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reignpage · 23 hours ago

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Frat Boy!Gojo

Old Fashioned: swallow that bitter taste

Word Count: 2.7k Contents: angst, cursing, some dark themes, which include slut shaming, abuse, both physical and verbal, threat of violence, not proofread

The beep beep beep that echoes around the empty, dusty room strikes at your equally empty and equally dusty heart. You try to visit the hospital as often as your schedule permits, but these days, with all the wedding preparations, you could really only dedicate an hour every Thursday, between lectures.

It’s pathetic. He deserves better than this half-hearted display of love and guilt, the natural combination. If he was awake, he’d undoubtedly make a snarky comment about how the wilting flowers you can barely afford is a representation of your friendship going down the drain because he obviously deserves more than carnations, of all flowers.

Oh, how you wish he could tell you off right now.

“Hi, Asahi. You’re looking shittier than last time,” you muse with a chuckle, a shaky smile pulling at your lips.

There he is, lying in some drab hospital gown, tucked all nice and warm in a rigid bed, with only you, a dull lump of black lace as his only company. He can’t roll his eyes at your pitiful tone or fire back some insult about how your eyeliner is far too thick for your eyes and you more closely resembles a panda than any sexy vampire you’ve been trying to simulate.

“Remember the boy I’ve been telling you about? Well, we got into a bit of a disagreement the other night. I don’t know, I guess he got fed up with this play acting thing we’re doing. And I don’t really blame him, y’know? We’re barely adults and we’re getting married. Isn’t that crazy? God, I wish you could be there, you can laugh at me and throw rice or confetti or whatever it is they do nowadays. Maybe even purposefully get it in my eye, knowing you.”

No reply.

Just like all those times before, there is never a reply, only a beep beep beeping that drives you crazy and you can never seem to tune out, try as you might. Sometimes, at night, you hear that mocking sound hooking itself into your spine and carrying you away from the guiltless comfort of sleep.

With a sigh, you carry on. “Well, anyways, I think you’d really like him. He’s a little stupid. Okay, maybe a lot stupid, but I don’t know, I think it’s endearing. He has these annoying eyes that are just so bright and God, do you ever just wanna rip off someone’s eyes and stomp on them because they’re too dazzling? ‘Cause I do. Every time, I look at his. And his laugh. Oh, God. You won’t believe it. It’s the most obnoxious sound in the entire world. I actually get nightmares, I swear. He laughs like he doesn’t care how loud he is, like he thinks people should laugh more, like it’s a crime not to find laughing easy. What an idiot, right?”

You don’t mention how since that evening, he hasn’t blown up your phone like he usually does, in fact you received no notifications from him at all. Within the first hour or two, you thought he still needed some space, and you understood. But then as hours turned into a whole night, then a whole morning, then a day and another, you started to think that maybe, just maybe, he’ll never text you again.

And can you blame him?

He wasn’t wrong, about him being used. From the very beginning, he always represented wealth and what that can bring. Surely, he was aware that even if people did genuinely like him for who he is, the strength of his name, of what courses through his blood, will always hang in the air, this infinite void shielding him from everyone who tries to get too close only to end up further and further away.

“I think I should apologise and give him that second date he’s been begging me for. Yeah, actually begging. I told you he’s stupid.” Your voice is trailing off, a slight wobble that you can’t seem to command away. “I think I hurt his feelings. I know, surprise surprise. But I just can’t help but feel like, out of everyone involved in this thing, he’s the least deserving, y’know? Ugh, I’ll talk to the guy when I run into him on campus — he’s kinda hard to miss.”

Even paralysed and in a coma, you’re certain Asahi can tell you aren’t convincing yourself with the fake bravado. Truthfully, you’re not sure you could bring yourself to mutter an apology. No, it isn’t that. You can’t bring yourself to come face to face with him, lest you see something that doesn’t quite match up with your vision of a sincere expression of happiness, at seeing you.

Fiddling with a loose thread on your dress, you pull it taut, tighter and tighter, until it snaps.

“Here again?”

Your head snaps back.

“Mother, w-what are you doing here?”

Beep beep beep.

She waltzes in, clasping her snakeskin handbag closer to her, as if the cramped room would snatch it off her manicured hands. Burgundy pencil skirt clashing with her neon blouse, those staple bright red lips curl into something that makes you gulp. You don’t dare bring up the fact that she desperately needs a stylist — that is the least of your issues.

Pursing her lips, her disapproving eyes roves over your body, before she scoffs and looks away, focusing instead on a framed print photo of tomato soup cans in all sorts of colours. You shuffle in your seat, the plastic squeaking.

“You’ve disappointed me once again,” she begins, settling her bag on the table where your flowers droop over the vase. You recognise this tone of hers, the one that’s too calm, too flat to ever mean anything other than trouble. “You were given one task and one task only, and somehow, either by natural ineptitude or wilful rebellion, you’ve failed at something so simple. Goodness, what ever did happen to that brain of yours?”

It’s clear she isn’t here to chat about the weather, so you stand up, pulling a glove further up your wrist and exhale as quietly as you can.

“Now, mother, I know the dinner didn’t end very well, but he just needs a second to cool down and then he’ll be on board again. I’ll go on another date with him and show him we can work together. I’ll fix it, I swear.”

Her glare pierces you, forcing you to stumble back.

Scoffing, she waves a hand in the air. “‘Fix it?’ You will fix it? God, Y/N. It is not the time for your sarcastic little jokes. You can’t fix anything. You proved that the other night with whatever you had texted him as we made plans for your wedding.”

“Y-you knew?”

The laugh that escapes her lacks any real joy — the only one she’s capable of. Cold, mocking and scathing, you can do nothing but wince under its weight.

“It’s hard to not notice you typing away under the table like some whore playing footsie! I raised you better than that, no? Where did all those etiquette lessons go anyways? Hmm? It’s certainly not towards your uncouth behaviour. Goodness, look at you. You’re in your final year of university and you still haven’t matured.”

When she gets into these rants, there’s no stopping her. You learnt that when she snapped at you for tripping on your own dress in front of a ballroom of people at the age of eight, and at twelve when she overheard you use a swear word with a friend.

“Still bumbling about, pretending to be indifferent and nihilistic, like some child playing dress up. And what have I said about this all black look? You look ridiculous and not to mention hideous. When are you going to grow out of this phase? You couldn’t even lose those repulsive piercings? Even just for a couple dinners? Maybe if you did, the Gojos would have been more keen to welcome you into their family.”

Beep beep beep.

She continues, taking a step closer towards you, and you feel the room get smaller like the walls are shifting in, “We had him. Him and the rest of his family in the palm of our hands. You were so close to marrying him and fixing all our problems and then you ruined it. This is all your fault.”

Your mother’s voice grows louder, pitchier, more shrill, and you clutch your dress tight in your fists. She’s been drinking. You don’t know how you didn’t notice until now but she reeks of alcohol. Perhaps, the natural smell of death and deep levels of sanitation that permeates the air of this hospital masked that scent of hers she never bothered to try to shake off.

“Why couldn’t you just be a good girl, hmm?” Her hand reaches for your face and you flinch. Ice cold, her touch brings the hairs on the back of your neck to a standstill. It’s been many years since she had last touched you, in any kind of soft, maternal way at least, and this foreign feeling leaves you holding your breath.

“Why couldn’t you just give him what he wanted? Flirt a little, flash him a smile, slide those legs and let him take what he needed. Anything! Anything to make him yours. The way I did with your father.”

Falling to your chest, her hand curls, digging itself into your dress and you stagger forward with her powerful yank. You gasp. And then, eyes wide, you clutch your heart, watching the lace collar that had once been a part of you dangle in her grasp. She casts it aside.

A cry rises up her throat, like bile, and she spews it at you. “Boys like him only want one thing, my dear. Do you know what it is? Did I ever teach you?”

Her nails are sharp.

You notice that as she leans forward, skimming them against your cheek once more. Clammy, you feel the material of your gloves stick to your skin and you feel a sudden itch to keep it on even in death. There’s no one here. Nurses rarely come to check up on this room, not when the patient has so little wants and needs. And there’s not anyone you can text and call, no one who’d understand, who’d come at the drop of a hat.

“Answer me!”

She wrenches your sleeve in a blur, her movements jerky and sudden and too unpredictable. That too falls to the ground, lifeless.

Beep beep beep.

Bottom lip quivering, you stammer out, “S-sex?”

You feel the burn of your cheek before you hear the sound of her palm strike you. And you sob with her, just as she soothes the skin with a cooing sound. Her expression softens and for a second, no more and no less, she actually looks like a mother.

“No, my dear. All boys, whether that Gojo boy’s age or your father’s, want thrill. They’ll seek it anywhere. If not from their wives, then from common whores, or from sports cars, or violence, or casinos, like your daddy — it’s why we needed you to marry that boy, remember? We have no money, our family’s fortune is scattered in the vaults of seedy casinos all over the city. We needed their money, to get back to where we used to be. They were our last chance.”

“L-last? B-but the wedding’s still happening, isn’t it?”

Was that even your voice?

It sounded so meek, so frail, so young.

“No, dear.” Her smile is sharp, one corner stabbing into your heart and the other twisting. “This morning, your little fiancé went to the press and informed them that you two were so-called victims of a forced engagement and would like the public’s support to maintain your ‘liberty’. The Gojos have already begun doing damage control, claiming that you broke up with him and he’s a classic college student — drunk and seeking revenge. So that’s that of your love story. Such a shame.”

Beep beep beep.

“B-but he wouldn’t. No, he wants to be with me, h-he just needed some time to cool down.”

You’re running out of breath, you can feel it seeping out of your lungs. It’s too tight in here, there are too many machines making all sorts of noises, and you just need air, you need something, anything. There’s nothing to clutch, nowhere to lean against, and when you turn to the one other person there, the eyes you wish would look at you aren’t.

Beep beep beep.

There’s simply no way Satoru would go to the media. No, he was finally accepting the marriage, accepting you. You were so sure of it. It was clear as day in his eyes. You could even feel it pulse in that minuscule gap between you when he had fitted your gloves back onto your hands.

He can’t be done with you.

He just can’t.

Beep beep beep.

Holding up a bedpan, she inspects her face in the reflection and her lips purse once more. Taunting, she giggles. “Oh, but all women learn eventually that time does nothing for us.”

She’s ran out of steam, much faster than she usually does, and even though parts of your dress lay in tatters on the hospital floor, you feel fortunate that she hadn’t decided to rip out your heart instead. You’re not sure she’d find anything in your chest cavity anyways.

Detached once more, she slurs with bewildering high, “Don’t look so devastated, goodness. You’ll forget all about that Gojo boy soon. You must. Because you’ll be marrying into the Zenins. A nice, young man, just a little older than you. I believe his name is Naoya.”

The blood drains from your body.

“No,” you gasp out. “No, mother. I can’t. H-he’s abusive. You know this. Everyone knows this. He’s sadistic and cruel a-and —“

Beep beep beep.

“And he’s on the market looking for a wife.” She cuts you a look, one that forces your mouth shut. It’s a talent of hers. “The Zenins reached out. Apparently, whatever’s good enough for the Gojo’s is good enough for them. What great luck, wouldn’t you agree, my dear?”

Beep beep beep.

You’ve heard stories of how he used women like dolls, dressing them up and tearing them down as he pleased. There’s always scandals and blind items making rounds online about girls he’d left battered and bruised, disoriented and silenced by copious amounts of money. A man like him would never love you. He’d never even respect you.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew it would turn out like this. Having met the man once, at some yacht, a couple years ago, you recall the pure repulsion in his eyes when you bumped into him. He saw the beginnings of your true style coming in, like adult teeth, and something flashed in his eyes. A recognition of your rarity in these parts. A sparkle of challenge. A barely restrained desire.

You could never forget the way he had looked at you — you were a trophy at the end of a marathon and there was a spot in his collection waiting just for you.

Like a fool, a naive, pathetic little fool, you thought you had outran him. That, in the arms of another man, a stronger, richer man, you’d be safe. But that man doesn’t want anything to do with you.

You’re alone.

Beep beep beep.

Sighing, she makes a tutting sound and focuses back on you. “I did say to behave, no? I told you it was in our best interest that you drag that boy up to the altar no matter what, and you failed your duty as a daughter. This is the consequences of your actions, dear. But despite your frightening appearance, you’re still desired. How nice. So, smile, yes? You’re getting married, after all.”

A machine flatlines. It’s not Asahi’s heart who fails and dies right there and then. You don’t even hear anything but that incessant beeeeeeeeeeeeep that knocks you back into your seat, jaw slack and cheek stinging.

“When?”

She smiles again.

“Tomorrow!”

#jjk angst #Gojo x reader #gojo angst #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fic #jjk x you #gojo satoru #modern au

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seneon · 2 days ago

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Hey hey🩷

Could you maybe write a headcannon with blue block boys when they lash out on reader bc they have a bad day and call them annoying or disrespect them? Reader (female) is not sure abt forgiving them. I love angst. Could you maybe pls do it for Isagi,Nagi,Bachira,Reo,Barou Yukimiya,Rin,Sae or actually for whoever you like want to write for. If its to much Im really sorry 🥺🩷. I really enjoy your writings and I hope you are alright.

WILL YOU LOVE ME WHEN I'M DEAD ──── bllk various.

notes. featuring yoichi, seishiro, yukimiya, and the itoshi brothers only. and angst. for everyone, i'll have the same scenario of them coming home angry after football practice, then we'll escalate from there onwards. not my best work since my blue lock knowledge has gone rusty butttt ya :v

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ISAGI YOICHI

he's so so stressed after football practice that he can't keep his cool. yoichi didn't mean to raise his voice at you, vulgarity spilling down his tongue like ancient curses. you're terrified in disbelief, and he doesn't notice it. not until you slowly nodded and pursed your lips in a tight line that makes him regain some senses of himself. you then walked away, and he follows you the second you moved your muscles. "my love wait, i'm so sorry," he calls out softly, voice almost breaking and you tell him to give you time, locking him out of your shared room so he could think upon his actions. yoichi will stay outside your door, even sleeping by the wall just waiting for you to come out from your room so he could apologise.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ NAGI SEISHIRO

silent treatment creeps into the air even hours after he tells you that you're annoying and pestering, always nagging him all around. he appears to not care by occupying his attention in his games. but truly on the inside, he's so bothered that you're not beside him doing your own thing as he played his game. he feels empty beside him, so used to having you by his side all the time. he could tell you were in no absolute mood to see him right now, and his inexperienced self has no idea how to apologise or make it up to you. maybe he'll try some other time when you come home from your late night drive to cool off from a brief argument with seishiro.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ YUKIMIYA KENYU

he's an expressive young man, thus when he comes into your room with your favourite snacks in a basket properly and you're ignoring him, his lips is all turned downwards into a guilty frown. kenyu knows he's in every wrong that he called you annoying for simply wanting to check up on him after practice. he didn't mean any of it, just an 'in the heat of moment' occurrence. kenyu yearns for you as he kneels by your bed and holds your hands just to get your attention. then he apologises. he knows he's hurt your heart and soul. he'll have to keep trying because he's going to earn it.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ITOSHI RIN

in an absolute crisis mixed upon the events that happened at practice along with a million of thoughts and possibilities swimming in his mind that you will leave him. when his strings break at how you forgot not to touch a jersey of his that he has hanging by his drawer, rin leaves you first— to his room. a heavy pessimistic, even if it looks like he's fine with simply cleaning his football shoes. you've shut him out, as he did to you when he came back home and refused to speak to you like he usually would. tonight will be long if neither wants to see each other eye to eye.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ITOSHI SAE

does not take no for an answer when he apologises. that is a bad trait of his— sae thinks everything will go his way. so when you flat out said you wouldn't forgive him this time for even disrespecting you in the first place, his anger heightens. when you want to walk away, he will simply pull you back, heartfelt apologies he muttered in hopes of you forgiving him. but you're so hurt by him that he could see it in your eyes. it held the fading reflection of the last chance. and maybe, just maybe... you've lost the spark with him. he died a little on the inside at that surfacing realisation.

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urmum-lovesme · 1 day ago

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Ok but toxic!dad!rafe where this don’t effect the children’s life but when it come to the mother of his kids he’s still very overprotective. I mean she is a MILF.

This is the best thing I've ever heard anon I hope both sides of your pillow are cold.

Toxic!Rafe as a dad?

Surprisingly present.

His kid adores him, and in their eyes, he’s just their cool, protective father. He spoils them, takes them out on the yacht all the time, and he makes sure they have everything they could ever want. He told himself he would never be like Ward if he ever became a father, and he- for a change- was living up to his word.

But when it comes to their mom? That’s where the real problem is.

Because Rafe does not change when it comes to Y/N.

Y/N falling pregnant, certainly wasn't planned. It wasn’t supposed to happen. She was young, she had a future and more than anything, she wasn’t sure if she even wanted to stay with Rafe, let alone have a baby with him. She didn't tell Rafe right away. Not because she was hiding it, but because she knew- deep in her gut- that he wouldn’t react like a normal person. She needed time to think, to weigh her options, to figure out what she wanted before he got involved.

But Rafe found out anyway.

Y/N had been so incredibly careful, she didn't leave any trace of the positive pregnancy test in Tannyhill; but he just knew her too well, sensed that something was off when she stopped drinking.

“What?”

His voice was quiet at first, his brows furrowed, like he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing. But then the realisation hit. His blue eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and he stepped closer, the room suddenly feeling too small. His voice was calm, but there was something dangerous underneath it.

“You were gonna tell me, right?”

“Rafe, I—I don’t know what I’m going to do yet—”

Wrong answer. His hand shot out, gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

“The fuck do you mean, you don’t know?” His breath was hot against her face, his fingers digging into her skin.

“That’s my kid, Y/N.”

Her stomach churned, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“I just- Rafe, I need time to think—”

“No, you don’t.”

He cut her off, shaking his head like the idea itself was ridiculous, angrily running a hand through his messed up hair.

“You don’t need to think. It’s already decided.”

She tried to take a step back, but his grip tightened, his other hand settling on her waist, firmly keeping her closer to him.

“We’re having this baby.”

Her breath caught in her throat as the words passed his lips, tears stinging her eyes before she could stop the feeling.

“I don’t- Rafe, this is my choice—”

His fingers pressed harder, his face inches from hers.

“No, it’s ours.”

Even now when they have a child together, he still watches her like a hawk. Still gets unreasonably possessive when she dresses a certain way, still makes a scene when he catches another man looking at her for a second too long. And she knows better than to fight him on it- most of the time.

It’s a summer afternoon, and she’s lounging by the pool, drink in hand, wearing a bikini that makes Rafe’s jaw clench. The sun was high, casting a golden glow over her as she adjusted the thin strap of her bikini top. It was tiny- too fucking tiny. The black fabric barely covered her tits, which, thanks to breastfeeding, were even fuller now, spilling slightly over the edges. His jaw clenched as his gaze dragged down, taking in the way the strings hugged her hips, digging into soft, newly gained curves that had him gripping the bottle in his hand just a little harder.

His friends are over, and while they’re talking, his eyes keep flicking toward her, watching the way the fabric clings to her curves. And then- Topper nudges him, nodding toward one of the new neighbours talking to her.

Rafe’s face goes dark.

She’s laughing at something the guy said, totally unaware of the way Rafe’s grip tightens around his beer bottle. He doesn’t make a scene- not yet- but when the guy finally walks away, Rafe strides over, towering over her as she peers up from her sun bed. His voice is deceptively smooth, but she knows that tone.

"Having fun, baby?"

"Yes."

His fingers skim her thigh, tracing the edge of her bikini bottoms.

"You looked like you were having a little too much fun."

She sighs, pushing her sunglasses up to rest on her head, she had a feeling she knew exactly where this was going.

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious." He leans down, voice dropping.

