#fic translations

[mylittleredgirl]

playing a new game where i talk about fandom using words that belong on corporate powerpoint slides like:

✨ we have to align our headcanons to authentically reflect our strategic mission and meet quarterly margin objectives ✨

sorry to everyone who understood that

[choccy-milky]

seb about to learn every language there is 📚📚

[bubblingsteam]

[solarconstellations]

James and Reggie doing that tiktok trend where two people are walking and the camera pans back and forth between them.

James: "It's a Jegulus fic, of course Regulus is already hopelessly and completely in love with me before it even starts." Regulus: "It's a Jegulus fic, of course James is going to be compared to the sun."

James: "It's a Jegulus fic, of course there's going to be background wolfstar, dorlene, and rosekiller"

Regulus: "It's a Jegulus fic, of course Sirius and I are going to start speaking French and James and Moony are going to get horribly turned on."

James: *points phone down at his feet* "Wait, can you do that right now?" Regulus: *off screen* "No James, we're in the middle of making a video." James: "It's a Jegulus fic, of course Reggie is going to slip up and accidently call me James after calling me "Potter" for the last 40 chapters." Regulus: "It's a Jegulus fic, of course Sirius is going to go crazy as soon as he finds out me and James are together." James: "It's a Jegulus fic, of course Reg can't swim." Regulus: *points the camera down to his feet* "James, what the fuck, that was a low blow." Regulus: *with revenge in his eyes* "It's a Jegulus fic, of course James and my brother have a ridiculously unhealthy obsession and codependency with one another" James: *with love in his eyes* "It's a Jegulus fic, of course I love my star so much that I would live, die, or kill for him" Regulus: *drops the phone, only their feet can be seen as he runs to James* "Tu vas payer pour m'avoir fait rougir, chéri"

[elv-arts]

I put him in hl2 hope that's alright lol. Hl1 is his brother's territory I decided. Mostly I wanted him to beat the shit out of a metrocop :)

He'll probably be fine. He's survived his life so far including one end of the world and his nerd brother's mad science antics. What's a little more of the same old bullshit?

I was just gonna do one or two doodles cuz I couldn't think of much. But then i was having fun :)

@bbg100

[dvchvnde]

EXCERPT: JOHN PRICE, WINTER SOLDIER AU.

You're still getting used to the sight of him—bare faced in patches: the beard shorn off into a mere shadow of what it was before; a choice he'd made for himself after scrubbing down in a long shower, refusing any help or medical aid—and he doesn't make it any easier for you in these brief, uncomfortable stages of acclimation you suffer through.

Hands lashing out into dead air. Fingers catching, unyielding and firm, on your skin. Nails—split and jagged; regrown in patches after being ripped off over and over again (for hree years, is the mocking whisper snaking along the nausea when you look at the pinked-tinged beds)—burrowing into your flesh. Anchoring you in place as he bends down, moulds his frame around you. Malleable shadow eating you whole.

Indomitable.

John Price was always an intimidating man.

Towering. Broad. Gruff. Surly. Mean old man was often thrown around amongst the new recruits, ones too scared to voice what they really thought:

Miserable fucking bastard.

His weight thrown around like an extension of himself—all raw, barely contained anger trembling out through the cracks. Lashing thick, brutal lines across his forehead. In the sharp, downward tug of his mouth tucked behind a bed of brunt umbre hair.

He was difficult to deal with on a good day, even when he'd offer that mocking smile of his. A parody of geniality—lips split upwards like a crocodiles maw.

(come, come, put your hand inside this beasts jaws; he won't bite—)

As fucking if.

You've only known him in pieces. Patches. Barely enough to make a whole picture, but you could still fill in the empty spaces with that grizzled anger of his that seemed to roll off of him in waves.

(no wonder he burns so hot—it's all that fury.)

Mostly, he'd come to dress you down in front of everyone watching. Snapping at the sight of your desk—organised chaos a true oxymoron (and for the most part, that seemed to be what he thought of you: a moron)—and how you handled files, and how you waltzed around like you owned the place—

and do you, sweetheart? do you own this place, mm? is that why you never listen to a goddamn thing i tell you?

All-in-all: a miserable fucking man.

And one made of sharp, brutal contradictions. Paradoxes layered over each other. Sealed with fury—of the righteous, pragmatic kind—and reinforced with an utilitarian core. Forlorn hope in the distinct shape of a man, one always readying himself for a pyrrhic victory (but a victory, nevertheless).

Easy, in hindsight, to deal with when you knew how to navigate the frothing gyre of anger and juxtapositions that made up the man who brute force, physicality, to get what he wanted.

By sharp contrast, the version of him who stands before is more enigmatic than the mangled mess of savagery and labyrinthine defenses. Almost unknowable. Unfathomable.

Even more so when he lifts his hand—scarred up, still blistered and bruised from fighting his way through fire and kin to get to you—and presses those mangled knuckles to the swell of your cheek, as tender as a man like him could ever allow himself to be, and runs a soft, shallow line down the side of your face. Eyes—still that same, dizzying blue—darken into liquid sapphire as he stares at you. Inexplicably soft. Lids crested. Half-mast in pleasure as if staring at your face was relaxing. Comforting.

Something swirls in those deep, endless lagoons. Some implacable emotion—all at once too much; too heavy—frissoning over his feature. A paroxysm. You can't catch it. Can't define it.

It's unquantifiable. Unknowable. And yet—

You know, instantly, that John Price would never look at you with something this archaic, this intense, brimming up like geysers in the endless spill of blue that can't seem to look away from you.

This man is not John Price.

But when he pulls you into a kiss—one softer and sweeter than you'd ever imagined the infamous captain could ever be capable of—you let him.

In fact, you kiss back.

And you'd really rather not think about what that says about you.

[camembri]

one piece had an active fanbase before I was born which is kinda crazy to me. sanji's been getting dicked down for longer than I've been alive. incredible

[okinmars]

oops....I almost forgot I have tumblr but!!! A.B.A seeing the sun for the first time

[stewedlycan]

Small comic practice inspired by the fic “teaching me how to pray, how to say your name” by summerlovesivy on AO3.

