one. hope you enjoy <3

author's note 2.0: winwin believes in fate btw. if you even care. (source: the panda video at 3.40)

taglist: @slytherinshua ,, @welcometomyoasis

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Sicheng glanced up at you, his ruler, and his heart softened. You were strong, courageous, but most of all, you were whole. You had been split apart time and time again and you still stood there, fully whole and scarred from the fractures. You smiled your glorious smile, the one that made kingdoms crumble and cities tremble, that led countries to their downfall.

In his heart, he didn’t think he had ever held so much love for anyone—not for his sister, whose hearing they were currently attending, not for the parents that had laboured to give him such a good life.

No, the only person he held in his heart was you, the hurricane that had dredged him out of the outer circle, that had molded this farmer’s son into the highest of the royal guard.

If your intoxicating aura could have been hidden away like a secret, in a cave full of treasures and wonder, they would have done you in. Yet, your spirit roamed free, never crushed underfoot by conquerors. The people's attitude had no effect on you, only providing a source of amusement which you enjoyed greatly.

Sometimes, when your eyes twinkled like that, mischief and resignation muddled in a cloudy mess of emotions, Sicheng was afraid. Not afraid of you—never afraid of you—but afraid for whoever had incited that mischief, for he knew it would never end well.

He knew that two months earlier, when he had attempted to break Sixue out of prison, that he had intentionally been left as the only guard on duty. You trusted him, and your brother hadn’t interfered, because he’d wanted to test Sicheng.

He hadn’t passed that test, evidenced by how they were gathered in that courtroom again, awaiting judgement.

Earlier, when Sixue had been led into the courtroom, her eyes haunted and dull, lips cracked and dry, Sicheng had felt a flash of a headache. It happened when you exerted a great amount of power over him, typically when he was being stubborn, but it was gone in an instant.

Because even without you controlling him, he could feel your stare against his back, and that alone was commanding enough for him to listen.

Sicheng hadn’t intended to go towards Sixue, even if her gaunt body and the blood that had dried crimson on her skin worried him. Because you had told him not to, and he trusted you with his life. By extension, he trusted you with Sixue’s as well.

One glance at you now, back rigid and gaze emotionless, would send shivers down anyone's spine. With your narrowed eyes, taut lips set into a line, it was easy to overlook the spots of pink dusting your cheeks, a telltale sign of your investment in this trial.

It hadn’t been hard for you to offhandedly make a decision to give Sixue a trial instead of immediately sending her for execution—and though Sicheng had bristled at how much power you held, he found comfort in the fact that you would never wield that power carelessly.

He wasn’t sure how you were intending to turn this trial in your favour when you weren’t allowed to speak, and as he watched Sixue, worry tugged at his heart. Upon questioning, Sixue’s words were hollow, hair hanging like a sheet in a drawn-back ponytail. Her fingers kept twitching, and Sicheng noticed her fingernails were grimy with dirt.

Sixue denied all of the accusations, which was a complete change from her attitude the last time she’d been brought before you. What Sicheng didn’t know was that you had instructed her to deny all accusations, and you would take care of the rest.

With little to no evidence to prove her guilt, and your silence encouraging the judge to let her go, Sixue was released.

Once the trial had ended, she was brought out of the courtroom, albeit no longer in chains.

Sicheng turned towards you, pleading gaze begging for your permission to speak to her, and you blinked slowly, guiding his foot to take one step in Sixue’s direction.

He didn’t need to be told twice, sprinting out of the courtroom and darting down the steps to where Sixue was, ready to wrench her out of the guards’ grasps, but then he caught himself, stopped, and inhaled.

“I’ll take it over from here.” He issued it like an order, the same way he imagined you would have, and the guards looked at each other before shrugging and handing her over.

As soon as they were out of earshot, backs turned towards the brother and sister, Sicheng wrapped Sixue in a hug so tight she had to pry herself out of it, gesturing to her blood-stained clothes and the bruises on her limbs.

“Agū.” She said one word, but the weight of it was unbearable for Sicheng. That one word was filled with years of memories, Sixue always turning to her older brother in times of trouble; when she scraped her knee or sprained her ankle, when she got tanned after spending too long in the sun and she cried because she would never be fair again.

Now, she was indeed fair, pale, even—and still she called out for Sicheng. Agū. He was her safe haven, the only constant in her life, the one who would attempt to rescue her even with the threat of execution hanging above his head.

She crumpled in his arms like paper, fragile and easily torn, so light and frail she might have flown away if the wind blew too hard.

“Why… why would the Crown do that for me?” she whispered, referring to you the way all peasants did, as “the Crown”, or in their language, huáng guān.

“The Crown is a complex person,” he shrugs. “I’ve known them for so long, and yet I can never claim to know what exactly goes through their mind. I just know they’re not half as cruel as the rumours say.”

“They almost cut off my foot,” Sixue hissed, recoiling at the thought.

Sicheng rested one hand on her shoulder reassuringly. “The dagger would never have fallen on your foot. It was a mistake not to trust them then, because maybe if I’d left the dagger alone, they wouldn’t have sent you immediately for execution, and I wouldn’t have panicked and tried to break you—” He was cut off by Sixue clamping one hand over his mouth.

“Don’t voice it aloud. The walls have ears.”

Either way, as soon as Sicheng said it aloud, he knew that if he hadn’t changed the course of that dagger, you wouldn’t have had anything to bring your brother down with. In some ways, the world worked like that—if fate hadn’t brought him to you, he wouldn’t have had the money to keep his family alive.

Sixue would have spoken, but just then, you appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“My brother’s trial is in a short while,” you informed Sicheng. “Be ready.”

Sicheng nodded, and turned to Sixue. “Take care of yourself.”

Sixue hugged her brother once more and was off.

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babyblue711 · 10 months

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Redemption

Will (Salad Days) x Reader - Part 2 Read Part 1 Here Summary: You and Will reconnect after spending some years apart and learn that each of you has gone through their own difficult circumstances in that time. Your friendship develops into something more as you help each other heal from the past. Words: 7.2K

Warnings: NSFW, language, sexual content (18+), mild BDSM, miscarriage, prison, divorce, alcohol, infidelity, mention of death A/N: I am absolutely overwhelmed by the response to Part 1. Thank you all so so much. My heart has never been so happy reading your comments. Things get steamy here, it was my favorite part to write - I hope you all enjoy! Thank you to my beta readers @megatardisbaby and @arcielee; And thank you to @myfandomprompts for making those incredible gifs for me. Dividers by @firefly-graphic Distance, inches in between us I want you to give in I want you to give in Weakness, tension in between us I just wanna give in And I don't care if I'm forgiven - "Shameless" by Camila Cabello

A Couple Months Later

Late summer is in full swing and you are the happiest you can remember being in a very long time. Your mental state has greatly improved. Although you still had plenty of dark days and hard nights, they no longer held you captive as they once did. You didn’t feel as crushed by your grief anymore and had begun to feel hopeful again, waking up and looking forward to the day.

You still hadn’t defined your relationship with Will yet, worried about messing up your dynamic. Although you very much acted like a couple since you spoke every day and saw each other almost every weekend, sharing a few more sweet kisses and intimate make-out sessions. You could tell Will wanted to take things further, but it was important to you to take it slow and he respected your wishes. You were finding it more and more difficult to hold yourself back though, with a fire that ignited in your chest and desire pounded through your blood anytime he was near.