"Go inside and cover up."

She scoffs, shifting to sit up, the towel underneath her crumpling slightly as she moved,

"It’s our backyard and it's a pool party-."

"-I don’t give a fuck."

"Rafe, you’re being ridiculous."

"Yeah?" His grip tightens on her thigh.

"Then why’s he looking at you like he wants to fuck you?"

Her stomach flips.

"Stop," she hisses, even as heat creeps up her neck. But Rafe just smirks, leaning in so only she can hear.

"Maybe I should remind you who you belong to, huh?"

Her breath catches.

And the way he says it? The way his hand tightens on her thigh, just enough to send a warning? It sends a shiver down her spine, even as she glares at him. Because she knows- if she doesn’t listen now, he’ll make her.

Somehow, their kid never see this side of Rafe, he makes sure of it.

To them, their dad is just protective, he just 'cares about mommy so much!'. They never see the way their mother bites her lip in frustration when Rafe pulls her away from conversations. They never see the bruises he leaves- not always from violence, but from gripping her too tight, kissing her too hard. They don’t hear the way she argues in hushed tones behind closed doors, or the way she eventually gives in and melts into him anyway.

Because as much as she hates his jealousy and his control, she loves him too much to walk away.

He is the father of her child after all

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silkscream · 2 days ago

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sugar hiccup

ੈ✩ caleb (xia yizhou) x reader

ੈ✩ tags: pseudocest/incest (caleb is referred to as your big brother lol), brat!reader, unprotected sex, dacryphilia, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, pussy inspection (idk), use of gege, teasing, cum eating for those with the eyes to see (?)

ੈ✩ wc: 2.3k (hello????)

ੈ✩ a/n: i will not be held accountable for this as i was possessed during the two hours it took to write this. bye

Caleb likes to rough you up. He does it as a favor for never letting you get into fights with other boys on the playground. The grudge you held against him for locking you in the attic when he was dealing with a bully was so deep within your marrow, that it took months of allowance money for him to make it up to you.

Now, though, he knows you can handle yourself. The little hunter girl you are. Talented and stubborn to a fault, with bright eyes and a sharp tongue you aren’t afraid to use. You’ve been like that since you were a kid.

He can’t help the satisfaction he feels when he gets to reduce you to tears, though. Likes to taunt you when what he’s doing to you is all a bit too much despite how much you pretend to be a big girl and grit your teeth through it. Whether it’s a playful arm wrestle or the trials of trying to take his cock in your tight heat.

But even when he roughs you up and overpowers you, he loves to coddle you afterward. He’s your big brother after all – there’s a soft spot for you in his heart always. Even if it’s deep like a bruise on ruined fruit, his love for you is sweet all the same. It’s always hurt to love you. Like the masochistic thrill of pressing down on a wound.

He should feel bad right now. He was rougher than usual on you today, but you seem to like the bites and the bruises littering your skin. You were getting stir-crazy lately, which is probably why you talked back to him today, knowing damn well that his temper was short-fused because of work lately.

But you’re just so good for him, milking his cock for all it's worth. He told you as such when he was deep inside you only minutes prior, kissing the tears on your cheeks. You know deep in your heart that your gege will always take care of you. Even when his love hurts, it’s all from a good place.

Caleb looks up to the sound of the bathroom door opening. He’d expected you to go to your room and get dressed before returning to him, but you’re still naked. He narrows his eyes.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hey.”

You climb into his lap, nesting yourself in his embrace. He takes a deep breath and tightens his grip on you, swallowing you inside his arms. You could never get used to how large he was compared to his lanky teenage self.

You whine when he squeezes your hips.

“Missed you.”

“I just went to pee,” you scoff. “Stop smothering me.”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling my cuddles now?”

“Yes,” you huff. As if you didn’t make yourself at home in his lap moments before.

“You’re being such a brat lately, you know that?” he says lowly, tracing your bottom lip. He smirks at you with a slight tilt of his mouth, his violet eyes gleaming.

You part your mouth and his gaze darkens. You bite his thumb.

He laughs, not unkindly, but you know it’ll taper into his usual scoffs. The ones that you coax from him when you don’t obey him or when you’re picky. Spending more than half of your life with him means that you have his micro-expressions memorized.

“See?” he mutters, pulling his thumb back. “Brat.”

Before you can respond, he pushes two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.

“What’s wrong, Pip? You usually like having your mouth full.”

You whine in response. A noise that’s defiant more than anything.

“Suck.” Caleb’s voice is biting. You can feel his fingertips graze the back of your tongue and you exhale sharply. You end up obeying.

“There you go. Good girl.”

You can’t help but glare at him. He finally pulls his digits out of your mouth, watching intently as a string of saliva stretches from your tongue to his fingertip. Your insides flutter with something in between arousal and disgust.

“Stop playing with me,” you huff.

He lets out a sharp laugh. “What do you mean?” he asks innocently. You shiver when he peppers sweet kisses below your ear, down your neck.

“Tickles,” you whine, your shoulder jerking. You squirm and the strength at which he’s able to hold you down should scare you. Instead, it excites you. Your stomach pools with shame.

You pout, continuing to defy him by moving so much. Trying to get off his lap, thrashing like you’re an unsettled bird. You don’t often bicker the way you used to when you were younger, but there’s still a place inside you that holds a specific kind of irritation when you hear him chuckle darkly. Knowing he doesn’t take you seriously. Even when he fucks you, there are moments you feel reduced to your younger self. His kid sister.

“Stay still,” he huffs. “Let me hold you, honey.”

You make a noise of protest just because. You always want to provoke him for reasons you can’t explain.

He sits you down firmly on his thigh and it reminds you of your size difference. Renders you embarrassed, because you’re still bare and your skin is so hot and his touch is so –

He holds you by the jaw. "I can feel you, you know," he says to you, his eyes inky amongst a bed of indigo. "You're not even trying to hide it anymore, are you?"

“Wh-what?”

His lips move to your ear, kissing the lobe before he whispers, "You're getting worked up again, hm? Need Gege to calm you down?”

He grinds you against his bare thigh, moving you like you’re a ragdoll. You gasp involuntarily. It’s now that you realize how embarrassingly wet you are.

Caleb makes a strangled noise. As if the air is punched out of him. “Hah – you feel that? Is that all you? Or you and me, baby?”

“You and… me?”

He leans back to flash you a raised brow. “Yeah. You and me. Did you forget that I just –”

“Yes,” you cut him off, blushing, “I remember. Don’t be crude.”

“I want to know. You’re not normally this wet, you know.”

Fuck. You want to bury your face in his shoulder to hide your reaction, your face up in flames. You had always admired his candor. But there are times like these when he could pry anything from you. When his bare honesty would humiliate you.

“I cleaned up in the bathroom,” you shoot back, frowning.

“Did you?” he smirks. “I’d like my own proof.”

“Excuse me?” you scoff.

He gives you a knowing look. Usually, he likes to wipe you down with a warm, wet towel, maybe bathe you after he makes a mess out of you. This time, you had fled to the bathroom without warning, still embarrassed for some reason. He didn’t understand. Fucking was the closest he could get to you without sewing himself inside your skin. He loved you, and you loved him, so it often puzzled him why you were so shy sometimes.

“What?” he asks. He tilts his head, soothes a palm over the bruise he gave you on your waist. “Just wanna see if you cleaned up as good as you thought.”

His hand moves down to your hip. “Or should I find out for myself before you start making a mess on my thigh?”

You shoot daggers at him. “Don’t –”

His eyes flicker with intrigue before he narrows them. “Don’t what, hm? Your big brother just wants to check. You were never so good at cleaning yourself up, you know?”

You frown. Your heart is ready to burst from your sternum.

“You used to ask me to wash your hair in the bath,” he says lowly, giving you a lazy grin. “Said no one washed it as good as me. I think you just wanted a scalp massage, though. Spoiled girl.”

Your face burns even hotter. For him to mention something so innocent from your juvenile self while suggesting something so dirty minutes prior – the humiliation almost makes you shudder.

“I– I don’t need –”

“C’mon. You know you can’t hide from me. You never could.”

You blink at him. Before you know it, he lays you on your back, pressing his weight against you. Your eyes flutter when you feel his hard cock against your thigh, inhaling as you feel him shift his body.

He presses a kiss to your thigh, then pries your legs open. The intensity in which he examines your pussy makes you want to crawl into a hole.

He hums, prodding in between your folds with deft fingers. You whimper at the stimulation.

“C-Caleb –”

He hums. “Hm.. just as I thought,” he murmurs, amused. “You missed some.”

“I did not –”

“You know,” he tsks, “I’m a bit disappointed.”

“What? Why?”

“You were so eager to leave me. I would’ve cleaned you up myself,” he sighs, feigning disappointment. “Like I always do. But you still didn’t do a good job, even though you’re all grown now. What a shame.”

He’s quick to move down your body. It’s like whiplash.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your voice high with incredulity.

“What do you think?” he grins. “I’m gonna make sure you’re all clean.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He looks at you with a hint of disdain and it makes your heart sink. In the back of your mind, you know his demeanor is all play, but any sign of disapproval from Caleb always makes you panic slightly. You had always wanted to please him, even when you were kids. That coupled with your attuned sense of his emotions made it all the more Pavlovian. You’d give in to him if it would make him happy, no matter what.

“A-Are you serious?” you mutter.

“Deadly.”

He spreads your legs even more, pushes himself down his king-sized bed until he’s face-level with your glistening cunt. You almost gasp when you feel his breath against you.

“Be good,” he whispers sternly. You can only nod.

He laps up your arousal with eagerness and everything inside you melts. You don’t realize how sensitive you are from the sex you had with him less than an hour ago until you feel his lips latch onto your clit.

“O-Oh, Caleb, don’t–”

He simply hums. Your eyes roll back at the sensation. You whimper and you think that maybe you feel the hint of a laugh against your pussy. That or it’s a sharp breath.

Caleb has kissed death too many times to count. He really thinks he should be dead by now, given the horrific incidents he’s been through, even beyond the explosion. It’s funny. He doesn’t think about his own morality anymore now that he’s with you again, reunited. He thinks that if he should dance so close to the edge of death again, he’d do it for you. Drown for you. Drown in you. Let the sweetness of you kill him like slow poison in his veins. Like mistaking heroin for honey.

What’s awful about Caleb is that he wants to sacrifice himself for you. The altar is where he can rest his head – on your shoulder, on your stomach. In between your legs.

He groans against your core and you cry out. You’re so, so sensitive. You pull his hair and whine to tell him as such, but he only doubles down on his actions. A man starved.

You tug on his dark locks and he moans, squeezing your hips. Encouraging you to arch yourself up to his mouth so he can taste every drop of you.

“I– I’m probably clean now—”

He chuckles against you, then sucks on your clit. When he lifts his head to meet your eyes, he looks otherworldly. Rosy cheeks and messy hair. Boyish. You’ve never seen him look like this before in your life.

“You want me to stop? Really?”

“You don’t have to keep–”

“You’re halfway there, baby,” he smiles warmly, kissing your clit. You jolt and his gaze turns unbearably fond. “Want you squeaky clean, okay?”

Your eyes widen. Before you can protest, he’s licking you up again. You moan out, your knees knocking together as if the middle of your body is struck by lightning. All the arousal in your belly seems to make a mess of your insides.

You gasp when Caleb hooks two fingers into you without warning. You don’t need it, really, you barely need any prep for it. You’re so slick with want that there’s no resistance. It’s so fucking easy for him to reach into the depths of your sex. He grazes the sweet spot by your cervix and your legs start to tremble.

You’re so fucking close, and for some reason, what comes to mind is the image of you and Caleb as your younger selves. When you were naive, when you were frustrated with him more than usual because you didn’t realize that you had a crush on him.

You think of the word crush and think of demolition. A car crash. An avalanche. His moans vibrate against your pussy as his tongue licks up all of your honey, his fingers prodding your g-spot with a constant rhythm.

“Caleb,” you whine. “I can’t–”

Your eyes shut tightly until the phosphenes behind your lids vibrate like the birth of a new star. That’s the only way you can describe the orgasm that washes over you – like chaos, like the big bang. You’ve never cum so hard from head in your whole life.

Despite this, he doesn’t let up.

“Caleb, Caleb,” you gasp. “S’too much–”

You have to push away his head to get him to stop. He pauses, looks up at you with eyes half-lidded. Full of delirium. A wet, sweet mouth.

You think of peaches. You think of him in the summertime, wiping his mouth from a bite full of watermelon.

He pulls his fingers out of you and licks up your slick, grinning.

“All clean now, baby.”

#caleb x reader #xia yizhou x reader #caleb smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #love and deepspace smut #lads smut #incest cw #pseudocest cw #writing tag

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luveline · 1 day ago

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so i had this silly thought the other night while i was doing a mud mask of jack stumbling upon reader (could be bombshell r, hotchner r, or whoever u would like <3) doing a mud mask and not quite understanding what it is (although r tries to explain it to him), and later on jack’s teacher tells aaron that jack and/or his friends were trying to apply mud to their faces at recess to ‘help their skin’ 😭 so then r has to clarify that u can’t just put any mud on ur face haha and maybe she offers to get some face masks for her and jack (and maybe aaron?) to try together <3 i know this is a bit of a silly idea and it may be too specific so ofc no pressure at all if this doesn’t inspire u!! u write aaron (and jack!) so well and i love everything u put out jade thank u for sharing ur writing with us <333

-💫

“Y/N, what the heck are you doing?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “What kind of language is that, babe? What would your daddy say if he heard you saying that?”

Jack doesn’t even pretend to act chastened. If there’s one thing Jack Hotchner knows about you, it’s that you’re wrapped around his little finger, forever and always. It’s all you can do to keep your arms to yourself as he crawls into bed next to you.

“Is that cucumber?”

“Want some?” you ask.

Jack takes a piece of cucumber and munches on it with a wet snap. “Your face has mud on it.”

“It does.”

“Why?”

You peek at him through one eye. “It apparently draws out the impurities in my face. I’m not sure how it happens, but it makes my skin feel really soft when I wash it off.”

“Oh. But it’s mud.”

“Yeah, it is, I don’t know how it happens. Must be magic.” You love Jack’s little face. He’s cute. His hair is still blonde at the ends, last bits of summer clinging to him, a tan on his pert nose. “Would you wanna try it?”

“How long does it have to be on?”

“About ten minutes. Or before it dries. We wash it off with a face towel.”

“Okay. But just a little bit.”

“Sure, babe. You can tell me if it’s too much.”

Jack sits in front of your lap. You unscrew the pot of clay mask and use the small spreader it comes with to scoop up the mask. Cold, you whisper, but Jack giggles anyways, startled at the feeling as you smooth it over his forehead, his cheeks, and his round chin. You use your fingertips to connect the sections, colour in his nose, and smooth it out. Jack lets his eyes close in little-kid bliss, like he might fall asleep.

“Do you want the cucumbers on your eyes?” you ask.

“For relaxing?”

“Yeah, they’re cold too.”

He lays back on Aaron's side of the bed and you plop on his cucumbers. Fifteen minutes later you encourage him into the bathroom to wash it away, holding his chin, warm, clay-stained water running down his neck. He insists on returning the favour, which ends in you squeezing his cheeks to tell him you love him, which makes him fluster like his father at the receiving end of a good compliment. “I love you too,” he mumbles, looking down at the floor.

“Feel how soft your cheek is,” you say.

“I think you have to wash your face,” he says back. “Sorry.”

It’s great. By the time Aaron’s home from work you’re both super soft and while you don’t offer any explanation, he seems to notice, lackadaisical finger against Jack's cheek prompting an inquisitive, “Jack, have you been in Y/N’s shower stuff again?”

“No.”

You and Jack decide to keep your relaxing afternoon a secret. You think nothing of it for a while. The next time you use your clay mask he’s sleeping at his Aunt Jess’, and Aaron asks why you’re smiling, so you tell a half truth and say you’re thinking of Jack, which makes Aaron so smiley he tries to kiss you despite the mud.

Another few days and you get Jack back, only to give him over to school. Evil school. You and Aaron go to work. It’s some time nearing 1PM when Aaron steps out of his office, buttoning his coat around his neck.

“What’s wrong?” you ask over Emily’s head.

Morgan copies your frown.

“Hotch?”

“Jack is in trouble at school. Apparently he got into a play-fight and everyone needs a change of clothes.” He gives you a look, as if to say, you gotta love him. And you really do. “I’ll be back before the end of lunch.”

“I can go?” you offer.

“I’m already wearing my coat.” He leans over to kiss your cheek and bids you goodbye.

You don’t see your partner again. When he fails to turn up after lunch, you figure he’s taken Jack home —Jack tends to get upset when bad stuff happens at school even if he was just having fun because of his astounding guilty conscience. Aaron texts you not long before you’re due to start worrying with a simple, Sorry, not going to make it back in today. Jack was a bit upset.

Your boss isn’t there, so you take a session with your coworkers, standing up at your desk and clearing your throat. “Because my boss is my boyfriend and also not here, I’ve decided to bring my query to the court.”

You wait. Your team looks at you expectantly.

“Go ahead,” Derek says.

“Jack was so upset at school that he had to go home. Do I, as his almost step mom and number one fan, have the group's permission to go home now so I can get him cookies from Ben’s?”

“Aw, he was upset?” Emily says, frowning but also cooing.

You hold your heart. “I know. He’s such a sweetheart. So, can I go?”

“You want us to do your consultations?” Spencer asks.

“No!” you say, tucking a stray curl behind Spencer’s ear and delighting in the way he shoves you away. He’s laughing as he does it, used to your affection. “You can if you want to, handsome, but I was just gonna finish it tonight on Aaron’s computer.”

“Just go,” Morgan says, rolling his eyes.

“Family emergency,” Emily agrees.

“Don’t really do my consults,” you tell Spencer, grinning when he waves you off.

You make a pit stop at Ben’s for praline filled cookies and smile despite yourself the whole way home. You’re not worried about Jack, he has his dad, and it was only dirt, you’re just excited to see him and to ditch work and to maybe, maybe, lay your head in Aaron’s lap sometime soon. He strokes the skin behind your ear and leans down to kiss you whenever he feels like it, which means you can amass upwards of five kisses an hour. It’s elastic.

“Babe?” you call, knocking open the door with a clatter. Shoes wait for you at the entryway. You leave your kitten heels by light up sketchers and dress shoes neatly lined. “Honey? Angel?”

“Are you talking to me?” Aaron calls from the door of the kitchen, suddenly in view.

“Am I in trouble?” you ask.

Aaron checks his watch. “Oh, definitely.”

“Personal paid time off?”

“Sure. What’s in the bag?”

“Oh, you know, just something special for the baby. Is he okay?”

“He’s unhappy with me, truth be told.”

“Why’s that?”

Aaron holds your gaze. “Weirdly, I think you might have a better idea of the situation than I do.”

You follow him back into the kitchen, confused and eager for an explanation. Jack’s at the door that leads to your backyard, sitting on the stoop, looking stroppy and tired and relieved to see you, which is nice. “Hey,” you say, “what’s with the frowny face, beautiful?”

“Dad doesn’t believe me.”

“Doesn’t believe you about what?”

“Me and Adrian was putting mud on our faces at school because it makes us soft, like we did, but dad doesn’t think we did it.”

“We did,” you say immediately, giving Aaron a soft, honest look, not mad at anyone and not sure where the confusion is coming from, “you’ve seen my masks, honey.”

“Your clay mask is blue,” Aaron says.

“Is not!” Jack says. “It’s red just like mud!”

“Well, when me and Jack did a mask together a couple of weeks ago, it was the red one, but it was a new one. I usually use that blue one,” you say, relieved when Aaron begins to look amused rather than slightly annoyed. “It’s my fault, babe.”