[NOTE: The og fic in written in Thai (a language I don’t know) so, if the EN text seems odd, I’m sorry!

original text: “แม้เพียงวงน้ำที่แผ่วเบาจากขนนก ใครเล่าจะล่วงรู้ ว่าคลื่นใต้น้ำนั้นมันน่ากลัวเพียงใด” ]

[chamm0y]

Logical Proposals chapter 14, 15 AND 16 ARE UP!! in spanish ;)

Chapter 14: Shock y terrores

Chapter 15: Lengua común

Chapter 16: Mal aconsejado

Chapter 1 English / Spanish

i love animating, but i hate it, but i love it (god i hope the audio doesn't load wonky)

laserbeak was probably the one that asked

Hope you enjoy!! / Disfruten!!

Follow the author!!! @vivificanousprime

[hehearse]

an illistration for this fic about an exciting new roleplaying scenario with a reverse time flow and a murder mystery :)

[apple-cores]

awww he just fell from the moon, the burden of sapience hasnt hit him yet

ah yup nevermind theres the braincell. thats rough buddy

had to liquify this man again, they cant all be winners

[strangersteddierthings]

Childhood friends AU Idea

Steve and Eddie are best friends who make plans to learn the elvish alphabet from The Hobbit so that they can pass notes without worrying about other people reading them.

The end of the school year (Eddie in 6th, Steve in 5th) brings a sadness to the two. Eddie's going to middle school and Steve's not yet, but they can hang out on weekends, and they have all summer so no worries. (Also, it gives Steve a little more time to learn elvish, since it'll be a whole year until they're in the same school again.)

Except yes worries because two weeks into summer, Eddie vanishes. When Steve bikes to his house to investigate, the whole house is empty. Packed up and gone. Steve goes to Wayne for answer and all he gets is a smile that doesn't really reassure and words of "his dad got a job opportunity, had to move on short notice. But don't worry, kiddo. I'll get you the number to their new place so you can call."

He learns elvish anyway. It's harder without Eddie to help but he's determined. Eddie might return, or maybe he'll get an address one day. Send a letter to Eddie in full Elvish.

Steve never gets a number or address. Summer ends and sixth grade comes. He doesn't want to forget all the elvish he's learned, just in case. So, he decides to keep a journal. He can write all about everything that's happening and when he sees Eddie, he can give it to him. It's a double win. Eddie will know everything he's missed out on AND it'll help Steve practice elvish.

Sixth grade ends. Eddie doesn't return. Steve did make friends with Carol Perkins though, so he's not as lonely. He hopes Eddie made a new friend, too. But not a new best friend. That's Steve's position, always.

Seventh grade brings Tommy Hagan, but still no Eddie. It brings a growth spurt and sports. Steve likes the easy camaraderie that comes with sports teams. It's like having a lot of friends, which Steve will only admit to needing in his journal. Needing many little connections of friendship to hold together the big hole Eddie left behind.

The summer between seventh and eighth grade brings him a Bruce Springsteen concert. He'd never thought of a boy kissing another boy until he'd witnessed it on stage but he thinks about it a lot after. The end of that summer brings an awaken he refuses to shy away from even if he has to hide it

Eighth grade brings popularity. Steve's good looking, rich, and liked among his peers. It brings the first (and last) time his dad says he's proud of him.

(Steve will spend the rest of his high school career chasing his father's approval.)

Freshman year brings Eddie back, but he's different. His hair is longer and his clothes are darker and he's distant. Defiant and angry. Steve would recognize him anywhere, dressed in anyway.

Eddie doesn't want his friendship anymore. Avoids him in the halls and cafeteria, but Steve is nothing if not persistent. He writes a full letter in elvish to slip into Eddie's locker, but Eddie catches him. Shoves the letter back, unopened, unread, with a harsh whispered, "Don't you get it Harrington? I don't want to be your friend. Fuck off."

Steve doesn't understand why. Not until the table top rants start. Conformity and jocks and brain-dead rich kids who get by on favoritism.

It hurts. Steve feels his heart break the day he finally gets the not-so-subtle messages drilled into his mind. Eddie hates sports, and rich people, and stupid people. Eddie hates all the things that Steve is.

Eddie hates him.

Sophomore year brings Steve a lot of things. It brings the acknowledgment that he was probably in love with Eddie, the way his heart twists the day he sees Eddie flirting with a girl in the hallway, the way he wants the lights out when hooking up with someone so he can imagine a different person pressed against him, the way he gravitates towards brunettes with brown eyes and the flickering hope it might make Eddie jealous. (The way he'd said the wrong name when Brent went down on him, too absorbed in the fantasy of someone else to get it right. Brent hadn't been offended by it, he'd been thinking of someone else, too. Steve finds solidarity for a little bit, until the school year ends and Brent leaves Hawkins.)

Junior year turns Steve's life upside down (pun intended) with monster's coming out of walls. There's probably a lot more he should write about but his journal's pretty empty this year. Too traumatized to document. (Too afraid of what Eddie would say because Steve still writes in his journal like he plans on sending it to Eddie one day. Better to write nothing than sound crazy.)

And halfway through his senior year (don't think about how he's in it with Eddie, about the 4 classes they share, about how Eddie still won't meet his eye) he wants to fade into the background. Nancy and he break up. She's with Jonathan and he hears the whispers of how pathetic he is to be eating lunch with his ex and the guy that 'stole' her. Steve knows that's a lie, Nancy made her choice, and no one can say otherwise, but it hurts to hear. He can't be bothered to try and make new friends. How would he explain the nightmares? The skittishness. The fear of the dark, of pumpkin patches, of his own damn pool now that he's had time to process last year?

Then, the next year brings him Robin. Well. First it brings him an embarrassing uniform and then Russian torture (don't think about it. Don't think about how he'll shorthand the stock list by writing it in Elvish sometimes. Don't think about how the Russian's almost believe they just work for Scoops until they find the stock list in his pocket. Don't think about how they don't believe that the strange script they can't identify isn't proof he's a spy), but in the end he gets Robin. A Platonic Soulmate who understands the hidden side of him. She asked if he was ever in love, and he thinks of the Eddie he used to know, longs to know again, and describes her instead. She rejects him in the softest way possible and then confesses about Tammy, and he confesses about Eddie in turn.

