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ponderingmoonlight · 6 months ago

Text

Sharing a bed with kny men

Pairings: Yoriichi x fem!reader; Sanemi x fem!reader

Word Count: 5,7k (lmao)

Warnings: injury in Yoriichi's part, smut in Sanemi's part so read if you're 18+, this is a long ass fic y'all, not proofread

This is actually my first time posting Sanemi smut and I'm super scared. Let me know what you think 🥹🤍

Also, do you want me to do other characters too?🫶

Yoriichi

I heard you @laurencrsnt 🫶

All your life, you never even thought about the possibility that maybe, you’ll encounter a demon someday. Why you, out of all people? Why especially you?

Even now with its cold eyes glaring down at you and your shoulder ripped open by its claws, you fail to find an answer for that. Is it your fate to die right here, when you only went out at night in order to buy medicine for your little sister who has fever? Is dying the cruelest death really your destiny when you wish for nothing more than growing old and watching your own children live their lives?

It’s unfair.

You shouldn’t lay here, crumpled onto the still wet street. You shouldn’t feel the sensation of your eyes watering, your hands trembling, your heart racing.

This shouldn’t be your last day walking on this earth. You didn’t even have the chance to find the man of your dreams yet…

It’s ridiculous and you know it, that spark of determination that rushes through your bones. All of the sudden you spring back onto your feet and start running. Out of the city, away from the lit streets straight into the dark woods.

Even if you have to die here, you won’t give up this easily. You won’t allow this demon to end your life without putting up a fight.

“Why do you girls always think you can run away, huh? It’s too easy to sweep you off your feet”, the demon behind you comments dryly.

With a swift motion of his hand, it digs open your tender flesh all over again, sends your violent scream echoing through the lonely forest. You fall to the ground like a bag of rice, your torn leg now refusing its service completely.

“Let me go!”, you shriek in horror.

No, you don’t want to die here, you just want to go back to bed and forget about this.

But the forest ground isn’t your bed and the demon in front of you who’s ready to slice through your throat isn’t only a nightmare.

Your heart sinks to the floor, body suddenly feeling numb and lifeless. You will die here.

“I’ll keep you in good memory. Well, at least for tonight”, the demon jeers at you.

You close your eyes, desperately try to imagine your little sister. She’ll find herself a loving husband and her very own family without any doubt. Even without you around, her life will turn out alright. Even without you around, life goes on. You don’t have to feel sad or guilty, you just have to let go…

“Get away from that woman.”

A low male voice, so charismatic that you think you might dream. He sure must be handsome. Men with voices like that always have a matching face.

A slicing blade, a dull thud. But no claws that dig into your flesh one last time, no bow of relief that you’ve been awaiting for quite some time by now. Your eyelids start shivering. When is this finally over?

“Are you alright? Please allow me to help you up.”

The second something touches your skin, your eyes snap open in an instant. But they aren’t greeted by those venomous red orbs from earlier. No, these ones are soft but strong and have that calming fuchsia color. This isn’t a demon.

This is a man.

“Don’t be afraid. The demon is gone”, he continues speaking with his low voice.

You have no control over your own body and shivering limbs. It’s impossible for you to say a single word. Are you really out of danger? Is it really over?

When he pulls you off the ground, a violent scream escapes your lips. No, you don’t want to die, you don’t want your life to end tonight. Not like this, not without saying goodbye.

“Please calm down, everything is alright now”, the stranger tries to reassure you, but his words don’t even reach your ringing ears.

You gasp for air like a fish on land, forehead now covered in ice cold sweat. This can’t be your end.

If Yoriichi doesn’t act now, you might faint due to your stress. But what is he supposed to do? You don’t seem to listen to his words and touching you might only make it worse. Maybe you need, assurance?

“I won’t hurt you, see? My hands have no intention of doing you any harm.”

Gently, he glides his fingertips up and down your uninjured harm. Despite the look of horror on your face and your gaping wounds, you do have a lovely face and truly remarkable eyes.

“I came here to help you”, he continues until his fingertips finally brush over your tear-soaked face.

What is this feeling of warmth deep inside his chest? You aren’t the first woman he saved from the claws of a demon.

“I would like to accompany you on your way back home-“

“No”, you suddenly blurt out.

Even though lying in bed on your own was all you were able to think about just a few moments ago, the thought feels like a threat now. What if another demon follows you back home? What if your little sister gets attacked because of your foolishness? No, you simply can’t go back now. But on the other hand…Just the thought of sleeping alone here in the woods runs shivers down your spine.

“I…I’ll find a place to stay. Otherwise…they might harm my sister…”, you mutter.

“Allow me to escort you to my estate, then.”

You yank your head to the side in sheer disbelief, eyes searching for a spark of humor in his calming orbs. Is he really serious about that? After all, you’re a stranger. He doesn’t even know your name. Now that you think of it…who is this?

“How can I know for sure that you aren’t a demon yourself?”

“Take my hand”, he instructs you gently.

Is this really a good idea? You take a deep breath in, try to calm down your pounding heart. What do you have to lose?

When your shaky fingers wrap themselves around his much larger hand, you get ingulfed by warmth. His palms feel rough but also comforting against your bruised skin.

“Demons are cold since they are dead”, he explains briefly.

“But I am not. I am a demon slayer. It is my only destiny to safe innocent souls from their death.”

Oh. Your gaze drifts towards a katana that hangs dangles from his belt. No, demon don’t find with those weapons. So, are those words really true?

“You…You want to help me?”

“I’d love to help you if you allow me to.”

What has gotten into him? Did he really offer you to hold his hand, let alone to sleep at his house so you don’t have to fear the night on your own? Never in his life, Yoriichi allowed himself to develop feelings apart from empathy for those around him.

But those eyes. Those eyes of yours really captivate him, devour him fully. How is he supposed to leave you out here, soaked in your own blood with bruises all over your body?

“You…really would?”

Is this really okay? When you were a child, your mother told you over and over that you aren’t allowed to talk to strangers, let alone man.

But…does that also include the handsome, charismatic and armored ones?

“I keep my word. Also, your wounds need care as well. Please, allow me to help you.”

What do you have to lose.

“If that’s the case, I’d love to take your offer”, you reply shyly.

“I’m glad to hear that. I will show you the way-“

A loud groan escapes your lips before you’re able to stop it. His charismatic eyes almost made you forget about the gaping wound the monster from before inflicted on you.

Almost.

“You shouldn’t move your leg with a wound like that. I will carry you to my estate.”

“You will…carry me?”, you mutter with widened eyes.

But just when you try to take a step forward, his words become painfully clear. No, there really is no way you’ll be able to walk anywhere with that leg. But allowing him to carry you?

“I might be a little heavy.”

“Let me assure you, you aren’t heavy at all.”

“Fine…”, you grumble.

“But only a few meters.”

Gently, he stranger wraps his arms around your shoulder and knees before he starts walking.

He smells good. Like a field of flowers on a sunny day. And the way his heart beats against your cheek reminds you that you’re still alive, that you survived somehow.

This man saved you.

“I didn’t even thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. This is the least I can do for you after I almost came too late.”

He stares blankly at the blood that still drips from your leg. Just a few seconds later and that demon would have killed you with him simply watching. Why? Why is he not able to save them all, why is he still not good enough to stop this madness?

“Don’t tense up, don’t think anything less of yourself because I was injured. I was a fool for leaving the house this late at night on my own.”

Despite the fact that cold sweat still runs down your forehead and even though your fingertips still shake in shock, you cup his cheek and force his troubled eyes to look at you.

“I am beyond thankful for my rescue. The worst thing about dying today would have been leaving my little sister behind. But you saved me. And not only that, you even offered me a safe place to stay for the night. I really don’t know if��If I’d be able to sleep on my own tonight…”

The stranger doesn’t say a word, his eyes roaming around your face without a real aim.

“Oh, I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”

“My name is not important-“

“I’m (y/n)”, you introduce yourself friendly.

“My…my name is Yoriichi”, the man carrying you mumbles.

Yoriichi. An unusual name that you’ve never heard before.

“That name suits you well.”

“We’ll arrive soon. I hope you don’t expect a big mansion since I am living in a rather small cottage-“

“I’m living in a tiny barrack in the city. A house in the woods sounds like a dream”, you mutter.

The second you open your eyes again, you find yourself in a wooden cabin with a plain futon lying on the floor and an improvised kitchen in the back of the house. Nothing special, very fitting for the man who gently lowers you onto the futon.

“I will take care of your wounds now”, he announces before taking off his haori and katana.

Without his threatful weapon dangling from his belt, he looks like a normal man.

If it wasn’t for those captivating eyes. He has to be the most breathtaking man you’ve ever seen.

“Fortunately, the cut on your leg isn’t deep. I’ll disinfect the wound and bandage it”, he explains briefly before his skilled hands spring into action.

“You really are good at everything”, you comment.

He’s so gentle that even the alcohol that disinfects your wound doesn’t seem to burn. Why have you never stumbled across him? You were so sure that you know each and every man around that it almost drove you insane. But him? He’s different from all the others. He’s truly special.

“You will have to take your kimono off. I need access to the wound on your shoulder.”

Oh.

“Y-yeah, sure…”

Hesitantly, you pull the blood-soaked fabric down your shoulder so that only your chest is still covered. Yoriichi’s eyes seem to gleam in the moonlight like liquid metal.

“You look lovely”, he flusters into the night.

He doesn’t know what has gotten into him. Is it the alcohol rising up his nose, the smell of blood that radiates from your bruised body that makes him say those strange things?

No. It has to be because of those eyes of yours. Those eyes that captivated him from the moment he first saw them.

"Thank you," you stammer, your cheeks flushing as you nervously tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You too," you add quickly, immediately regretting your awkward response.

Both you and Yoriichi swallow hard, the atmosphere in the room suddenly changing.

“I am finished. You should rest for tonight. After all, this was a draining fight for you”, he mutters while getting up.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding, heart still hammering so roughly against your ribcage that you’re almost sure he’s able to hear it. What was this tension?

“But…this is your futon-“

“You are my guest. Of course, I will sleep on the floor on the other side of the room.”

Oh. A wave of disappointment rushes over you before you’re able to stop it. What were you expecting, secretly hoping? That this man will share a bed with you?

Honestly, yes.

“You…you really don’t have to…”

Oh, how much Yoriichi wished he wouldn’t have to.

“I insist on taking the floor.”

“I actually want you to sleep by my side. Please.”

The begging tone in your voice stops him mid-track.

“This night was…horrible. A little company would definitely help, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all”, he replies a little too hasty.

“I just don’t want to invade your personal space. After all, I’m a stranger.”

“A really kind stranger”, you add shyly.

Are you acting out of line? You shouldn’t push him to sleep next to you when his offer to let you sleep here is already generous enough, right?

“Forget my question, I was acting out of line-“

“No, not at all. I would love sleeping besides you.”

He crosses the room in an instant and kneels down next to you.

“But let me know whenever I become too much.”

What a ridiculous thought. Why would he ever become too much? Him, your savior, that remarkable man.

You scoot over until your back is pressed against the cool wall, eyes still fixated on his gleaming eyes. Will you really be able to sleep tonight when this is the first time ever a man lies beside you?

And what a handsome one on top.

“You should try to sleep now. Nothing will happen to you as long as I am here”, he reassures you.