You turn to Jack. “Baby,” you say, trying your best to look serious and kind at once, “the clay mask we did together is called a mud mask, and it does have mud in it, but it’s not like the mud at school, okay? It’s probably not a good idea for you and Adrian to rub it on yourselves.”

Jack crosses his arms in front of him, slouching. “Well, how was I s’posed to know that?” he asks, sounding about as angry as he ever gets, which isn’t much.

Aaron sighs deeply. You’re sure you’re in for it, you’ve wasted half of everyone’s day now ‘cos you didn’t explain a simple concept, but then he says, “You love to exclude me, the both of you.”

“What?” you ask, gasping through a laugh.

“Doing things together and not telling me!” he insists. “If you’d let me join in, I wouldn’t have upset Jack today because I’d know why he was playing in the mud.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to break as his smile grows and grows despite the effort he pulls into staying straight.

“So I’m not in trouble?” Jack asks.

Aaron smiles. “Don’t think so, Jackers, not unless you did something I don’t know about.”

“I didn’t!”

“Then consider yourself innocent. I’m sorry I didn’t understand you.”

“I’m sorry for not explaining the difference,” you add.

Jack looks at both of you, all sunny-eyed, ready to be coddled by somebody and without a favourite. “Okay, thank you. It’s not your fault you didn’t know, dad. And it’s okay about the explaining,” he says to you seriously. ”Explaining is hard.”

Jack encroaches back into the room now he’s believed, reaching for Aaron’s legs, markedly pleased when his dad bends down to hug him. It’s an apology cuddle, but it also checks for resentment or sadness alike. Jack closes his eyes, alright with how things have worked out.

You feel ever so slightly excluded, but you do your best to stay still, loyally waiting your turn, and rewarded handsomely when Jack finishes hugging his dad and crowds you instead, arms held up insistently. There’s no protesting when you lift him onto the counter for a better hug. When you say sorry again for technically getting him into trouble, he shakes his head.

“Just an accident,” he says, in the tenor of a practised line, one of Aaron’s mantras sinking in.

“Can I make it up to you? We won’t exclude dad this time.”

Jack gets lifted from one counter to another. You let him eat one of his cookies in the bathroom (and despite his face mask) but wrinkle your nose at the idea, his dad beside him, leaning back, tie undone and t-shirt unbuttoned to the third. The slice of undershirt on display makes your week.

Completely still as he is, you raise yourself up to draw the face mask onto Aaron’s cheeks and forehead. He laughs like Jack did at the cold, more of a giggle, but he doesn’t move.

“It does feel like mud,” Aaron says.

“I told you,” Jack says. There’s cookie crumbs stuck in the mask around his mouth.

You kiss Aaron chastely.

“Just wait for how soft this is gonna make your skin,” you say.

“I think my skin is as soft as it’s going to get, but thank you, honey.”

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble #criminal minds

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ssaaaronmontgomery · 3 days ago

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thoughts about mean stepdad!hotch who is polite to everyone other than you... lashing out angrily because it's the only thing that can stop him from bending u over and taking what he wants from u, filling u up with his hot cvm over and over again 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

Stop Ignoring Me

Warnings: Smut, p in v sex, mean!stepdad!hotch (both consenting adults), mentions of oral sex (fem!recieving), mentions of Hotch masturbating and thinking of reader, reader gets bratty, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything!

Word count: 850

Pairing: stepdad!hotch x fem!reader

A/n: Oh my god YESSSS. I got very carried away at some point when I was working on writing my thoughts out 😅. At some point it turned into a blurb so that is what I'll count it as. I hope you enjoy it 🫶. The writing may be a bit off because it was originally going to be a thoughts post but I am leaving it as is.

Forever tags: @greg-montgomery @boredelle @hotchsdoormat @ssahotchnerr @criminalskies @beardedhotchh @hotchnerbau @ssamorganhotchner @mrs-ssa-hotch @canuck-eh @luvehotch @callm3c0nfus3d @ivyflowers13

Hotch: @14buddy22 @pastanoodles11 @htchnr

For this post only: @queenofvelaris @itsneverlupus2

Let me know if you want to be added to my tags 🫶

*NSFW MDNI*

It is how he keeps you at a distance so that he doesn't rail you until you can't think anymore. You never understood why he was always so mean and cold to you but would turn around and be so nice with his voice so soft to everyone else. Sometimes you wonder what you did wrong to feel like he hated you so much. It made you sad. The one person you had eyes for would hardly even speak to you. He wouldn't look at you. But little did you know that if he did look at you that his eyes would wander, and he would end up hard in his slacks before leaving for the BAU every single morning.

And then there was one time you overheard him moaning in the room he shared with your mother. She was gone for that weekend, so it was easy to imagine what he was doing. You shouldn't have listened, but you did. And that's how you found out that he was fucking his fist to the thought of you. Your name falling from his lips sounded amazing, but it shocked you. Not only because he's your stepdad but he treats you like you barely even exist.

So, when you realise that he must be acting that way to keep you at a distance, you decide to try getting him to warm up to you. You do everything you can. You make him a drink when you know he will be home from a long case. You make him food sometimes. He loves how it tastes but he acts like it's just okay. You practically throw yourself at him multiple times, but he pretends that that's not what is happening and completely denies you any sliver of interest. When being over-the-top nice doesn't do anything to get that scowl off his face, you start to be a brat instead.

You start to be just as rude to him. You ignore him and you pretend that he's not there. You don't greet him like you used to whenever you saw him. You stop with making him any drinks or food. You act as disinterested in him as possible. He notices it immediately. And he does not like it. He liked the attention you would show him, but he knew he had to ignore you, or he wouldn't be able to help fucking you until you were screaming his name at the top of your lungs

It wasn't until you came home with so little clothing and smeared lipstick that he finally ended up breaking. He pulled you into his home office and asked where you had been looking like that. He asked if you were out fucking someone. You weren't, but clearly the show you had put on had worked. You smeared that lipstick yourself just to get this reaction from him.

"All this time I've tried so hard not to fuck you and fill you with cum. I've tried not to stare too long. I've held myself back from tasting you. You have no idea how many times I have thought about doing things to you, how many positions I've thought about taking you in. I can't decide which to start with. Any ideas?" His voice is so deep and dark and it makes your knees weak. You just stare at him with wide eyes. He chuckles and you think it sounds condescending. "I think I know where to start." And then he drags you over to his desk, clears it, and yanks your clothes off before bending you over it. He presses his crotch against your dripping heat and you can feel how painfully hard his is in his slacks that he has yet to change out of after work. You know that means he was doing paperwork as he waited for you to come home.

"You feel what you do to me? You're soaking wet. You like this? You knew exactly what you were doing, hm? Trying to piss me off enough to get me to fuck you?" All you can do is whine and nod.

"Wanted you to stop ignoring me." You manage to pout at him You can hear him undoing his slacks and you imagine him pulling his cock out. You feel his tip begin rubbing through your slit and then it's prodding at your entrance. He finally pushes into you completely without much warning. He feels big, but not too big. He doesn't give you any time to adjust before he starts pounding into your pussy with no mercy. He spends the rest of the evening fucking you over and over again. He is taking all of his pent-up frustration out from not being able to have you and he's not sure when he'll get to have you again. When he's not fucking you, he is eating you out until he gets hard again. By the time he's done with you, his cum is dripping down your thighs and you both know that you're ruined for any other person, and you know it will happen again at some point. Even if he tries to restrain himself like he had before.

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rcvcgers · 1 day ago

Text

Rotten Apples, pt. 4

masterlist , part one , part two , part three

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: caleb tries his best to apologize but you don't let him. a trip to linkon is what you need! you run into an old friend.

word count: 9.3k words

warnings: extreme loathing, kinda funny, MELANCHOLIC AND SAD, a good mix of everything! mentions of death! not proofread! READER IS MESSY AF

author's note: hi everyone! thank you so much for all the love on the previous parts! please like & leave comments! i love seeing what you have to say! (part 5 is for my smutty girls though ;) just a heads up!)

content warning: sloppy kiss between caleb & reader...tongues.

a big big big big thank you to leura who helped me out with this part! show them some love over on their blog @militaryapple

my rotten apples <3 : @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexizia , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @jexizia , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @young-adult-summer , @bitchyzombienacho , @danicareadssmut , @empressil , @kesiiahthompson

want to be added to the taglist? click here!

How does one react to their ex-childhood best friend showing up and ruining a date that’s also not a date that you’re on with your other ex-childhood best friend that you secretly liked then hated then when he showed back up after his supposed death your feelings for him have become so utterly complicated that you can’t comprehend if he actually likes you or not?

No, really, how do you react to that in a completely normal way?

The question kept you up for hours on end, lingering in the depths of your mind as you tried your best to feel like a human being again after your disastrous night with Caleb and Her.

Your dreams were infested with images of her smug smile and the way she showed up unannounced. You know that her motivations aren’t pure. They are full of hate and are malicious.

Do people change? Yes. They do. Sometimes they change for the worse instead of getting better.

The image of her smug expression haunts your mind. She floats into your thoughts. Caleb didn’t even try to hide the fact that they were, allegedly, temporarily living together. Her hunter business brought her to Skyhaven for whatever reason, which he also didn’t give, and it ended with you passed out on the floor of your apartment with an empty wine bottle in hand.

The morning after the date-that’s-also-not-a-date went wrong, you were quite hungover. You sat up from your floor in complete and utter pain, shuddering from the morning light that struck your eyes like daggers. A silent hiss escaped your lips as you army crawled into the kitchen. Trying to pull yourself up to the kitchen sink was a struggle in itself.

Your legs kept giving out on you. You succumbed to the floor plenty of times. Groans and cries filled the quiet apartment, your fingers scraping against the cabinets. After an hour, you finally got a good grip on the edge of the sink, gasping as you pulled up your basically dead body, and flicked on the water. Your dry mouth was met with crisp, ice cold water. Your morning long thirst had been quenched.

You felt unstoppable! That is, until your phone started ringing…from the opposite side of the apartment.

That trek was less strenuous thanks to the oasis that is your kitchen sink. Once your phone was in your hand, you felt the surge of another victory bubble from within your uneasy stomach.

The feeling was quickly shot down when Darryl’s name flashed across your screen.

“Hello?” Your throat is raw from dehydration.

“Where are you?!” Darryl’s voice booms from the other end of the call. You move the phone away from your face and wince. You put the call on speaker and set it on the floor next to you.

“I think I’m going to need to cash in one of my sick days…” You crumble to the floor and ball up into the fetal position.

This is one nasty ass hangover.

“A Colonel is here asking for you.”

Your body shocks to life. The nausea you once felt fades into nothingness. You force your body upright and stare at Darry’s name on the screen.

What the fuck did he just say?

“What the fuck did you do?” Darryl yells at you through the phone.

“I didn’t do anything!” You immediately retort. “I’m going to use a sick day today. I’ll work overtime tomorrow! Okay! Bye!” You hang up the phone and slide it across the floor, landing in the bathroom.

Minutes pass. Silence fills your apartment.

Did…did Caleb come looking for you?

You shake your head at the thought. It could literally be any other colonel! There’s Colonel Heath and don’t forget about that time you helped Colonel Diana on a top secret project! Yeah! Diana was the one who reached out to you!

Not the insanely hot guy from your childhood that you’re supposed to hate but can’t help but salivate over when you think of him in his uniform.

Yeah! No! It totally isn’t Caleb who you ran away from last night!

There’s a knock at your door. You aren’t expecting anyone…who could it be? Your legs still feel like jelly but you push through, wobbling to the door. pressing up against the door with a rough landing, you peer out the peep hole to see a head of black hair in front of it.

The man’s posture straightens and his deep purple eyes seemingly lock onto yours. He’s in that damn Colonel uniform too. You gasp and push away from the door. Stumbling backward, and in a good stroke of luck, you tip onto the couch and yelp, covering your mouth.

Caleb calls out your name, his voice muffled through the door. His knocks are more feverish now. Your body flinches with every knock.

“Hey…I know you’re in there. I’m sorry about last night,” Caleb’s voice doesn’t bring you the solace and comfort it used to. “Can we please talk? I can explain everything.” You don’t respond.

Why should you? He’s the one who put you through so much god damn emotional turmoil. Years of being led on and his innate sense to always go to her has messed with your head. Your last therapist could barely make sense of things when you explained it to her.

“Alright…I get it. You need distance. That’s fine. I’ll be here…you have my number. Oh, and I brought you some food…I think there’s good chance you’re hungover.” Caleb sounds…defeated. It’s a strange thing to have to listen to. Usually he’s this upbeat, happy-go-lucky guy that always knows what to do or say to make things better.

But you…you have officially stumped Caleb.

He has never felt so lost in his life. He knew that he was in this position because he couldn’t have a backbone when it came to her. That’s his fault.

Caleb wishes he could explain to you that he asked her to leave. He even took her to a hotel where she can stay for the rest of the stay. And the cherry on top?

He didn’t pay for it!

His eyes stare at the door’s peephole. He squints, wanting to see any kind of movement within the very minuscule amount of light that seeps through. There’s nothing, though, so he sets the large plastic bag of food down onto the floor. The Colonel hesitates for a split second, swearing that he hears something behind the door.

Again, nothing.

This is a routine that the two of you fell into over the course of a month.

Caleb showed up, unannounced and unwanted of course, and placed a token of his affection by your door. Some days it was greasy food for the hangovers you were bound to have when you went out with friends, other times it was flowers for an achievement you got at work.

Every time he knocked on the door, you hid in your bedroom, tucked away under the covers, silently begging for him to go away.

When he eventually left, after begging for a solid twenty minutes to see you and your beautiful face, you creeped outside the door to see what he left behind.

The days you were feeling low, Caleb left you comfort food and a note that said he’s proud of you for pushing through the day.

The weekends were usually the days he came to bring you flowers. He brought a different kind every day and somehow managed to get them wrong every single time. You didn’t even waste another second looking at them before dumping them down your hallway’s trash chute.

There was a time when Caleb dropped of an expensive bouquet of roses. You caught him right before he snuck into the elevator like the stalker he is. You picked up the bouquet and signaled for him to stay where he was, putting the brightest and most plastic looking smile on your face.

The look on his face was priceless! Caleb inched closer to your apartment, a smile slowly growing on his face. His smile died when you stepped out of the apartment with the bouquet in one hand, scissors in the other. You snipped every single rose, letting them fall to the ground before you slammed the door behind you.

His constant acts of affection were, quite frankly, getting on your nerves. It didn’t help that your neighbors kept banging on your door asking for you to clean up the messes he left behind. Now that was just tedious.

You should have left a note for Caleb to clean up the mess he made.

One day, you were late for a team dinner that Darryl was throwing to celebrate his promotion. How he got promoted, you’d never know. At least he wouldn’t be bothering you anymore. That’s all that matters.

You swung the door open, headphones over your ears, and jumped at the sight of a blue and orange box. It was small in your hands. A small jingling sound came from the inside when you shook it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement. Caleb dipped behind a couple waiting for the elevator. You raised an eyebrow and walked to the elevator, watching as his eyes grew bigger and bigger.

The elevator dinged right when you shoved the box into his chest, crushing the small, glass butterfly he had bought for you.

Caleb’s eyes fixated on the eye bags under your eyes. They were heavily sunken into your skin and were a deep purple color. Even your cheekbones popped out. You slowly blinked at him, your body slightly swaying despite there being no wind inside the hallway.

To Caleb, you looked like a shell of yourself. A phantom that sucked the soul straight out of your body, leaving behind a semblance of the woman he’s grown so fond of despite you throwing all of his effort back into his face.

“Take the stairs.” You told him before disappearing into the elevator. The doors slowly closed and he watched as you wiped a tear out from under your eye. The sad thing is that he obeyed your order like the lovesick puppy he is, dying to catch a glimpse of you before you disappeared into a taxi.

Are you not taking care of yourself? Have you not been eating the food I’ve gotten you? Do I need to take matters into my own hands? His thoughts began to race as soon as you were out of sight.

Caleb wanted to rip his heart out of his chest and hand it to you if it would mean that you would forgive him for what he’s done. If you wanted him to kill a thousand Wanderers, he would do it. Hell, he even managed to get Darryl fired for you after overhearing you talk about how much you hated him.

Caleb is ready to give you the world. All you have to do is say the word and he’ll spend the rest of his days, all the way until his dying breath, to make it a reality for you.

It’s been a month since the disastrous date night, not that you were counting the days or anything.

You totally still aren’t heartbroken over the fact that they have ruined your self esteem and essentially made you a hermit. Isolation was the only way you were able to feel comfortable in your own skin and yet it was so incredibly lonely to be stuck with your own degrading thoughts with Caleb serving as a constant reminder as to why you’re only good enough to be someone’s second choice.

Never the first.

“You’re coming, right?” Your friend shouts from over the phone. “You better get on the train! You are not missing out on my bachelorette party just because you don’t want to run into him!”

Your laugh is half-genuine as you shove clothes into your suitcase, not even bothering to fold them because you simply do not have the energy to do it.

“I’m leaving in ten minutes for the train right now, I promise.” the suitcase struggles to zip shut but you eventually get it to close after sitting on it. It crashes into the ground and you shriek, stumbling next to to it. You barely manage to catch yourself, your first laugh in a month fleeing your mouth.

The sound shocks you. You go silent, hand covering your glossed lips, and laugh some more.

You didn’t know you could do that anymore! It had been so long since you’ve heard the crackle in your laugh, the way you could sense the joy within the sound even if it came from a clumsy mistake.

“Are you okay?” Your friend’s voice lulls you back into the room. You nod despite her being unable to see it and laugh again, covering your mouth. She laughs. “Alright then, I’ll see you in a few hours!”

Your suitcase suddenly feels light when you pick it up from the ground. Has all of your depression finally left you body? Are you starting to feel whole again after feeling so worthless?

You slide the suitcase across the floor and slip your shoes on with a blossoming smile. Things are finally starting to look up for you! Hell, even your shoes slipped on with ease instead of you struggling to put them on for ten minutes! Maybe you could get a coffee before you hop on the train out of Skyhaven!

The front door is pulled back and you are ready to brace the day with a smile on your face when—!

Caleb. He’s here. At your door. With another bouquet of flowers.

Your smile falls from your face and any oxygen that was once in your lungs has been sucked out by his presence. The only thing you can do is stare up and into his violet eyes. He holds out the bouquet to you, daisies to be exact, and the white petals burn into your soul.

“These are for you,” Caleb takes your hand and you’re unable to stop him. He slips the bouquet into your fingers and you stare at the skin he touches, a burning feeling imprinting into your skin. “I just wanted to come by and—”

“Beg for a second chance? Again? I’m not interested, Caleb,” you push forward, your suitcase sliding right into his calves. He doesn’t flinch. Caleb watches as you wiggle your way out of your apartment, slamming the door shut, and shoving the key into the hole.

“No, that’s not it, actually,” he says with a chuckle. He moves your luggage to his side, watching as your lock up. When you turn around, you snatch the handle back from him, creating distance between you two. “I’m leaving for a week long patrol in the Deepspace Tunnel. I just wanted to see your face before I go.”

“Well,” you huff, shoving the suitcase in front of you, hauling it down the elevator, “you saw it. You can leave now.”

“Can you please just…hey! Talk to me!” Caleb quickly follows after you. He uses your Evol to cement your luggage to the ground. You tug on the handle. When it doesn’t budge, you turn and glare at him.

If only you had an Evol. Maybe then you’d return the favor by striking him with lightning or maybe you’d suck all the air from his lungs and make him gasp for air.

Okay…maybe not. That’s a little violent.

“Let me go, Caleb.”

“All I’m asking for is five minutes of your time…please. I need this,” Caleb steps towards you. He softly grabs your wrist. You don’t immediately pull away, eyes fixated on his. Your bottom lip trembles. Your heart thumps behind your ribs and butterflies erupt in your stomach. The scent of his cologne fills your nose, pulling you out of your trance.