1986 brings Eddie back into his life in the worst way possible. With a bottle to his neck and them both acting like they've never spoken before. It brings twisting guts as Steve lies awake thinking about Eddie alone in a boathouse instead of sharing a bed with him like they used to in elementary school. It brings Steve leading them to Skull Rock (popularized as a make out spot but started as a set of boys' favorite place to play pirates during the summer). Dustin and Eddie make references Steve pretends to not know, despite his own copies of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings and the numerous amounts of notebooks turned journals with elvish scrawled throughout.

There's a trek through the Upside Down. In another universe, Steve imagines he and Eddie talk. In this one, Robin sticks to his side like an extension of him (which she is), and glares at Eddie every time he looks in Steve's direction. Robin knows everything, knows it all, because there are no secrets between them.

They make plans to stop Vecna, once and for all, and Robin confesses she has a fear. That it won't turn out okay this time, but they have to try anyway. Steve clinks his bottle against hers and looks across the field to Eddie and Dustin. The stakes feel so much higher this time.

"I'm going to talk to Eddie if we survive. Make it right," he says.

"No. He's going to make it right because you didn't do anything wrong," Robin says, which is more support than he thought he'd get given the grudge she holds in his favor.

Eddie said make him pay and Steve does. Nancy advances, shotgun shot after shot and Steve's bounding down the stairs. Vecna beats him to the ground floor but not by much.

A hatchet's not the best tool to remove a head with but he manages. When he looks up, Nancy and Robin are looking down, both approving.

They find Dustin sobbing over Eddie and- and-

Steve's certain he's broken several of Eddie's ribs but he's breathing again, Nancy finds his pulse beneath all the blood, and Robin's retrieved the cut sheets to make bandages out of. Nothing is clean in this world, infection could kill him later, he might not save Eddie like he wants, but fucking Christ, at least if death claims him, it'll be on the right side of the world in a hospital.

Dustin, Robin, and Steve are at Eddie's side when Nancy leads Wayne into the room. They knew she went out looking for him (Steve was going to but Nancy had shoved him back in the chair with a look that left no room for argument) but even so they're startled by him.

Wayne has always been stoic and reserved, so it's no surprise to Steve when he just lets out a low whistle and says, "of all the people I might see here, you weren't one of 'em."

Steve swallows thickly and says, "well. I am. Here, I mean."

And Wayne gives him a watery smile and crosses the room. Pulls Steve into a hug that Steve thinks he probably wants to give to Eddie instead, but Eddie's not awake and standing and Steve is. But then Wayne says, "I told Eddie he couldn' chase ya away. That if he just talked to ya, you'd understand. He tried so hard to make ya hate him, and for what? For ya to be at his bedside anyway."

And Steve sobs. Loud and ugly and suddenly Dustin's there, and so are Robin and Nancy, and it's probably the most awkward hug for all the others but it's the best hug Steve's had in years. He doesn't even care that he's crying because how can he? Wayne's all but confirmed that Eddie doesn't hate him, maybe never hated him. That Eddie has an explanation, a reason for it all, and all he wants is Eddie to wake up and tell him.

Steve finally gets his apology two days after Eddie's release. It's the first time they've been alone together since- well, since elementary school. Wayne drove him here then lied about needing to check on something and said he'd be back in an hour or so before abandoned them to the awkward silence in Steve's living room.

"I'm sorry, Steve!" Eddie blurts out loudly, then looks startled by his own yelling.

"I know. I forgive you."

"You shouldn't."

"I know. Still do anyway. Would like to know what happened, though."

And Eddie tells him. How his father's debts came calling and they ran. How his mom got sick real fast, and his father's crime spree and prison sentence following her passing. How Eddie discovered the same thing about himself that Steve did but didn't have the same acceptance of himself. Hated that another thing marked him as Other. Freak.

He tells Steve how he couldn't let Steve back in because he was afraid of losing him again if he ever learned.

"I didn't think you'd be okay being friends with a faggot," Eddie spits the word out, dirty and mean and directed at himself.

Steve makes a decision then. "Follow me." And he helps Eddie up the stairs and into his room. Eddie sits on the bed and watches as Steve digs out notebook after notebook after notebook, until they're a tower on his bed. Then he topples them over in his search for the first.

Eddie takes the offered notebook with confusion on his face, looking from the cover, where 1978 is written on it. The summer Eddie vanished from Steve's life.

"Open it."

Eddie does and gasps. "Steve. Is this-"

"Every single one of these notebooks was written to you. For you. About you. I read The Hobbit for you. The Lord of the Rings. I learned elvish for you. I think I've been a little bit in love with you since the day we met on the playground on my second day of first grade."

"Steve," it comes out breathless and awed.

"Eddie," Steve repeats back to him, just as breathless as Eddie tosses the notebook aside and reaches for Steve instead. Hauls him in to kiss him senseless amongst the proof of Steve's devotion.

[bignostalgias]

Translations Chapter I: Heimr

The coast disappeared when the sea drowned the sun / I knew no words to share with anyone — Different Names for the Same Thing, Death Cab for Cutie

HiJack Language Barrier AU

Read on AO3

—

The biggest warmest thank yous to @envy-of-the-gods and my sibling for beta-ing and reading despite their busy schedules, it means the world that you’re willing to put up with my beloved cringe crossover slash. And a million thank yous to @alkalinefrog for the cringe nights and constantly inspiring me throughout the writing process. Y’all are amazing ❤️

[merlucide]

Prayers in Silk

pairings 𓇼 Highschool!Satoru x Fem!Reader (enemies to lovers type)

synopsis 𓇼 it was new years in 2006, and as the year changes, so do the hearts of two people. At the shrine on the cold new years morning, you and Satoru make your wishes, unaware that the prayer he holds is far more significant than you realize.

warnings 𓇼 light cursing, cheesy bit at the end

word-count 𓇼 2.6k

“Ehhh?! You’re seriously wearing a kimono?! In this weather!?” Gojo bafflingly exclaimed, pointing at your satin yellow kimono. “Uhh? You aren’t dressed up?!” You glare at his comment, crossing your arms. He was wearing his grey sweatpants and a his navy blue jacket, quite boring compared to your glamorous look. It was New Year’s Day and you were going to Hatsumode, which is the first shrine visit of the new year. You wanted to look nice in the presence of the Kami’s, is there something so wrong with that?