A pivotal moment came when he invited you over to his house to have tea with his Nan. Observing him doting on his aging grandmother was a testament to his kindness and compassion and it melted your heart. Despite the decline in her physical health, her mind and spirit remained undimmed, a fierce flame that illuminated the room; engaging with her had always been a delight, her wit sharp and her laughter infectious. You felt so comfortable sitting in their tiny kitchen, sharing a cup of tea together while listening to her tell stories of the past. With her, it felt like “home”.

Before you departed his house that day, his Nan pulled you to the side, gripping both of your hands with her wizened ones and looked up at you with watery eyes.

“Now you be sure to always take care of my boy as I know he will take care of you,” she said when Will was out of earshot, a small tremor to her voice.

The weight of her words carried an unspoken gravity, a plea for your unwavering care. Your throat felt tight. What would become of Will once his beloved Nan departed this world? Your heart constricted with worry as you felt he had suffered so much already, but you knew this day would inevitably come.

In response to her heartfelt plea, you squeezed her hands in return, smiling warmly, and vowed that you always would care for him too. The weight of that promise settled upon your shoulders, but you didn’t feel burdened by her request. You wanted to be there for him the same way he was there for you. The commitment of your pledge resonated deep within your soul, but your heart had never felt so full as you made your way back home.

It’s a beautiful day in mid August and you are back in the city for work, when you glance down at your phone and see a text from Will:

[Will]: Hey, fancy grabbin’ a pint at the pub in a bit? Drinks on me.

You smile as you reply.

[Y/N]: Sure, looking forward to it - let’s say around 7pm and maybe we can make Happy Hour?

Summer was quickly fading into autumn and you were eager to catch the last of the warm summer sun. You text your parents quickly that you would be home late and not to expect you for dinner, then gather your things and leave for the pub.

Your phone buzzes as you approach.

[Will]: I’m back in the pub garden.

As you make your way through the crowd towards him, you can’t help but admire just how good he looks in this moment. He’s trimmed his hair a bit and combed it back, the summer sun adding a few copper highlights to his usual light brown. His freckles stand out on his tanned, toned arms. He’s chosen another white t-shirt today with black jeans and black Adidas trainers, while you had taken advantage of the last days of warm weather to wear a cute sundress, navy with small vertical white stripes, buttoning down the front and tied at the waist with a cute little sash.

He’s relaxing in his chair with ease, something about his posture is mature and confident. It suits him so well and you can’t help but smile to yourself, pleased to have known the boy that this man has grown into. He already has a half-finished pint in front of him, his phone occupying his attention. He takes a drag from his cigarette as you approach.

His eyes light up when he sees you. “Took you long enough,” he says and playfully blows the smoke in your direction. Having never been much of a smoker, he knew that you hated it. Amused but slightly irritated, you arch an eyebrow at him and give him a sharp look, which soon dissipates as he leans in and gives you a kiss on the cheek, a smug smirk lifting the corner of his lips. Between the warmth of his lips on your cheek and his scent washing over you, smokey with the hint of his masculine shampoo, you couldn’t find it within yourself to be mad at him.

You cough a little for emphasis of your feigned irritation, “Thanks, you fuckin’ wanker, now where’s the pint I was promised?” You try your best to sound stern but you know he sees right through you. He continues to smirk at you, amused, then turns to go to the bar to get your drink.

You sit down and take in your surroundings. The seating arrangements are thoughtfully organized, with long communal tables and cozy nooks tucked away amidst lush greenery. Wooden benches and wrought-iron chairs invite guests to settle in while soft lighting from twinkling string lights adds an enchanting ambiance as day transitions into night.

Sun-kissed faces dot the outdoor seating area, as the other patrons try to catch a breeze in the shade, sipping on chilled beverages and enjoying idle chatter. You turn to see Will approaching with your drink and another for him in his hands. His eyes are on your tanned legs and you were glad you had chosen a light cotton sundress to wear that day.

Several hours later, darkness has fallen and several rounds of drinks have been enjoyed, laughter echoing through the air. A game of pool had turned into a friendly competition between you and Will.

You both had flirted incessantly with each other the whole night. As he showed you the proper way to hold a pool stick, you couldn’t help but notice his body heat radiate off of him, a tingling at the bottom of your spine at his proximity. When he leans over you and adjusts your grip on the pool stick, you give a small wiggle underneath him and he immediately notices. Leaning in close, he whispers “behave” into your ear while a long fingered hand squeezes your hip. Feeling sassy, you side-eye smirk at him, letting him know you absolutely did it on purpose and catching his shy, smug smile in return.

As the final ball sinks into the pocket, punctuating the end of the game, a triumphant smile spreads across your face and you declare yourself the winner.

“Taught you too well I guess,” Will teases, crossing his arms. “Or maybe I just let you win.”

“Oh, don’t be a sore loser,” you say playfully back as you nudge him in the ribs just for good measure. “I won fair and square!” You giggle and lean into him, the alcohol making you feel a little giddy. As you look up at him, you notice the way the string lights create a halo effect around his head; he looks like an angel fallen from heaven and you have to catch your breath for a moment.

He smiles down at you and hums in amusement, rubbing your bare arms from the chilly air now that the sun has set. You can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction and contentment, safe in his arms, and you wanted him to know it.

“Thank you for the drinks and good company tonight,” you say sweetly. “I had a lot of fun.”

He seems pleased, his eyes warm. “Me too. Are you sure you didn’t just meet me here to pay for the drinks?” he banters, smiling.

“I bought the third round!” you exclaim in mock outrage, hitting his arm in jest.

He chuckles, surprising you with a quick kiss on the lips. The small gesture lights a fire in your belly; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze burning right through you.

You gather your things and he takes your hand as you make your way out of the bar, both of you feeling as if you didn’t want the night to end. You don’t want to let go of his hand.

Once outside, he hesitates a little, “You know, Nan and I live right over the way, it’s a short walk from here. Given the hour, would you want to come and stay?” You consider him for a moment; it was later than you intended and you aren’t looking forward to taking public transportation back home alone at this hour.

“Are you sure we won’t be bothering your Nan?” you ask in a hushed tone.

“Nah, not at all. I have the whole downstairs to myself since Nan lives upstairs. She’s a sound sleeper, won’t hear us at all,” he reassures you.

You look up into his pleading puppy dog eyes and agree to go home with him, never having been able to turn down those eyes. Will lights another cigarette as he walks you home, burning end in one hand, the other placed on the small of your back, guiding you home. You swear you can feel an electric current thrum between the two of you as you walk side by side in a comfortable silence.

A short while later, you arrive at his doorstep; he unlocks the door and steps back to let you in. The threshold reveals a small landing, offering a choice of stairs that split in opposite directions. To the right, the stairs ascend to the upper level and to the left, they descend to the basement.

“Do you mind if I check on Nan real fast? Since it’s late, she probably won’t be in the visiting mood, if she’s still up. I’ll be downstairs in a minute,” Will says.

“Of course,” you say easily, as you wouldn’t want to be disturbed by visitors at this hour either. You wander downstairs and flip on a light, the soft glow of the lamp illuminating his space, tidier than you would have thought for a guy. A black leather sofa sits up against the wall, furnished with squashy grey pillows, opposite a big, flat screen TV. Trinkets and old photos adorn the bookshelf in the corner of the room. There’s a door to the left to what you are assuming is his bedroom. You sit on the sofa and make yourself comfortable while you wait.

Within a few moments, you hear footsteps on the stairs and Will reappears carrying two glasses of water for you both. “Nan’s fast asleep, didn’t even hear us come in,” he says. “Thought you might need some of this,” he gestures to the water. You accept your glass gratefully and take a few sips, the ice cool on your tongue.