This is not supposed to happen. You’re supposed to be over him, not falling in love all over again!

“You’re pathetic, Caleb.”

Your words are venom. They burn into his skin and for once: Caleb is silent. There is no comeback. There is no funny one liner that he can say to diffuse the situation. There is not a single god damn thing he can do or say to get your malice to disappear.

“This past month has been hard on me. Your constant gifts and notes at my door make me feel nothing but irritation. You’ve ruined so many of my days simply by being here. All I wanted you to do was leave me alone. And you couldn’t even do that.”

Caleb blinks away the stinging feeling in his eyes. His lips part and you can’t help but look away, your eyes turning glossy.

“I need to be alone. That means I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be reminded of you and I especially don’t want to hear your voice through my door begging for a second chance. I’m done, Caleb.”

“That’s not fair—”

“You know what wasn’t fair? Was having to be your third wheel throughout my entire childhood,” your voice trembles, rising in volume. You smack the area over your heart, tears now rolling down your cheeks. “I have always been your second choice. You know I basked in the days you gave me your attention when she was sick and stayed home from school? It felt so good to be in your light, to be someone who actually meant something to you. And now all I get are the scraps that she didn’t want. Wake up, Caleb! I’m done!”

His Evol releases your luggage and you turn to the elevator. White petals catch your eye and your step hesitates for a brief second, halting you. You stare the bouquet, the yellow bulbs in the center mocking you. Without wasting another second, you storm back over to Caleb, whose shoulders slump and his eyes are on the ground. You smack the bouquet into his chest.

“I don’t even like daisies,” a quiet sob flees your mouth. Caleb’s once bright eyes darken. He stares at you, fists balled at his sides, unable to tear his gaze away from yours. His breath grow heavier the longer you stand there.

He doesn’t say anything. It unsettles you. All he does is walk around you, slamming the stairwell door open, and evaporates into the darkness.

You need to get away from Caleb. From Skyhaven. Suddenly, your friend’s bachelorette party seems like the perfect place to escape for the weekend.

Linkon is brighter than you remember. It’s sunny with a crisp wind that carries your hair in different directions. The city is a lot different too. Restaurants and shops you once knew are now gone, replaced with big chains, but there are a few standout smaller places that catch your eye.

The path from the train station to your parents’ house is the same, much longer than you anticipated, but is the same regardless. On the way home, you decide to stop by your favorite mom-and-pop shop. You were hooked on their candies as a kid.

Their sweet and salty chocolate caramels melted in your mouth. They have the most perfect chocolate truffles that paired so well with their homemade fruit tarts. During the summer, they worked with the ice cream parlor next door and combined their sweet treats for the perfect combination.

As soon as you see the red and white stripes of their shop, your pace quickens, feet traveling even faster. A sweet treat never hurt anybody, right? Besides, you need some chocolate and caramel clusters to fill in the void that Caleb carved into your soul.

The suitcase’s wheels try their best to keep up with you, dragging along the sidewalk with loud scrapes. The shop’s sign grows bigger and bigger with every step you take.

You’re so close to the sweet taste of victory. Your hand reaches for the door, about to snatch the handle and burst inside, when the door swings right into you, the wood hitting the dead center of your forehead.

Your body tips backward, suitcase rolling away and towards the street. The concrete isn’t a nice bed to land on. The back of your head smacks against the concrete and your vision goes black.

Holy shit, you think, did I just go blind?

Commotion stirs from all around you and the culprit drops to your side. His voice is muffled and you can barely make out a word she’s saying. She raises her voice and you wince, the volume causing your instant headache to worsen into a migraine. A man’s voice replaces her panicked muffles.

A hand sneaks under your back, slowly sitting you up from the ground. Sunlight breaks through the darkness, your eyes slowly focusing on the figure in front of you.

His head blocks the sun from your eyes, specks of dust illuminating as they float by, a pair of sharp hazel-green eyes focusing on you from behind glass and thin metal frames. The man moves in slow motion, your lips parting, as he checks out your pupils. His black hair falls over his forehead and he leans in. He smells like fresh laundry and an icy day. The scent is comforting to you.

“Follow my finger,” his voice is unemotional. He holds a single finger up and in front of your face. He moves it from left to right but your eyes don’t move. He says your name and a piece of your dead heart awakens, a flurry of hope and sweetness tingling on your tongue.

“Zayne?” You whisper. Are you seeing things again? Or has another childhood friend suddenly entered your life during a time of need?

“You may have a concussion. Please, allow me to take care of you.”

Take care of you.

You nod, eyes following his finger back and forth. Another digit sprouts up and you immediately say “two” without him needing to ask. The corner of his lips perk up for a split second before falling again.

“Where did you come from?” He asks.

The people around you begin to disperse, moving on with their day. The woman who hit you stays behind, though, nervously chewing on her nails while watching Zayne assess you.

“The train station.”

“Further back.”

“Skyhaven.”

His hazel eyes are softer than you remember. The green hues fight with the yellow and brown tones, ending with a delicate balance that you always liked to look at when you were kids. He still wears glasses, no contacts for him, and his shoulders are so broad.

“What’s my name again?”

“Zayne,” you exhale. He nods and rises to his feet. He extends a lightly scarred hand to you, which you take, as he helps you from the ground. Zayne turns to the woman beside you. His fingers curl around your elbow and he pulls you to his side.

“She will be fine. I’ll take her from here. You may leave,” Zayne tells the woman. His voice doesn’t falter. It remains steady and it puts your heart at ease.

“I’m so sorry…” the woman stares at you but you wave her away with a smile.

“It’s okay. It happens to all of us,” you try your best to reassure her even though no, this does not happen to all of us. You just happen to be one unlucky girl.

The woman nods and bows her head in shame, scurrying away. Your eyes follow her but Zayne steps in front of you. You tilt your chin up and cock your head to the side. His features are as sharp as ever. The tip of his nose brings his whole face together, matching the thin metal rims of his glasses.

“I see you’re still clumsy,” Zayne blinks at you. You take a second to process his words.

“I wouldn’t really say that I’m clumsy,” you quip back, “I’m just…very unfortunate with the timing of things.” Zayne’s eyebrow perks up.

It’s silent. The two of you stare at each other as the world passes you by. The difference from your previous experience with another person from your past is that this feels comfortable. You feel safe, that if anything were to happen, Zayne would stick by your side and protect you.

He wouldn’t run away to go find a certain someone and make sure that she’s okay first before chasing you.

“How have you been, Zayne?” You fill in the silence, placing your suitcase in front of your body. He watches, his careful gaze noticing every little detail, before they’re drawn back to you.

“I’ve been well. And you? I heard you are a successful translator for the DAA.” You can’t help but chuckle at his words. His brows knit together and he takes a step towards you. “Did I…say something wrong? Are you not translating?”

“No! No, I am translating, I mean, so yes to that,” you stumble over your words like a girl who has a crush on him. You clear your throat and rub the red mark on your forehead, the dull ache behind your eyes making you want to curl up and disappear since you can’t even form a coherent sentence. “I wouldn’t call myself successful, though. Unless you count success as sitting in a cubicle all day and doing whatever work they give you.”

“You complete projects with no problem. To me, that is the definition of success,” Zayne gently moves your hand off of the suitcase handle, his fingers curling around the small bar. His hand looks comedically large against it.

It has you wondering what his hand looks like compared to his medical tools during surgery.

“Where are you staying?” He asks the question so casually. It’s…comforting.

“At my parents’ house. I’m housesitting for them. Hey, do you remember Isabelle?” You move to Zayne’s side. He nods and hums in response. The two of you start walking in the direction of your house, which isn’t too far away from Downtown Linkon. “Well, it’s her bachelorette party this weekend and she had decided for me to go, so naturally my parents decides it’s a great time to go on a weekend vacation themselves.”

“Ah. I see. They deserve a good break. It’ll be good for you to have some time alone outside of the bachelorette party as well.” Zayne doesn’t look at you while he speaks and yet you feel so seen. You nod and look forward, a smile spreading across your face.

The walk home is beautiful. The trees sway with the wind, pastel petals flying and swirling around the two of you. You reach a hand out and catch one. The delicate pale pink petal rests in your hand. You hold your palm out to Zayne to show him.

“It’s a petal.”

“Yes, yes it is.”

“It’s…pink.”

“Observational as always, Zayne.” That earned a quiet chuckle from him. He sped up in front of you, leaving you behind to match his quick pace.

The familiar sight of the front yard comes into view. The bricked walls are still devoured in vines and there’s even a bountiful garden outside with colorful flowers and butterflies that rest on the petals. A warm smile spreads across your face as Zayne holds open the white picket fence for you. He follows behind as you rush up the front steps of the porch. You unlock the door and swing the door open, the familiar scent of your mother’s floral perfume flowing from the house.

This is home. This is a safe space where you know you can escape and not have to worry about the outside world coming to hurt you.

Zayne slides your suitcase inside the home, watching as it disappears down the wooden floors and into the tucked away kitchen. You smile at him, stepping inside and kicking your shoes off. He stays outside, watching as all your walls come down.

“Thank you for walking me home. I’m sure you were busy with…hospital things,” your laugh is breathy. Zayne catches himself smiling at you, forcing the grin away.

“I just got off my mandatory emergency room shift. I have the next day off until they need me back,” he informs you. You nod and lean against the wooden door.

“Oooh, look at you go Zayne. Earning a much deserved break. Please, do tell, how do you intend to spend your day off?” You ask, leaning forward, closing some distance between you two.

“I would like to spend time with you,” Zayne is as straightforward as ever.

You’d be lying if you said your heart didn’t skip a beat.

There are no butterflies in your stomach, though, like they’d be with him.

“With me?” You repeat. He nods, taking a step closer. You suck in a breath and take in his fresh scent.

It’s clean like a sunny day. You can see you and Zayne holding hands, running through the school halls to catch a glimpse of the school librarian and P.E. teacher sneaking into the teacher’s lounge together.

“I fail to see how this is…interesting,” a young Zayne told you. You shushed him, looking into his sharp, hazel eyes.

“They’re in love! It’s always nice to see people find their person!”

Zayne’s grip on your hand became tighter in that moment.

“I…I would love to go to dinner with you,” you smile at him. He nods. The corners of his lips twitch and he turns to walk away. You grab his wrist and draw him back to you, eyes wide as you look up at him. “What time should I be ready by?”

“Hm…does seven sound good?” He asks. You nod and release his wrist. “I’ll pick you up.”

Zayne hesitantly leaves your close proximity. He steps down the stone pathway, his eyes staring at the flowers, which just so happen to be your favorite, and turns to face you when he reaches the perimeter of the front yard.

“Hey, Zayne?” You call from the door. He moves his hands into his pockets, tilting his head at you. “Can we do something casual tonight?”

Like the godsend he is, Zayne nods then disappears down the street. You close the door, back pressed against the combination of wood and glass, and let out an excited squeal.

Seven o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. For once, you were excited to go out for dinner with a childhood friend. You knew that he wouldn’t bring any unnecessary interruptions nor will it be cut short due to external forces coming to get you. Besides, Dr. Zayne is one mighty fine date.

He also made you his first choice.

You sit in front of the door, foot tapping against the brown wood. Your hair is neatly made, all loose strands tucked behind your ears, a simple make up look painting your face, and a casual, floral dress to match. You even made sure to wear simple jewelry too to complete the outfit.

6:55 P.M.

Where is Zayne? He’s typically early, he always has been.

Maybe you’re too eager for a night of normalcy with an old friend. This whole trip to Linkon begins to seem like a complete and total waste. You’ve lost hours of precious time, that you selfishly planned to rot on the couch and watch your guilty pleasure television show, on finding an outfit for a night out with Zayne. You knew you shouldn’t have set your expectations so high for a bar that Zayne will never be able to reach.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You lunge to the door, swinging it open. A smile blossoms on your face when you see Zayne standing before you. His hands remain behind his back. He wears black slacks matched with a black button up, his sleeves fastened at his wrists.

“For you…a welcome gift for your short time back in Linkon,” Zayne pulls his arms from behind his back, revealing a bouquet of your favorite flowers matched with delicate baby’s breath. In his other hand is a box from the mom-and-pop shop you never were able to go into. You take them from his hands, your heart swelling with joy.

“Thank you…thank you so much,” you look at the flowers and candy box. A piece of your joy feels sorrowful…bittersweet.

A piece of you wished it was him standing in Zayne’s place. You wished it was back when you were teens when he could have realized that you were in front of him the whole time.

“Um,” you choke on your breath, gesturing behind you, “let me go put these in a vase, then we can go!” You quickly turn on your heel and hurry towards the kitchen, leaving him behind.

“Alright,” his voice is faint as the sound of the door closing echoes throughout the house. You grab a glass vase from one of the cabinets, filling it with water.

You refuse to have this outing be ruined by your…complicated feelings for Caleb. He simply cannot have a chokehold on every aspect of your life. He occupies the hallway outside of your apartment, not the space inside, so the same principle should be applied here, right?

“There is a street fair tonight that I thought looked fun to attend,” Zayne says from behind you. You turn, the water splashing around the inside of the vase.

You set it down on the counter, watching as Zayne removes the covering from the bouquet, his grip keeping the flower stems bunched together. He slides them inside of the vase with ease, eyes focused on the delicate petals while your eyes fixate on his. The doctor finally turns his gaze to yours, eyes meeting from a small distance.

“It’s…casual like you asked for.”

“It sounds like a wonderful time,” you respond, waiting for the butterflies to erupt in your stomach.

They don’t.

It is an ideal spring night in Linkon City.

Vendors line up along the city street with large food trucks parked in a half circle at the end of the street. The view overlooks Linkon’s large river. Boats float by with their red and green lights twinkling, reflecting against the calm water. There are even a few booze cruises that pass by with music playing from speakers and the inhabitants’ laughter floating across the channel.

A healthy distance remains between you and Zayne when you get to the street fair. You remain close enough for others to know that you are there together but just far enough for people to know that you two aren’t together.

Zayne follows you as you rush to one of the vendors’ stalls. Their table is filled with glasswork, much like the butterfly that hangs from your bedroom window in Skyhaven. You gasp, clasping your hands together. Zayne watches you from behind, an amused chuckle leaving his throat, your excitement infectious.

“These are so pretty!” You smile, eyes scanning the different glass trinkets. The business owner smiles at you. A look of recognition flashes across his face, the man now pointing at you.

“I…I remember you!” He exclaims. Both you and Zayne stare at him, your heads tilting to the side. “You were my very first customer! Ten years ago, you bought an orange and blue butterfly from me! If it weren’t for you, I would have packed up shop a long time ago!”

“I still have your butterfly! It’s hanging in my apartment right now! It’s my favorite decoration,” you smile at him, turning to Zayne. He was there when you bought it, you know, having been the one who gifted you the last collar you were missing.

“Wait here! I’ll get you another butterfly for your collection! Wait here!” The owner turns around and begins to dig through his boxes in a fury. You nudge Zayne’s side, catching his attention, and wiggle your eyebrows at him. He shakes his head and looks away, keeping his hands inside his pockets, a habit he picked up since becoming a surgeon.

The owner turns around and holds out an intricate, medium sized glass butterfly. It hangs from a thin metal chain that is decorated with pearls and reflective pieces of white glass. The glass is a shimmering iridescent purple color, matched with lighter blue and pink glass, held together with flawless welded metal. Underneath each of the wings hangs a short metal chain, adorned with the same sparkling pearls and white pieces of glitter glass. Its wings are outstretched and the owner holds it next to a lamp, showcasing the vibrant hues against a white backdrop.

“It’s...gorgeous. You’ve outdone yourself!” You chuckle, impressed with the man’s skill.

“It truly is a work of art,” Zayne adds to your compliment. The owner’s smile grows, showing all of his teeth, overtaking his entire face.

“Let me wrap it up for you!” He boasts and turns away from the two of you.

You watch the owner delicately places the butterfly in parchment paper and bubblewrap, taking extra precautions with the fragile piece. Zayne’s eyes burn into the side of your face, watching as you stare at the man with awe and wonder in your eyes. Once he passes over the piece, you and Zayne say goodbye, making your way deeper into the street fair.

The two of you partake in many activities and games. Zayne wins a mini plushie of a snowman, which you insist that he must have, and you even win a bet in a quick game of darts, popping more balloons than he does.

You sit at a plastic table, placing the black bag with the butterfly inside on the table next to you, as Zayne waits at one of the food trucks. His snowman plushie sits next to your dragonfly plushie, leaning against each other. You look around as people pass you by, engrossed in their own conversations. Your smile from before has yet to disappear.

A band begins to play live music from a stage not so far away. You turn to watch, the sound of the band’s guitar making your body sway along to the beat. The singer’s voice is beautiful too, as she sings a lovely melody about love and how distance will never keep her away from her lover.

A figure sits in the chair across from you. You blink and turn your head, expecting to see Zayne, but are met with Caleb’s hardened gaze, scowl on his face. Your back straightens, goosebumps littering your skin.

“Caleb…what are you doing here?” You look towards Zayne, whose back is facing you, “you need to leave. Now.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to Linkon.” His voice is snappy. His lilac eyes flit to the plushies that lean against each other. His eyes narrow when he turns his attention back to you. “Are you here with someone?” His voice is low, dangerous. You swallow the spit in your mouth, nervousness flooding your body.

“I am, actually. Now if you could leave—”

“You’re in my seat.” Zayne stands behind you. He holds a bowl of strawberries, covered with a heavy pour of chocolate, and two forks in his hand. The snack is a perfect combination of Zayne’s sweet tooth and your love of fresh fruit.

“I’m fine where I am, thanks,” Caleb snaps at Zayne. His eyes never leave yours, though.

“Suit yourself,” Zayne responds. He sets the bowl down on the table. He pulls the empty chair out from beside you and sits down. Caleb huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

“What are you doing here with him?” Caleb’s eyes are cold. There is no warmth behind his purple hues. Just a bitterness that you can taste on the tip of your tongue.

“I thought you said you had a Deepspace mission or whatever, why aren’t you there?” You ask. Before Caleb can respond, Zayne speaks.

“Aren’t you supposed to be dead? Was your grave not comfortable enough?” Zayne shoots back, his words just as icy as Caleb’s are venomous.

“Enough,” your hand moves to Zayne’s forearm, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He looks to you, eyebrows raised. What? It’s a fair question. When you shake your head, he nods, relaxing into the plastic chair.

Caleb watches, heart burning with fury as you touch Zayne so casually. He remembered when just a little over a month ago that he was the one you were touching, your fingers unable to break free from his rough skin.

He was the one who you were laughing with, not him. Caleb was the one who you wanted to share a dessert with, not this lame ass doctor who sits beside you.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Caleb’s eyes dart back to yours. You shrug and lean forward, fork in hand as you poke a chocolate covered strawberry, popping it into your mouth. “I deserve an answer.”

“You think you’re entitled to a lot of things,” you turn to Zayne, signaling to him to have a bite. “It doesn’t mean that you’re going to get what you want.” Zayne takes a bite from a strawberry, granted it’s more chocolate than it is fruit, and nods at you.

“It’s delicious,” he murmurs to you. You smile and nod, going in for a second bite.

Caleb uses his Evol to move the bowl away from you. You glare at him, leaning forward. He matches your movement and your faces are inches apart from each other, darkened and angered gazes burning with nothing but passion.

“Stop being difficult,” you snatch the bowl back and pull away from the Colonel. He doesn’t budge, though, and remains where he is.

He watches as you and Zayne share nonchalant glances. Zayne holds the bowl for you two and lets you have first pick of the contents.

It sickens him to watch. Out of all the people in the world, you just had to be with Zayne, his childhood rival despite always acting like a friend towards him.