To Gojo Satoru, apparently it was. “Too much effort, and like, it’s freezing,” He retorted stuffing his hands back into his jacket. It wasn’t actively snowing, but ice ice glazed the sidewalks, and frost dusted the bamboo, creating a picturesque—albeit chilly—path to the shrine. You had originally made plans with Shoko to go to the shrines, that somehow turned into an invitation for Gojo and Geto as well. And you had no problem with that, except Gojo. He was insufferable—loud, smug, and annoyingly good at getting under your skin, and unfortunately he liked getting under yours the best.

You let out a dry sigh and rub your hands together, “Where’s Geto?” You ask, looking around for the black-haired boy. those two are like one in the same, it’s odd to catch one without the other. “They needed him for an emergency mission or something,” He answered nonchalantly. You hummed in acknowledgement, a few minutes later a ‘ding!’ went off and you pulled out your phone. A notification from ‘Shoko-tan<3’. you opened the message.

‘Hey sorry can’t meet- they dragged me in on an emergency mission. Sorry again (*´Д｀*)’

You sighed deeply through your nose and closed the lid, sliding it back into your kimono’s obi securely. Gojo’s brow raised at you slightly, an amused glint in his eyes as if he was about to comment on how “traditional” you looked, but he bit back the remark with a smirk.

You clapped your hands against your red cheeks and turned towards the frozen stone steps. “Shoko can’t come, I’m going now,” you firmly state, not sparing a glance at the snow-haired boy as you make your ways into the bamboo enclosed path. Gojo blinks a few times and trails behind eyeing you. The path to the shrine was filled of red and black torii above your heads. “Sooo, whatcha gonna ask for eh?” He drawls, blowing air into his hands. You sigh, “I don’t know yet.” “You should pray for a boyfriend, you probably won’t get one otherwise,” He smirks, head tilted towards the sky, avoiding your gaze.

You abruptly turn “Excuse me?!” You scoff, “Well for your information I was asked out multiple times in the past few months!” You glare at him, which he just sticks his tongue out tauntingly. Your dating life has always been amusing to Gojo for some reason. Always poking fun at you for not having a boyfriend yet or how you’ll end up alone or whatever nonsense he can come up with to elicit a reaction from you.

You sharply exhale and continue down the path, it was a bit busy as expected, but not nearly as busy as you thought it would be. You also went much earlier to avoid the crowd. “Well then, what are you going to ask for, hm?” You spare a quick glance to him. “Meh, I don’t care, maybe a free ticket to America. Never been,” you stare at him baffled, ‘seriously?’ you think. “..You’re going to ask… for a plane ticket?” You echo. “Yeah, never been sounds cool, besides the chicks there are super hot,” he exclaimed on the last bit. “A plane ticket? Are you serious?” You exasperatedly ask. “What? It’s a wish, isn’t it?” He grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll send you a postcard.”

“You know this is the time to ask about like— health and happiness right?”

“Duuuh, I did grow up ‘tradish’ y’know,” he replies mockingly, adjusting his glasses up. You just shrug and turn your gaze to the shrines entrance. You step underneath the temizuya, the water basin had ice on the sides of the walls, the temple keepers had already cleared the ice out, no doubt it was freezing. You took your right hand and took the ladle, scooping it and pouring the water into your left hand. ‘Oh it was freezing!’ You shudder, “You’d think they’d have like, a heater or something, ugh,” you groan, switching the ladle to your left hand and pouring it on your right. This was the purification process, it’s how you show respect and properly participate in the ritual. And as much as you want to make the Kami’s proud and honor them, this sucked ass.

You poured a little bit of water into your left, holding it up to your lips and rinse your mouth. Now’s not the time to think of germs. You swish it around a few times, then spit it to the side of the basin. Gojo chuckles behind you about who knows what, “Oh hush, it’ll be your turn soon,” you tilt the ladle upright, watching the water trickle back down into basin. Then you hand it to Gojo, who takes it and steals your place. He repeats the process with a little more complaints than you, ‘THIS IS FUCKING COLD.’ You just snicker watching him, then you continue into the shrine.

“Seriously, that sucked,” Gojo moans, stuffing his wet cold hands back into his jacket. “Shush already, be caaaaalm,” you mock, both of you walking on the side of the path, nodding at those leaving. You make it to the main shrine, it was brown and red, like most temples. this one wasn’t very big, since you didn’t go to the cities shrine, figuring that would be much more busier. It was small and modest. The concrete torii stood in front of the shrine, moss growing on the top, little komainu stood next to it, and there was little circle candles on both sides of the shrine. 

You stood in front of the offering box and dropped in your five yen. Gojo repeated the action, flipping it off his thumb. You both faced the shrine, and bow deeply twice. Then clapped your hands twice, in sync, then you both tilted your head down in prayer.

You had thought deeply a few days prior of what you would ask for. Your life wasn’t perfect, but you were happy—that wasn’t what you wanted to ask for. You weren’t poor, nor were you rich, but that was fine too. What you wanted wasn’t something material. Maybe it was love, maybe it was clarity, or maybe it was just the strength to navigate the path ahead. Man, this was hard. As a jujutsu sorcerer, tomorrow is never promised. You accepted that, you knew one day you would probably die against a curse. That hit harder after your kouhai died. You don’t want anyone around you to have the same fate. You bowed your head slightly and pressed your hands tighter together. “Please let those I care about have a long and happy life… and maybe let me figure out my own along the way.”