That is the least he can do after failing to protect you in the first place.

“Again, thank you for all of this. I definitely own you a favor”, you mumble.

Suddenly your lids start to get heavy, your mind slows down bit by bit. Maybe this rough night really took its toll on you. Is It the safety he radiates, his calming smell? In the matter of seconds, only your low and even breath is heard.

Finally, Yoriichi is able to allow himself a closer look at you. You look so peaceful and innocent with a face so remarkably beautiful that he can’t stop staring. You have to be the prettiest woman he’s ever seen. A man like him really doesn’t deserve lying next to a woman like you. Maybe he should give you space, leave you now that you fell asleep-

With a quiet groan, you draw closer to him in your sleep until your head rests on top of his chest and with your arms wrapped around his upper body.

He doesn’t dare to move an inch, eyes widen in utter surprise. Is this…cuddling? His mind races back and forth, eyes resting on your calm features. What is he supposed to do now?

Hesitantly, he allows his hand to rest on your back. What an unknown sensation, all those feelings that rise up his chest right where your hand rests.

For the first time since forever, he is the one who feels safe.

He is the one who feels loved.

He is the one who feels warm.

And you? You cuddle yourself against him until the sun rises all over again.

Sanemi Shinazugawa

This one's for you @muichirolover14 🤍

“This is bullshit”, the man walking next to you mumbles under his breath.

“Keep focused. It was Kagaya-sama’s personal wish that the two of us go on this mission together”, you mumble with a fake smile decorating your bright red lips.

And that’s the only reason why you agreed in the first place. Why else would you pretend to be Sanemi Shinazugawa’s personal concubine if it wasn’t for Kagaya-sama and this undercover mission?

The plan is pretty simple. Countless people, including other demon slayers, lost their lives in this little innocent village that becomes a red-light district at night. Nobody knows why or who is responsible for this.

One of the upper moons, maybe.

It just made sense to dress you up as a concubine. After all, you are the light hashira, a mighty swordswoman and probably the most talented out of Mitsuri and Shinobu when it comes to acting.

And then there’s him. You glance at Sanemi’s annoyed face from the side. Why on earth did Kagaya-sama choose him? What about Rengoku, Giyu, Obanai, Tengen, Gyomei? Aren’t they a way better fit?

You sign to yourself.

Truth is, they aren’t. While Rengoku, Obanai, Tengen and Gyomei would stand out immediately, Giyu would never be able to sell you as his concubine. No, no one except the wind hashira is able to make this look natural.

No one but him looks this good in a dark green kimono.

What?

“Stop staring at me like that, brat”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

“I was just hoping you might disappear if I stare long enough, idiot”, you bite back in frustration.

Why does he always have to be so mean, though? You really tried to get along with him countless times, put on the most precious smile whenever you talked to him and made sure to always bring him ohagi whenever you had the chance to. But Sanemi Shinazugawa never stopped hating you. And eventually, a part of you started to dislike him as well. That one part though…

You allow your eyes a minor glimpse at his barely exposed chest. That tiny part deep within your head is somehow still drawn to him. And you hate it.

“Aren’t concubines supposed to shut up?”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll leave immediately.”

“Both of us know you wouldn’t do that.”

You let out your shaky breath, your hand crushing his while you wear the same friendly smile as before.

“Don’t mess with me, Shinazugawa”, you speak out with low voice.

His face tenses up ever so slightly, hand fighting for freedom out of your merciless grasp.

“You’ll regret talking to me like that when we’re alone, brat.”

-at the estate-

“I’d like to show you to my newest possession. Please introduce yourself”, Sanemi speaks out.

Like Amane-sama showed you, you bow in front of the man that looks you up and down with his filthy eyes.

“My name is Kiyomi”, you introduce yourself oh so sweetly.

“That name really suits you. What a beauty you are. I’m sure I’d find a lot of paying customers for you here”, the disgusting man purrs and stretches out his hand in order to touch your face.

“Don’t touch the goods”, Sanemi barks at him immediately before slapping his dirty hand away.

Who does this guy think he is, trying to touch you so casually? No. That jerk isn’t allowed to caress your face. The plain thought of men like him getting to put their hands on you…

Sanemi’s guts turn.

“Aren’t you here to sell her and yourself for the night? If that’s the case, she won’t be your good anymore for the next few hours but mine.”

He smiles at you through rotten teeth, his breath almost forcing you to choke. You are only here to detect the demon who is responsible for the countless deaths in this area. You don’t have to touch any of these men. None of them will touch you.

What about Sanemi, though? An uneasy feeling rises up your chest when your eye catches a group of women who stare him up and down with lust in their eyes. Will he allow himself a taste before continuing with this mission? Will he find a woman he is attracted to? All of them look flawless, too good to even consider the service of a paid men. But if that man looks like Sanemi…

“You will find your room to the right. This is where the female customers choose their good. After paying, you belong to them”, the man explains briefly while showing both of you around.

“Why would these women pay for the services of a man? This is a noble region that is well-inhabited by countless men”, you blurt out.

“It’s not about them being men. It’s about looks. Only the fine-looking men even get the chance to work here for the night”, he explains briefly.

Fine-looking man, huh? Well, there is no doubt in the fact that Sanemi suits that description way too good. With his firm muscles highlighted by scars from countless battles, he looks like a walking god. Let alone his perfect face, his eyes that now look soft and seducing without being irritated constantly. His white hair that frames his features perfectly.

“As for the women, we look for a broad variety of bodies, looks and personalities. You are very easy on the eye and mysterious. I’m sure countless customers will fall for that.”

“And what…what services do they expect?”

The man in front of you bursts out in hysteric laughter, you can feel Sanemi’s eyes piercing through your skull.

“What they expect? Intercourse and everything that revolves around it, of course! Do you think they pay you for some cuddles and nice words?”

You swallow hard. There is no need to do that, right? You’ll somehow shrug them off and investigate this place at night. Maybe you’ll find the demon right away and-

“Now, you are a fine-looking man. Who is this?”, a woman suddenly purrs out of the shadows.

“A new worker for the night”, the disgusting man explains with a dirty smile.

“Well, if that’s the case, I’ll definitely make a reservation.”

“It would be an honor, my lady”, suddenly replies in the same cheeky tone

Your guts turn in an instant, eyes narrowing slightly as you watch how a smile forms itself on Sanemi’s usual resting lips.

“What a gentleman he is. I cannot wait to meet you.”

“The honor is on my side, my lady.”

And then he steps in front of her. Elegantly, he grabs the hand she already holds out and kisses her knuckles. Your heartrate quickens, the warm flush that starts creeping up your face barely covered by your makeup.

Fucking asshole. So he’s acting like a jerk towards you all this time while treating other women like this? You hate the knot that forms itself in your throat, the disgusting feeling of disappointment that rushes over you.

Does he really hate you this much?

“Well, I think I should introduce myself to the customers as well. Have a pleasant night, Sir”, your monotone voice speaks out on its own.

With one last bow towards him, you follow the man into the women’s corridor without even gifting him a single look. Sanemi can’t help but furrow his eyebrows at your sudden reaction. Did you really want to get rid of him so badly? Maybe you’ll actually meet up with some of those guys and…

“Are you interested-“

“I will meet up with you later this evening, my lady. Please excuse me.”

Without another look or word, he storms into his assigned room and closes the door behind him.

Sanemi’s mind starts going insane. What if you actually like one of those guys? Or what if one of them hurts you, tries to force you into something you don’t want? He heard the worst stuff about places like this.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have let you go in the first place. Why you? This mission is way too dangerous for someone like you, for someone this gorgeous-

“I’m losing my fucking mind”, he mutters through gritted teeth.

“I can’t do this”, you breathe out in sheer panic while lying in bed.

No, just the thought of Sanemi having the fun of his life with that girl from earlier feels like ripping your beating heart out of your chest. Will he really share a bed with them?

If it’s for the mission, he definitely would. Nothing is greater than his urge to kill demons, especially when it comes to an upper ranked one. That little sacrifice wouldn’t stop him.

And it breaks your dumb heart.

A hard knock on the door rips you out of your running thoughts. Is this your first customer? All color drains from your face, eyes widen in horror with every bow against the wooden door.

“Just a moment”, your shaky voice shouts.

You…Do you have to look presentable? You have to think about the things you can tell him. Maybe you don’t even have to sleep with him, maybe this will distract you from the things Sanemi is probably doing right now.

You open the door.

And stare straight into the furious eyes of Sanemi Shinazugawa.

Before you’re even able to react, he pushes himself into your room and closes the door behind him before yanking you against the wall.

“What did you do?”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

Your heart starts hammering roughly against your ribcage. Him? Here?

“What the hell are you doing he-“

“Answer my question right now!”, he barks into your face.

“I didn’t do anything!”, you shriek.

“What the hell has gotten into you!?”

“Has somebody touched you?”

His rough hands start running up and down your neck, yank the sleeves of your kimono upwards in a haste.

“What?”, you breathe out.

What the hell is going on? Just when you managed to pull your arm away from him, he grabs your wrist again with his face only inches away from yours.

“Did somebody touch you?”, he screams into your face.

“No!”, you cry back.

“But why would you even care? It looked like you had plenty of fun!”

He shakes his head while looking at you in utter surprise and confusion.

“What non-sense are you talking now-“

“Did you sleep with that woman from earlier when I was gone?”

God, you hate the way your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, you hate the way your eyes fill with hot tears. He came here to confront you with all those accusations while he was out there having the time of his life, while all you were able to think about is him?

“No, I didn’t sleep with anyone!”

“Stop lying to me!”

“You’re the only one I want!”, he suddenly blurts out breathlessly.

“What?”, you utter in hushed panic.

This has to be a cruel joke, an unforgiving way to stop you from doing anything. Sanemi Shinazugawa, wanting you?

“Since I first saw you with your fucking perfect face and so melodic voice, I can’t think about anything else! You, sleeping with some random guy while I’m just a few doors away. I can’t take it!”

He grabs your head with both hands, eyes staring at you so intensely that you feel like collapsing any minute. If that’s really true, if that’s really how he feels…

“But…I want you too”, you squirm.

“I always wanted you, Sanemi.”

His lips crash against yours with so much power that you almost fall over. Suddenly his hands are all over your body, tongue unforgiving as he discovers your mouth with a passion you’ve never felt before. You allow your very own hands to finally discover the deep valleys of his muscular back, to let your hasty fingertips wander over his tight chest.

It becomes unbearable. Everything starts to become unbearable. That minor gap between your bodies, the clothes that still deny you full access to his naked skin, the feeling of not having enough.

“I need more”, you whimper against his lips, not even knowing what exactly you’re asking about.

Sanemi lifts you up with ease, not even breaking the kiss when he pushes you onto the bed with his massive body lingering on top of you.

You feel like suffocating in the most exquisite way.

“I’ll give you whatever you want”, he breathes against your lips that now find your neck.

A whimper escapes your mouth before you can stop his, body rearing up underneath him.

“S-Sanemi!”

“Fuck”, he hisses before his dark eyes meet you again in distress.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I…what?”

You can’t produce a single logical sound, head still spinning from the unknown sensation that starts building up inside your stomach. Is this what desire feels like?

“Tell me you want this too. Tell me you want me.”

“I wanted you all this time”, you reply without thinking twice.