“Why are you with him?” Caleb pushes his luck by asking again. When you don’t respond, his fists clench. Zayne’s eyes flicker to the Colonel’s hands, up to his glare, before looking back at the strawberries.

“I’m surprised you aren’t here with her.” Zayne’s words freeze your body. You stop chewing, the strawberry becoming sour at the mention of her name. You chew slow, begrudgingly swallowing the bit of fruit.

“Fuck you, Zayne,” Caleb stands from his chair, slamming his hands onto the plastic table. You look up to the dark haired man, watching as he holds his hand out to you. “Come on. We’re leaving.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?! He’s clearly using you against me!”

“Caleb. Go home. I’ll dismiss the fact that you followed me here and interrupted Zayne and I’s time together,” you breathe out. Your anger cools, lingering under your skin. The numbness you once felt returns to your body, leaving you feeling more indifferent than depressed or furious.

You feel dead.

Zayne stands, his hand resting on your shoulder. His touch is warm and comforting, something that you’re unable to find within Caleb’s current demeanor. Your eyes dissociate and you stare into nothing, tears stinging your eyes.

“Let’s not cause a scene,” Zayne cooly says, “I’ll make sure that she gets home safe. Let’s not ruin her night.”

“Stay out of this, Zayne,” Caleb snaps at the doctor, “this is none of your business.”

“You made it my business by coming here and demanding answers from her,” he narrows his eyes from behind his glasses. “Why does it matter who she is with? Would it have made a difference if it wasn’t me? I bet you’d still be having a tantrum over it.”

“I’d choose your next words very, very wisely,” Caleb’s fists ball up. You look at his hands, noticing a blur forming around his hand.

“You didn’t care for her when you were younger, so why start now?” Zayne speaks as if he’s not under any pressure. “She has always been your backup.”

“What did you just say?” Caleb pushes the words through gritted teeth. “Since when have you been friends with her? You were always a loner.”

“I’ve always been friends with her,” Zayne relaxes back into the chair next to you, “you were too busy with her to notice.” You look at Zayne, a frown overtaking your face.

The night, which is now ruined, leaves you feeling cold and hopeless. You turn and stare into the distance, watching as happy people pass by, looking at the three of you with weird looks and hushed whispers. You shake your head, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

You wouldn’t be in this predicament if it weren’t for Caleb. You wouldn’t have been made out to be some kind of social pariah that has to be avoided at all costs if he had just stayed away. Your night with Zayne has become that of a public spectacle, one that you don’t wish to be a part of anymore.

“We’re leaving.” Caleb demands. Zayne moves to defend you but you shake your head and sigh. You pat his hand and wipe a tear away from your face.

“I’m going to go with him. It’s the only way to get him to calm down and I don’t want either of you ending up on the news for murder,” your sad attempt of a joke earns no laughs. Zayne releases a deep, long sigh. He nods and reaches over, grabbing your dragonfly plushie and places it inside the black bag that holds your glass butterfly. You take it from him and weakly smile.

Caleb circles the table and takes your wrist into his large hand. His calloused palm is rough against your gentle skin. He pulls you up from the chair and you move with him, unable to fight against him anymore. You can feel his Evol wrap around your waist, hugging it tightly as he begins to move you away from Zayne.

“Thank you for tonight, Zayne!” Your voice is hoarse. He waves and takes off his glasses pinching the bridge of your nose. You turn your attention back to Caleb, the heat of your anger turning back to a boil when your eyes land on the smug smirk on his face.

It’s not long before you are back home. You watch Caleb’s back, his muscles tense and flexed, as he unlocks the door to your childhood home. He steps to the side, his Evol guiding you inside. You storm down the hallway and into the kitchen. He slams the door shut and follows you, watching as you set down your belongings onto the table.

Caleb feels his body slowly calm down. He knows that you’re safe. You’re here with him, nobody else. Now he can finally explain what you mean to—

You slap him across the face, tears welled in your eyes, silently falling down your cheeks. Caleb doesn’t flinch, turning his face turning back to face you. Your fingerprints appear on his cheek, a light pink color contrasting against his tan skin.

“Do you feel better now?” He asks in a calm voice. You shake your head. He nods. “Go ahead. Get it all out.”

“Fuck you!” You yell at him. “Why the fuck did you have to ruin my night with Zayne?! We were just hanging out!” You smack your balled up fist against his chest. You grab his shirt and shake him back and forth, your anger taking over your body. “I hate you!”

“You don’t mean that,” Caleb shakes his head.

“I do. I fucking mean it with every fiber of my goddamn being,” you spit the words at him and push away, creating distance between you two. Caleb follows close behind, unable to handle being far away from you despite your already close proximity. “You’re always there! You can’t seem to catch the hint that I don’t fucking like you! You are a parasite that I can’t seem to get rid of! I want this nightmare to be over!”

You rush up the stairs, heading to your bedroom. Caleb is close behind, his eyes glued onto your back. You dip to the right and find yourself in your room. Your walls are covered with posters from magazines your mother got you, mixed in with photos of you and your friends from high school. Neither Caleb or her are in any of them.

“Is what he said true?” You turn around, looking up at Caleb. “Am I just your backup plan? Did she reject you so now you’re coming for your consolation prize?”

“No!” Caleb yells the word, barely able to breathe.

“Then why are you here?! Why are you playing with my head?!” You cry out, throat becoming raw from your yells.

“Because it’s always been you!” Caleb shouts. You pause, shrinking into your shoulders. “It’s…it’s always been you. I know that it sounds ridiculous. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t want to hear it or believe it either but it’s true. I am in love with you. I always have been. I’ve been in a constant denial about it but I finally realized that it’s you.”

You shake your head at him, bottom lip trembling. What he’s saying can’t be true. It’s all one big mind game that he’s playing with you. You’re his prey, weak and helpless, while he has all of the ammunition to bury you.

“The only reason I ever stuck around her is because it was expected of me. Everyone saw it. Our friends teachers, Zayne…you. You all saw that I was devoted to her so I felt the need to be what you all expected of me. To be her protector, her guardian! Hell, the only person who saw through the rouse was Gran! She always pushed me to go to you but I was a fucking idiot and didn’t listen.” His voice cracks.

Your feet remain cemented into the ground, unable to move. He inches closer to you, his eyes refusing to leave yours.

Your hearts pound inside your chests, beating the same bittersweet beat. He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek. Caleb wipes away your tears with his thumb, his touch so inexplicably warm against your skin. Chills run down your spine.

“Every room I walked in, I looked for you. I wanted to take you to the homecoming dance but she made sure that I forgot about it so I came up with some lousy excuse to cover my ass. Every game I didn’t attend was because I didn’t think you needed me. I should have showed up. I was an idiot who didn’t fight for you. I should have chased you down and kept you close to me instead of her. That’s a mistake I plan on repaying to you for the rest of our lives,” his voice lowers to a whisper. “I’d rather you hate me but be in my life than be out of it. I can’t lose you. Never again. I can’t go through that pain.”

“Caleb…” your voice trembles.

“You’re the one I want. You’re the one I love. You’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. I need you in my life. I can’t live without you,” he admits, unable to stop the words from leaving his mouth.

You reach up and grab his wrist, enamored by his words. You squeeze his arm and he sighs, looking at your touch before his eyes return to yours. He cups your other cheek, holding you in front of him, both of your breathing heavy.

“Fuck it,” Caleb mumbles under his breath.

He leans in, his lips crashing onto yours, capturing them in a slow yet fiery kiss. You gasp but immediately melt into him. You pull away for a brief second, your breath mixing with each others. He opens his mouth to say sorry but you draw him back in, pulling his head back down to meet yours.

The kiss your share is both bittersweet and filled with nothing but longing and desperation. Caleb pushes you backwards, guiding you to a nearby wall, pushing you up against it. Your lips parted, acting as an invitation for Caleb to slip his tongue inside, his tongue toying with yours.

A quiet whimper escapes from your throat, hidden by the sounds of ravenous kisses. The two of you become breathless, lips swollen, chests rising and falling. Caleb pulls away, despite his aching body begging him not to, and rests his forehead against yours.

You stand in his grip, mind dazed, feeling the tip of his nose graze against yours. You open your eyes to meet his. He grazes the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away leftover saliva from your kiss.

“I don’t care how long it takes for you to forgive me. I will wait for centuries if it means that I can see the light in your smile, the way your exude warmth to those who need it. I will give up my life as a Colonel if you don’t want to see me at work. I just want to be able to hear your jokes and laughter and be a part of your life because…I love you,” he whispers.

Your breath gets caught in your throat. Caleb stares deep into your eyes, unable to look away or say anything else. You blink, tears falling from your eyes.

Caleb’s words have mended the fractured fragments of your heart. He’s healed the torn open seams of your agony and has made you feel whole again. His admission has you captivated. Your shared kiss left you wanting more despite the warning bells sounding off inside your mind. It makes you want to slide into his arms, to wipe away the salty tears that fall from his violet eyes while also wanting to run away and hide from him so that he’ll never be able to find you ever again.

You’re moved by his love but can’t deny the fact that it has come too late.

There are too many open wounds and scars that time and words of love simply cannot erase or fully mend. It leaves you even more confused than before. Your head hurts. Your body aches. You feel like you’re about to pass out into his arms and fall into a sleep you’ll never wake up from.

“Caleb,” you breathe his name out. He looks at you, hanging onto the way you said his name, the way your hand fits perfectly into his. “You need to leave.”

You tear your hand from his. He stands in front of you, unable to comprehend what you just said. He watches as you back away form him, your hearts shattering by the actions you take.

“Why? Why are you pushing me away?” Caleb pleads. He takes your hands but you rip them away. Your force yourself to look away.

“I…I don’t know how to feel. I’m so utterly confused right now,” your throat feels like barbed wire is being fastened around it, slowly turning tighter and tighter until you are unable to breathe. “You…you need to go. Please. For my sake.” You move behind him, hands attaching to his broad shoulders, forcing him towards the door.

Caleb doesn’t fight against your touch. He moves with your momentum, his mind having gone blank. You guide him down the stairs and to the front door, opening it for him as he steps out. He turns to look down at you, his chest aching at the sight of your trembling body and silent cries.

You begin to close the door but his hand stops it, the glass within the wood rattling.

“Will you…will you please think about what I said?” Caleb whispers, looking down at you. You nod. He removes his hand and watches as you close the door., vanishing into the darkness of the home.

#rcvcgers writings #lads caleb #caleb x non!mc reader #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #lads rafayel #lads zayne #lads sylus #lads xavier #love and deepspace #loveanddeepspace

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loganspet · 1 day ago

Text

𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘.

𝐂𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘 ♡ ૮ › ‹ ྀིა

…

When Logan Howlett, your sugar daddy, finally gets his hands on you again, there’s no holding back.

Pairing:

Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader

Daddy Kink, Dom! Logan, Sub! Reader, Rough sex, Teasing, Banter, Age gap, Dirty talk, Fingering , Use of pet names, Bimboification, Reader has piercings, Minor Ass spanking, No control, Explicit language, Explicit sexual content, Dog tags, Unprotected Sex (p in v).

Cotton Candy is Readers Nickname meaning docile and approachable

Inspiration nsfw link :3

Half asleep, I can’t shake the thought of him slipping into my bed, so I wrote this . (Basically Self-Insert)

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

╭──────────.★..─╮

[You:] I’m booooored.

[Lo:] And?

[You:] And you should entertain me, duh.

[Lo:] Ain’t my problem, princess.

You scowl at your screen.

╰─..★.──────────╯

You roll your eyes, sprawled across the plush sheets of your king-sized bed. Technically, it’s your bed, in your penthouse—but let’s be real. It’s all because of him.

Logan keeps you in luxury, a spoiled little thing in lace and diamonds. He likes you soft, pretty, with a closet full of designer and a credit card you still haven’t hit the limit on. But right now? He’s being a pain in the ass.

Your manicured fingers tap against your phone.

╭──────────.★..─╮

[You:] Umm, actually, it is. You signed up for this so fucking mean. Ugh.

[Lo:] That right? Ain’t mean. Just don’t cater to whiny brats.

You picture him now, probably kicked back in his Chevrolet, cigar clenched between his teeth, jaw tight. He’s never been much for texting—too impatient, too old. You giggle at the thought.

[You:] You literally do tho. My closet says otherwise. What’s wrong, old man?

He leaves you on read for a second, which makes you scowl. You hate when he does that—like he’s got something more important than you. So, naturally, you decide to push.

[Lo:] Keep runnin’ that mouth, Cotton Candy see what happens.

You roll onto your back, twirling a strand of hair around your finger.

[You:] Ooo, scary. What’re you gonna do, Lo? Ground me?

╰─..★.──────────╯

You smirk at your own sass, but when he doesn’t respond immediately, you pout. Logan’s such a grump. He doesn’t chase—not the way men your age do, falling over themselves for a chance with you. But that’s exactly why you love teasing him, making him snap.

A new idea.

You look in your vanity mirror. Your mirror is a dream—glossy lips, untidy hair, barely-there underwear, and something dangling between your tits. His dog tags. You bit your lip. Tits spill out. The cool metal rubs against your pierced nipples, barbell jewelry visible through the exquisite lace the lace he bought. Sliding your phone up, you angle the camera perfectly—pouty, teasing, tits pushed up, You make sure the tags are in focus, resting against your pierced nipples like they belong there. and attached it to a new message.

╭──────────.★..─╮

[You:] Ruin me, daddy. Please?

Delivered. Read.

You smirk.

Three dots appear. Vanish. Appear again. Oh, he’s pissed. The response takes seconds.

[Lo:] You wanna play that game, huh?

Your grin widens. Your stomach flips

[You:] Mmhmm. You get all growly ‘n’ bossy when you’re mad. So hot, Lo.

[Lo:] ‘Lo’? The fuck kinda name is that?

You giggle, twirling a strand of hair again.

[You:] Short for Logan. Duh.

[Lo:] Don’t call me that. I hate it

He loves it

[You:] Aww. Someone’s grumpy. Lemme guess—you’re sittin’ there, puffin’ on one of those nasty cigars, pretendin’ you’re not hard as hell right now.

Three dots appear. Vanish.

You’re kicking your feet.

[You:] C’mon, daddy. Bet you can’t handle me tonight.

Still nothing. Fine. You decide to push harder, slipping your fingers into your lace panties, dragging them low—just enough to tease. Another pic. Another message.

[You:] Bet you won’t do a thing about it.

Delivered. Read.

The response is immediate.

[Lo:] Bet your fuckin’ ass I will. Open the door.

Your breath catches.

Wait—

[You:] …You’re already here?!

[Lo:] Got in the car the second you sent that first pic. Ain’t in the mood for your games, bubs. Open the door, now.

Oh, shit.

You scramble up, heat pooling between your thighs, heart pounding. Your phone vibrates again.

[Lo:] And take those fuckin’ panties off before I get in there. If you’re gonna act like a needy little brat, you’re gonna learn what happens when daddy finally has enough.

Your whole body shivers.

You’re so in trouble.

╰─..★.──────────╯

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

You barely have time to process before there’s a heavy knock at your door. Sharp. Impatient.

Your pulse jumps.

Oh, you really did it this time.

Scrambling off the bed, you toss your phone aside and tug your panties down, just like he ordered. A rush of excitement floods through you—nerves and need tangled together. You love this part, the chase. Pushing him, testing the limits of that patience.

And now? You’re about to see what happens when you finally snap it.

You unlock the door with trembling fingers. The second it swings open.

Big hands. A rough grip. Logan grabs you, one hand fisting your hair, the other bracing against your jaw, forcing your head up to meet his glare.

He smells like cigar smoke and leather, like pine and something dangerous.

“Y’think you’re cute, huh?” His voice is low, thick with something darker than irritation.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

Logan’s eyes flick down, and fuck, you swear you see his jaw tighten when he sees his tags between your tits, resting against your soft skin like they were made to be there. back when their little arrangement was still just that—an arrangement. He paid for your apartment, your designer bags, diamond bracelets. You let him grab you by the waist, let him pull you into his lap when the two of you were alone, let him drink in the way you looked in all the things he bought. It was a game, a back-and-forth, push-and-pull. Spoiled you rotten, the perfect little doll for him.

But one night, You saw them. His dog tags. Hanging off the hook in his bedroom like they didn’t belong to him, like they weren’t something personal, something worn close to his heart.

You wanted them so you took them

“Y’just don’t know when to quit, do ya?” He mutters, stepping inside, kicking the door shut behind him.

You give him a slow, syrupy smile. “Not really.”

His nostrils flare.

Then he’s moving—shoving you back against the wall, pinning you there like you belong beneath him. His grip tightens around your chin, thumb pressing against your glossy bottom lip.

“Daddy asked you a question.” His voice is rough, a quiet rasp of warning.

You blink up at him, lashes fluttering. “Which one?”

His expression darkens.

“Brat.”

Oh, you love it when he gets like this—when his rough hands and mean mouth are too much for anyone else, but perfect for you.

“I missed you, Logan” you sigh, tilting your head, giving him a coy smile of yours that drives him wild.

His thumb drags against your lip, just barely dipping between your teeth.

“Yeah? That why you were sendin’ me filthy fuckin’ pictures while I was drivin’?” he growls, his breath hot against your skin. He always loves hearing his name from you—especially when it comes out so sweet, so innocent, even though he knows exactly what’s underneath that pretty, ditzy exterior.

Your grin widens. “Mhm.” you hum, drawing out the sound just enough to drive him wild. “I missed everything about you, Logan”

His thumb presses against your tongue, just enough to make you gasp.

“Everything, huh? Got no patience for your games tonight, sugar. Y’been beggin’ for my attention all fuckin’ week.” He leans in, breath hot against your cheek. “Now you got it.”

“I want you so bad,” you whisper against his lips, your breath coming faster, need building. “Do you want me, Lo?” You whimper, thighs pressing together. Of course he did if he didn’t he wouldn’t be here.

His lips brush against your ear. “What was it you said?” His voice is pure gravel, his grip sliding down your body, over soft curves, possessive and firm. “Bet I won’t do a thing about it?”

A sharp little gasp slips out before you can stop it.

Then his hand grips the inside of your bare thigh. Just enough to sting. Just enough to make you ache.

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

His voice is a growl against your ear, rough like gravel, thick like smoke.

“You really got no shame, do ya? Bubs”

You giggle, all soft and sweet, batting your lashes up at him. “Not when it comes to you, Lo”

Logan exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s trying to keep his shit together. You know that sound. It’s the same one he makes when he’s gripping the steering wheel too tight after you’ve spent the whole car ride teasing him with your pretty little mouth.

His hand is still on your thigh, big and hot, pressing in just enough to remind you who’s in charge. His other hand trails up, fingers catching on the chain of his dog tags—right where they sit between your tits.

You see it then, the way his eyes darken, locked on the cold metal resting against your warm skin.

He loves it.

He hates how much he loves it.

“You think just ‘cause you’re wearin’ these, you get to act like a fuckin’ menace?” His thumb brushes the tags, then trails down, grazing your nipple through the thin lace. The metal is cold against your skin.

You gasp, arching into him. “Mmm. Maybe.”

His grip tightens.

Maybe it’s the pout you give him. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re not wearing panties, just like he told you to. Maybe it’s the way your skin is warm and soft under his rough hands—so delicate compared to him.

Whatever it is, Logan’s patience snaps like a frayed wire.

He fists the chain and tugs. Not enough to hurt, just enough to pull you closer, to make you feel who you belong to.

“You got no fuckin’ idea what you just started, Cotton Candy.”

You shiver, looking up at him through heavy lashes. “Guess you’ll have to show me.”

His nostrils flare.

Then, without another word, he grabs you—lifts you like you weigh nothing and tosses you over his shoulder, one big hand landing a sharp slap against your bare ass.

You squeal, wiggling in his hold.

“Fuck Logan!”

Another spank, harder this time.