You open you eyes and stand up, Gojo was already standing, waiting for you. You bow deeply once more and turn to face him. “So what did you end up asking for?” He asks, piercing blue eyes peeking behind his slipping glasses. You shrugged softly, “For those around me to live their lives to the fullest,” you reply, dusting off your kimono. Gojo snickers, “Gosh you really are so selfless,” He praises mockingly. You click your tongue, “Well then, what did you end up asking for, hm?” “Tickets,” “Are you serious?!” You exclaim. You seriously thought he was joking, how stupid is he. You shake your head. ‘unbelievable’. 

He just gives his cheeky boyish grin he always gives you, oh how you hated that smile. You both left the main shrine, making your way to the shop booth to buy omamori. You figured you’d get one for Shoko since she couldn’t make it. You looked at the colorful options, picking up a blue omamori with written kanji, ‘protection’. You looked for one for yourself, you already asked for protection and guidance, so what charm should you get?

“Hey, what are you getting?” You ask, turning to the lanky boy. “Gotta guarantee that I stay number one,” Gojo smirks, dangling a yellow omamori, kanji reading as ‘success’. “Meh, I’ll get Suguru a ‘protection from bad luck’, sounds good enough.” 

Your fingers ghosted over the pink one, lifting it up and brushing your finger pads over the lettering.

You paid for both of you, because Gojo apparently ‘forgot his wallet’, ironic since he’s fucking loaded. You put yours and Shoko’s omamori into your obi, the tassels sticking out ever so slightly. You both begin the journey out of the shrine grounds. The sun had begun to melt the frost, it hadn’t warmed up much but it still felt warmer. That was when you came face to face with the crowd, oh it’s a wonderful thing you went earlier. It was kind of ridiculous just how many people went to the shrine for Hatsumode. Gojo bends down to the shell of your ear, lowly speaking, “Good thing we got here when we did.” Groups of family and friends pooled in, squeezing against each other. You and Gojo were pushed to the very edge of the path due to the crowd, a girl passed you in a lavender and pink kimono. “See, I’m not the only person dressed up,” you boast, smirking at the boy who was wordlessly mocking your comment. 

You and Gojo squeezed your way through the narrowing path, the weight of the crowd pressing in from all sides. People were pushing and shoving, their chatter creating a constant buzz in the air, but it felt oddly isolating. You were still too aware of Gojo standing just a few inches behind you, his presence impossible to ignore. You could feel the heat of his body just behind you, his breath warm against the back of your neck. It was an oddly intimate feeling, and you refused to acknowledge it. 

But just as you turned to throw a glance back at him, to make sure he was still with you, someone bumped into your shoulder, pushing you backward into Gojo. You stumbled slightly, surprised by the force of the collision, but before you could step away, you realized something was different.

Gojo hadn’t moved.

In fact, his hands—his hands were now firmly holding your arms, steadying you.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a split second, everything felt oddly still. Gojo’s hands held onto your forearms, and the usual barrier,—the feeling that he was untouchable, inaccessible—had melted away. His Infinity, his usual shield, was absent in that moment.

You didn’t know if he meant to lower it, or if it was a slip-up, but his fingers lingered a little longer than necessary before he quickly pulled back, his usual smirk sliding back into place as though nothing had happened. “You fallin’ for me too?” he said nonchalantly, his tone teasing, but there was something else in his eyes—something fleeting, almost imperceptible.

You cleared your throat, trying to hide the rush of warmth in your cheeks. “Watch where you’re going, dummy,” “YOU BUMPED INTO ME?!” You rolled your eyes and continued pushing through the mess of people. 

The moment passed, but it left an unspoken question hanging in the air between you two. ‘he’s so annoying’ you thought, that’s definitely what you thought.

The crowd was finally thinning out, and with a sigh of relief, you stepped through the last few groups of people, Gojo following at your side. The shrine’s path grounds were gradually clearing, and the chill in the air didn’t feel quite so biting anymore. You adjusted the fabric of your kimono, a subtle movement that caught Gojo’s eye as you did. A small piece of pink caught his attention from the edge of your obi—the tassel of your omamori peeking out.

Gojo didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered for a moment longer than usual. That pink hue—he knew exactly what it meant. Love. The omamori meant for romance, for heart’s desires. It was so clearly sentimental that it almost made him roll his eyes. He quickly shifted his gaze away, though, as if he hadn’t seen it at all. You were probably the type to hope for something soft, something you could hold onto. He wasn’t the type to believe in things like that.

It wasn’t hard to imagine why you’d chosen it, though the thought of you wishing for something like that… It stirred something strange in him. You’d picked something soft, hopeful. Did you even realize what that said about you? You acted so tough, sharp edges and biting remarks, but this? This was something else entirely.

As you turned ahead, tucking the tassel back into the folds of your kimono, Gojo’s smirk returned, casual, but with an undercurrent of something else. His gaze softened for just a split second before he looked away again. His hands found their way into his jacket pockets, the silence stretching between you both.

“Guess we’re headed in different directions now,” Gojo said, his voice low, almost as if the words didn’t fully match the thoughts behind them. “Good luck with that wish of yours. Cya at school.”

You didn’t quite catch the weight behind his words, brushing them off as just another one of his teasing remarks. You nodded, walking ahead without a second glance. 

As your figure retreated, Gojo lingered behind for a moment longer, standing at the edge of the steps, watching you as you walked away. His hand brushed against the omamori in his pocket, the action so subtle it could’ve been missed by anyone else. But to Gojo, it was something more. It was a reminder of the prayer he made, the charm he chose.

Success, yes. But there was more to it than that. The charm was supposed to symbolize the strength to keep going, to push forward. But what Gojo had truly wished for, what he had really prayed for, was simpler than that. 

—He’d lied, of course—he hadn’t wished for plane tickets. That was just a convenient story to cover up the truth. He’d stood at the shrine, hands clasped loosely, head bowed just enough to make it look like he cared about decorum. But his mind had only been on one thing. On you.

He had wished for you. Not in the way your omamori was about love, no, not that. But he had prayed for the strength to keep you safe, to give you the life you deserved—the life where you didn’t have to fear the world or what it might take from you.