Emptying his pockets onto the coffee table and kicking off his shoes, Will plops down on the couch next to you and makes himself at home. You follow suit by removing your sandals, still feeling a little chilly from the cool nighttime air. He notices you shivering slightly and gets up, heading into his room to get you a hoodie of his to put on.

You can hear him rummaging around to find you something acceptable to wear. You sip your water, eyes glancing to the bookshelf in the corner. Framed ornately in gold, the largest photo catches your eye and you can tell, even from a distance, it is probably the last recent photo Will has of his mum and dad. You wander over for a closer look, studying their happy faces, smiling at how much Will resembles his mum.

“Think this’ll do?” he says suddenly from behind you and you turn to see him holding up a grey hoodie; you are fairly certain it is the same one he always wore when you were in school together.

“Yeah, that’ll do, thank you,” you say, reaching for it. He moves closer, noticing the photograph that must have caught your attention.

With a deep sigh, he stares at the photograph for a moment before turning his eyes on you. Without saying anything, he cups your face in one large hand, staring intently into your eyes. You gaze back steadily, worried that you had upset him by looking at this photograph, afraid to have accidently brought up the past. For a moment, you both breathe in unison together, you inhale his exhale and he, yours. Finally, he leans down and kisses you.

The kiss starts out slowly but quickly becomes heated. At last, you think to yourself with a sigh. You didn’t come home with Will with the intention of hooking up with him; you were pleased at his generosity to invite you to stay the night rather than traveling home alone by yourself. But, now that you were getting lost in his kiss, you didn’t know how you were going to stop, reveling in the feeling of his lips and the taste of his tongue on yours.

You suck his bottom lip into your mouth, pulling on it slightly before giving him your bottom lip to suck on in return. You gently slide your tongue along his lower lip, enjoying the smoothness of the kiss as he languidly pushes his tongue into your mouth. He slides his tongue over yours and you do the same back to him. After another moment or two of blissful oblivion, he pulls back, looking down at you with hooded eyes.

Desire stirs in his blown pupils and you are certain he can see the fire reflected in yours as the savage storm inside of you threatens to spill over from your carefully maintained control. You have tried to be good...have tried to give your heart time to mend before going any further, but tasting his kiss was slowly breaking your resolve.

Setting his forgotten hoodie down on a nearby armchair, he leads you by the hand towards the leather sofa, pulling you onto his lap to straddle him. His head tilts on the back of the couch as he watches you settle yourself in his lap, your dress riding up on your thighs. Staring into his fathomless blue eyes, you find yourself getting lost, sinking to the bottom of those ocean-blue depths.

Time seems to slow down. Your fingertips caress his face lightly, over his cheekbone and down his sharp jaw, ghosting over his perfect lips, tracing their shape, and reaching up to run your fingers through his hair, tugging a bit at the back. His large, warm hands rest on your hips, squeezing lightly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows; his breathing steady, he seems content to watch you while you stroke his face.

Your eyes flicker back to his and you both simultaneously resume your kiss; you trail kisses along his jawline towards his right ear, purposefully tickling it lightly with your breath. He shifts slightly under you, fingers tangling in your hair, and he huskily whispers in your ear, “Tell me how you like it.”

Those simple words ignite the fire in your chest. You chuckle softly while unbidden, dark thoughts race through your mind. Oh…you knew perfectly well what you wanted him to do. The deepest part of your subconscious mind ferally roars to be let out of her cage. Your heartbeat picks up as you momentarily remember what it feels like to be alive again and your hunger for him quickly begins to overpower any common sense you still possess.

Slow down, don’t move so fast, your inner voice whispers to you, echoing in a distant chamber of your empty brain.

You pause, pretending to contemplate his question as you lick the outer edge of his ear, needing to taste his skin. You press your body close to his, absolutely sure he can feel your heartbeat thunder in your chest.

Ignoring your inner warning completely, you whisper into his ear in turn, “I want you to hurt me.” The words escape your lips before you have a second chance to think about it. You bite down on his neck, not enough to hurt but definitely enough to get his attention by emphasizing your meaning.

He jumps a little at the unexpected pain and sucks in a breath. “Hurt you?” He pulls away, his blue eyes searching yours, a slight frown creasing between his eyebrows. You knew it was not in his nature to be rough with a woman and what you were asking was probably pushing his limit.

“Please, Will?” you beg sweetly, not wanting to completely scare him at this point.

Your mental sanity was slipping but you knew he could help you, you just had to show him how. How could you tell him that, by wrapping his long fingers around your throat and squeezing, you could finally have clarity again? How do you explain to him that you want to see bite marks and bruises on your skin without sounding like a total psycho? That, by giving yourself completely to him, when he has total control over you, releases your anxiety and frees your mind? You are sick of the mental anguish, the voices in your head, always at war with yourself, always trying to do the right thing, the pain of your past always simmering just below your surface. All you wanted was for it all to stop. Just for a moment.

He regards you intently, his tongue darting out, moistening his bottom lip as you see his decision form in his eyes. “Are you sure you want me to do this?” he asks quietly as he studies your face. His change of tone is subtle but you immediately pick up on it. He’s turning the tables like he’s the one asking for permission now.

“I’m sure,” you breathe, voice barely above a whisper. “Do your worst,” you challenge. “But I gotta warn you, I may bite and scratch a little,” you tell him seductively.

He smirks. “Good, because you’ll crawl and beg too,” he promises ominously, his gaze darkening so his eyes almost look black in the low light as his face hardens. “Well, well, well, who knew you had this side to you, Y/N?” he purrs at you, voice low and deep.

Considering just how quickly he acquiesced, you silently find yourself thinking the same thing about him. You didn’t expect this side of Will, but the sultry tone of his voice has your heartbeat racing, longing to know more of what he could do to you.

His hands roam over your body, up from your hips, over your ribcage and back down your spine, moving lower to grab a chunk of your ass and squeeze. Lifting you suddenly by your ass, he suddenly flips you over, so that he’s on top of you on the couch. Propping himself up on his elbows, he kisses you deeply, his tongue moving over yours as he dominates your mouth. You feel his length stiffen against your core and you can’t help but grind your hips into his, seeking friction, moaning involuntarily at the way he is consuming you. Moving from your mouth down your body, he places hot, open-mouth kisses and sharp bites to the delicate skin of your neck and collarbone.

Hindered by your cotton sundress, he reaches for the buttons that lace the front, undoing them slowly, kissing and sucking every inch of new skin that he exposes. He unties the sash at your waist, continuing lower as you run your fingers through his hair, squirming underneath him.

Suddenly, he stops and sits up. “I have an idea,” he says as he finishes the last button on your dress, laying it open, exposing your matching bra and lace panties to him. His eyes roam over your curves, dark with longing. “And I’ll need the sash on your dress,” he adds.

He rises from the couch to allow you room to remove the sash from your dress and you wonder what’s coming next. He moves to the coffee table where he had dropped all his things earlier and you notice him picking up his lighter. Eyeing him apprehensively, you think to yourself "what the hell?”

“Will…are you sure we won’t get caught?” you ask, feeling like a teenager all over again hooking up in your parents’ basement while trying not to make any noise.

“Nah, Nan doesn’t do stairs well anymore,” Will shrugs, unconcerned. You hand him the sash from your dress.

“One more thing,” he says as he cleverly unhooks your bra with one hand. “Good, now lay back down,” his tone leaves no room for argument.