“What was that?”

You whimper, pressing your thighs together, breath shuddering. “Daddy.”

His smirk is damn near feral as he starts toward your bedroom.

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Logan kicks the door shut behind him, the sharp click of the lock sliding into place making your stomach tighten.

You’re still slung over his broad shoulder, ass on display, his fingers kneading at your soft flesh like he’s debating whether to spank you again.

He takes his time.

Lets you feel every step—every shift of his powerful frame, every roll of his muscles under your body. It’s dizzying, being manhandled like this, thrown around like you weigh nothing. And fuck, you love it.

“Dunno if you deserve my time tonight, sugar.”

“Daddy,” you whine, squirming in his grip. “You’re being so mean.”

Logan flicks open his lighter with a practiced ease, the small flame illuminating his face for just a moment before he brings the cigar to his lips. The end glows ember-red as he takes a slow drag, cheeks hollowing, the scent of burning tobacco filling the air. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t break eye contact. Just watches you through the curling tendrils of smoke, that sharp-toothed smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A chuckle. Deep, throaty. Cruel.

“Yeah?” he drawls, voice thick and amused, the cigar bobbing between his teeth as he speaks. His palm finds your ass again, fingers kneading into soft flesh, teasing, taunting. “’Cause I ain’t the one sendin’ pictures, beggin’ to be ruined, huh?”

You pout, not that he can see it. “It was just a little tease.”

You swallow hard, heat curling in your stomach, but Logan just snorts, exhaling a sharp puff of smoke through his nose like he doesn’t believe a damn word out of your mouth.

“Yeah? Keep tellin’ yourself that.”

And then you’re falling.

Your back bounces against the bed as Logan drops you without an ounce of gentleness, and a little oof leaves your lips. But before you can complain, before you can even think about sitting up, he’s already on you—big, warm, and so much, caging you in with that solid body like you’re tiny beneath him.

His knees press into the mattress, one rough hand spreading your thigh open like it’s his to play with. His other arm braces beside your head, keeping you right where he wants you, making you so, so helpless under him. You’re not, of course—you know how to push his buttons, how to whine and get your way.

Logan knows better.

Knows you’re a spoiled, needy gorgeous thing. Knows you love pushing him to his limit just to see how far he’ll take it.

Tonight, you’re fucked.

“You like bein’ a whore, huh? Like makin’ me work for it? Huh, bub?”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, his fingers dip between your thighs, sliding through your already-messy slick.

“Damn,” he mutters, voice low, guttural. The rasp in it sends a shiver down your spine. “Drenched for me already, huh?“

Your breath hitches when he slides a thick finger inside, slow at first, teasing. He watches your body react, watches the way you arch and whimper, all pretty and desperate under him.

Your hands curl into the sheets as you whine, bottom lip wobbles “M’not easy.”

Logan just chuckles, dark and knowing. His free hand grips your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to look at him.

“You sure about that, sweetie?” His fingers press a little deeper, his thumb circling your clit in lazy, unhurried strokes.

“This is mine��

You gasp, back arching, legs spreading instinctively. His touch is firm, practiced—he knows exactly how to unravel you, how to work your body until you’re shaking.

“I-" your voice squealing with delight, the more you cry for him.

“Yeah?” His thumb drags over your pouty bottom lip, like he’s thinking about stuffing it in your mouth.

And then—his fingers speed up.

The shift is sudden, brutal. From slow, teasing drags to deep, fast thrusts, curling just right, fucking you open with rough, unrelenting precision. His palm smacks against your soaked little cunt with every stroke, the sound loud, wet, filthy. The kind of sound that makes your cheeks burn. The kind of rhythm that makes you forget how to think.

Your back arches off the bed, legs trembling, hands fisting the sheets, desperate to grab onto something, anything.

“Oh,” you gasp, nodding eagerly, shivering when he fingers your swollen, desperate cunt. eyes going all glossy and unfocused. “Oh—Logan—” ..★ ..★

Your face burns, but you don’t deny it. Can’t. Not when he’s got you like this—pinned beneath him, fingers buried deep, dragging you toward the edge like it’s nothing.

“Daddy,” you whimper, hands flying to his shoulders, clinging tight, nails digging into muscle like you need to ground yourself.

He hums in approval, lips quirking into a smirk.

“That’s right, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, teasing. “Say it nice. Show me you deserve it.”

You’re already panting, thighs trembling as the pressure builds, but you force yourself to meet his gaze, batting your lashes. And then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not sweet. Not gentle. Logan kisses like he fights—rough, unrelenting, a clash of heat and dominance that steals the breath from your lungs. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, a sharp nip that sends a jolt of pleasure straight through you. You whimper against his mouth, but that only makes him bite harder, dragging his teeth along the plush curve before soothing the sting with his tongue.

The taste of copper blooms between you.

A growl rumbles from deep in his chest as he licks into your mouth, tasting the blood, tasting you. He groans when his tongue meets the cool metal of your piercing, rolling against it, sucking your tongue into his mouth like he’s starved for it. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling low in your belly as the kiss deepens into something messy, desperate.

Your lips are swollen, slick, the faintest trace of blood smeared between them as he finally pulls back, panting, his grip on you still tight, still possessive. His thumb brushes against your bottom lip, smearing the crimson before he shoves his thumb past your lips, pressing down on your tongue.

“Look at you,”

“Please, Daddy,” you breathe, voice dripping with sweet desperation. “Please fuck me. Want you so bad—”

Your words cut off in a gasp when he pulls his fingers out, leaving you empty, aching.

Logan brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, groaning low in his chest like he’s savoring you.

“Logan… Screw you” you whine, lifting your hips in an attempt to chase the pleasure you crave.

Wrong move.

His palm cracks against your ass, sharp and punishing.

“No,” he commands. “Stay still.”

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

The sound of his belt unbuckling makes your breath hitch. That sharp clink of metal, the slow drag of leather through the loops—it’s enough to have you clenching around nothing.

Logan knows it too. Knows exactly what that does to you.

He smirks, cigar between his teeth, letting his belt fall to the floor with a heavy thud. Then his hands go to his jeans, flicking the button open, dragging the zipper down slow—making you watch, making you wait.

You whimper, shifting under him, body already arching in silent desperation.

“Always so impatient,” he mutters, kicking his jeans off, watching you with those dark, heated eyes. “You know how this goes, sugar.”

Yeah. You do.

Because this isn’t the first time you’ve begged him like this, all messy and desperate, no teasing, no buildup—just pure, aching need.

And Logan’s never been the type to deny you.

You barely get the chance to breathe before he’s gripping your thighs, spreading you open, fitting himself between them.

No warning. No preparation. Just the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your slick, dripping entrance, pushing in deep.

You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, thighs trembling at the stretch.

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

You don’t remember exactly how it happened—how a night of harmless flirting turned into something permanent.

But somewhere between the stolen kisses in the dark and the way he fucked you, Logan decided you were his.

And you loved that.

You loved being spoiled.

Liked being taken care of.

Loved the feeling of his rough hands on your soft skin, the contrast of his calloused fingers slipping expensive jewelry onto you like you were some pretty little doll for him to dress up.

He made sure you had everything.

“You wanna act like a spoiled little thing—” he had rasped once, pinning you against the wall, cigar dangling from his lips.

You had just giggled, chewing your bubblegum, watching his eyes darken when your lips pouted around the pink sweetness.

“I am spoiled, daddy.”

Logan had exhaled, thick smoke curling around you both as he dragged his mouth up your neck, biting at your jaw, his voice a low growl—

“Yeah? Then I better make sure y’know who spoils ya.”

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Now, with your legs wrapped around his waist, his dog tags bouncing between your tits, his teeth sinking into your neck.

You know.

It burns—God, it burns—but you don’t care. You love it. Love how rough he is, how he takes you, he owns you.

“Fuck,” Logan growls, head dropping to your shoulder, voice thick with need. “So goddamn tight Cotton Candy —”

You whimper, legs wrapping around him, heels digging into his back. “Daddy, please—”

That’s all it takes.

With a low, ragged growl, Logan pulls back—just enough to slam back in, burying himself to the hilt.

Your back arches off the bed, lips parting in a soundless gasp.

He sets a brutal pace, fast and deep, no softness, no hesitation—just pure, unrelenting need.

Each thrust punches the air from your lungs, leaves you gasping, whining, begging.

“Fuckin’ ruined for me,” Logan growls, voice thick with possession. “Ain’t no man ever gonna fuck you like this, baby. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod frantically, babbling out a breathless, “Yes, Daddy—only you, only you—”

Logan grunts in approval, pace punishing now, skin slapping against skin. The bed creaks beneath you, the headboard knocking against the wall, but you don’t care.

All you care about is him. His hands gripping your hips, his breath hot against

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Logan shifts, gripping your hips, pulling you up until your legs wrap tight around his waist. The new angle makes you see stars ..★ ..★ —his cock pressing impossibly deep, stretching you wide, claiming every inch of you.

Your lingerie—what’s left of it—is already slipping off your shoulders, straps hanging loose, fabric bunched up around your ribs. Logan’s fingers roam up your torso, curling around the delicate lace, and with one sharp tug—

Riiip.

You gasp, eyes wide, body jerking from the sudden tear of fabric against your skin.

“Logan!” you gasp, half-scolding, half-turned on.

He just smirks, watching the shredded lace fall from your body, leaving you completely bare. His voice is rough, teasing as his thumbs skim your nipples. Click—the dog tags hanging between your tits clink together.

“I’ll buy you another one, Cotton Candy,” he murmurs, like it’s nothing. Like he’ll buy you a thousand more just to tear them off again.

Your head falls back against the pillows, shivering as his hands roam, feeling every inch of you like he owns it.

And he does.

Logan leans down, chest pressing flush against yours, his cock hitting deeper—making you gasp. His shirt’s still on, fabric rough against your bare skin, but it doesn’t last long.

One-handed, he tugs it over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him.

God, he’s huge.

Thick and broad, every inch of him veined and solid, muscles shifting beneath his scarred skin as he moves. The happy trail leads down to where he’s buried inside you, disappearing between your trembling thighs.

The cigar still hangs lazily from his lips, the ember burning low. A slow curl of smoke wafts up toward the ceiling.

Logan smirks down at you, rolling his hips slow, grinding against you—making you feel every inch of him.

“Needa fill ya to the brim, bub where you're already sweet and ready for me, is where my cock goes—where my dick belongs." he rasps, voice heavy with lust.

“Oh god…” You gasped, eyes wide, looking down at the way his cock was bulged inside of you.

Your lips part, a shuddering whimper slipping past. “Mm… Lo”

His smirk widens, hand sliding down to grip your throat, thumb brushing your jaw.

“Yeah, sugar,” he mutters, leaning in, breath hot against your lips. “Real deep. Make sure ya feel me all fuckin’ night.”

His mouth crashes against yours, the kiss sloppy, rough, all teeth.

His canines graze your lip before he bites, sharp and deep—just enough to sting, to bruise.

You whimper, fingers tangling in his thick hair, nails scraping against his scalp.

He groans at that, hips snapping forward, cock slamming into you so hard your back arches off the bed.

“That’s my fuckin’ girl,” he growls, licking the blood from your swollen lip.

Then he grabs your hips and fucks you stupid.

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

Your brain turns fuzzy, all soft and sweet, floating somewhere between pleasure and delirium.

Logan’s weight keeps you pinned, his body hot, muscles flexing, his hips slamming into you over and over until all you can do is take it.

His cock stretches you impossibly wide, dragging along that sensitive spot inside you with every brutal thrust. Your nails claw at his back, but you’re weak, barely able to hold onto him as your body trembles beneath him.

“D-Daddy—mm—s’too much…” Your voice is all breathy, slurred, almost drunk on him.

Logan just chuckles, that low, gravelly sound rolling through his chest. His cigar’s long gone now—probably crushed somewhere on the nightstand.

“Aww, what’s wrong, baby ?” he drawls, licking up the side of your throat. “My dumb lil’ candy can’t take it?”

Your head lolls back against the pillows, eyes glassy, lips parted. Every thrust punches another little whimper out of you, soft and broken, your thighs trembling around his waist.

He smirks at the way you’re gibbering now, no real words left—just babbling, whining, fists clenching and unclenching against his shoulders.

“C’mon, bubs,” he grunts, voice thick. “One more. Give me one more, yeah?”

You sob, shaking your head, but your body betrays you—your walls fluttering around him, sucking him deeper.

“Fuck—there ya go,” Logan groans, his rhythm stuttering, movements getting erratic. He’s close—real close.

His grip tightens on your hips, his pace turning sloppy, grinding deep until—

He pulls out at the last second, thick ropes of cum spilling across your chest, dripping down your belly.

You gasp, body twitching, still lost in the aftershocks.

Logan groans low in his throat, watching the mess he made, his fingers tracing through the pearly streaks painting your soft skin.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, half outta breath, voice wrecked.

You blink up at him, all fuzzy, pretty, lips swollen from his kisses, breath coming in little gasps.

Logan smirks, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

“Y’look real good like this, baby,”

─── ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ───

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ponderingmoonlight · 2 days ago

Text

jjk men cheering you up

Pairings: gojo x fem!reader; geto x fem!reader; choso x fem!reader; sukuna x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Warnings: this is my first fic in months so I hope you enjoy. Will post more from now on🫶

Gojo Satoru

Gojo knows something is off the moment he sees you. Your usual spark is dimmer, and even though you try to play it off, with that stern expression and eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he isn’t buying it.

So, naturally, he decides to fix it the best way he knows how - by being an absolute menace.

“Helloooo, earth to my favorite person!”

He dramatically waves a hand in front of your face, leaning in way too close for your liking. Honestly, this is the last thing you need today after getting shat on by literally everyone crossing your path. Why does everything have to go wrong. And more specifically, why are you always involved?

His sunglasses are perched on his head, letting those ridiculous blue eyes stare right through your soul.

You sigh.

“Gojo-”

“Bzzzt! Wrong answer. It’s Satoru, your beloved, devastatingly handsome best friend-slash-mentor-slash-personal-jester-slash-lover? I don’t know about that last part, we didn’t get specific on that.”

He pokes your cheek, grinning.

“Now tell me what’s wrong, or I’m gonna start listing my best qualities. Out loud. In public.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile forming. How does he do this? It’s like all the frustration leaves you bit by bit the second this jerk starts talking. What were you even mad about in the first place? He gasps.

“Was that a smile?! Oh, I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

Before you can protest, he grabs your wrist and teleports you to a café downtown. The next thing you know, he’s ordering every single dessert on the menu, grinning like a proud child while you stare at him like an idiot.

“Nothing a little sugar can’t fix,” he comments, plopping down across from you.

“And if it doesn’t work, don’t worry - I’ll just have to be even more annoying until you laugh for real. Or we can take this to my bed-”

“Can you just stop?”, you interrupt him immediately, cheeks turning bright pink.

You shake your head, but as he starts dramatically fake-crying about his "invisible pain," you find yourself laughing anyway.

What a jerk. And yet, what a blessing.

Geto Suguru

Geto doesn’t say anything when he notices your exhaustion. Sure the elders took out their anger and frustration on you again and sent you through the country hunting day and night for curses. You don’t deserve to go through this. Not you, one of the kindest people he knows. He simply sits beside you, offering his presence instead of demanding explanations while all you’re able to do is staring in the distance.

All that horror, that restless night…When is this going to end? When will you have a life again?

After a while, he quietly lifts up his voice.

“Want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, and he doesn’t push. Suguru never does. Instead, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear while gently allowing his arm to rest over your exhausted shoulders. It’s like he’s your savior, your ambrosia after every stressful mission.

“Alright,” he says.

“Then how about a walk? Fresh air might help.”

You agree, and soon you’re strolling through a quiet park, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow. Geto is calm, steady - he doesn’t try to force conversation, just lets the silence sit comfortably between you both while his hand gently holds onto yours.

When you sigh, he finally speaks.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know.”

His voice is soft, understanding, his touch so reassuring that you feel like bursting out in tears any moment.

“I’ll listen whenever you’re ready.”

The sincerity in his eyes almost undoes you, but you manage a nod. Geto doesn’t need you to thank him. He simply reaches out, squeezing your shoulder gently before letting go.

“Wait”, you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

“What is it, (y/n)?”

“Can you…can you maybe just…hold me?”, you mutter.

Suddenly you feel out of place. What are you even doing here next to that guy all your friends crush over? Did you really just ask him to hug you?

“I mean I-“

“I’d honestly love to”, he replies before you’re able to explain yourself.

The next second, you find yourself devoured between his arms, lost in his immaterial touch, his arms light as a feather and yet so demanding against your skin that you feel whole again.

For the first time in months, you find yourself relaxing. Not in a bath, not in a sauna, but in the arms of a man you learned to love more than any obstacle could ever hurt you.

Choso

Choso notices the way you drag your feet, the way your shoulders slump. His instincts scream at him to fix it, but he isn’t sure how. To be honest, he still isn’t good at reading human emotions. Yuji told him a few things here and there, but what if you feel uncomfortable by him talking to you? What if you get mad, scream at him? His chest tightens the way he hates it most.

But he has to do something. There’s no way he’ll allow you to potentially feel bad.

So he does the only thing he knows - he stays close.

You’re curled up on the couch when he silently walks over, placing a blanket over your shoulders. When you glance up at him, he merely nods, sitting down beside you. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence is solid, grounding.

To be honest, you’re on the brink of crying. It feels like the whole world is against you with everyone screaming, lying and ditching on you. When will this finally stop? Will you ever be happy again? This life just feels like a nightmare you can’t wake up from, I grave you cannot escape.

After a moment, he shifts.

“You should rest,” he murmurs.

“I’ll stay here.”

There’s something so simple, so unwavering about his words that the tightness in your chest loosens just a little. You lean against him without thinking, and when he doesn’t move away, you let yourself relax.

He smells surprisingly good for the old man he is, his body soft and yet hard against your touch. Without thinking twice, you lower you head to his chest and start screaming, crying, bawling your eyes out.

“You don’t have to hide from me”, he simply comments, his hand caressing your hair and making sure it doesn’t stick to your soaked face.

“I’ll always be here. And I’ll kill everyone who makes you feel this way.”

You can’t help but chuckle while wiping your nose in the most unladylike manner.

“You being here is more than enough.”

Sukuna

Sukuna scoffs when he sees you sulking, immediately springing up from his throne.

“Tch. What’s with that pathetic face?”

You glare at him. Honestly, he’s the last thing you need right now. Not when your life is falling apart already, not when you have 99 problems to deal with – him not included.

“Thanks, asshole. That really helps.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

“What, you expect me to coddle you? Please.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. No, you can’t take this right now. This isn’t the time for Sukuna’s shit talk.

“Then leave me alone.”

But he doesn’t. Oh, he never does.

Instead, he clicks his tongue and suddenly pulls you into his lap, making you yelp. His clawed hand rests lazily against your head, almost like… like he’s patting you?

“You’re annoying when you mope,” he grumbles, but his fingers brush against your scalp in slow, careful strokes.

“So stop it already.”

You blink, stunned.

“Are you…are you comforting me?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue.

“Shut up before I change my mind.”

You can’t help it. You laugh despite feeling like shit, and his scowl deepens. But he doesn’t shove you away, doesn’t stop his absentminded gestures of comfort.

Maybe he won’t say it outright, but you get the message.

Even the King of Curses doesn’t like seeing you sad.

Tags:

@arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld

@hellkaiserinphoenix @lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen

@magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut

@mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0

@ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwife

@coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain

@risuola @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny

@ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr

@sugu-love @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world

@oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @kentocalls @cheesemachine44

@ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299

@okay-it-is-ivy @paridoliaaa @cupcaketeddybehr

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ilium-ilia · 5 hours ago

Text

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter One: everything that concerns you is pure prodigality.

tw: western!au, religious abuse, domestic abuse, antiquated punishments, reader is christian, wound cleaning, blood

He has you kneeling on rice again.