He had prayed for the kind of strength that would allow him to be by your side, to protect you, to ensure that no curse would ever hurt you. Maybe you didn’t realize it, but Gojo saw the way your smile lit up even in the darkest moments, the way you kept going despite everything. And he couldn’t stand the idea of you ever losing that light.

So, he held his omamori tight, fingers curling around the small charm, as a quiet breath slipped past his lips. He didn’t need to tell you what he’d really wished for. You wouldn’t understand. But in that moment, Gojo made a promise to himself: he would do whatever it took to make sure your life, your happiness, was something that could never be taken from you.

You may have prayed for the happiness of others, but Gojo? He prayed for yours—and for the chance to be the one who made it possible.

I have 4 things to say:

This rlly tested my Japanese culture knowledge 😭🙏

I got excited writing this bc there’s a chance I can go back to Japan in a year or two!!

this was mostly proofread but shit probably doesn’t make all sense 😭

oh my gosh editing the colors took forever HELPP

feedback + Reblogs appreciated pls! :)

made November 27th 2024 (I’m excited for Christmas season okay??)

[zepskies]

Lost in Translation

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Female POC!Reader

Summary: Living with this man isn’t easy, and you’ve absolutely had it with him. Supe or not, you’re one step shy of kicking him out. Will he try to make it up to you? 

AN: So after getting requests for a Soldier Boy x POC!Reader, I’ve had a short series in development called Unravel Me. I’m a bit stalled on the outline right now, so I thought this could be a fun way to introduce their relationship and see if you guys think I should continue with the prequel, kind of like how I did with Checkerboard and the Break Me Down-verse.

This story would take place after Unravel Me, after a fair bit of character development lol. It also fulfills a bingo square for @jacklesversebingo!

Prompt: “Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is No!”

Song Inspo: “Damage” by H.E.R.

Word Count: 3.4K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, bit of dirty talk, fingering, edging, some angst, fluff and feels. The reader is a mixed race POC (Afro Latina), with textured hair. 

The apartment was quiet, but not peaceful.

You were in the kitchen washing the Mt. Everest of dishes piled in the sink, partly because someone hadn’t rinsed off his own plate of carne guisada.

Ben had asked for beef for dinner yesterday, and you’d graciously delivered with your grandmother’s recipe for the stew. It was filled with chunks of tender, fall-off-your-fork beef, garlic, onions, carrots, and more—all marinated to perfection, if you said so yourself. You even added in some little yellow potatoes, both for taste and texture.

Apparently, he couldn’t be bothered to put those meaty man muscles to good use, aside from shoveling three helpings into his mouth.

A bottomless pit and a freakin’ man-child, I swear to God, you inwardly groused as you scrubbed the ceramic a bit too hard with the rough side of the sponge. No matter how many times you asked, nicely, it seemed your boyfriend couldn’t manage to pull his weight around here.

Okay, you knew his job could be demanding, but so was yours.

What the hell is this, Maid in Manhattan? Newsflash: I’ve got shit to do too! 

“And I cooked!” you muttered in indignation. That reminder propelled you to scrub a bit harder. The least he could do was clean the kitchen. Or take out the trash. Or toss the laundry into the washing machine once in a while. Like you really wanted to handle his dirty boxers all the damn time.

Did he have no shame? Couldn’t he do anything for you without you having to ask him three million times?

Es que él es bruto, mija, as your Dominican grandma would say about your grandpa, often while swiping a tired hand over her long braids. Es como un animal con ropa.

Just then, you heard his heavy steps creaking on the wood floors in your bedroom. Today was his day off, so he was probably taking his sweet time rolling his ass out of bed.

Meanwhile, you were hustling to get the place at least decently clean before you got yourself together for work. The thought made you simmer as you continued to place dishes on the counter rack. Each one clacking to rest was satisfying, but it also ticked up your internal dial to a fine boil. 

You heard him bang the bathroom door open and cringed internally, your teeth grinding. You’d reminded him three times already about the neighbors and the noise.

Sabes que, supe or not, I’m about to— 

“Morning, sweetheart.”

Ben’s voice washed over you, deep and still a little rough with sleep as he stepped into the kitchen. His old man loafers slid against the floor with every step when he approached you from behind, and his heavy hands found a familiar resting place on the curve of your waist.

He swiped your slightly wild curls to the side and pressed a tantalizing kiss into your neck. His voice, his touch, the brief scrape of his beard; it all caused a small shiver of delight up your spine.

“Hmm, you smell good. Good enough to eat.” And he teased you with the graze of his teeth, biting gently enough where your neck met your shoulder. You flinched with half a huff, trying not to smile. 

Just like that, it took the edge off your irritation…a little. You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could…

“Hey,” he said, “since you’re already up and about in here, how about some breakf—”

Your spine tightened once again.

“Whatever you’re going to ask, the answer is No!” you snapped. You moved out of his arms to grab a hand towel to dry your hands with. They were all pruny from washing dishes.

“I’m already running late. Why? Because this place is a fucking mess, and the only one who seems to care is me!” you exclaimed. First, you gestured to the dishes now drying on the rack. “Hmm?”

You then opened up the lid to the full-to-bursting trashcan. “What do you call that, huh? You said you’d take this out last night. After I asked you twice. What, was I not speaking English? Did something get lost in translation, or are you already losing your hearing? Just let me know, ‘cause I can sure as hell crank up the volume for you!”

Ben raised a brow. You read his thoughts in his surly frown. You have some fucking audacity, talking to him like that, but it’s still early. He hasn’t even had his coffee, for Christ’s sake.

If he was more awake, no doubt he’d be barking back at you. Instead, he heaved a sigh, drew closer to you and shut the trashcan lid. At least there was one lid he knew how to close.

“All right, it’s just a little mess. No need to get fucking hysterical,” he said, trying to grasp your arm to placate you. You shrugged out of his hold and crossed your arms in anger.

“Ben, it’s not just a little mess. And what is this, 1945? I’m not hysterical!”

His lips twitched at a smirk, making you even angrier. But he’d caught enough smoke from you in the past to know he didn’t want it at 8:00 in the morning. He grasped your arms and rubbed them up and down, trying to sooth you.