With a swift motion, you find yourself engulfed by his arms with his lips caressing yours all over again. Like in trance, you begin opening his kimono, expose his bare skin to your merciless eyes.

“You look so shamelessly good”, you whimper.

Oh, how often you pondered about how his chest feels like, if his scars are soft or as rough as his walls.

“Can I…?”

His hands grab the ends of your kimono, eyes staring down at you flustered. Is that blush creeping up his cheeks?

“It’s just…You know…I’ve never done this before…”, you stammer.

“Do I look like I did, idiot?”, he mutters while gently taking off your kimono until you lay underneath him.

Completely naked.

“I mean, yes…”

“No, I didn’t”, he barks.

“I guess I waited for someone special…”

“I did as well”, you reply in an instant.

Is this real or are you dreaming? Sanemi Shinazugawa laying on top of you fully nude. Sanemi Shinazugawa stating that he likes you. Sanemi Shinazugawa’s hand that start moving downwards…

Until he reaches between your legs and simply takes your breath away.

“Are you okay?”, he mutters, eyes filled with worry.

You nod absently, eyes rolling back into your skull. God, this feels like heaven. When a groan escapes his lips, you completely lose yourself. Out of instinct, you grab his neck and yank him even closer towards you, your hot breath clashing against his face.

“Sanemi!”

His name sounds like a prayer coming from your mouth, forces his fingers to move even faster. Is this good? Is he doing everything alright? Your whimpers grow louder and louder, nails digging into his now oversensitive skin with so much pressure that it threatens to burst. You look so gorgeous with your eyes pressed shut, your delicate mouth forming an “o”.

And then you burst right underneath him, scream his name over and over again with your legs shaking. He can’t wait no longer, can’t contain himself another second.

“I need you”, he mutters.

“Please, let me have you.”

“Yes”, you breathe out, mind still spinning when the firework that just exploded in your lower body slowly starts wearing off.

Until you feel him all over again. But this time, not his fingers. Your glossy eyes widen in utter surprise when he carefully stretches you out and disappears inside of you, hands holding onto him for dear life.

“Are you okay?”, he whimpers.

“Please…give me…more…”

He almost loses his mind, the new sensation almost eating him up alive. Countless nights, he dreamed about what it might be like to have you, what it would feel like. But the reality is so much better than any dream.

Sanemi picks up his pace and grabs your waist passionately in order to keep you in place. Over and over, again and again your sticky skin collides with his until he threatens to burst.

“You’re mine”, he presses out through gritted teeth while pounding into you.

“I’m all yours, Sanemi!”, you cry out, nails now leaving marks on his skin.

“I need…ah! I need you! Please!”

He knows exactly what you’re asking for. One last time, he picks up the pace while holding onto you for dear life.

Until finally, you scream his name. Finally, he’s able to let it all go.

“(y/n)!”

He collapses on top of you, his weight leaving you dizzy and unable to move. None of you dares to make a move, the only thing that’s filling the room being your shaky and sharp breaths.

“I love you, (y/n)”, Sanemi finally mutters, his hand caressing your cheek oh so gently.

“I love you too-“

“Mission report, mission report! Kagaya-sama requires a mission re- AH!”

“Get out of here right now!”, Sanemi barks at the crow that casually entered the room.

“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE!?”

“Get out!”, Sanemi screams on top of his lungs before yanking up and hunting the crow butt-naked through the room

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt

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art · 8 months ago

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Creator Spotlight: @mimimar

Hi! I’m Michelle (Mimimar), an illustrator born and raised in Venezuela, currently based in Italy. I enjoy making colorful illustrations that reflect the things I love: fairy tales, fantasy, tenderness and queer (especially sapphic) stories. Occasionally, I also make paper dolls, comics and animatics. I have a lot of interest in book illustration and I’m currently developing my own stories that I hope to share as an author-illustrator someday!

Check out our interview with Michelle below!

Did you originally have a background in art? If not, how did you start?

I always enjoyed drawing when I was a kid, but it only became a hobby that I did almost every day when I was around 11. At first I only used traditional mediums, but I decided to make a serious effort to learn how to draw digitally when I was 15, and once I got the hang of it I never stopped!

I didn’t go to art school so all of my learning was done through studying the tutorials and resources that other artists generously share on the internet and lots of practice / trial and error.

How do you want to evolve as a creator?

I want to do many things but what I want to do the most right now is work on books! I want to make art for other authors’ stories and also my own stories as an author-illustrator. I want to grow as a storyteller and create art and stories that will really resonate with people emotionally. I’m always striving to improve my skills as well.

I also really love dolls, so working on doll box art or as a doll designer is something I would love to do someday. I actually have been designing paper dolls on my Patreon for the past few months, it’s been a fun project that is still ongoing right now!

What is one habit you find yourself doing a lot as an artist?

Probably using a lot of purple! It’s my favorite color so I find myself using it a lot. If I can find a way to sneak a little bit of purple into an illustration or a character design then I will.

Congratulations on finishing your Ivy Comic! Did the outcome turn out like how you expected or were there some unexpected bumps along the way?

Thank you! It’s a project that I worked on very slowly in between other art because I wanted to really take my time with every spread and make each of them a fully detailed illustration. I thumbnailed the full comic before starting but I kept changing the sketch for the final spread until the very end! Overall I’m really proud of the end result. I sprinkled a lot of hidden details in every page that I hope some of the readers will notice. For example: the meanings of the flowers in each page represent what the characters are feeling in that moment, and the colors of their wardrobe become gradually lighter as the story progresses to represent their emotions, as well as the changing of seasons.

We’ve noticed that you have created some amazing cover art for TGCF. Is there another series you would like to do something similar with?

That was another passion project that took some time to complete. Initially, I didn’t intend for them to be specifically covers, it was just a series of illustrations based on the 5 books/main arcs of TGCF. But since they were well-received and I had people telling me they wish they could use them as covers for their books, I decided to rework them into dust jackets for the english translation of TGCF!

I haven’t thought of any other specific series but I love doing cover art so maybe I’ll do something similar again in the future!

What’s your favorite part of your style? Why?

I’ve heard from other people that there’s a delicate quality to my art, this is something that I like a lot! I like pretty things, fairytales and vibrant colors. I think all of these things probably reflect in the art I make as well.

If there is one thing you want your audience to remember about your work, what would it be?

I hope that they remember how it made them feel. Feelings and colors are the two things I give priority to in my work. Most of the time I like depicting tenderness, softness and emotional intimacy. If that could reach the viewer and stay with them it would make me very happy.

I make a lot of art with queer (mainly sapphic) themes because they’re the kind of stories I personally like and want to see more of, so whenever people tell me that my art has helped them in their journey to discover and accept themselves, or that they see themselves and their partner in my art, it is always extremely meaningful to me. When art that I made to give myself comfort can provide comfort for others, no matter how small, it reminds me once again that despite any hardships art is genuinely worth pursuing.

Who on Tumblr inspires you and why?

So many artists! To name a few: I love @sakizo’s amazing eye for fashion and detail, @paneeps’ gorgeous style and striking colors, the sweetness of @bevsi’s art, @vickisigh’s pretty colors and concepts, @idledee’s warm and heartfelt art, @littlestpersimmon’s dreamy wonderful art, and @loish has been an inspiration for as long as I can remember.

Thank you so much for stopping by and sharing, Michelle! Be sure to check out their Tumblr blog over at @mimimar.

#creator spotlight #artists on tumblr #tgcf #ivy comic #mimimar

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 2 months ago

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can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 6

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5

In the next letter, Eddie makes no comment about their differing opinions. Chrissy knew he wouldn’t. She doesn’t know Eddie, not really, but he’s never seemed like the kind of guy who’d stop talking to someone over such shallow, small differences, no matter how he comes off in his little cafeteria rants.

Secret Admirer,

You’re enough, just the way you are, brown eyes and all. I bet they’re real pretty. I could look into them for hours, mesmerized by every color differentiation, spend days counting every one of your eye lashes.

Just say the word—I’ll pick you up in my van and we can go to the drive-in and hold hands the whole time. I’ll wear my silver jewelry, and you can wear gold. I bet your hands would look real pretty wrapped up in mine.

I’ll be a gentleman, sweetheart, I swear.

Only the best for you.

Yours,

Eddie

P.S. Romantic meeting spot. I can’t wait to put this note right next to your heart. Next time maybe I can put my letter in Moby Dick. After all, you’re my white whale, baby, I’m always looking for you.

She likes Eddie, really she does, but the way Steve blushes as he hands the letter to her is ridiculous. The guy’s not exactly smooth, or suave, or any of the things that should leave Steve all hot and bothered.

Still, she dutifully helps him write his reply:

Eddie —

Maybe someday, we’ll get to go to that movie. When we do, you don’t have to be a gentleman at all—I’m easy, if it’s for you, and it would be such a waste not to make use of all that space in your van.

I don’t have any rings, but if I did, I think I’d want one of yours. That way, whenever I look down at them, I’d be reminded of you.

How was your day? All I want to do is ask and hear your reply.

Yours, always

Your Secret Admirer

P.S. I’ll search the seas for you.

“I know he’s your friend, but I just don’t get it,” Chrissy says to Jeff, walking close enough to his side that their shoulders brush. “The guy looks like a mangy poodle, and he’s not exactly Shakespeare.”

Jeff snorts. “Hey, he’s at least a cute mangy poodle,” he replies, bumping their shoulders purposefully this time.

“I guess if you’re into that sort of thing,” she mutters, and somehow, Steve is. It still shocks her, sometimes, when she thinks about it too much.

“The heart wants what it wants,” Jeff says, sounding wise, but when she glances at him, he’s grinning, eyebrows jumping up and down at her like this is all just some joke.

She scoffs, “I just wish what Steve wanted wasn’t leading toward a broken heart.”

Jeff’s expression drops at that, mouth pursing. He’s quiet all the way to Eddie’s locker. She slips Steve’s letter between the slats and keeps walking, only stopping when she realizes Jeff’s no longer beside her. When she turns around, he’s staring at Eddie’s closed locker like it holds the answers to the universe.

“I’m not so sure about that,” he says, finally turning back toward her and catching back up with quick strides.

Chrissy doesn’t respond, at a loss for what to say. She can’t see it, but for all the letters she’s helped write, her and Eddie aren’t friends. She doesn’t know him as well as Jeff, who’s been by his side for years, or even as well as Steve, who watches him every chance he can get.

“Yeah, maybe,” she replies, unwilling to let any hope build, not when it’s Steve’s heart on the line. “Want a ride home?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Jeff replies.

And when he slides into her passenger seat, she feels a little less alone.

The letters keep coming, and Steve keeps blushing and pushing them across the table at her.

Secret Admirer,

Oh, a flirty one, aren’t you? I like it. But maybe I’m shy, did you ever think about that? Maybe I want to walk you to your door, slide one of my rings on your finger, and give you a little kiss. You can pick the ring, baby—I’ll even resize it to fit you just right.

My days are always brighter when I hear from you. I go to the quarry on Wednesday’s to peddle my wares, but all I want to do is go home and play my guitar (my sweetheart). I’m writing a new song and I really want to get it down by next week’s practice, but I’m stuck on a riff I just can’t get right.

Do you play any instruments?

Sincerely,

Eddie

P.S. You’re going to make me swoon, babygirl.

And Steve keeps responding using Chrissy’s pen and Chrissy’s brain, and his own bleeding heart.