Obediently, you do as you’re told, shivering slightly as your bare skin rests on the cool leather of the couch. You feel open and exposed as you watch him drink in the sight of your appearance, his eyes lingering on your breasts. Being topless on his couch where anyone could see suddenly feels so erotic. Your breathing picks up speed as you realize he intends to blindfold you with your sash and you decide to play along. Once it’s secure, he kisses your lips lightly, abruptly biting down on your bottom lip. You gasp in surprise, pleasure coursing through your body at the unexpected pain.

“Remember, you asked for this,” he growls into your ear.

Straining your other senses, you feel him move away from you for a moment, hearing the sound of clinking ice. “Now, don’t scream and stay still,” he says in a low tone as ice cold liquid suddenly moves over your skin, first near your neck at your collarbone, and then down between your breasts, circling each nipple, their peaks stiffening immediately. You jump and gasp at the unexpected cold sensation, a shiver running through your body as your skin melts the ice.

You moan quietly and almost miss the next sound, the snick of his lighter. You freeze in place, fear momentarily clutching at your heart…Surely not? Did he intend to burn you? You curse internally, Does he know what he’s doing? Your breath becomes rapid as you wait for the pain, senses heightened by the blindfold.

Instead, a warm liquid drips onto your skin, everywhere the ice cube had been moments before. It immediately hardens upon contact and you realize what it is: candle-wax. You feel the liquid drizzle on your breasts and stomach, warm but not unpleasant, it cools almost instantaneously when it touches your skin, cold from the ice.

Repeating the process, Will continues dripping some down your inner thighs, alternating between cold ice and hot wax. You quiver and whimper in pleasure, your chest rising and falling with each breath. You unexpectedly feel his breath on your left nipple as his warm tongue caresses the sensitive bud, while he massages the other breast with his hand. Your back arches off the couch, the sensations between hot and cold and his mouth on you starting to become overwhelming.

You squirm as you feel him climbing on top of you, settling between your legs, brushing away some of the hardened wax. Tantalizingly, you feel his fingertips skate under the band of your panties.

“God, you are so fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathes and you can feel the heat in your cheeks at his compliment. “Lift your hips for me,” he murmurs as he pulls your underwear off, discarding them on the floor while placing a pillow under your bottom, elevating you for him. Panting as the cool air hits your hot pussy, you ache for him to finally touch you there.

“Hmm, such a pretty, perfect little pussy you have,” his fingertips part your folds, opening you up to him, “Already so wet for me,” he growls as you feel him gather your slick on his fingers, bringing it up to your pearl, rubbing it with light circles. As much as you want him to touch you, it takes everything in you not to close your legs, keeping them open for his inspection, his actions made ever more sensual as you are still blindfolded and can’t see his expression at all.

You feel him lower himself between your legs as he wraps his strong arms around your thighs. You hear him inhale, then he blows cool air directly onto your aching core. Jesus Fucking Christ, you think as your pussy automatically clenches down around nothing, and you mewl pathetically, practically begging for more.

Ignoring your wishes, he begins kissing the insides of your thighs, biting and sucking and making sure he leaves bruises behind, just like you secretly want him to. After what seems like eternity, you feel his sharp nose run through your soaked folds, his luscious lips attach to your pearl and he sucks deeply.

Ecstasy at finally being touched the way you want, you slap a hand over your mouth to stifle a loud moan, fearful of waking his Nan at the most inopportune time. You know you’re in trouble as you’ve never been quiet in bed and you hated the thought of having to start now. You quickly shove a pillow over your face, muffling your noises as he fucks you.

Will chuckles at your struggle, his tongue pushing into you, lapping at your folds, sucking your clit. You suddenly feel a finger at your entrance, sliding in easily given how wet you were for him. He strokes inside of you for a moment before inserting a second finger, wiggling them on the way in, stretching your pussy and brushing that spongy spot inside. Electricity zings through your core and into your chest with his touch, causing you to let out a muffled cry. You’re sure your heart skips several beats as he continues stroking inside of you, curling his fingers and beckoning your orgasm forward. Writhing and moaning like a slut, you buck your hips up into his face, the pleasure consuming you.

“Hmm, so tight. Just the way I always imagined,” he whispers, almost to himself. The fact that Will, your sweet Will, was talking so dirty turns you on even more. The room is full of your pants and moans and lewd noises coming from your wet core.

Expertly alternating his tongue between flicking your clit and sucking on it, he sets a steady rhythm with his fingers, consistently brushing that rough patch inside of you, your orgasm approaching almost embarrassingly quick. Breathing heavily into the pillow, you let out a muffled cry as your release washes over you, shattering in his face, legs trembling uncontrollably. You feel your walls pulse around his fingers as he continues to fuck you through your peak.

Coming down from your high, you remove the offending pillow from your face, panting heavily and muttering a string of curses. You rip your blindfold off so you can see his face. He’s still crouched between your thighs, his lips wet from your slick, looking indecently triumphant at making you cum so quickly. Without hesitating you reach for him, pulling him back up your body, slamming your lips against his. You revel at the salty taste of yourself on his tongue.

You can’t remember the last time a man ate your pussy so well. Crazed with lust, you reach to undo his pants, with Will suckling at your neck. There was nothing that you wanted more in this moment than to have his cock in your mouth as you unzip his jeans.

Realizing what you are trying to do, he rises above you, assuming control once again. “So eager for my cock now, are you?” a devilish smirk plays on his lips. “I need you on your knees.”

Christ, you think to yourself as you hastened to obey. You had never experienced this dominant side of Will, but you could feel the slick forming between your thighs again from his simple command.

Sitting on the couch, knees spread, he’s pulled his cock out but his jeans are still on, pumping himself with his right hand. He watches your expression, breathing deeply through his long, straight nose.

Your hands slide up his thighs and you finally get a good look at his cock - thick and veiny, his length stands proudly erect against his stomach, the head weeping slightly; he’s impressively large. His patch of hair is kept trimmed and neat, his balls round and smooth with a light dusting of finer hair.

You gulp involuntarily at the sight of him; you had no idea he was so big. Your eyes flick up to meet his own and he raises his eyebrows at you, as if to say yeah, I know it’s big.

You smirk at his audaciousness as you tug at his pants and he lifts his hips, allowing you to pull his jeans and boxers completely off. You were naked, why shouldn’t he be too? you reason with yourself, eagerly removing his clothes, although he still had his t-shirt on.

Kneeling between his legs, you gently wrap your hand around his cock, enjoying the soft velvety texture of it, swiping your thumb over the weeping head, watching his face. You pump him a few times, feeling the weight of his impressive length heavy in your hand.

He sucks in a breath when you wrap your lips around his cock and begin taking him as far as you can, your hand continuing to pump the rest that won’t fit in your mouth. You breathe through your nose and relax your throat, attempting to take him further. His breathing is quick and shallow as he moves his hips gently, matching the rhythm of your mouth as you move up and down his length. You can feel the tip of his cock hit the back of your throat and feel momentary pride that you never had much of a gag reflex. Your other hand gently cups his balls and gives them a gentle massage.

He groans in pleasure and closes his eyes, tilting his head on the back of the couch as you continue your ministrations. Slurping noises fill the room as you repeatedly swirl your tongue over the tip. Flattening your tongue, you lick a strip up the vein in the middle of his shaft like a lollipop before fastening your mouth around the head and sucking harshly. You moan around his cock as you feel your core start to ache all over again, so turned on by giving him pleasure.

As you work him, his fingers tangle in your hair; he doesn’t use force, only guiding your motions as you slurp and suck on him. After a few more passes with your mouth and tongue, his fingers tighten on your hair, pulling you away from his cock. Confused, you look up at him with pleading eyes, wanting to continue.