Unforgiving grains burrow deep into your skin as their wickedly sharp ends pierce straight through your knees. Eyes trained on the scuffed wooden floor below you, you do not look at your father. Leather boots skirt your vision as he paces beside you, slow and with consideration. You swallow and the aftertaste of that morning’s communion dances on your tongue. Sweet wine pairs oddly with your father’s brutality, but it is the only flavor you’ve ever known.

Bloodied fingers coil around the back of the pew in front of you as he raps your knuckles with a wooden stick no larger than the circumference of his thumb. Searing pain cuts through you with the consideration of an untrained blade, but you are good at willing your tears away. He reminds you that this is your fault, and that this is a terrible waste. A waste of time, a waste of food—everything that concerns you is pure prodigality. Gluttony in its most concentrated form. You can consume nothing—not resource nor time—without it being a sin.

Crack!

“Again,” he demands.

Biting back the acrimony boiling in the depths of your throat, you shift. Rice scatters, bouncing along the floor as it spreads, and you grimace. There is only the slightest amount of comfort to be found in your movement, but it is met by swift punishment. You are not supposed to find solace while in the midst of one of your father’s demanding lessons.

Crack!

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from His hands-”

Crack!

“Wrong. Again,” he demands.

Your mind reels as it attempts to recall the sermon your father gave that morning. His words spoken with utmost faith, the ones you are always made to recall as a lesson at the end of each morning, and yet you can’t. It’s patchy. Like the frayed ends of poorly woven textiles. No matter how often you blink, it won’t fix itself. You can only stumble and pray you pull on the right string to unravel it all.

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him with it,” you attempt.

Once more, you are punished. It’s difficult to hold back the tears now as the skin on your knuckles parts like dried clay in a forgotten riverbed. They’re wide, deep crevices. Broken skin is good. It serves a purpose. It allows you to soak up your father’s lessons directly from the source.

“Do you not listen at all? Does your mind wander during my sermons? What better things do you have to think about than His word? Again,” he demands.

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him on the head with it.”

There is a gentle lull that succeeds your recitation. Anxious pacing ceases as your father stares down at your kneeling form, gaze burning into the back of your head. When he hums, content with your answer, you feel every muscle in your body melt. Proud, you look up at him, ready to revel in accolades, but his lips are pressed firmly together. It is the only way he is able to restrain the acidulous words he would otherwise spew at you.

“Good,” he mutters, though it is flat. There is no pride to be found anywhere within him.

He strikes the stick against your knuckles five more times on each hand. With each impact, he reminds you this is for your own good. This is what a loving father does—a man of God—he teaches his daughter right from wrong.

As usual, you are made to clean up the mess that remains after your lesson. Rice is swept up by broom and stowed away into the pockets of your apron like treasured pebbles found on a walk, and what little blood that remains on the pew is wiped clean. Your hands ache. They pulse and throb, and the apex of your knuckles sting as if you’ve rubbed salt in the broken skin. You might as well have done as much with the brine that seeps into the wounds each time you rub at your eyes.

When all is clean, and your transgressions are swept aside, momentarily forgotten, you pray. Your father always says forgiveness is God’s duty. God is the quintessence of love and mercy while your father has proved many times he is not. A devout worshiper and priest, his love and respect is saved for his savior—never his daughter. So you kneel in the pews and bow your head before the cross strung up on the wall above you, and you beg. You apologize for the simple sin of your existence. You pray that God might bless you with the tools to be a better daughter.

Amen.

You rise. The church is stilly, and you are alone. You are left to ruminate about your failures in this divine building until it is spotless. There is always more cleaning to be done. Breadcrumbs left from communion, wine that stains the wooden floors nearly as bad as your own blood does, muck from work boots; you are on your hands and knees more often than your own two feet. Perpetually in prayer. Reciting scriptures. Cleaning this house of God until not a speck of sin remains.

When you are finished with your duties at the church, your father sends you into town to fetch wine. It’s foolish of you to believe he would allow you to sit at the dining table with him and partake in lunch. To enjoy a mouthwatering meal of boiled potatoes and ham. He always sends you out when you look like this—disheveled from cleaning and still trying to stunt the bleeding of your hands. It’s the acme of his lesson: ignominy. Shame digs in deeper, settles in nicer, when there’s an audience to witness it.

Mr. Beckett’s chickens are roaming the town again. You notice a few stragglers as you come to the end of the path that slowly morphs into the main road. Colorful hens cluck and bob their heads as you weave between them. They feast on small beetles with iridescent exoskeletons that flutter and click between sparse strands of grass, but when they take note of you, they stare expectantly. You try not to wince as your knuckles scrape against the fabric of your apron, hands diving into your pockets to retrieve uncooked rice. They flock as you toss the grains on the ground for them to peck and gorge themselves, putting your punishment to good use.

Sheep bleat at you just as you turn the corner into town. The flock has grown steady this spring with several new additions of playful lambs that trot after their mothers. They curiously line the fence as you pass by, and cry pitifully as your figure grows smaller in the distance. Townsfolk flutter in and out of steady wood buildings with their pockets full of money, both earned and spent. Your own fingers brush against the cash your father gave you for your task—you keep in mind his words of warning:

I’ll be counting that change when you return, girl.

The saloon isn’t busy this early in the afternoon, yet Mr. Beckett is perched at his bar wiping down glistening glasses. Empty tables adorn scratched wooden floors, and the tops are sparkling clean. The summer sun seeps through cracked windows, though the building still seems darker than it should be. A group of four men lurk in the far corner of the bar, each talking lowly and looking at you with shifting eyes, yet you avert your gaze as you approach the bar.

“Afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” you greet. You muster your best smile as you wipe a hand beneath your eyes, worried tear stains are still visible on your cheeks. “Your chickens are out again.”

Chuckling, Mr. Beckett pushes the empty glasses to the side to give you his full attention. Wrinkles settle in his face as crows feet wink by his eyes, and they only deepen as he smiles at you. There’s a cheeky twinkle that lurks in his grey eyes, and a rosy color that fills his cheeks.

“I’m sure that broke your heart having to see those critters running amuck along the trail,” he teases. “What can I do for you, kid?”

“My father sent me to get some wine for next week’s service,” you say.

“Ah, I should’ve known. Three?” he asks.

“Yes, please.”

Mr. Beckett holds up a finger as if to tell you to stay put before he wanders off to fetch your order. Sighing, you look down at your knuckles while you wait. They’ve stopped bleeding, but the blood crusts on your skin like boulders on a mountain. Your father didn’t even give you time to clean the scabs from your hands before sending you off to do his bidding. It’s almost as much of an eyesore as it is a literal sore.

But—as it is with all wounds—your blood seems to have attracted the dogs.

Their gazes burn your flesh, and you are suddenly well aware of the men at your back. You had done your best to ignore them upon your arrival, but curiosity gnaws at you with dull, aching teeth. Casting a cautious glance over your shoulder, you soak up swift looks at each of the men. You catch sight of a masked man too large for his own good, a handsome fellow with deep brown skin and kind eyes, a stranger with an even stranger haircut, and a man with a low sitting hat. The brim nearly covers his eyes, but you’re still able to catch the blaze of his cobalt gaze as he stares at you.

You shiver.

“Alright, here we are,” Mr. Beckett hums as he returns behind the bar. Glad to have someone else to focus on, you find a smile on your face as he begins to unload the bottles in his arms onto the counter. “Three bottles of red wine. Should be plenty for everyone, I hope.”

“I appreciate it, Mr. Beckett,” you chuckle. When digging into your apron pocket, you can’t help but wince as your knuckles once again scrape against the unyielding fabric. You play it off with a cough as you present the cash to him. “This ought to be enough.”

At the same time as he grabs the cash with one hand, Mr. Beckett grabs your wrist with the other. Gently, he turns your palm over until your knuckles are on display beneath the oil lamp that sits just above your head. Pressing your lips together, you keep your eyes on the bartop, too ashamed to witness the results of your own stupidity.

“Why don’t you grab a seat, kid,” he insists.

There’s no use in arguing; you’re well aware that he won’t give you your change until you let him clean you up. Sighing, you hop onto the stool and lay your palms flat on the counter while Mr. Beckett retrieves his strongest moonshine. He pours a bit of it onto a rag before pressing it into your cracked skin where it soaks deep like thirsty soil. Your squeak echoes in the near empty room, and you feel your face heat as you attempt to keep your head down.

“Why’d he do it this time?” he asks.

“It was my fault,” you insist.

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” Mr. Beckett retorts.

You swallow as he wipes the rag along your skin before moving to the next knuckle. “I couldn’t quote his sermon today. I should’ve paid better attention.”

“Perhaps your father should have more grace. He ought to marry you off already. I reckon you’d find more peace with a husband than you would with him.”

Things grow quiet between you and Mr. Becket just as the muttering grows louder behind you. Those men—those strangers—make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Still, you are grateful for their presence, as they give you something else to talk about than your unfortunate life as an eternal servant to your father.

“Mr. Beckett, can I ask about the gentlemen behind me?” you whisper.

He politely drops one hand in order to move to the next, but his eyes stray to strangers at your back. “Travelers. Blew into town a day or two ago. They’ve been doing odd jobs to scrounge up some money, but they’re nothing but trouble, if you ask me.”

“What makes you say that?” you ask, voice cracking as he starts cleaning your other hand.

Sighing, Mr. Beckett keeps his tongue between his teeth for a moment as he weighs his options. Eyes turning back to your hands, he pauses as he inspects the blood crusting on the rag.

“That fellow in the mask… I’ve heard of him. Ghost stories ‘bout him anyway. They all have strange accents. From across the pond, or so they say. They’ve all got this uncanny look in their eyes and… well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they’re the 141 Gang. At least, that fellow in the back looks like the man wanted from Blackpeak.”

This name—141—drops from Mr. Beckett’s lips like it’s supposed to mean something to you, and yet it doesn’t ring a bell. Eyes narrowing, you tilt your head at him.

“I’m not familiar,” you admit.

“Dangerous people. Robbers. Murderers. They might greet you with a smile, but just look at how sharp their teeth are, kid. Nothing but wild animals ready to rip out throats for a bounty or good pay. Surprised they’re not wanted by half of The West by this point. They make people disappear, then vanish just as quickly. I’m just hopin’ if I keep my head down long enough, they’ll skip town before they cause any trouble.”

Neither of you speak as the rest of your knuckles are cleared of debris and coagulated scabs. You are often plagued with the human affliction of having your heart stuck in your throat, but now you know your feelings aren’t unfounded. That tingle in your skin, the heat boiling at the nape of your neck—you wonder if these men even bother to wash the blood from their clothes before pretending to be human. Do they shed their wolf-teeth before attempting to blend into the flock?

Once Mr. Beckett is content with the dismal state of your hands, he finally gives you your change. You quickly stow it away in your apron pocket before you turn to the several bottles of wine waiting for you on the bartop. You gather them in your arms before you slide off of the stool, eager to get home and well away from this 141 Gang. Yet just as your feet hit the ground, the fabric of your skirt catches on the wood stool, and suddenly your seat comes toppling to the floor with a deafening thud.

Shame boils deep in your chest where it superheats your blood until your entire body is sweltering. You look up from the mess you’ve made with parted lips, yet no words come out. Your chest heaves as you stare up at Mr. Beckett with wide eyes, yet he only looks at you with benignancy.

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean- It just caught-” you stutter.

“It’s alright, kid,” he interjects.

Silence envelops you so suddenly that you’re painfully aware of how many sets of eyes are on you. Dark gazes glint in the numbra that lurks in the corner of the saloon. The men look over their shoulders and from beneath the brims of their hats to soak up the view of you—a trembling, pathetic thing that’s about to drop the wine from her hands.

“I’ll clean it up, don’t you worry about it,” Mr. Beckett assures as he rounds the corner of the bartop, waving you off. “Now, you best be on your way. Shouldn’t keep your daddy waiting.”

Turning around feels like opening a healing wound—it burns and leaves you trembling as you mutter a farewell and stumble out the door. You keep the wine in your arms clutched to your chest with wounded hands as you rush back home. Sheep bleat and chickens cluck, yet their whining cannot drown out the sound of your heart. That booming thunder as blood gushes through your veins; it still boils. Vermillion waves of unrelenting shame and fear.

Even on the edge of town you can still feel it—the gaze of those wolves. You pray to God that they leave your sleepy livestock town alone.

Then again, God has never been merciful in answering your prayers.

#ilium writing #jp ilia #dwsu #john price x reader #price x reader #captain price x reader #female reader

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mangostarjam · 3 hours ago

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HIII MAO sorry this is getting tossed into queue so i'm not sure when it'll pop out but i am SO PUMPED to read it!! feel free to ignore this bc i will be. live blogging. stream of consciousness style. asdfjkl as is my way

buckle up @ myself bc we are in for a RIDE

gonna call reader "reader" so it doesn't get confusing when i say "you" as in "you, mao, the author" LOL okay so the e.e. ... KNOWS. what love looks like?? ough. ok my heart. it's been a while since i read these chapters and honestly i was probably reading the manga too quickly anyway bc it was soooo good. killing me that the e.e. sees people pressing their lips together and ASDLKFJS THE SHITTY WORM HAHA

ohhhhhhh and reader kisses him!!! makes me feel something crazy that reader has to explain things to the e.e. OH JIJI LOCKER ROOM SEX AAAAAAAH yes right good nice. i. love. that the e.e. demands sex. LMAO. i mean he doesn't get it but i love that reader "gives in" to his "demand".

sakljdfgjalf the e.e. thinking that hanging yourselves together is what marriage is. ough. poor ... entity. YOU NEED TO BE VENGEFUL TO HOLD ONTO ANYTHING !!! oh my GOD the distinction between what he thinks sex is — possession — versus what making love is with jiji — because reader glows — but with the e.e. reader is ... bruised and panting. i'm gonna punch a wall. shaking the e.e. by the shoulders (i would not do that he would kill me) but BUDDY MY GUY MY DUDE PLEASEEEEE.

oh jiji pov. ASLDKFJALKJ shit for brains oh sorry i am cackling. OKARUN CALLING READER WIFEY HAHAHAHA this is so funny you captured jiji's voice SO well augh. and then the sharp twist of the trauma he's been carrying?? i am slow clapping this is so good. "but why would jiji ever turn down so much collective joy?" brb i need to SOB. JIJI I LOVE YOU

asldkjflkgjkl turbo granny coming down with the hammer of logic. i love the in depth discussions here and the GHOST MARRIAGES!!! hell yeah give us that cultural insight i love this so much.

the fact that the e.e. agrees to let you come to the house only bc okarun is also there and could stop him is doing something funny to me. like. there is trust there (though idk if the e.e. realizes/recognizes that). plus he doesn't want to kill reader!! if that's not love, i dunno what is LOL

okarun whipped for momo confirmed !!

"FOR YOUR FUTURE WIFEY" HAHAHA

the repetition of "doesn't anyone love me enough to save me" is giving me chills forreal

and then the nuance of. the e.e. worrying for you. and attributing that to jiji. oof. oh hold on i need to wipe some tears from my eyes that was so heartwrenchingly tender. reader cradling his bones and carrying him out of the House??? [distant wailing]

CEREMONY TIMEEEE okay now i'm crying for a different reason i can't believe serpo is there asdkjfsdklafg man the pacing and the way you have breaks in the writing is so well done

OH FUCK YOU (said despairingly but with affection i promise)

ohhhhh my god i cannot believe this. reader having the. the "does anyone love me enough to save me" thoughts AND THEN THE REVEAL that reader REPEATS JIJI'S WORDS TO THE E.E.

PLEAAAAASEEEE oh my god i can never share my writing ever again it will never be this good (i will get over myself don't worry this happens to me all the time) sorry i am just typing stream of consciousness i need a minute. this hit me so hard i need to step away lmaoooo

okay i'm back

okay no the phrase "spending so long chasing golden balls and bananas" made me snort and choke on my tea i need to find a napkin

okay back again. i love the details of the wedding. the banquet in the back and the incense and the coffin. the repetition of "something has gone terribly wrong" is killing me the anticipation the build up whoa

ohhhhhhhhhhhh. oh he's greedy. oh but he loves reader so much.

okay i need to get up. i need to pace my house. what the fuck. oh that whole conversation was so. whoa. ouch. yeah. "to be honest, being cursed by you isn't nearly as frightening as being loved by jiji". mao you've ripped my heart into pieces i am. in awe. the... the distinction between the e.e. and jiji. the different ways they all love each other. the pain of being rejected but the understanding and the. the way that the e.e. expects reader to react. also the e.e.'s denial by attributing actions to the Vessel lmao.

ohhhh reader saw his true face at the altar and vowed to love him anyway oh my GOD MY HEART I'M GONNA CRY I HOPE THEY FIND SO MUCH LOVE TOGETHER

or not they can be cursed together too that works

THE E.E. CREAMPIES WE STAY WINNING

oh nice back to jiji i love him so much. this is beautiful i need a tissue. reader tells jiji that she's cursing him too??? my god. does the e.e. know that reader loves him?? the way you ended this i'm sobbing fuck. i know it's like. freaky ghost sex fic but you made it so heartbreaking heart ACHING the way they all love each other and accept each other and GET each other. i keep thinking about how reader repeats jiji's words while carrying the e.e.'s bones out of the House. fuck. and the way reader ASKS the e.e. to curse her. because that is how they understand love. and how reader LOVES JIJI !!! the way his heart feels lighter because she comforts him TOO even while she's interacting with the e.e. and jiji also having that side to him of just. loving so hard he wants reader to himself and is secretly glad for the curse. IT'S ALL ABOUT LOVE. IT ALWAYS HAS BEEN.

oh author notes okay but i think the e.e.'s voice feeling a little awkward works for him though?? it's not like HE knows any better lmao. or like. even though they're all aged up, it's not like the e.e. developed mentally at the same rate! so i think it worked! ooooh i cannot WAIT for jiji companion fic dfsaklfgjfklsdjf also not your best writing?? well i loved it!! not everything needs to be "the best" though i know this is subjective! thank you so much for sharing it with us !!!!!! i had such a blast reading it i feel like i've gone through the full spectrum of emotions i feel like wrung out but in such a good way thank you!!

FUNERAL MARCH | evil eye x fem!reader x jiji

The Evil Eye doesn't love you. It's not in his nature as a demon, and he's not sure that it was in his nature as a human either. He wasn't loved and couldn’t love, and that's why he was given to the Tsuchinoko. But he likes to possess you nevertheless, and he often thinks about cursing you so that you’re bound to him. It would be the only way to keep you, because you probably don't love him, either—no human would embrace such a horrid and ugly existence. You just love the Vessel he inhabits. (Or: You and Jiji are now engaged. Of course, you have to ask the Evil Eye to marry you too.)

10.8k words. romance, smut, mild angst & comedy. rough sex with the Evil Eye (piv, creampie, overstimulation, bizarre magic, cnc elements in the “nooo it's too much” kind of way, dubcon with the magic). content warnings: aged up characterization, implied past sexual abuse (not involving Jiji or Evil Eye), brief mentions of suicidality, religious references (Taoist ghost marriage), use of English idioms that don't translate well into Japanese (forgive me), canon-typical crass humour. mdni.

I. THE GHOST

You’re in love with his Vessel.

The Evil Eye is well-aware of this. He hadn't known love as a human, but he saw it often enough in the House. Countless families moved in over the years, husbands and wives with little children who were frightened when he tried to play with them. After photography was invented, pictures lined the walls and decorated nightstands. They immortalized brides in their white kimono, grooms with their wide smiles, elegant ceremonies, decadent banquets.