Eddie —

My mom made me take piano lessons when I was little, but my dad refused to keep paying for them. I didn’t want to at first, but I really liked it. Maybe I’ll brush up my skills so I can play a song for you. Any requests?

Does your band play anywhere? I remember you from the middle school talent show, are you still going by Corroded Coffin? I bet you look hot when you play—I want to see it, someday. Your rings would glint under show lights, hypnotizing the entire audience. Especially me.

Did you figure out your riff? I’m waiting with bated breath.

Sincerely,

Your Secret Admirer

P.S. leave this one in The Taming of the Shrew.

She wants to build a cage and lock him inside, or shake him and shake him until he sees what a risk he’s taking. Jeff might not see it, his priorities are different. But her first concern is Steve, always will be Steve, whose heart isn’t the only thing on the line. And she can feel it coming—the moment, inevitably, when this whole thing falls to pieces.

Secret Admirer,

Have you read this play? It’s not the romantic story you think it is. Since you’re already holding the book, why not check it out? I promise not to look at the checkout card to figure out who you are (I say, unrepentantly lying).

My band actually just got our first gig at the Hideout. It’s next Tuesday, and you should come! I would love to see you in the audience, cheering me on. I’ve been trying to respect your boundaries, but darling, I want to see you. Will you come? Please?

Thinking of you, always,

Eddie

Chrissy doesn’t want to stand by and watch Steve Harrington break.

***

Part of Eddie wonders if he won’t get another letter—if she’ll just show up at the Hideout next Tuesday with a smile. Still, when he hasn’t received an answer for a couple days, he checks if anyone’s checked out The Taming of the Shrew, but no, it’s still there, nestled on its shelf in the library, Eddie’s damning letter no longer inside.

He’s starting to wonder if he made a terrible mistake.

It’s happenstance, the way he finds out. He could have just as easily not forgotten his campaign notes. He could have been prepared, and not left all his little sheep moaning and groaning about what amounts to a five minute delay, if he’s quick about it.

He could have, but he didn’t.

Instead, Eddie stands at the end of the hall, transfixed, as he watches Chrissy Cunningham’s distinctive high ponytail sway back and forth as she walks away. From his locker. Where he just saw her slip something in.

She’s well out of sight before Eddie walks up to the looming hunk of metal on shaky legs. It takes three tries to get it open, and there, for all and sundry to see, is an envelope with his name written in a familiar scrawl.

He doesn’t open it.

“What took so long?” Doug gripes as Eddie shuffles back into the room, clutching his notebook to his chest.

Eddie walks slowly to his throne without replying, eyes still unfocused and fixed on the swishing of Chrissy’s hair.

“Are you okay?” Jeff asks.

Eddie shakes the thoughts out of his head, leans back on his throne, and smiles. “Sometimes a quester is besieged on his travels and must defeat a mighty foe before he can return from whence he came.” He says it with all the gravitas of his dungeon master voice.

Doug laughs, Gareth rolls his eyes, but Jeff’s eyes are narrowed on his face for the next ten minutes until he gets sucked into the campaign. And Eddie? Eddie’s heart isn’t in it. No matter how determined he is to put it out of his mind, it keeps sticking to his neurons.

Because Chrissy? She’s nice, sure. And pretty, definitely. Her hair’s…nice? Bouncy? It’s probably soft. And yeah, she’s a jock, but she’s not like most of them—too kind to give a kid a swirly or call any of the other girls fat.

Which brings him to the King of the jocks, Steve Harrington, whose name is practically branded on Chrissy’s shoulders by this point, whose arm is pretty much super-glued around her waist. Steve, with his perfect hair, and long eyelashes, and those big brown eyes, and all those muscles.

Something too squirmy to be hatred sinks in his gut. Jealousy, maybe? Because how could someone like him compete with King Steve for a lady’s hand, love notes or no?

He’s distracted for the rest of the campaign, says half-hearted goodbyes to the boys before finally closing the van door on them and driving away.

When he opens the letter in the safety of his bedroom, it’s shorter than usual:

Eddie —

There’s nothing more I want than to see you up on that stage, rocking out, in your element, but I’m just not ready. I hope you’ll forgive me.

Yours,

Your Secret Admirer

P.S. If you still want to respond, I’ll look in the big print edition of The Hobbit.

He goes over the words again and again, finger running along the lines of each character, trying to picture Chrissy pouring over them with her pen. He loves all the words in all the letters, wants to carve them all on his skin, helplessly charmed by each vulnerability shared.

He can’t quite make the words fit the girl.

Eddie still drops his next reply in the big print edition of The Hobbit the next morning. He watches Chrissy all day. He’s surprised, somehow, when she meets his eyes once across the insurmountable distances between them in the lunchroom. She ducks her head immediately and blushes, even with Harrington’s arm wrapped around her shoulders.

There isn’t another note by the end of the day.

“So, wait,” Gareth says, stoned out of his mind and sprawled out on Eddie’s bed after the hell they call education finally released them. “You’re saying Chrissy has been leaving you all those notes?”

Eddie spins around in his desk chair, but it’s not one of those fancy wheeled ones that Harrington probably has, so he’s forced to turn and straddle the back, letting his head hang over the headrest as he groans.

“For the last time, yes!” he says, more to the little bits of his carpet that he can see than to Gareth himself. “It’s Chrissy!”

Gareth takes another hit, blowing smoke toward Eddie’s ceiling to swirl around and join the rest of the stains up there. “Are you sure it wasn’t just someone who looked like her? How close to her were you?”

Eddie groans again, shuffles off his uncomfortable chair to flop beside Gareth and steal his joint back. “She was wearing a cheerleading uniform, man,” he says before taking a puff and letting all the smoke out with his next words. “And no one else on the team has that color hair.”

Gareth hums, twisting on his side to burrow his head into Eddie’s only pillow. “What is that color even? Like, blond but with a weird red in it? What’s it called, bluh-red?”

He laughs like that’s the funniest joke in the world, so Eddie doesn’t hand back the joint, just pulls on it until he’s down to the quick and ashes it on his nightstand as Gareth whines.

“It’s strawberry blond, you idiot.”

Gareth wrinkles his nose at that. “That’s a stupid name.”

Eddie smacks his hand out, lets it hit Gareth’s arm with a solid thwack. “You’re supposed to be helping me!”

“With what?” Gareth replies, rolling away from Eddie when he goes to hit him again. He ends up on Eddie’s floor, fall cushioned by all of his dirty clothes scattered about. “Just like, talk to her?”

“Chrissy Cunningham?” Eddie demands. Gareth doesn’t seem to be understanding the severity of the situation. “Whose head cheerleader and, oh yeah, dating Steve Harrington?”

“So what? The guy’s a douche,” Gareth replies.

Instead of getting back up on the bed, he snuggles further into Eddie’s dirty clothes, rolling around like a pig in a mud puddle until he’s got enough of Eddie’s discarded shirts on him to function as a makeshift blanket.

Harrington is a douche. He’s got to spend an obscene amount of time on his hair in the morning, and he hangs out with those hyenas on the basketball team all the time, and he’s Steve Harrington. Rich kid, lady killer, King Steve Harrington.

Maybe all Chrissy really wants is an excuse to leave him. If that’s what his lady wants, he will provide.

***

Steve’s been sitting on Eddie’s letter for a few days now, at a loss for what to say. He puts it under his pillow at night, hoping the perfect answer will come to him in his dreams. He finds himself unfolding it and refolding it again and again, wondering if the words will change.

Darling,

If you’re not ready, that’s okay. But the heart wants what it wants, and you can’t blame me for trying, can you? Even still, I’ll be singing just for you.

Of course I still want your letters, never doubt that. They’re still, always, forever, the best part of my day.

Always,

Eddie

P.S. Excellent choice in hiding places, have you read it?

It’s just, a big part of him had expected Steve’s dismissal of meeting up would end this thing they have. He’d braced for it, and instead, Eddie was sweet.

And Steve can’t give him what he wants, isn’t what he wants, so he keeps the letter with him and stews on it, Chrissy sending him worried looks when she thinks he’s not paying attention.

No matter how lost in thought he is, a part of him is always tuned into Eddie’s presence, so he sees him coming before Chrissy does.

“Miss Cunningham,” Eddie says, leaning forward like a gallant knight as he takes her small hand in one of his own. She jumps, eyes darting up from her lunch to meet Eddie’s own. “Can I have this dance?”

The rest of the lunch table titters. It might have been charming, if they were at a dance, or anywhere aside from shoehorned to the side of the table with all of Steve’s shitty friends laughing.

It might have been charming if Eddie’d looked at Steve at all.

Chrissy’s sure looking at him, though—eyes all wide in her face as she shifts her gaze back and forth from Steve sitting across from her to Eddie crouched at her side.

“Um—” is all she gets out before Jason stands from the far end of the table and starts taking threatening steps forward.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Freak?” Jason demands, chin raised.

Steve’s about ready to stand, insert himself in the whole thing, but then Eddie’s lips graze Chrissy’s hand.

Jason stumbles back like he’s been shot. Eddie grins against Chrissy’s skin, turns his gaze away from Jason, and lands on Steve. He can almost feel it on his own skin as Eddie puckers his lips again and presses another kiss to Chrissy’s skin, this time to the smooth surface of her wrist.

He never looks away from Steve.

“Um!” Chrissy says again.

Only then does Eddie break eye contact with him. He drops Chrissy’s hand, placing it gently back to the table, says, “until next time, mi amore,” and saunters away, continuing until he’s out of the cafeteria entirely.

Steve doesn’t look away until the door swings shut and blocks his view of Eddie entirely.

“What was that, Chrissy?” Jason demands. He’s moved closer while Steve was distracted, absolutely towering over her, looking more like a beleaguered father than an ex. “First Harrington, and now the Freak?”

Steve wants to defend himself, defend Eddie, defend Chrissy. But despite what Jason clearly thinks, she’s never needed defending, so he asks, “do you want to get out of here?”

“God, yes,” Chrissy sighs.

They leave their lunches uneaten and their tables unbussed, hustling out the same doors Eddie’d just sauntered through, leaving a scolding Jason in their wake. Something about devil worship and blaspheming?

Steve’s not exactly the church-going type; he’s just glad when the doors swing shut and cut off Jason’s little speech.

“What was that?” Chrissy asks in a whisper despite the deserted corridor.

“Jason?” Steve asks at his normal volume. “I don’t know, he’s always been a bit like that, hasn’t he?”

“Not Jason,” Chrissy snaps, slapping at Steve’s arm, taking any sting out of the motion by wrapping her arm in his after and reeling him right back in. “Eddie!”

Steve, who had sort of been hoping that he could pretend the whole thing had been a vivid hallucination, has nothing to say.

“Do you think he knows?” she asks, voice quiet again as she looks furtively around the deserted halls, for random passerby’s or even Eddie himself.

“About you?” Steve asks, stomach sinking even further when he continues, “or about me?”

Chrissy stumbles, eyes going impossibly wider at the thought. She pulls him into an abandoned classroom and pushes him into one of the uncomfortable chairs. She sits in front of him, looking across the desk between them like he’s a sad woodland creature she’d just hit with her car.

“He can’t know about you,” she says. “He was flirting with me.”