“If you keep doing that, I’m not going to last very long.” He stands suddenly, dragging you up from the floor by your hair. You whine at the pain but an insane smile plays on your lips, impressed how committed he was to this dominant role and you secretly love the pain.

He hauls you towards his bedroom, flipping on the lamp at the bedside table. Letting go of your hair, he turns to you and removes his shirt, grabbing from behind his neck and pulling it up over his head. The first thing you notice is the silver necklace he’s always worn, even years ago during your school days, hanging around his neck. You glance at the cross, before your eyes drink in the sight of his naked body, admiring his strong shoulders, muscular chest, and toned abs.

Prowling towards you, he presses his body to yours, the heat coming off of him in waves and warming your naturally cooler skin. His hands reach for your hips as he holds you close to him, a moment of tenderness, your arms circling around his neck.

Just as you think he’s leaning down to kiss you, suddenly he’s bending down, grabbing you by the thighs, and unceremoniously throwing you onto the bed. The bed makes for a soft landing but it momentarily stuns you as you crash down upon it, having no time to recover as he’s suddenly on top of you again, caging you in with his muscular arms, resting between your thighs. He lowers his mouth to yours, ravaging you again, his fingers in your hair, holding you still for him.

You whine loudly into his mouth, needing him, your core aching for him, desperate for more. You want to feel his large cock stretch you, the anticipation eating at your patience. He’s moving back down your body again, biting harshly on your nipple, then moving his tongue over the sore spot to ease the pain. His thumb finds your clit as he repeats the bite to your other breast. You arch your back towards him as he continually switches between giving you pain and pleasure, your mind going blissfully numb.

Suddenly, he's kissing back up your body, but your core is still aching to be touched. You mewl, rubbing your thighs together. “Don’t worry, I’m not done with you yet,” he whispers darkly.

Laying down on his side next to you, he slides a hand between your breasts, down your stomach and onto your aching core where he doesn't waste time, inserting two fingers and setting a brutal pace. The palm of his hand rubs your clit and his long fingers reach deep inside you, repeatedly stroking that rough spot. Your heart jolts again at the sensation, you’re panting and moaning uncontrollably as he fucks you ruthlessly with his fingers. Just as soon as your walls begin to pulsate, he takes his hand away and you look up at him in horror.

“Oh, no worries, love, you’re gonna cum again, but it’s gonna be on my cock,” he purrs into your ear.

You huff and pant, deciding to tease him a little in return. You reach for his fingers that were just inside of you, his middle and ring fingers coated with your slick. Maintaining eye contact, you watch his face as you insert each finger into your mouth, licking him clean. You close your lips and hum around his fingers, enjoying your salty taste. His mouth hangs open and you observe his chest rising and falling more rapidly as he stares at your hot mouth sucking on his fingers.

“Fuck,” he murmurs hoarsly, suddenly positioning himself between your legs once his fingers are clean. Laying his body on top of yours, you relish in the feeling of his warm weight pressing you into the bed, chest to chest, skin to skin, your hips cradling his. Your hands caress the broad planes of his back and shoulders as he sucks on your neck, leaving a hickey you know you won’t be able to hide. Your hips buck up into his, your patience gone, you need him to be inside you.

“Will, please,” you beg pathetically, reaching down and stroking his cock, attempting to guide it to your entrance.

“Didn’t I promise you would beg for it?” he whispers, a smug smile on his lips as he knows what a pathetic, mewling mess he has already made of you.

Sitting back on his heels between your legs, he pumps himself a few times, his eyes hooded and dark, raking over your body that’s laid out on the bed before him. He takes his thumb and circles your clit, guiding his cock with his other hand to your entrance. He teases you, sliding just the head in and back out again. His mouth is open slightly and he pants a little as he tortures you by not giving you what you want. You inhale sharply at first as his thick head stretches your pussy, but soon start to squirm and whine, needing his cock to fill you up. Without warning, he grabs you by your hips and thrusts into you, your pussy clenching down on his cock at the intrusion, your back arching off the bed, you suck in a sharp breath and let out a small cry at the pain of the sudden stretch as he hurts you so good.

He lowers his body back onto yours once he’s buried himself to the hilt in your wet heat where he pauses, allowing you to adjust to him. You take a few deep breaths through your nose, pulling him closer to you, nibbling on his neck and shoulders to distract yourself from the stretching of your pussy around his thick cock. You can feel every ripple, every vein, every ridge of his cock inside of you.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he groans into your neck at the sensation of being squeezed, filling you so deliciously. Capturing your lips again with his own, he doesn’t move above you, hips still against yours.

You moan into his mouth, tugging at the back of his hair, raking your nails down his back, ready for him to finally move. He gives a few shallow thrusts, watching your face, making sure you’re okay. Satisfied that you aren’t in any more pain, he pulls out and slams his hips back into yours and you cry aloud as another jolt of electric pleasure courses through you.

His hips roll into yours with a steady rhythm and you pant as the drag of his cock continually rubs against your g-spot, sending more electric currents through your pussy. His face is still in your neck and you grab the back of his hair, breathing harshly into his ear, overwhelmed at the sensation of his cock inside of you.

He adjusts positions to hover over you, his damn silver necklace swinging in your face. He grips your thigh with one hand as he drags it up over his hip, the other hand slides up your chest, his long fingers wrapping around your throat as he slams into you relentlessly, holding you in place for him. He’s careful not to push on your windpipe, rather putting pressure on the sides of your neck, giving you room to breathe.

The noises of heavy breathing and skin slapping erotically fills the room, the smell of sex in the air. You grip the wrist that’s wrapped around your throat, the better to hold on as he picks up the pace, snapping his hips into yours. You feel the strength of his arm holding you down, corded with muscle, watching as his abs flex with every thrust into you. The primal knowledge of his strength and power, the thought that he could easily crush your windpipe without even trying, the feel of his cock stretching your walls, the scent of his body, the heat radiating off of him takes over your senses until there is nothing left but him. Your body submits to him, your numb brain surrendering as you allow him total control over you.

Grunting and breathing heavily, he curses under his breath, “So tight…..fuckin’ hell,” he says between thrusts.

With his punishing pace, you can feel your walls fluttering around his cock, constantly sucking him back in as he repeatedly hits your spongy spot. You reach between your bodies to rub circles on your clit.

He glances down at your hand, “You gonna cum for me, love? God, I can feel you clenching, your pussy doesn’t want to let me go,” he groans, voice seductively deep. “Look at you taking this dick so well. Who does your pussy belong to?” he asks suddenly, squeezing around your neck a little for emphasis and thrusting into you harshly.

Your breath coming out in gasps, his question only fuels the pleasure building deep within, his possessive energy consuming you.

“Y…you, Will,” you whimper his name, barely able to form a coherent thought.

“That’s what I thought,” he grunts back, never slowing his pace.

You can feel your orgasm approaching, ecstasy building steadily, you start babbling uncontrollably, willing him to keep going.

“Will,” you pant, your breathing harsh, “I’m - I’m coming, Will. Please… don’t stop….”

A moment later he practically growls as your cunt clenches around his cock, pistoning his hips into yours as your orgasm hits you like a freight train, waves of pleasure crashing over you, one wave rolling into the next. You cry aloud, hardly hearing the volume of your own voice, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, your breathing fast and labourious and you don’t think you’ve ever come so hard in your life.

He pounds into you, sustaining your pleasure through your peak, somehow managing not to cum himself until your cries die down. He pulls out of you, pumping himself the last few strokes, squirting his hot seed all over your belly. “Fucking perfect little pussy, took me so well,” he pants, breathing heavily.