“Okay, okay. It’s a little early for all this Latina temper, don’tcha think?” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Your gaze snapped up at him with a glare.

Oooh, this man. He knew how to get you mad fucking tight.

Not in a good way.

Instead of exploding like Mount Fuji, you kept it all under your skin. You turned away from him and aimed to continue getting ready for work, but first, you took out a Greek yogurt from the fridge and wholly ignored him taking up space in the kitchen. You wouldn’t answer him when he called your name. In fact, you were going to give him the most frigid of cold shoulders—so cold he’d get hyperthermia through that invulnerable skin.

He waylaid your plans when he grabbed your hand, swinging you back into his arms. You gasped at the suddenness of it, looking up into his cocky, charming smile. You couldn’t stare too long at his green eyes, or the rest of his handsome, bearded face. Not when he knew exactly how to use it against you.

“Don’t think that’s gonna get you out of this,” you warned him. You set your yogurt on the kitchen counter and pushed at his chest, but it was no more effective than pushing at a mountain and expecting it to move.

His hands spanned your waist, his fingers beginning to press into your soft sides. He bowed his head, brushing his lips against your neck and the shell of your ear when he said, “Out of what, baby doll? Looks to me like we can still have a good morning.”

His voice once against trilled heat and tingles through your body, but you managed to lean back, holding the pads of your fingers to his lips.

“Hey, I’m not playing around here. If we’re gonna do this,” you pointed between him and yourself, “then let me make one thing really clear. I’m not la sirvienta around here, okay? I’m not your fucking maid. I’m your girl. Your partner. And since you live here now, I’m gonna need you to do your part.”

Ben almost rolled his eyes, but you grasped his chin. He frowned at you with furrowed brows. There was a time where he would've been inclined to grab your wrist and try to intimidate you with his temper. You saw it lying in wait behind his pursed lips and irritated stare, but you weren't afraid of him. Not anymore.

“Listen to me. I get that you haven’t lived like us commoners for most of your life, but this stuff is important,” you said. You took a deep breath, and you counted to three. You met him with a calmer gaze. “Ben, I love you.”

You let go of his chin and lowered your hand, letting it splay over his chest. He softened, ever so slightly, even though his frown remained.

“I love you,” you repeated, “but I don’t need a man-child.”

"Excuse me?" he did snap this time, his hold loosening from around your waist. "The fuck did you just say?"

You narrowed your eyes right back at him.

"You heard me," you said. "I want a man. A man who's going to be my rock when I need him. Can you do that for me, like I do for you? Are you gonna be my man, or do I need to claim you as a dependent on my taxes?"

His expression sharpened again at your thinly veiled accusation…but the longer he looked into your eyes, no longer angry, but earnest and imploring, the more he actually listened to what you were saying. His jaw worked for a moment in annoyance. You subtly softened him with your hands soothing up and down his arms, a slow back and forth over solid, warm muscle.

Eventually, he was able to curb his instinct to bark a callous reply. He nodded, expelling a breath through his nose.

“Fine,” he said.

Your brows rose. “Fine?”

“Yeah,” he said flatly.

You knew it was the closest you were going to get to an agreement, as well as an apology. You were still working on that last one, but dating this man was a work in progress, for both of you. With a sigh, you patted his arms that were slowly wrapping back around you.

“Okay, I’m really running late now,” you said.

“You should probably get a move on then,” Ben said.

Still, he didn’t release you. He stared down at you with an amused smile while you struggled against his hold. You uttered a laugh.

“Babe, I need to get to work.” You leaned over and spied the oven clock. “Oh, shit! it’s almost 8:30! If I’m not there by 9:00—”

“You sure you want to go now? Tense, body all tight,” he said, his voice deep with sensuous suggestion.

His lips neared yours, but he didn’t kiss you. Not yet. His lips veered away to brush against your cheek. He inhaled deeply as he moved, taking in the floral scent of your soap, mixed with the army of products you styled your hair with, and the faint imprint of your perfume from the night before. He skimmed down your neck and along the shell of your ear.

“Wouldn’t you rather I fuck all that tension right out of you?” he offered. “Leave you nice and warm and satisfied, have that pretty pussy coming hard on my cock.”

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes as his filthy mouth and the timbre of his voice struck a chord through your body, tinging warm arousal between your legs. Your fingers tightened on his strong arms, digging into the fabric of his loose robe. Ben took that as a wordless confirmation. He bent at the knees and grabbed you up by your plush thighs. You wrapped your arms around his neck on instinct, with a small gasp.

But you recovered quickly. Taking his face into your hands, you met his lips roughly with yours in a devouring kiss. He set you down on the kitchen counter hard enough to make the clean dishes rattle. His hands were just as claiming as his mouth, squeezing your hips and thighs as he spread them open to make more room for himself.

While your tongue dueled with his, you shoved the robe off his shoulders, followed by his sleep shirt pooling to the floor. His hand slid under your top as well, and almost ripped it at the hem in his haste to get it up and over your head.

“Ow, ah-ow!” You giggled when the collar got caught on your hair. Ben’s breathy chuckle reached your ears. He was gentler in how he helped get the shirt off the rest of the way. Your mane of hair fell into your face, and you huffed.

Ben did you the favor of brushing the thick curls away from your eyes, tugging several strands behind your ears, even though most of them didn’t obey him. He framed your face with his big hands, and his thumbs swept along your skin, the rich complexion shining in the morning light filtering through the kitchen window.

There was more care in his touch now, his strength tempered just for you. Fond amusement colored his features. For as much shit as you gave him, you still gave him more of yourself; more of your trust, your patience...and all the rest of it. You gave him more than anyone that had come before you, and deep inside, he doubted anyone that might come after you.

You smiled up at him, a little wryly. You leaned up and met him for a gentler kiss. Your eyes fell closed at the feeling of him, and the spicy hint of his aftershave. It was a scent that often clung to his pillows. When he was gone on a mission for days on end, you wouldn’t admit to clinging to one of them to help you sleep, and make you feel safe. 