Steve grimaces. Chrissy’s too nice, always thinking the best in people like she doesn’t have Jason Carver as living, breathing proof that sometimes, beyond all expectations, people can suck.

“He could be fucking with me. Eddie seems like the type to play with his food.” Steve stares down at the grooves of the desk he’s seated in. Someone had carved FUCK on it in big, bold letters. Steve’s never agreed with a sentiment more. “Do you think Jeff told him?”

Chrissy shakes her head so hard that her ponytail whacks her in the face. “No way, he promised!” she reminds him.

Jeff seems like a good guy, but Steve’s not sure how far that goes. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to trust like that, not with this.

“Well, what do we do?” Steve asks. “Should you just flirt back next time?”

Chrissy bites her lip, worrying at the dry skin there until Steve taps her chin in reminder, and she puts her teeth back in her mouth.

“Maybe it won’t happen again?”

Steve sighs, thunking his head down against the desk. “Yeah, maybe,” he murmurs into the wood, Chrissy’s hand patting his shoulder a paltry consolation to the nightmare he’s found himself in.

***

It happens again.

“Carry your books, my lady?” Eddie asks. He’s already got his hands out expectantly, but he’s too much of a gentleman to make a move without her say-so.

She watches his hopeful grin for a moment before sliding her pile of books into his awaiting arms. Once secured, he does an endearing little fist bump before taking up residence at her side like it's his birthright.

“What are you doing, Eddie?” she asks.

“What do you mean?” he asks, almost sounding clueless enough to convince her, if it wasn’t for that little smirk on his lips.

Everyone in the hallways are giving them a wide berth, clearly shocked by the unexpected pair. It’s nice, almost, to be given so much space. But—

But.

“You know I’m with Steve, right?” Chrissy asks.

Eddie grimaces, like just hearing Steve’s name is enough to sour his mood. “What, is it illegal to walk a pretty girl to class now?” he asks.

Chrissy’s own mood sinks to the pits, and she sighs, disappointed. “No,” she replies before letting the silence between them linger uncomfortably.

Eddie’s fidgeting with her books, anxious fingers fluttering against the loose pages of one of her notebooks, and his eyes dart toward her every couple of seconds.

“Chrissy—”

“You know, for someone who spends so much time ranting about the status quo, you sure can’t seem to look past skin deep.”

Eddie jerks like she struck him. Chrissy would feel bad if she wasn’t thinking about having to tell her best friend about this in a couple hours. “I see you,” he murmurs, shifting on his feet and not meeting her gaze as he holds out her books for her to take.

When Chrissy sighs, he flinches again. “I don’t think you do,” she says, not sticking around to see how it lands.

She’s got class to get to, and a best friend’s heart to break.

Chrissy snags Steve’s hand before he can walk through the cafeteria’s swinging doors and pulls him the other way. They settle into the same, abandoned classroom in the same, abandoned seats.

“It happened again,” she says, not letting go of Steve’s hand.

He’s still got a bit of polish clinging to his nails, the chipped yellow making him look almost jaundiced with how patchy it is. She uses her own fingernail to chip at it, ignoring the sunshine yellow flakes dropping down to the empty desk separating them.

Steve doesn’t ask what happened again; he doesn’t need to.

“Did you flirt back?” he asks.

Chrissy bites her lip. “I let him carry my books.”

She hadn’t flirted, is the thing, but she hadn’t gotten rid of him either. She knew, no matter how heartbroken he looks across from her right now, he wouldn’t have wanted her to.

“Okay,” he says, like it really is, like he means it. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me!” she snaps, snatching her hands back for a second before the bewildered look on his face has her reaching out again. “What are you thanking me for?”

Steve smiles—it’s small, and sad, and he’s beaming it right into her soul. “For keeping me safe.”

Chrissy groans, dropping her head onto their clasped hands and just keeps groaning. He means it—of course he does. If there’s one thing she’s learned since this whole thing started, it’s that Steve Harrington is somehow, inexplicably, too nice for his own good.

“I love you, you know,” she says, lips brushing against his skin with every word.

She’s been thinking it since he’d called her his best friend in that letter, since he’d said it and she hadn’t said it back. It sits unsaid behind her teeth every time he smiles, or frowns, or anything at all. He’s just too dang easy to love.

When he doesn’t reply, she forces herself to raise her tired head and get a look at his face. His eyes are big and round, mouth hanging open far enough that she’s tempted to close it for him, and there’s a damning sheen to his eyes that makes her own water.

“Really?” he asks, voice cracking. “You do?”

“Of course,” she replies, the way he always does to her, no matter what she asks for.

He smiles again, and it’s big this time, happy and watery around the edges as he says, “love you, too,” leaving the “I” out of the confession like that’ll somehow make the whole thing less real.

They’re smiling at each other like damn fools when Steve’s stomach growls and they dissolve into giggles.

“Buy me lunch?” she asks.

“Of course.” He jumps up from the desk and holds out his hand for her, an unknowing mirror of Eddie this morning.

She doesn’t put her books into his arms, just takes his hand.

PART 7

#koko's steddie secret admirer au #steddie #my fic

359 notes · View notes

jullbnt · 1 year ago

Note

if I could perhaps make a request…?

Lu warriors and his Zelda?

Hello Evie (if I may) :D

I’m very happy to do something for you and it’s also my first time drawing these two ^^

I need to catch up on the comic but I’m pretty sure they haven’t seen each other in a while, so how about a reunion hug? 😊

(I removed Warriors’ shoulder pauldron cause I was going crazy trying to draw Zelda’s arm on top of it haha)

I love this one, maybe I’ll do a better coloring and add a background someday 🤔

Now have a close up of their pretty faces :)

———————

I won’t accept more requests at the moment! This is a request I received for my 500 followers celebration and I still have a lot to do :)

Answered art requests

#loz #zelda #loz fanart #the legend of zelda #linked universe #lu warriors #hw zelda #zelink #hyrule warriors #art request #ask

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hyukascampfire · 1 month ago

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𝓣HE FROST REMEMBERS ࣪˖ ִִ h.k

artblock has one weakness: creation. it just so happens that you decide to make your final hurrah, the greatest work of your life, out of winter’s most gentle gift. and, the frost remembers. . ۫︎ ︎ ︎︎

⺡ ࣪˒ ( ☃️ ) ･ 2k

𝓹airings ˒ snowman!kai x art student!reader

𝒢 ; fluff ˒ angst

𝔀arnings ˒ fluff, angst, mentions of past deaths, chubby!reader, kai is in fact a man made of snow, more of a drabble, not proofread yet (i’ll get to it when i wake up from this big ol nap hehe)

✎୭ ashlynn's note i want to thank @aduh0308 and her lovely brain for this one! this was such a beautiful idea that i honestly was so nervous about executing. i hope i pulled it off well enough!! it was supposed to have a way, way heavier end, but honestly as much as i love the poeticism of that ending, it just wasn’t right for this fic. hehe now i press post and knock out!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

The snow winks at you differently, today.

Jaw tight, you kick and tread through heavy snow piles. The air is like glass on your cheeks and snowflakes wet your head where they come falling down over you, but faulty paint strokes and the heavy weight of a paintbrush in your hands smear over it.

No matter how you plan before sitting down to create, it just falls flat. The colors are flat and wrong, the shapes don’t bloom into story, and…

None of it looks good. It’s as simple as that. You are shit at it, and it’s what you’ve chosen to do for the rest of your life. When you’re not able to make something worthwhile, even for a grade?

You don’t create much for school, and you create nothing at home. All that will come from you putting brush to canvas is wasting the hours of your day away. All that will come is creating something that further solidifies your failings. Maybe you aren’t the worst, but you are a lifetime away from the best. That doesn’t get you anywhere; so what is the point of it? It’s pointless. You are doing something pointless with your life, and you are only going to hate it more each time you drag your feet into the classroom you once loved to slather paint on canvas. And then, when you take that long walk back home that leaves you an awful amount of time to think, you come to one conclusion.

You can’t create. Not if you want to preserve that talent that you once had. Or, at least your ability to believe that you have it. If you pick up your tools and from it create something awful, then your fear becomes real. So, you can’t.

Today, you’ll create your last piece. Something impermanent, that you can kick down and move on from. Then, you’ll drop out, and find something else. Maybe someday, you’ll find what you used to feel for your first love again. You hope so; you’ve watched it leave you with each frustrated swipe of the brush and felt it go when your throat would tighten at the sight of your finished projects. Losing that love is something featured in stories since the dawn of humanity. But, losing this love is different. You can’t go and speak with it, nor can you plead with it, and you certainly cannot touch it to drag it back. It’s something wholly inside of yourself, and you find it impossible to reach. You’ve tried forcing yourself to paint, you’ve tried breaks, and you’ve tried waiting for inspiration. Still, it’s so far from your touch.

You blink a stray snowflake out of your lashes and stop. The little patch of snow is flat and twinkles with morning—it’s perfect. For a moment, you admire it. Then you get to work.

Handfuls of snow melt through your cotton gloves. At some point, your fingers go tingly and then unfeeling. The snow is powdery and loose, but that’s no matter to you. You compact it down into something solid and pack it into smooth-edged shapes. Around you, just beyond the thick focus that you let fall over you when you work, people bustle by. Some stop to watch you, the ice crystals like glitter captured in the form of the sculpture catching their eyes as they pass. They move on when you don’t entertain them, though.

All you know is the sweet song of a mourning dove cooing, and the working of your hands. You don’t think much further than that; what comes from your carving and shaping is a misty, shimmering wisp of consciousness. Whatever had been brimming in your blood, you let it go—let it take shape.

You give a little here, adding chunks where it’s missing, and take a little there, carving when your heart suggests it. It grows and claims space for itself. It seems that it’s never enough; every time you intend to take a step back, you find just one more thing that needs your fixing.

When you do finally dust off your gloves, snow clinging to the fluff, you’re stricken to the spot—hit right in the gut with a roll of something you haven’t felt in so long. In the angles of the shoulders, you see flashes of resting your head there like they were built just to hold you. In the column of the neck, you feel the pressing of your lips against the warm skin down the side of it. In the pretty splay of the hands, you feel the appreciative, devoted pressure of hands roaming and kneading the plusness of your belly and thighs, holding them with reverence even when you didn’t see them as something to revere.

And, in the face, you see him held everlasting in the wintery serenity of the snow: your dead boyfriend.

Tracing the lines of him, you swallow hard. He’s exactly as he was in life, but he is unmoving. His eyes are all twinkling with ice particles, and not with the alive, benevolent light that you remember. When you tug off a glove, itching to feel the shape of his cheek once more, he’s sickeningly cold to the touch.

You run your finger over his cheek, as soft as you remember it, and down the length of his nose, heart aching at the little bump on the bridge of his nose as you find that just as you remember it, too. Looking up into his eyes, you can almost feel the weight of his gaze the way it feels in your memory.

His lips are crisp against your mouth. Maybe you look mad to a passerby, but you want to remember the shape of his lips, too. You linger there for a few moments. Just long enough for you to pretend, and then you let your lashes flutter back open and bring your mouth away from the snow.

Sitting still, lifeless, he does not smile that easy smile he should. The one he used to, when you’d steal his lips in a chaste kiss. Your heart, having soared up into the snow-heavy clouds as light as air, sinks. Of course, he doesn’t. The only place that his smile still lives and breathes in is your memories. You just ache to see it somewhere else at least once more. That’s all.