Your body feels like a limp noodle and immediately your eyes feel heavy, all you can manage to do is continue laying there, trying to catch your breath while Will retrieves a warm, wet washcloth from the bathroom. He cleans himself off of you, gently rubbing over your stomach, even wiping the mess of slick from between your thighs. You jump and whimper a little at the sensation as he brushes over your abused pussy, so sensitive after multiple orgasms, but you can tell he is trying to be as gentle as possible.

After your thorough cleaning, you both slide down into the sheets of his bed, still naked, facing one another. Neither of you speak, content to only gaze at the other. Reaching for him, you trail your fingertips over his shoulders and chest and down his arms, as if by touching him, you are making sure he is real. His eyes blink at you slowly, calm and content.

“Was that too rough for you? I didn’t do too much?” he asks quietly after a moment, you can hear the concern in his voice, worried that he took it too far with you.

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You lean over to him, placing a sweet kiss on his lips. “Not at all, you were perfect. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for that.”

He gives you a small smile of satisfaction in return, brushing the hair from your face. You snuggle back down into his chest, both of you falling into a deep and peaceful slumber. Wrapped in his arms, curled into the heat of his body, enveloped in his smell, it was the best night’s sleep you had had in a very long time.

>>>Part 3

Tags: @sylas-the-grim @peonamay @quinnquinn317 @multyfangirl @aemondsscar @highinthetower @cyeco13 @chainsawsangel @boundlessfantasy

#ewan mitchell #will #will salad days #salad days #aemond targaryen #smut

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fairy-writes · 11 months

Note

Hey there :) I hope you’re having a fantastic day :) please could I request action prompt 13 for gojo satoru 💙💙

ANGER AND ANGUISH

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

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Fandom(s): Jujutsu Kaisen

Pairing(s): Gojo Satoru x Gender Neutral!Reader

Prompt: Sharing a kiss after a massive battle (Action Prompt #13)

Notes: Idk if this cursed spirit idea even makes any sense, but we’re rolling with it anyway.

Also, TW for minor descriptions of gore

This is for my 1K followers event! It’s going on between June 8th and June 22nd!

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The acrid scent of blood and smoke is thick on your tongue, making you gag and dry heave, hunching over as you spit onto the ground.

Was it over?

Please let it be over.

There’s a ringing in your ears and a hand at your back.

Someone’s saying something. Shouting something. But you can’t hear them.

You turn, dazed and confused. Who is talking?

Itadori Yuuji.

He’s screaming at you, but you can’t understand what he’s trying to say. You can see the flash of a fire alarm going off in the background. You squint, and he seems to realize what’s happening. So instead of saying anything more, he hauls you to your feet, slings your arm over his shoulder, and takes a step forward. You stumble after him.

Only to freeze when he seemingly hears something. You watch as the blood drains from his face, and you can smell it.

The scent of something rotting. Something long dead but somehow alive at the same time.

You know that smell.

So you turn and see the cursed spirit perched on the teacher’s desk, chattering its teeth as it watches the two of you hobble away. It cocks its head to the side like some curious dog. It was almost human-like. If humans stood seven feet tall, hunched on all fours like some deformed hunchback, that is.

That’s right…

You remember now. Why you were even here.

It was supposed to be easy. That was the whole reason Yuuji had come along—for extra training. It was supposedly a simple grade-two cursed spirit infestation at an elementary school. Kids had gone missing, only for their contorted and mangled bodies to be found days after their disappearance, bellies ripped open to show feasted upon innards.

You accepted the job almost immediately.

Except the moment you encountered the beast, you knew there was no way it was a grade-two spirit. It was grade one, at the very least, maybe even a special grade.

Where was Satoru?

You had texted him just before the fight started, just a simple “I’m worried ‘toru.” He hadn’t responded. But you knew he had seen it.

So where was he?

That led you to where you are now, being dragged along by Yuuji in an attempt to get away before the cursed spirit could come to eviscerate you both like it had done to victims in the past.

All the while, you couldn’t look away. Couldn’t look away from the emaciated body. Couldn’t look away from the too many too-sharp teeth. And most of all… couldn’t look away from the blank, milky-white eyes. They were solid orbs of fallen snow, not another color found in the murky depths.

“Don’t look at it!” Your hearing was coming back. It was still muffled, like someone was talking through cotton, but you could hear it again.

The tap tap tapping of the claws.

The unnatural clicking.

The chattering of those teeth.

No mouth should ever be that wide; no smile should ever have that many teeth.

You manage to tear your eyes away from the being, but in the process, you trip over a half-smashed desk and go crashing to the ground. Yuuji tries to keep you both on your feet and tries to keep going. But your cursed energy is depleted, and Yuuji—as superhuman as he was—can only keep going for so long.

The corner of a desk cracks into the side of your skull, and your vision goes white. There’s something wet and sticky dripping down your face, and when you go to wipe it off, your fingers come away red.

Yuuji is struggling to his knees, hands trembling and breath coming out in little panicky gasps.

He’s scared.

And there’s nothing you can do about it.

Except…

Maybe…

You turn on your knees and use the edge of an unfallen desk to pull yourself upright, finding your weapon amongst the rubble and holding it at the ready.

Maybe if the spirit kills you here… maybe then Yuuji could get away…

So there you stand, knees shaking and teeth gritting together as the cursed spirit gets closer and closer.

“Suck it up, damn it!” You curse yourself. You’re supposed to be a powerful sorcerer. Someone that others can look up to. The one training the next generation. This should have been easy.

When had it gone so wrong?

You close your eyes and feel a certain kind of peace.

You were going to die.

But that was okay. At least Yuuji would be safe.

Until…

“Playtime’s over, you little goblin!” Comes a familiar voice. Your eyes shoot open, and you see him.

Satoru.

His sapphire pools are ablaze with an emotion you can’t quite put a finger to. He very near hovers in the air and has a hand extended. He meets your eyes with a sort of boyish charm, and then,

“Did you miss me?” He quips with a grin, and you let out a disbelieving laugh.

You weren’t going to die here.

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in the hospital.

The stink of the antiseptic and medicine makes you hunch up in bed and retch. It reminded you all too much of the smoke and blood and the smell of rotting flesh.

You’re dry-heaving into a garbage bin next to your hospital bed when the door slides open and shut. Glancing up, your eyes meet azure eyes still lit with the emotion from before. Abruptly… you realize it’s anger. Mixed with a myriad of other emotions, but that’s the first one you put a name to. The longer you stare at him, the more you realize what Satoru is feeling.

He’s angry and worried and oh so sad.

Angry at you.

Worried about you.

“You were going to die.” His voice is thin and small and so uncharacteristic for someone like him.

“But I didn’t.” You whisper and watch as he clenches his fists so hard his knuckles turn white.

“You had given up.” His tone is sharp and biting, a stark contrast to the scared man who had been standing before you mere moments before.

You go to swing your legs over the side of your hospital bed, and despite Satoru’s anger, he’s at your side in an instant. His hands are large and calloused at your wrist and back as he guides you into a more comfortable sitting position.

But he doesn’t take a seat at your side. Not like he used to when you were teenagers, and you’d get injured doing something reckless.

He’d sit at your side, showing you some dumb video or photo on his phone while Suguru stood back, watching in amusement.

Oh, how you missed those simpler times.

You look into the eyes of the man you loved so much and find him watching you with those deep blue eyes you adored.

“You were going to die.” He reiterates, standing before you with his hands in his pockets. You had known him long enough to know it was an attempt to hide his worry. He had done it since before you had even met.