“Mmm, you smell good,” you whispered. And it was true. He smelled like mint and spicy aftershave. You plied his lips with deeper kisses, licking into his mouth with a sensuous tongue, before you stole his words. “Good enough to eat.”

He uttered a groan deep in his throat. It satisfied you, enhancing the warm flood between your legs.  

Fuck it. You were calling in sick today.

You drew him back into the pull of you, winding your arms around his neck and your fingers in his hair. It was getting long again, but you liked it. You liked something to hold onto, just as much as he did. Your nails brushed against his scalp, down the back of his neck, earning a hum of pleasure from him. You wound your legs tightly around his hips and invited the press of his hard cock against your throbbing core, even through your panties and pajama pants. A faltering groan caught in his chest.

“Needier that I thought this morning,” he remarked. His warm hands drifted down to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over dark, pebbled nipples. You sighed into his mouth in response.

You heard the cocky grin in his voice, but for once, you didn’t care. You did need him. You wanted him to fuck the stress and chaos out of you.

…Well, he’d caused most of it, but still. He was gonna damn well fix it.

And he aimed to do just that, with his hands sliding farther down your body with purpose, grabbing the waistband of your pajama pants and roughly sliding them down, along with your panties. Your bare ass felt cold against the tile counter, but you didn’t have too much time to think about it with Ben’s thick fingers probing between the wet, glistening folds of your pussy. He soon found what he was searching for, circling firmly over your clit.

Your hips raised off the counter as you whimpered against his lips and ground yourself against his hand. You broke from his kiss to bury your face in his neck. Ben’s free hand grasped your hip and pulled you right to the edge of the counter.

There he held you down, his brows furrowing in concentration. His fingers sought your entrance and slipped inside you with ease. By now, he knew what angles would have you squirming, writhing, your body arching into him, while your inner walls clenched around his hand.

“Fuck. That’s right, baby doll. I’ve gotcha,” he said roughly, continuing to fuck your pussy with his fingers. His thumb rubbed against your clit between strokes.

The coil in your lower belly began to tighten, the delicious throbbing deep inside beginning to make your thighs shake. But just as you felt yourself tipping over the edge, Ben withdrew his fingers from your sopping channel.

You struggled to catch your breath in shock. Your head raised from Ben’s shoulder to glare at him. When your mouth opened to deliver an indignant protest, he silenced you with his mouth claiming yours. Your nails bit into his shoulder in retaliation, even though you knew it wouldn’t hurt him in the slightest. In fact, it only curved his lips into a smirk against yours.

You slapped him on the shoulder, immensely frustrated, but also laughing. “You’re such an assh—”

Before you could even finish cursing him, he gathered you up again and lifted you off the counter. He walked you over to the couch in the living room. He would’ve loved nothing better than to lay you out across the two-seater table in the kitchen, but he thought the shitty old wood might just give out under the strain of him fucking you. So the living room was a close second, and in this tiny-ass apartment, it was barely a few feet more to walk.

He laid you out underneath him on couch, and it groaned and squeaked under both of your weight. You squeaked too, if for a different reason. It had Ben smirking down at you. He freed himself from the confines of his pajama pants and coated his rock-hard arousal with the leftover wetness coating his hand.

“I approve of the scene change,” you said breathlessly, once again stroking his arms. Your fingers slipped over every dip and plain of muscle.  

“Didn’t think you wanted to be fucked on some cold tile,” he said, even if the sentiment behind his words warmed you. You were pretty sure he didn’t used to care about that. At least, before he met you.

He grabbed your hips, lined himself up to your entrance, and his cock breached you smoothly, pushing into you until his hips fit snugly against yours.

“Oh, fuck,” you choked out, your thighs squeezing around his frame.

“Feel good, sweetheart? All fuckin' filled up,” Ben teased, a bit breathless himself. You were a tight fucking fit. He slid out of you experimentally, drawing a moan from your lips. You nodded.

“Yeah, baby. So good,” you freely admitted, panting all the while.

Ben’s hot gaze drew over you as he continued moving hard and fast inside you. He took in your every bare curve, the way hot breaths and sexy moans fell from your lips with every thrust, the way your hair fanned out underneath you and hung off the side of the sofa cushion, the way your hands still explored him and touched him, demanding, but still loving.

For that, it was all the more tantalizing against his skin, warming even the darkest places he tried not to show you.

And every drag of his cock inside you stretched your inner walls in the most delicious of ways. It wasn’t just that he was able to fill you to the fucking brim. He also just knew his way around a woman’s body. He knew you, and he knew exactly how to make you come undone. Even quick and dirty on your couch, he made you feel brand new. 

He was right, damn him.

The coil deep inside you snapped. Pleasure crested through you and made your inner walls squeeze him tight, fluttering and pulsing with warmth. You came hard on his cock, hard enough to milk his release shortly after for all he was worth.

His forearms fell to the cushion on either side of your head. You were basically being smothered, but for the moment you didn’t mind. You just held his sweat-slick body against yours while you both caught your breath, each of your heartbeats falling back into a steady rhythm.

He was always so damn warm. It was nice, considering how cold it was this winter, but the thought always made you a bit sad. It reminded you of the power housed in his chest, and every memory he caged there as well.

You laid a gentle kiss on his shoulder. In return, his lips found the side of your head and hesitated there.

“You’re not going to work,” he said. It was more an observation than anything else.

You laughed breathlessly and shook your head. “Nope.”

He nodded. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

You could get behind that. Your kitchen was finally clean, which meant your kitchen was closed until further notice.

“Shower first,” you stipulated.

You felt Ben’s smile grow against your dewy skin. “All right.”

You sighed, and he guided you to your feet along with him. You had a feeling “breakfast” was going to be lunch by the time you and Ben finally escaped this apartment.      

AN: Lol hope you had fun with this one! Let me know if you'd like to see more of these two! 💚💚

Spanish Translations:

Es que él es bruto, mija. Es como un animal con ropa.

It’s that he’s stupid, my daughter. He's like an animal with clothes.

However, “bruto” can also mean brutish, crude, and/or like a beast, so it fits in more than one way. 😂

Sabes que, …

You know what, …

La sirvienta

The servant (or maid) (female)

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