Tugging your glove back on to save your pale fingers, you try to dull the twinging in your chest and the bitterness that closes around your throat. You’ll go home, and you’ll begin trying to forget your art. You don’t kick it down like you’d come here intending to, though. Not this one. What a beautiful last work it was. Huffing a curling breath of frosty, silver air, you take one last look at him.

From his lashes, clumps of dusty snow fall like fairy dust. You furrow your brows, and more comes tumbling down. It crumbles and crumbles, falling from his eyes to reveal deep chocolate, and then from his face to reveal warm flesh, and then he shakes it off the rest of him.

He shakes it off the rest of him.

Your mouth goes dry, looking up at his eyes, and he looks at you back.

“Love?”

The sound comes from his chest like both a potent balm and the sharpest blade. It melts into your skin and nurses the hurt there, and it cuts them right back open. Hearing the name you’ve not heard for so long in his voice—you reel.

“Kai?” you say. Your voice wobbles like your legs do. Aside from the both of you, the rest of the world goes hushed and still.

He furrows his brows, bringing a hand up to caress your cheek. Your skin prickles at the warmth. He’d been so, so cold just a moment ago. “What’s wrong? Why do you look like you’re about to cry?” he asks.

You want to sit here all shaken, but you can’t. Not when he’s standing before you in the flesh. Standing before you real. Opening up your arms, you crush him between them and press your face into his chest. Puffing your breaths, your nose and cheeks sigh relief at the warmth that seeps out from him, and in that you know he is solid.

“Woah,” he says, trailed off by a soft laugh. Kai wraps his arms around your waist and rests his cheek on the top of your head. “Hugs, baby.”

For a few moments, something between just a split second and an eternity, you hold him and he holds you. It snows and snows down on you. When you finally pull back enough to speak to him, you say, “You’re real. Oh my god, you’re fucking real.”

With a raise of his brows, he says, “I’m real. Right here. I’m right here.” He runs a quick hand through his hair and drags his hand down his face to show it.

Opening your mouth, you close it right back up to decide which of the infinite things you want to ask him. “I…” you start. “Kai, you were dead. You were dead, and now you’re standing… right here in front of me. I don’t…”

In the sweet, dorky way that tugs at memories, one corner of his lips turn up into a slight smile. “I guess I was. But I’m here now, aren’t I?” He takes your cheek in his hand. “I never left you, darling. Maybe you couldn’t see me like this, but I never did. I promised you that, didn’t I?” When your face crumples, an awful twisting of your features that you fight to contain, he curls his fingers over your hand and brings it up to his cheek. “Feel. Feel, I’m real, aren’t I? Don’t cry. You don’t have to cry, because I’m here.”

Your heart thunders and storms, and your cheeks sting with tears. Swallowing it all down, you say, “I missed you so much, Kai.”

He reaches up to brush snowflakes off your hair. “I know. I missed you too.” When his eyes fall on you and your shivering self, he says, “I was there with you the whole time.”

It hadn’t felt like that. If he was alive inside you, you didn’t feel it. All you felt was hollow. And if he was in the world around you, that felt empty, too. But, he’s here now, and it doesn’t feel so much the same. “How?” you say, shaking your head. You wish you could have felt him. “Where?”

“Everywhere, love. You didn’t go one day where I was not there. In the frost, I was there.”

You don’t know what that means. You couldn’t even begin to imagine how that might be possible, or if it’s even the truth, or if this is some kind of miracle spun with the silver threads of the fates. Whatever it is, he stands in front of you now. Nothing else really matters much but that.

“Do you want to go home?” you ask. Out here, this moment feels fleeting. All you want is to be there, in the same place where you’d made your lives together, so that you can solidify it and keep it safe from the world.

Peppering kisses all about your face, he snorts. “Look at your nose. You should’ve been home hours ago.”

You let your eyes flutter shut in the onslaught of his lips against your skin. “I know,” you mumble. Then, you would’ve snarked about his worrying. Kai was always worrying over you, and you’d crinkle your nose and demand that you’re doing fine.

Like this, though, you don’t mind his doting so much. Not now, and not ever again, you think. Not when he, hewn from snow and brought to life by your kiss, is utterly real and utterly alive in front of you. Not when he is the art in your life.

You think you might go home and pull out your paints.

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

✎୭ ashlynn's note AHHH i don’t know how to feel about this one.

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the-californicationist · 7 months ago

Note

Hi! I’m not sure if you’re doing request if you aren’t don’t worry but If you are could you please write whatever you’re down for, a little Drabble of Simon and reader going yarn shopping! I just came back yarn shopping myself and I’ve been giggling at the names! One I picked is called “tutti frutie

Thank you so much for the ask!! This is such a cute idea. Hope you enjoy the story <3

Twelve Row Repeat

Your wonderful man, Simon Riley, has his heart set on a sweater for Christmas. So, you drag him to the yarn shop to make him squish the skeins.

“And you’re sure you want this one? There are some other —”

Simon reached over you, towering behind you in his motorcycle gear and black medical mask, snatching the paper pattern from the small rack,

“This is it.”

“Okay,” you flipped open the small pattern booklet, “Great.”

This was not great.

Simon had only been asking for one thing all year. Each time Christmas came up in conversation, he’d just shrug and mention his sweater. It was your own fault, really. You’d been frequenting a new local yarn shop by your flat, and he’d begrudgingly tag along. His big brown eyes would cut over a sharp glance to you when the price rang up on the till, but he didn’t complain. One night, while you were scrolling through heirloom-style sweater patterns on your phone, daydreaming about the knitter you would someday be, he stopped you, pressing his thick fingerpad to the screen,

“Aye. That’ll do me.”

“Si,” you shook your head, “I’m not that good, yet. Those are much harder than they look.”

“Nah, you’re brilliant,” he planted a chaste kiss on your mouth, silencing your protests, and left it at that.

So, now, here you were, hunched over the small pattern library of your favorite shop, digging through the advanced section of Aran sweaters, staring at sleeves with cables and twelve-row repeats. It was enough to make your mouth dry.

But, he believed in you, and you wanted to trust yourself that you could handle it. Bucking up the courage, you grabbed a few notions and headed over to the yarn wall, dragging Simon behind you.

You stood side by side as you stared at the collection. It was organized by weight and brand, color-coded for fiber type. It was one of your favorite places on earth. Sometimes, even when you didn’t bring your man with you, you’d come and dig through the cubbies, squishing the cakes and skeins, letting them whisper to you about what they wanted to be. It was important to you that you listened to the yarn. Just because you wanted to make a blanket with a particular yarn didn’t necessarily mean it would feel good on your needles. You needed to listen and feel… and most importantly — squeeze for softness.

“Alright,” you said, galvanized, “What color?”

“Black.”

“No.”

There was no way in hell you were spending six months staring into the blackness trying to decipher the knits and purls and cables of a Level 4 sweater.

Simon huffed, but he was smiling. You could see the way his cheek creased up underneath his eyes.

“Green,” he relented, then grabbed your arm in his gloved hand, snatching you away from a pretty sage color wool, “Dark green.”

You glared up at him, but you set your sights on a dark green merino. It called to you like a siren’s song. And, at the price per skein that you assumed that it was, you were about to help Simon find out just what kind of gift he was asking you for.

Your hand reached out to grab the carefully wound ball. It was soft, with a very slight halo, and the emerald hues varied only a little through the strands, letting you know that it had been hand-dyed with the utmost care. You flipped it over to read the name: Spruced Up. As your fist delicately closed around the skein, you nearly sighed from the plushness of it. You wanted to bury your face in it already, and it wasn’t even knitted up.

You checked the weight. After measuring Simon at home, you knew you needed to over buy. Who knows? You told yourself. Maybe I’ll even get some gloves out of this. It would be fun to match with him.

“Okay, tiger,” you smiled up at him, “We need thirteen of these.”

He grabbed the ball from you and checked the tag,

“Thirteen? Are you havin’ a laugh?”

“You’re a big bloke,” you shrugged, “And this is a complex pattern. Just give me your hand. I want you to feel it.”

He hesitated, doing the mental math for the cost in his head. But, he gave you his hand and let you remove his glove.

You placed the skein back into his palm, staring in wonder at the sheer size of it, and told him,

“Okay, now squish.”

Simon squished. He was careful, now that he knew the price of what he was holding, and he looked down at it in surprise.

“Soft…” He commented in a half-whisper, looking up into your gaze with amused surprise. Then, he squished again, indulgently, and his timbre changed to something a little more insidious, “Soft like you, lamb.”

Your pet name rumbled out of his mouth as no small threat. You saw him reaching for you, and you caught him before he could snake his other hand fully under your dress, grabbing for your thighs to tease the soft, plump flesh there.

“Hey! If you get me kicked out, you definitely won’t get your sweater.” You smirked, bumping him with your hip, promising him he could be naughty later, just not here.

Simon helped you haul your purchases up to the counter and paid for the entire lot, not even grimacing at the final total. He patiently waited while you used their in-store winder and swift. You enjoyed the way he studied you as you practiced the skills of your craft. His faith in your abilities really made you feel like you could accomplish anything you set your mind to.

Finally, with your yarn and notions packed and stowed carefully in his bike’s saddle bags, Simon handed you your helmet and commented,

“Looking forward to seeing your progress, love.”

“I’ll keep you posted. Might even let you squish my yarn again…” You winked when his head turned back to you, getting excited by your tone.

“It’s not the yarn I want in my hands, little lamb. Get on this bike before you get yourself into trouble.”

AO3 Link

*Sorry, my knitting knowledge is basic, but I tried to do my homework. I can make a scarf and that's about it!

#call of duty fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon “ghost” riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost simon riley #ghost fluff

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inkspiredwriting · 2 months ago

Text

just like his father

Five Hargreeves x Fem!reader

Warnings: none

It was a typical, chaotic afternoon in the Hargreeves household. Five Hargreeves was pacing around the living room, juggling phone calls and paperwork from the CIA. His wife, Y/n, was busy in the kitchen, preparing a snack for their two young children. Their daughter Maddie was playing with her dolls, creating an elaborate tea party setup on the floor.

“Maddie, keep your dolls away from the kitchen table, okay? We don’t want them to get hurt,” Y/n, called over her shoulder.

“Yes, Mommy!” Maddie replied, giggling as she moved her dolls to the safety of the living room rug.

Milo, their mischievous three-year-old son, was playing with a set of colorful building blocks nearby. He babbled happily to himself, stacking the blocks into a precarious tower.

“Alright, just one more call,” Five said, glancing at Y/n with a tired smile. “Then I’m all yours.”

Y/n nodded, returning his smile. “No rush. Just trying to keep the peace here.”

“Peace?” Five chuckled. “In this house? Good luck with that.”

Y/n was pouring juice into a small cup for Milo when she heard a strange popping sound from the living room. She turned just in time to see Milo disappear and reappear a few feet away.

“Uh, Five?” Y/n called, her eyes wide. “You might want to see this.”

Five ended his call abruptly and walked into the living room. “What’s up?” he asked, looking around.

“Watch Milo,” Y/n said, pointing to their son, who was now staring at the spot where he had been.

Five watched as Milo’s face scrunched up in concentration. There was another pop, and he vanished again, reappearing even further away.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Five muttered, running a hand through his hair. “He’s got it. He’s got my powers.”