“I can’t lose you. Not like I—” Satoru doesn’t have to finish the sentence for you to understand what he was going to say.

“Not like I lost Suguru.”

You reach out with a trembling hand and fist it in the fabric of his jacket, pulling him closer so you can lean your forehead against his stomach. You feel a hesitant hand in your hair, gently ruffling the tresses as you bite your lip.

“I’m sorry.” You croak, and he finally moves. He takes a seat at your side, pulling you close to his side. You rest your head against him and have to ask.

“How’s Yuuji?” You whisper, and he huffs out a laugh,

“He’s fine. A little shaken, maybe. But worry about yourself once in a while, would ya?” He says, and his voice cracks.

And that sound alone breaks your heart.

Scooting yourself onto your knees, you turn to face Satoru and cup his face with soft hands. He lets you readily, looking at you with eyes so filled with anguish that you can barely stand it. So you close your eyes and press your lips to his.

His kiss tastes like unfallen tears.

#gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #fairy writes #fairy 1000 followers

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itsgrimeytime · 1 month

Text

Magnolia in May (Part Thirty Two) || Rick Grimes (TWD) x Greene!f!reader Regency AU

Parts 1-20, 21-30, 31...

Taglist: @loliakeoghan23 @curlycarley @queenie32 @mgparker @misatmosfear

rick grimes taglist: @golden-hoax @mgparker

AVAILABLE ON AO3

Inspiration (in honor of Speak Now Taylor's Version): Enchanted by Taylor Swift.

Summary: Your town was small, not the smallest you knew, but anyone of high fortune was the gossip of the week. Predictably, Richard Grimes was a thing of whispers -rumors of a search for marriage among the grassy hills. You weren't one to buy into town gossip, but something about him... just seemed a little too intriguing.

TW: a little kissing, mention of alcohol.

[[A/N: girl this story is my babyyyy. And so is this Rick, but that's irrelevant. Thanks for reading !!! ]]

"Of course," you answered, unhesitatingly.

Without a word, he placed Judith off his lap and she scampered over to Maggie -who was now holding a bouquet, a makeshift one.

Standing, he allowed you through first, slipping a hand to open the door for you -ever so gentlemanly. He was acting as if you'd be frustrated with him, and you supposed in time you would but now? You were rather delighted he'd make it to his own wedding.

Your wedding.

You weren't sure how to explain that exactly, however. So you merely grabbed onto his arm, as you always did -something in your stomach fluttered (you had missed him very much), and allowed him to guide you. He didn't stop anywhere as usual, instead venturing into his far office -the one where he told you of Judith's upbringing.

You pursed your lips at the twisted moment, it was a mix of emotions then and even now.

Allowing you to sit, he quickly drew the curtains to shed the sunlight -it was still rather bright, and on the same footing, guided the door shut. It wasn't exactly frowned upon, now that you were engaged, but not exactly supported with the highest spirits either. You were suddenly rather worried that this was far more serious than expected.

"Mr. Grimes?" You offered as he stood rather aimlessly in the middle of the room -almost looking as if he was to begin pacing, "-Please, sit down."

He paused, eyes rising from the floor, before with a long sigh, obeying your request. He sat incredibly close, and you found it rather comforting to feel his body warmth against you again. The familiar woodsy scent bubbling up your nose, you took a deep inhale.

Moving your hands to rest upon his forearm, you absent-mindedly traced the creases and folds of the fabric of his coat, which he had yet to shed.

"You do not have to tell me if you don't wish to."

It was soft, the gentlest sort of whisper, just for his ears and to soothe as greatly as you could. You found he had relaxed ever so slightly under your touch, his shoulders smoothing out the tension without so much as another breath.

"I do wish to, desperately," he confronted, blue eyes lingering on yours, "-I feel I owe it to you-"

"You don't owe me anything, Mr. Grimes. I am eager to respect any personal boundaries necessary."

"And," he tsked, with a hint of a smile, "-I want you to know. I want you to know everything I do, in unity."

Instead of combating such a claim, you took him at his word, "Okay, as long as your certain."

"Very certain," he remarked, before something shifted in his eyes -you suddenly remembered how close his face was to yours, "-I just... I need to do something first."

You opened your mouth to ask what exactly, before his eyes dipped to the movement. Slow and hooded, he looked at you suddenly like a switch had flicked in his brain.

Oh.

"Well, I'd be very delighted to accompany you," you smiled, something wicked in the quirk of your lips.

He grinned, a low chuckle rattling out of his chest -something that made your heart grow warm. And with a few more darts to your lips, smoothing across your smile -his hands made their way to your cheeks and pulled you forward with a jolt. You let out a little squeak at the movement.

He grinned in response, lips connecting to your own, but all teeth -it made you smile and laugh as well.

He got rather greedy then, silencing the noise with the seal of his lips. He kissed you as if you were air, as if he was breathing oxygen in his lungs, as if he needed you. You supposed you didn't truly know if such a thing was true, but something in you could tell. He opened his mouth, just a gentle parting of lips, and pushed you somehow closer onto the couch.

You felt suddenly like you were partially in his lap, which was rather undignified, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. Your hands ended up trailing along his arms, and ended up holding his wrists -fingers splayed along your cheeks, still holding your face as if it were a precious gem.

You sighed at the thought, and he devoured such a noise. Something in your stomach coiled in a sort of heat, and you knew suddenly that such a thing needed to be stopped. It would, if continued, be quite the scene.

Just as you tried to separate your lips, he took the action before you -eyes fluttering open with a bright smile on his face. He leaned forward a moment and pressed a simple kiss to your lips -just surface level.

"I have quite missed you, Ms. Greene," he whispered, eyes darting between yours.

Before you could say anything he kissed you again -simply.

"Very-"

Again.

"-very-"

Again.

"Much," he finished, hands still gently cradling your face.

"With such affection," you laughed, "-I'm quite surprised you survived without me."

"Barely," he laughed as well, grin shining bright -as one hand dropped and the other began smoothing across your cheekbone.

It was again quite serious, something flickering in his eyes, "You must know I would never purposefully leave you, darlin'."

"Mr. Grimes," you started.

"No, no," he hummed, "-I must say it. I promised to never cause you such negative afflictions again, and yet here I stand in the aftermath of one."

"It was merely worry," you offered, "-nothing so serious as to heartbreak."

"You worried I wouldn't make it to the wedding," he echoed, guilt heavy in his tone, "-'at I wouldn't marry you."

"Not of your own choice," you corrected.

"All the same, sweetheart," he spoke -soft in a whisper, "-I made ya question my commitment to you without the faintest explanation."

"You explained yourself enough," you soothed, "-I assume urgency doesn't give you time to address such a thing properly with your betrothed."

"My betrothed," he smiled, absent-mindedly, before coming back to the conversation, "I just want to reassure you."

"Then do so," you urged, "-if that settles your mind any at all, assure me."

Mr. Grimes obeyed, holding your face with both hands -blue eyes solid on yours, sincere and genuine.

"I love you," he spoke, serious and with intent, "-I want to marry you. So much so I'm certain it runs in the blood in my veins-"

He laughed then, a bit in disbelief and you reflected such a sentiment -raising your hand to hold against his.

"-Seeing you for the first time felt like everythin' in my life shifted, I found ya. You must understand-" your eyes were blurry, "-I was made for you."

"Mr. Grimes," you whispered -bleary and tears caught in your throat.

"You existed, and the world built me off of ya," he hummed, wiping at your eyes, "-I, by some grace of God, found you. And no matter what I may do, you must know 'at I would never give 'at up."

He swallowed just the same, tears in his own eyes rimming the waterline -you raised a hand to soothe them away with your thumb. He truly felt so guilty, your heart twisted in your chest.

"I love you," you whispered back, almost in response -giggle bubbling up your throat.

Mr. Grimes grinned, something so special about this one -just for your eyes. You loved that one.

Your fingers mindlessly traced the wrinkles by his eyes, that stayed there as he smiled at you; he didn't seem as though he would stop.

"And the news," he echoed out, solidly placing a kiss on your lips before pulling back from the closeness.

You scooted off of his lap with a flame across your cheeks -that he merely smiled at. Not moving far, you held his arm and looked up at him with intense focus.

If he wished to tell you, he would. You would not combat him on that.

"It came from Atlanta, as you know," he hummed, taking your hand and tracing the lines in your palm, "-a letter came in the post... From... From Lori."

You stiffened ever-so-slightly, but he pressed a soft kiss to your temple to soothe it. It wouldn't look good in the public's eyes, but you knew much better than to assume such. Especially now.

"She-" he started, before pausing, "She told me that Mr. Walsh intended to come for Judith. He was belligerent from the drink, but she was worried such intentions may stick."

You inhaled, sharply.

"I went there to ensure he said nothing of the truth," Mr. Grimes continued, "-not even of her beginnings. I didn't wish him to damage the reputation of my family."

Something in you believed you were grouped there as well, it made your heart flutter.

"I would not chance such a thing," he said with conviction, "-especially as soon as I was to marry you. No scandal is good company to a wedding."

You opened your mouth.

"And you deserve quite the wedding," he continued, "-nothin' less than the best."

"If I had known it was a family matter," you hummed, "-I would've urged you further, Mr. Grimes. You were in the right to leave when you did. Urgent news, indeed."

"Does not mean I was happy to do so," he responded, slowly and gently.

"Oh, I surely do not doubt it," you smiled, "-doesn't seem the most pleasant of trips."

"I shall, in fact, make a rule," he echoed, closer to your face, "-for every trip I take alone, I take two with you and the children."

"That's far too many trips, Mr. Grimes-"

"I do it out of my own selfishness, Ms. Greene," he clarified, with a small sort of smile, "-a man needs a balance, does he not?"

"Well, trips are rather costly and time-consuming," you echoed, "-I wouldn't wish you to overwork yourself."

He pursed his lips a moment, in thought -obviously eager to come to a solution.

"Every day I'm gone," he started again, "-I shall spend two at home."

"Mr. Grimes," you laughed, "-you cannot be serious."

"Oh, I am very much so," he smiled at you -blue eyes twinkling, "-after all, it was quite the toll to be without you so long."

"And the children," you corrected.

"And the children," he agreed, before countering in the same breath, "-I do see them more than you at the current moment, so I think it's fair to say a shortage of you is more effective."

"Such a shortage must be so difficult," you teased.

"Very," he smiled, face closer to yours than a moment ago, "-plus, your affection is quite intoxicating I must admit, darlin'."

"Are you saying you are addicted to my affection?"

"Perhaps," he hummed, even closer than before -eyes flicking to your lips, "-I would say it has felt a little like withdrawals."

"That cannot be healthy for a man," you played along -waiting patiently, "-Aren't the symptoms of such a thing rather rabid?"

"Oh, certainly," he confirmed, distracted.

"Don't they fade after some time? Perhaps," you pulled back a pace, "-we should just wait it out."

Mr. Grimes grinned then, eyes back on your own, "You're to leave your own betrothed desolate?"

"Is that not the recommended treatment?" You poised, with an innocent smile, "-I should hope a long life for you, would hate to see otherwise."

"Are you goin' to make me ask for it?"

"Perhaps," you teased.

"Then, I gladly will, my darlin', you know not of my desperation," he hummed, pushing forward again -fingers twirling a loose strand of your hair.

Before you could say another word, however, a more affectionate look smoothed over his face -eyes darting around your face, taking you in.

"You look quite beautiful today, Ms. Greene."

You smiled, something in your cheeks turning the faintest crimson, "And you are quite handsome today, Mr. Grimes."

"Do I?" He posed with a smile.

"Very much so," you messed with the lapel of his coat, "-when we are married, I shall make sure you wear this coat more often."

"And why not ask now?"

"Well," you laughed, fingers still rubbing the fabric between your fingers, "-I'm not certain you'd do it without such authority."

"I would do anythin' you ask," he explained, "-you don't have to be my beloved wife to have such a privilege. Just simply my beloved."

"I find honor in such a name," you hummed, tugging his lapel to be straight on his chest, "-Mr. Grimes's beloved."

"I prefer beloved wife."

"Do you?" a coy smile perked onto your lips, "-Why ever so?"

"Well," he continued, eyes playful, "-I think you rather know."

"Do I?"

Before you could say another word, he swooped in to match his mouth with yours. Laughing between the press of lips, his own lips turned up into that of a grin -the next few kisses were all teeth, but that didn't truly matter.

Mr. Grimes, however, had a much different plan.

Letting you laugh a moment, his eyes dipped to your lips -hooded and slow. Your mouth snapped shut at the attention -face growing rather warm; he seemed to hesitate a moment though, hand placed delicately on your skirt.

He took the fabric into his hands a moment, "So beautiful, you know 'at, darlin'?"

"The dress or me?" You teased.

His fingers came up to rest under your chin -lips a breath away, and suddenly, it felt as though it was the first time again. That all of this was new and you weren't used to such affections.

You're not sure why but there was something his eye, something so heavy.

He decidedly didn't say another word, pressing you forward with the gentle motion of his fingers and giving you a small, little, sweet kiss. Surface level, just a bare press of lips, and still somehow, you found yourself sighing into it -one hand running up his chest to his shoulder.

Something was buzzing under your fingertips, as you danced around his lapels. And with a spare thought, experimentally pulling on them -closer to you. Mr. Grimes startled a moment, before adapting, hands coming up to hold your cheeks. Sturdy, stable.

Like an anchor, and you were arriving at the shore.

The kiss was languid, and you felt your breath hitch with each press of lips. Your mind like a foggy cave, your thoughts stunned to a halt -as he kissed like he just wanted to know you were there. That he just wanted you near.

You suppose you could agree. You had missed him, very much.

"Rick," you laughed, in between breaths -his lips finding yours again in a split second, "-Rick-"

"Yes, darlin'?" He fell back, but not far, eyes fluttering open and the cheesiest smile on his face.

"We really need to get back," you hummed, brushing a finger behind his ear and along his jaw -almost instinctively.

Mr. Grimes leaned into the touch very slightly, "Whatever for?"

"You must greet your children, properly, spend some time with them even," you offered, "-and I need to finish the wedding preparations. Or rather, go over them all."

"And you don't wish me to help?"

"Certainly I do," you clarified, "-but your children come first. I shall wait until after for your assistance. Besides, I do have Maggie, you know."

"You are ever-so-responsible," he hummed brushing his fingers along your jaw, "-I find it rather charmin' usually, but now, it seems a bit of an annoyance."

"There shall be other kisses," you laughed, hands dancing along his shoulders, "-You talk as though those were the last to ever be had."

"I am on quite a shortage," he reasoned, hooded eyes smoothing over your features.

"Rick," you spoke, voice certain with a tiny bit of a grin, "-you will not distract me. Nor change my mind."

He sighed, nearly pleading, "One more?"

You laughed, with a long sigh, "Alright, Mr. Grimes, one more. But it must be quick-"

There was certainly not just one more. But somehow you couldn't quite find it in yourself to be mad.

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