Y/n’s eyes widened even further. “You mean... he can jump through space and time like you?”

“Looks like it,” Five said, crouching down next to Milo. “Hey, buddy, can you do that again for Daddy?”

Milo looked up at Five with a big grin. “Jump!” he said, clapping his hands. With a pop, he vanished and reappeared on the couch, still smiling broadly.

“That’s incredible,” Y/n whispered, walking over to join them. “But... also a little terrifying.”

“Tell me about it,” Five said, lifting Milo off the couch and setting him back on the floor. “We need to figure out how to teach him control. And fast.”

After a quick consultation, Five and Y/n decided to take Milo outside for some practice. They found a quiet spot in the backyard where they could work with him without too many distractions.

“Okay, Milo,” Five said, crouching down again. “Let’s see if you can jump to Mommy.”

Y/n stood a few feet away, holding out her arms. “Come on, sweetie! You can do it!”

Milo’s face lit up with excitement. He clapped his hands again and vanished, reappearing in Y/n’s arms. She caught him, laughing.

“That’s my boy!” Five said, grinning. “You’re a natural.”

Maddie, who had been watching from the porch, clapped her hands in delight. “Can I jump too, Daddy?”

“Maybe someday,” Five said, winking at her. “For now, let’s just focus on keeping Milo from teleporting into the neighbor’s yard.”

“Or the future,” Y/n added, giving Five a pointed look.

Dinner was a lively affair, as always. Milo’s newfound powers added an extra layer of excitement. Every few minutes, he would disappear from his high chair and reappear somewhere else in the kitchen.

“We’re going to have to set some ground rules,” Y/n said, catching Milo as he reappeared on the counter. “No teleporting during meals.”

“Good luck with that,” Five said, smirking as he helped Milo back into his high chair. “He’s got a mind of his own.”

“Wonder where he gets that from?” Y/n teased, raising an eyebrow at Five.

“No idea,” Five replied, grinning.

Bedtime was another challenge. Five and Y/n tucked Milo into his crib and turned on his nightlight, hoping for a peaceful night.

“Okay, buddy, it’s time for sleep,” Five said, brushing Milo’s hair back. “No jumping out of your crib, alright?”

“Jump!” Milo said, giggling.

“No, no jumping,” Y/n said firmly. “Just sleep.”

They both kissed Milo goodnight and quietly left the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Do you think he’ll stay put?” Y/n asked as they walked down the hall.

“Probably not,” Five admitted. “But we’ll deal with it. One step at a time.”

Five and Y/n were sitting in the living room, enjoying a rare moment of peace and quiet. Five had his arm around Y/n, and she was resting her head on his shoulder.

“I can’t believe Milo has your powers,” Y/n said softly. “It’s... a lot to take in.”

“Yeah,” Five said, nodding. “But we’ll manage. We always do.”

“Do you think he’ll have the same abilities as you? Jumping through time and space?” Y/n asked, looking up at him.

“It’s hard to say,” Five replied. “He’s still so young. But whatever happens, we’ll be there to help him.”

“We’re in this together,” Y/n said, squeezing his hand.

“Always,” Five said, kissing the top of her head. “No matter what.”

They sat in comfortable silence, grateful for each other and ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. Together, they knew they could handle anything.

#five hargreeves imagines #five hargreeves x reader #five hargreeves x you #number five imagine #number five x reader #the umbrella academy #number five #number five one shot #five hargreeves

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what-even-is-thiss · 11 months ago

Text

There’s all this bad news going on right now in the trans community and to a certain extent I feel like I should talk about it because I’ve kinda got a platform. But I’m just. I’m tired. I’ve been tired for a long time.

I’ve always seen trans people as my people. Doesn’t matter their gender or race or past or nationality or anything. Even when I was deep in the closet I was like I feel that. That’s my people. And my people are being harassed by people in power. My people are being murdered. My people are being turned against each other by outsiders. But the cynical part of me, the extremely tired part of me is like, what else is new? What else is new? What thoughts could I possibly add to any of this? What hasn’t already been said? If you won’t listen to the rest of my people at this point, why would you listen to me? I’m not separate from them. I’m just as much of a tranny faggot cross dresser genderweird freak as any of them.

And if you’re actually listening, chances are you’re either one of my people or made your mind up about us a long time ago. I’m preaching to the choir here. I’m mourning for the dead and those still alive. I’m doing the same things I’ve always done, seeing the same things I’ve always seen. Another transfem will get banned and harassed, another child will die, another brother or sister or sibling will be shot down for their gender or their color or both and my anger is there. It’s always been there. But you reach a point in the cycle where you’ve seen the outrage go in and out of fashion a week at a time. The injustices looked at for a minute or two and then forgotten. And maybe each cycle brings us a little closer to some sort of tipping point where someday we will be more accepted than not but it shouldn’t be like that. The violence and the harassment shouldn’t be what gets people looking at us.

But the cynical part of me is tired right now. What can I add? What can I say? I’m tired of this cycle. I’m tired of the needle moving slowly. But I’m just one guy. What can I do? What can I say that hasn’t already been said?

If I have to say one thing, I’ll say that. You should listen to my people while we’re here. Even during the short and quiet peaceful times. Not only after we’ve been wronged or killed.

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hellsslibrary · 1 year ago

Text

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚NSFW Alphabet with Azul Ashengrotto˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

DNI : minors.

!!Warnings : switch!top!male!reader, switch!bottom!Azul, size difference kink, oral, toys, cock warming, praise/humiliation kink, power dynamic, ink(I'm not sorry).

#a.n. : While everyone is writing kinktobers, I'm still trying to finish this. But wait after the alphabets, there will be kinktober... In November, to make it more convenient (and maybe earlier, if I try). Also, no pictures today because I want to redo the decor, and I'm writing this part of Azul for two beautiful ladies, so...(I'll add them later)

A = Aftercare (What are they like after sex?)

He is embarrassed about this (just a little), but he will help put things in order in what he and his partner have done. Prefers to rest a bit before cleaning, but if his partner starts, he will certainly help too. Especially if he was in a dominant position.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part as well as their partners)

Well, in your body it would... Certain parts. He definitely has a kink for the size difference (you can't argue with me, I want to pin him against the wall). And he will love anything if it is bigger than his body parts? Palms, muscles, if any, tongue, di—. Yes.

Honestly, he really likes his chest, and not just the nipples specifically, he likes it when his partner touches him anywhere on the chest in general. I just have a headcanon that he has very petite chest, even for a guy and well... Sorry.

C = Cum (basically anything related to sperm)

So... His sperm has the most ordinary consistency. It is released quite a bit during orgasm, but it tastes quite salty. There is his ink in the sperm (fanfiction with the overblot form of Azul is always in my head, maybe I’ll write them too someday)

Mmm, I think he likes it when people cum in his mouth. Fish sperm, according to internet experts, is simply disgusting. So he likes this taste, definitely.

D = Dirty Secret (Self-explanatory, their dirty secret)

He is the power bottom almost always, simply because he is flattered by the idea of control. But damn, he has moments where he just wants you to take it all into your own hands and take it as you please, mostly without considering his opinion (but still having his consent to it, of course).

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they are doing?)

... No. Simply no. He's definitely a virgin. I doubt he even knows much about sex in theory. Well, dick, hole there, sperm, orgasm. That's all, okay?

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Doggy style~. Don't lie to me that you didn't want to bend him over his table in the VIP room, I won't believe you (it's not exactly doggy style, but who cares). He mostly refuses to look you in the face when you're dominant, so why not.

If he is dominant... Missionary position? I just like the idea of a dominant bottom underneath a service top and well... Azul would be a good fit. He likes to be snuggled anyway.

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

Extremely serious, but with a hint of playfulness, if that makes sense. For example, if he has sex with a partner, it means that they literally mean the world to him and he is exposing a part of himself that is really vulnerable, so he likes it if both parties take it very seriously, but he also likes to have an opportunity to tease you and pull your strings just to see how you react.

H = Hair (How well groomed is it? Does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I wouldn't say he's shaved, but his hair is definitely short, so there's no real need for that. The color is absolutely identical and they are also slightly curly, just like this hairstyle...

I = Intimacy (How are they feeling at the moment? Romantic aspect.)

He is very romantic in general. As I said earlier, he exposes a part of himself that is truly vulnerable, so when his partner takes it seriously, he feels very loved, generally respected and accepted, so he becomes much more romantic both sexually and in general .

J = Jack off (Main canon of masturbation)

He has a lot of stress in his life, you know? So, fuck... I think he would like to do this more often, but he doesn't do it often anyway. He still prefers your hands.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He probably likes to be humiliated and praised at the same time, and I can't explain it for the world, but I know it. Also likes power dynamics, likes to be bossed around and have less power than the other person, but still respected. But when it comes to dominating you—... For now. He also loves getting your cock warm (sorry). Well... I like to attribute this kink to all busy characters, except for Vil, what will you do to me.

L = Location (Favorite places to do things)

Very personal to him, so the only place he could really do this is either his room, his partners room, or some motel if he's really desperate. Specifically and for the most part, this is his room because he knows where everything is and he has certain toys that he can just pull out whenever he wants. Although... With a lot of persuasion or no choice (if one of you was EXTREMELY horny), he would agree to have sex in a less secluded place

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

When he and his partner have a truly romantic relationship (that is, serious) or when you start whispering all sorts of dirty things in his ear and touching his thighs, for example.

N = No (Something they wouldn't do is disabled)

Hmm, I should at least list with someone no (with Vil there will be a direct list, lol), but Azula will also receive this honor. Rape, he also really doesn't like threesomes because he feels it's more about getting laid than actually caring about each other and wants to dedicate all his love to one person in particular. And also his real form until a very distant moment in the relationship.

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

Receiving. You can't tell me otherwise because this man looks like he was made to be flexed, especially with his skinny waist like...(sorry, I got carried away) and he probably doesn't mind either sit on your face (if that’s what you’re into, of course). The ratio would be something like this: 60% for you, 40% for you.

He's not particularly good at giving blowjobs, but it's all made better by his enthusiasm to bring you to orgasm as quickly as possible... As long as he's not teasing or denying your orgasm, of course.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

He is slow and sensual as he loves to enjoy every moment he can spend with his partner in this way. Also wants to make sure that the other person knows that he loves them for real, and not just for sex.

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

Doesn't like quick games, but if he's really busy and his partner wants to do it, he'll agree to one. Well... Actually, they happen quite often, if I may confess.

R = Risk (are they playing with experiments? Are they taking risks? etc.)

Willing to take risks, but very quickly draws a line under what he doesn't like to do (he absolutely doesn't want many things until he becomes comfortable with his boyfriend/he has more trust in him). He wants to spend time with his partner as fully as possible.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they last? How long will they last?)

He becomes very weak in this position, so can usually only last about 7-10 rounds at most (still a reminder that this is a magical world, kittens). He actually only tries three or so, but if his partner wants to try a few more, he's more than welcome. True, only a few.

T = Toys (Do they have toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

He probably has a dildo that he pleasures himself with from time to time, but he only really uses one. He takes good care of it and always makes sure it's properly cleaned so he doesn't get an infection or get sick or anything like that. Not a big fan of toys in general, but if that's what you want, he's okay with it.

U = Unfair (How much they love to tease)

He really likes both sides of the coin. He enjoys both teasing his partner and receiving teasing from him. Loves it when he squirms under his partner and he starts making comments about it, although he always complains about it, he likes it. And I also like the completely mirrored version.

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

Very loud because he often forgets to be quiet, the only thing he can really think about is his partner at that moment so nothing else matters. Although, if you persuade him to have sex outside of your rooms with him... He will hardly utter a sound, he is too ashamed.

W = Wild Card (random character headcanon)

He... Loves... Jerk... You... With...His... Tentacles. Okay, listen to me. When in the end, you gain his trust completely, he will agree to many things in his form. And damn... The tentacles are clearly faster and more skillful than his arms (even if they are quite chubby).

X = X-ray (Let's see what's going on under those clothes)

12 cm/just under 5 inches. He has a mole on his balls. His balls are surprisingly quite large and plump.

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

Like I said, his sex drive is quite high considering his stress level, but on average... He's fine with about 2-3 times a week. Although, what if you want more? He's all yours.

Z - Zzz (How quickly they fall asleep later)

Doesn't fall asleep right away, he likes to compliment his partner or talk a little before he falls asleep. If his partner is asleep, he can simply lie there for 10-20 minutes and come to the realization of what he just did before falling back to sleep.

#seme male reader #top male reader #dom male reader #a!writes.#sub character #sub twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x male reader #twisted wonderland smut #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland headcanons #azul x male reader #sub azul #azul smut #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul ashengrotto x male reader #sub azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto smut

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johnwickb1tsch · 10 months ago

Text

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 28 all chapters

⚠⚠Trigger warning: mention of past terminated pregnancy, NOT Reader. If details of this will bother you skip the section that starts with “One day he lets you sit in as he repairs a tattered copy of The Wind In The Willows.” You can pick up again at “-He gives you run of the house.” I’ll give you the brief gist of the plot point in the end notes. Also mention of possible suicide, NOT Reader.

-As he prepares dinner you sit at the island, you are enjoying a glass of wine and watching him cook. His hands are like poetry, no matter the task at hand. He is slicing peppers, and offers you a piece from across the island. After your previous experience, you should be wary accepting any tidbit that color from this man, but in an act of trust you take it, your lips brushing the tips of his fingers.

It is sweet and crisp and juicy between your teeth, and you sigh to yourself.

This is what you could have had, all along.

Watching you with a small smile, he twirls the knife in his hand absently like it is an extension of his body.

You do not take it as a threat. He simply seems…content, and you wonder if you dare trust any of this at face value.

He goes back to cooking, and you watch him with your wine in hand. It is a tasty Cabernet from Chilé, and maybe you shouldn’t drink too much of it, but then again…what do you have to lose at this point?

Your eyes cast around the cavernous room while John bustles at the stove. The scene is so domestic you could cry, because you realize this is what you’d hoped to share with him before it all went to hell.

You cast your eyes down, to find the razor-sharp Japanese paring knife is now sitting in the middle of the island by the cutting board, easily within reach.

It's really the first mistake he's made in the keeping of you, since he let his guard down enough to let you whomp him with War and Peace.

You stare at it, thinking.

Is it an opportunity? What exactly would you do with it, that would achieve any sort of useful end? It hits you like a ton of bricks for some reason, when you realize that despite what he’s done to you, you have zero interest in hurting John.

You hadn’t even liked hitting him with a book.

The thought of stabbing him makes you physically ill.

Frowning at the thought, you cross your arms and sit back on the stool, glaring at the thing as though it had called you a filthy name.

Belatedly, you realize John is watching you from over at the stove.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was a test.

You transfer your glare to him as he approaches, picking up the tiny but potentially deadly blade.

He says nothing, just washes and dries it before replacing it in the knife block, not the locked drawer.

You guess you passed.

-Later, over dinner, he asks, “Why didn't you pick it up?”

“Because the thought of hurting you makes me sick.”

He actually smirks at you. “That’s nice to hear.”

You’re not sure if he’s baiting you on purpose, but your temper starts to rise. So much for a quiet evening.

“That’s not how I’m going to get out of here,” you declare, feeling brave.

Or stupid.

Hearing this amuses him heartily.

“Yeah?”

“Someday, you're going to let me go, because you'll realize it's the right thing to do.”

He leans his elbows on the table, fixing you with that dark stare that pins you in your seat. “I already told you, kitten, I'm never going to let you go.” He says it sweetly this time, but you sense he is still absolutely serious in his conviction.

-The week that follows is a series of halcyon days, filled with the affection and attention from Mr. Wick that you'd craved all along. Something has shifted in him, and you're still not sure exactly what, or how to make it stay.

You cook meals together in the mornings and evenings. He teaches you things about haute cuisine and international dishes that you'd never had any inkling or access to. The things you make for dinner some nights you've only heard of on tv or in magazines. He's tasted these things in their original countries, and tells you what stories he can, that don't involve disclosing the details of multiple homicides committed for astronomical pay.

You know he must be showing off for you. A man with a waistline like that does not eat like this regularly. A small part of you dares to wonder, is he actually trying to woo you?

You fill your days with time in the studio, and with him.

The brightly colored Dolce and Gabbana sundresses you’d coveted in Italy mysteriously start appearing at the foot of the bed every day. Floral prints in pink and red, and bright majolica-inspired designs with yellow acanthus curls and blue accents, as well as the dreamy azure and white azulejo tile patterns. You marvel at what he spent, to lay these at your feet. You don’t even care that he’s picking out your outfits, dressing you like a feminine doll—because they make you happy. You even go so far as to wear them in your studio, not caring if you get a smudge of paint or pastel on the brightly printed fabric. What does it matter now?

What does anything matter?

-One day he lets you sit in as he repairs a tattered copy of The Wind In The Willows. You discover he likes old children’s books best and he has dozens on his shelves. Something about missing out on a real childhood of his own, you reckon, and undoubtedly the artistry that went into them.

This is the day he tells you that he was almost a father himself once. That when he’d been a foolish young man (his words), he’d fallen in love with one of the ballerinas at the school for assassins where he’d been raised. When the inevitable this led to that with hormone-charged youths with no access to birth control, they planned to run away together.

He’d wanted nothing more at that time, but to just live a simple life with his little family. He just knew in his heart, that the baby would be a girl. He’d already named her, Irina, his little Irinushka. But the night they meant to leave they were intercepted by the other students, and separated by The Director of the school. Tatiana was forced to terminate her pregnancy, because a principal ballerina bearing baby weight was of no use to The Theater at all.

When finally they were allowed to see each other young fire-eyed Jardani wanted to try to leave again. He was willing to kill anyone who got in their way this time, brothers or not. But Tatiana was changed, a shadow of the girl he’d known, and she refused to go with him. She said it had all been a stupid mistake, and he heard the Director’s indoctrination echoing through his lover’s mouth. She began numbing her pain with pills, and wouldn’t stop, despite his pleading. She pushed him away, and a year later she died in a car crash during a mission running drugs across the city. John never knew if it had been an accident, or if she’d given up to the sorrow eating at her heart.

He tells you all this in quiet, almost impersonal tones as he weaves the kettle stitch binding on the book, as though it happened to someone else. The man he had been, you suppose, this Jardani Jovonovich. You imagine what he must have been like as a young man. You suspect he must have been heartbreakingly beautiful, and probably could have had women eating out of his palm and tucking their panties into his pocket at every turn.

Yet, all he’d really wanted was his little ballerina, and his baby Irinushka.

He did leave The Theater soon after, to become the notorious Baba Yaga, the infamous assassin John Wick who could kill three men with naught but a pencil. You listen to all this with horror and tears in your eyes, feeling as though your own heart has been run through a shredder, understanding even further exactly why this steadfast man finally cracked to pieces.

You doubt your own state of mind could have fared so well, for so long.

-He gives you run of the house, reasoning correctly that you won’t be able to get past the locks and bulletproof windows anyway. One day, when you cannot find him, you wander into the garage. He is tinkering with his motorcycle, in a grease stained white t-shirt and ratty jeans that cross the wires in your brain a little.

The sight of the machine fills your heart with what is perhaps an irrational amount of hope.

“Can we go for a ride?” you ask, thinking of that perfect day you once spent together. You have not been outside once since returning to Clear Forks, though you can tell from looking out the window that you've had a series of beautiful sunny days. They’re a thing not to be wasted in the mountains; fall will come quickly, and then winter before you can blink.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he sighs, actually sounding apologetic, wiping his hands on a rag.

You pout silently, but do not push the issue. You are learning to pick your battles. If you keep poking here and prodding there, someday, you will find a weakness to exploit. You must be patient.

When he is sweet to you, patience is not so difficult to come by. You know that is dangerous, but not quite what to do about it.

The garage is a massive space, and you take the opportunity to look around. You should be scoping out possible tools for escape, but mostly...you're just curious.

Is he succeeding in training you? You ask yourself this with what should be an alarming amount of detachment.

Looking past the Land Rover in the middle bay, you see something underneath a cover. Feeling emboldened by his mild mood that day, you walk over to peek underneath.

The sight makes a quiet exclamation slip from your lips.

“Is this the car?”

It is a matte gray Mustang with subtle black racing stripes. You don't know much about classic cars, but it looks fast as hell.

“The car?”

You turn to find he is directly behind you. You didn't hear or sense him move at all. You wonder belatedly if maybe this is a sore spot you should have left well alone.

“Um...never mind.”

“It's OK. You like classics?”

“I...guess? It’s very pretty.”

He pulls off the cover, unveiling the machine in all its glory. “It’s a ’69 Boss 429. 375 horsepower, 450 pound-foot of torque.”

You smile, having no inkling what that really means, but you can tell it makes him happy.

“Can we take this for a ride?”

Luckily, he just chuckles at your transparency.

“Maybe.” It would be harder for you to escape from a car, than from off the back of the bike, after all. He kisses your forehead, not replacing the cover, before going back to the bike.

Somewhat heartened, you wander back up to your studio.

-On the third day, you start to dream about Helen.

It’s actually nothing new for you, communing with the dead through your dreams. You’ve never really thought it more than your own overactive imagination, visiting with your grandmother or your great uncles, even sometimes an old boyfriend who had since passed away. But this feels like something more, and frankly, it gives you the creeps.

At first, you are simply sitting together, an uncomfortable silence between the two of you. You can hardly blame her—you are fucking her husband, after all, if not entirely of your own choice.

But one night, she comes to you in a field of daisies. Extending one to you, she offers you a tired if not slight smile. There is a pleading in her caramel-colored eyes, and maybe regret too. She only says two words. “I’m sorry.” You wake with the haunted feeling that she knows she made him into this version of himself with the trauma of her loss, but she’s still passing the keeping of him on to you.

What does she want you to do? Save him? You start to cry quietly to yourself, because the dangerous man who was her husband is laying asleep behind you with his arms tight around you like you are his teddy bear, and you don’t know how.

Author’s note: The general gist of the TW section was that young John/Jardani and one of the ballerinas became pregnant and were going to run away from the Tarkovsky theatre. But they got caught and The Director wouldn’t allow it. She separated them, made Ballerina terminate the pregnancy, and Ballerina died the next year possibly of suicide. Obviously, this left an impression on John.

#john wick #john wick x reader #keanu reeves #john wick fic #john wick x you #john wick x y/n #keanu reeves x reader #yandere john wick #bittersweet john wick imagine

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