The couples always looked like they were having so much fun, the Evil Eye noticed. Not just in the photos, but in their daily lives in the House—dancing with each other, pressing their lips together, laughing and singing and holding each other. Then they'd die together, hanging themselves because of that shitty worm. The Evil Eye always felt a kind of sadness seeing them in love—he’d never had that, and he'd never get it, and it was unfair in a way that filled him with a searing rage.

But he was even angrier when they died.

It used to make him angry too, when you talked about the Vessel. When he took over and he caught you laughing at something the Vessel had said, or dancing with him, or pressing your lips together. (Kissing, you’d told him the first time it happened. It's called kissing someone, when you do that.)

Then you started kissing the Evil Eye too, and suddenly he wasn't so angry anymore—the latent rage in him for once eased.

Still, it makes him feel sullen when you tell him, “Jiji and I want to get married.”

You are lying next to him in bed. Sweat is cooling on your naked body—you always get so hot when you and the Vessel get into bed with each other, or sometimes when he’s got you bent over the dining room table, or occasionally when you touch each other in that place you call the ‘locker room’, which tends to leave you extra breathless. No matter the place or the time, you’re always lighthearted, glowing, satisfied. It's the effect that the Vessel has when he’s inside you.

(Sex, you told the Evil Eye once, it's called having sex. Or making love. Not all sex is making love, but it's making love the way that Jiji and I do it. And then the Evil Eye demanded that you show him what exactly that meant, and that's when you took him inside you for the first time. He felt so good and so close with you that for a while, it was all he wanted to do.

Wants to do.)

“What does that mean,” the Evil Eye asks, although he has a good idea. You want to live in a House with the Vessel and laugh and sing and hold each other. You want to die together too, probably, your corpses hanging side-by-side from the same bannister.

“It means we’re going to dress up and make vows to spend the rest of our lives together,” you say. “And we’ll live together and build a home and maybe we’ll have babies too.”

The Evil Eye thinks of all those babies who lived in the House, impossibly tiny humans who were cradled by their mothers before they were burned alive as sacrifices. Before he became the Evil Eye—back when he was merely the ghost of a waif—he’d tried to play with them too, making silly faces and dancing as they giggled at him. He liked to pretend that they were his younger sisters or brothers, but sometimes he wondered how it'd feel to hold them and sing to them like their parents did. How it'd feel if he were a husband with a wife and a kid, what it would be like to dance with someone in the kitchen or tuck a child away into its cradle.

But every time he tried to pick the babies up, his hands would pass right through them. Kind-hearted ghosts can't love people in such a physical way; you need to be vengeful to hold onto anything. He'd had to learn to hate all humans before being able to touch them again, and now he's so rife with hatred that he can't love them anyway. All he can do is haunt them.

The Evil Eye doesn't love you. It's not in his nature as a demon, and he's not sure that it was in his nature as a human. He wasn't loved and couldn’t love, and that's why he was given to the Tsuchinoko. But he likes to possess you nevertheless, and he often thinks about cursing you so that you’re bound to him. It would be the only way to keep you, because you probably don't love him, either—no human would embrace such a horrid and ugly existence. You just love the Vessel he inhabits, and that's why he can kiss you and that's why he can hold you and that's why he’s allowed to sex with you (sex, not love—you've never called it making love when you do it with him, and you never look lighthearted after, and you never glow from his touch: he always leaves you panting, marked up, bruised, possessed).

You love the Vessel, so it makes sense that you would want to do all that with him: live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together.

“Oh,” he says. “Sounds fun.”

You laugh. “Yes, I hope it'll be.” Then you lace your fingers with his, and look at him in a tender way that he'll probably never get used to. In a tender way that's meant for the Vessel.

“So, then,” you say almost shyly, “Do you wanna marry me too?”

II. THE VESSEL

Auntie Seiko is as beautiful, young, and no-nonsense as ever. Between meeting her as a child, coming into her care as a teenager, and now seeking her help as an adult, Jiji doesn't think she's ever changed. Most familiar to him right now is the expression that she’s wearing, the one that suggests that he might have shit for brains. Turbo Granny, perched on her shoulder, seems equally bemused, her porcelain cat eyes narrowed into judgemental slits. He'd been hoping that Momo and Okarun would understand his feelings, but they seem equally exasperated—Momo might even be a little appalled.

Anyone else might be disheartened by this reaction, but Jiji is undeterred. These are the people who once realised his wish to protect the Evil Eye; surely, they’ll also realise his wish for him to find happiness.

“—so we talked to him, right? Or my beautiful wifey talked to him, anyway—”

“We're not married yet, Jiji,” you interrupt dryly. “Don’t call me that.”

“—my future beautiful wifey talked to him about getting married, and he said yes! I'm on board. I think they should get a proper ceremony and everything. I know it's a little unconventional since she’ll be marrying me too, but I don't mind sharing, and I'd be willing to work out any legal issues. I'm sure we can find a country where polygamy is allowed.”

“Don’t you think the bigger problem is that he's an evil spirit?!” Momo asks—yells—but Jiji only shrugs.

“Evil or not, don't you think he deserves love and romance just as much as anyone else?”

“No!”

Jiji supposes that he can't blame Momo for her reaction, given how many times the Evil Eye has nearly killed her. Deeming her a lost cause, he turns his gaze on her boyfriend instead, almost puppy-like.

“Don’t you think so, Okarun?”

“Not really,” he admits, and Jiji nearly wilts at the betrayal before he adds, “but I understand where you're coming from. The Evil Eye was like a child when he first possessed you; his greatest wish was to find a friend to play with. Now he's basically a young man who's found his first love and his greatest wish is to be with her… and she, um, happens to be your wifey…”

“Don’t call me that!” you protest, oddly embarrassed, and Jiji resists the urge to squeeze you. You're so cute when you're flustered, it's unbearable. He makes a mental note to tell you this on the way home, though he already does this every day as a rule. When you were both still students, he would say it whenever he walked you home from school; nowadays, he more often says it during long-distance phone calls, or on FaceTime, or occasionally via text if your schedules are that misaligned. But he still makes it a point to remind you everyday, no matter where he is in the world: You're so cute. You're so pretty. You're beautiful, did you know that? I love you.

I love you, he thinks as he watches you. You look bashful right now. “We both want the Evil Eye to find happiness, and I’m pretty sure marriage will make him happy. And, well…” Your gaze drops. “It’d make me pretty happy too.”

Something in Jiji’s chest swells when he sees your expression. It feels mostly sweet, but there's also a painful edge to it. He’s always carried a kind of ache in his ribs ever since the day he caught his parents dangling from the second floor of the House and had to untie the nooses himself. Nowadays, he isn't sure if the pain is from that memory or if it's from the weight of the Evil Eye’s curse. Sometimes it feels like they're one and the same. Often it feels suffocating, like he's drowning and there's nothing he can do to breathe again—not laughing or joking or playing or running.

But you're always there when it’s hard. You're always beside him when he wakes up in the middle of the night to gasp for air, the way he used to when he was haunted as a teenager: It's okay, Jiji, you tell him, voice tender, I'm here for you. You aren't alone. I won't leave you. I won't let anything hurt you. I love you. The nightmares always leave him soaked in cold sweat, so he often switches in these moments, his consciousness displaced by a lonely, crying spirit. He doesn't know what it is you say to the Evil Eye, but when he comes back his heart feels lighter, and from that he knows that you've comforted him too.

The Evil Eye loves you—that much is clear. He loves you as much as Jiji does, probably. In a different way, sure, but just as much in strength.

It follows that nothing would make the Evil Eye happier in this world than getting married to you, Jiji figures. Dead or alive, who wouldn't be elated to marry the love of their life? And Jiji knows it'd make you equally as happy; only an idiot would think that you didn't love the Evil Eye back, and he's no fool. Some people might find it weird that he wants his wife to marry another man—and an evil spirit, at that—and maybe they're right for that. But why would Jiji ever turn down so much collective joy?

So he nods vigorously, giving Momo an intense look. “It'd make us all happy. Trust us!”

Momo gives you both a long, disbelieving stare.

“Well, when you put it that way…” She sighs, resigned. “When’s the wedding?”

“That's what we wanted your help with,” Jiji says, and he gives her grandmother an earnest look. “We want the wedding to be perfect, but we're not really sure how a ceremony would work with a youkai. What dates to choose, what venue to book, who could perform the rites… I mean, could you perform the rites, Ma’am?”

Auntie Seiko frowns. She looks on the verge of admonishing both of you, but Turbo Granny beats her to it: “Idiots. You can't do a Shinto ceremony with the Evil Eye. All three of you will combust into flames.”

“Oh.” Jiji remembers all the aliens and spirits alike that have burned upon attempting to chase them into the shrine grounds. He deflates. “Then… he can't get married?”

You squeeze his hand, and Jiji suspects that it's more for him than yourself. You don't seem nearly so worried.

“Would a Buddhist temple take us?” you ask.

“Doubt it,” Auntie Seiko says around her cigarette. “They’d probably try to exorcise your hubby on the spot—and even if they didn't, no Buddhist priest here would ever stand for tying the spirit of the deceased to a living person. It's how you get hauntings.”

“I don't mind being haunted by the Evil Eye,” you say immediately, and Auntie Seiko snorts.

“I know you don't, but it’s not in our job descriptions to curse people just because they're horny for a ghost.” Momo and Okarun cough loudly, and Jiji feels himself flushing; you cover your face with your hands. “I know a Chinese Taoist who’s done a few ghost marriages, though.”

“They’re okay with cursing people?” you ask, watching her through your fingers. “I mean—not that I mind.”

“Nah—they perform it as a pacification ritual. It would be the safest way to do something like this.” Auntie Seiko studies you closely. “I'm not sure how my acquaintance would react to an evil spirit or to polygamy, but I’ll call him and ask.”

“You're the best, Ma’am!” Jiji bursts, beaming. “We’ll save you an honoured spot in the front row! Turbo Granny too!” Elders should be respected, after all.

Turbo Granny makes a skeptical noise. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, numbnuts. Even if Seiko can find a priest stupid enough to oversee this wedding, there’s something you need that you probably can't find.”

“If we could find Okarun’s balls, I’m sure we can find anything,” you joke, but Granny seems unimpressed, her paws crossed over her chest.

Jiji frowns. “What exactly do we need to get?”

Turbo Granny gives you both an ominous look.

“His bones.”

III. THE CHILD

The Evil Eye hates being in the House.

All the spirits that he carries hate it too, airy things pulsing with rage and sadness and grief so palpable that he can always easily weaponise it. Any good memories that were ever constructed in the House are eclipsed by the hangings, the knife wounds, the suffocation, and also the burnings. Especially the burnings. Especially the white-hot lava washing over him, eating into his flesh—especially his last few days as a twitching, starving, dying thing on a stake; especially being buried, then the House being built atop his remains. Then all the children and babies sacrificed after him, wailing and screaming: unfair this is unfair let me go let me go let me go it hurts it hurts it hurts please stop this please help me Mom Mommy please help me please come back I don't want to die.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

He isn't ordinarily bothered by rage; he was born of it, after all. But he doesn't like feeling so much rage around you. The Evil Eye likes haunting you and will probably someday curse you—both things he once did to the families in this House—but he doesn't want to kill you.

He glances around the basement—the man cursed by Turbo Granny is here, and so is his lover. (Girlfriend, you’d called her. Momo is Okarun’s girlfriend, just like how I'm Jiji’s. You agree to be someone’s girlfriend when you have feelings for them and want to act on them. A-ah—what? Y-yes, I do have feelings for Jiji… Why do you ask?) The dancer and the Shinto priestess aren't here, and neither is the girl with the lizard suit, but they aren't needed.

If he tries to kill you, Okarun alone could probably stop him. This is the only reason that the Evil Eye agreed to let you come in the first place.

“This is so gross,” you whine, completely oblivious. You're knee-deep in the white gunk left by that shitty Tsuchinoko worm. “I can't believe you spent a whole day buried in this stuff, Okarun.”

“It saved me and Turbo Granny,” he replies, pushing his glasses up as he digs through the mess with you. “The lava would have gotten to us otherwise. I think it probably preserved the Evil Eye’s bones too.”

“I hope so…” You turn to the Evil Eye, head tilted. “Are you sure they're here, Jashi?”

Jashi. You say his title like it's name and not a curse. (Jashi, we should go try out this cafe, you'll say, or, Jashi, let’s go check out this show, or, I missed you, Jashi, it's been too long—here, can you feel how much I need you?) Sometimes he wonders if you ever forget that he's a ghost, or if using this Vessel fools you into thinking that he's human. If you lay beneath him in bed thinking that it's technically the Vessel inside you, and not just the monster possessing him.

“I’m a ghost,” he reminds you bluntly, “‘course I know where my remains are. Dunno if they've turned ash, though. Guess you can't marry me if they have.”

“No, we’ll get married,” you say, unbothered. “I'll dig up all the dirt from this shithole and say my vows to that if I have to.”

Okarun gives you a funny look. “How are you gonna get all that dirt out?” he asks.

“I'll make you carry it.”

“Huh? Says who?”

“Says Momo. He’ll help me carry it, right?”

“He will,” Momo affirms, and her boyfriend chokes. She ignores him, scanning the wreckage. “I hope it doesn't come to that, though. Hey, Evil Eye—can’t you be more specific with where we're supposed to dig? Coordinates or a map would be nice.”

“I'm not a fucking radar!”

You give him a pleading look. “Please, Jashi? Can't you try? For your future wifey?”

The Vessel's face gets hot. Its heart does the stupid thing where it jumps when you're around, or when he holds you after the two of you have sex, or when he stares too long at the engagement ring that's usually on your finger (now hanging around your neck on a silver chain, safely away from Tsuchinoko gunk).

“...fine. Gimme a sec.”

He closes the two eyes of the Vessel so that he can focus on his third. Human vision is too bound by shapes and light and figures; it distracts and deceives him. When he can't see your face, it becomes easier to hone in on his resentment. Unfair, his remains whisper to him, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

“There,” he says eventually, pointing at the ground, “it's all there. In one spot. Guess I'm still a skeleton.”

You've got something of a sixth sense—whether it’s an effect of touching the golden ball or coupling so often with a spirit, the Evil Eye can't be sure. However it came about, it seems to tell you that he's right. Your eyes go soft when you rest a hand on the dirt he’s pointed at.

“Momo, Okarun,” you say, “Thank you for your help. I can dig this up myself—you guys can take a break.”

“Huh? No, we’d be happy to…” Okarun starts, but then Momo’s dragging him out by the collar and making him squawk.

“Sure—we’ll wait outside!” she says. “C’mon, Okarun, let's look for Mongolian Death Worm remains—I saw an occult article saying that it has medicinal properties if you make a powder extract from it…”

“You can't take that stuff seriously, Miss Ayase…”

After they leave, you spend the rest of the afternoon digging.

The Evil Eye offers to help, but you are determined to do it yourself. It's okay, Jashi, you say, I’m going to do it. You're going to be my hubby—the Vessel’s heart does the throbbing thing again—so it's only right that I'm the one to unearth you.

He doesn't understand it, but he shrugs anyway. Suit yourself. And he watches as you your fingers dig into the dirt, delicate nails collecting detritus. You don't want to use a shovel, you say, because you're sure that his bones will be fragile and you don't want to damage them. Even when he tells you that his bones are likely ruined in the first place, burned to shit and frail from rot, you don't let up. You just keep digging until you’re picking them out of the dirt.

You roll out a silk cloth, revealing lotuses against a pale backdrop. One by one, you lay his bones atop the pink and ivory thread, and you've found about half of them before he realises that you're reconstructing his skeleton. It's a small, pathetic thing. Help me help me I don't want to die, he can remember himself screaming. It hurts it hurts it hurts please stop. Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

The ghosts of the House begin to wail with rage.

Part of him worries for you—probably the part of him influenced by the Vessel, which is capable of a love that ghosts are not. It knows that you don't deserve his wrath.

“You should leave,” he says, but you shake your head. You take your time as you gather up bones, treating them all delicately as you roll them up in the silk, holding them close to you. As if you aren't in the presence of countless wrathful spirits. As if you are with the Vessel, and not with him.

“You were so small,” you say quietly. “Sometimes I forget that you were a child when you died.”

The Evil Eye stares at you, at the pathetic bundle in your hands. “That was ages ago.”

“But it never stops hurting, doesn't it?” you say, and the walls of the House close in on him. They tell him you're right, that you're a human, that you'll hurt him just like the rest of them, that you need to die too. But you look at him, soft in a way that belongs to the Vessel, tender in a way that the waif-ghost covets, and then the House shudders and goes quiet.

“I’m sorry I didn't help you back then,” you say, and it makes no sense, but he doesn't interrupt you. “I promise I'll make your married life a good one, now that we’re together.”

That's stupid, the Evil Eye thinks of saying, pedantic: I'm already dead. But you rise from the dirt before he can protest, and then you're taking his bones out of the House, cradling him in your arms.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

For the first time since being born, his body is allowed to leave the confines of its prison.

IV. THE BRIDE

The ceremony happens at night.

You spend the whole day readying yourself. Aira helps you get into your dress, admonishing you for the satanic rituals you'll soon perform but giving you her blessing anyway. Momo does your makeup, telling you to ignore Aira. Vamola says that you look lovely in stilted, earnest Japanese. Auntie Seiko helps you with your hair; she asks you, all the while, if you would like to wear a headdress that might protect you from evil, or for her to perform a consecration on your body. Turbo Granny is less roundabout, offering to take the Evil Eye’s banana in advance of your marital rites. Serpo warns you not to let the Evil Eye take your bananas—Why are you even here!? Momo yells at him—and Reiko Kashima says you shouldn't listen to any of them. You need to hold onto your man no matter what, she advises.

She also says you're beautiful, though of course you aren't as beautiful as her.

Beautiful. Are you beautiful? You'll be beautiful when you marry Jiji, because you're certain that his PR agent will want you prettied up by a team of stylists rather than a bunch of goofballs. You will need to look good for the photos, at least as handsome as him, and you don't know if you can manage that. You will need to be poised in front of the five hundred people attending, about which ten are your friends and none of which are your family.

You're already married to Jiji, technically. The two of you had a civil ceremony that only Momo and Okarun attended as witnesses, quick and dirty and secret. But the official ceremony will make it real, and you are terrified of that. You love Jiji beyond comprehension, and you know he loves you back tenfold, but you've never been able to rid yourself of the small voice in your head that tells you that you aren't good enough for him. It's been haunting you ever since the two of you fell in love, and you think maybe even before that. Maybe it started plaguing you when you were young.

When you were a child, you used to ask yourself if anyone would ever love you enough to save you from the things being done to you—the things you were convinced would be irreversible. You had confessed this to Jiji before you had sex with him for the first time. (Making love, he corrected you, I want to make love with you, and it made you feel so shy you nearly kicked him out of your bed.) He'd replied that he did love you enough, and that he would save you as many times as you wanted (I’m sorry I couldn't help you back then, he'd added nonsensically, but now that we’re together, I'll make sure your life is a good one), and you were so happy that you cried.

Sometimes you still cry, thinking about his words. But no matter how many times you replay the memory, no matter how often you tell yourself that Jiji is an honest man, the small voice in your head always warns that he’d lied to you. That your wedding to him will be a lie, too.

You often think about how he would leave you (gently), and why he would leave you (the list is endless). And then you try to imagine life without him—no cheerful kisses peppering your features, no goofy expressions putting you in stitches, no grueling morning runs, no messy kitchen sinks, no you're the cutest girl in the world, you're so beautiful I can't believe I'm dating you, how come you don't believe me when I say that stuff, I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again, I know you can get better I'll help you, I dunno how to talk about this with anyone other than you, sorry I cried that was kinda lame of me, sorry I need to go to Spain, sorry I was away for so long, I got you this merch, I got us tickets to this show, is it my fault you're going to therapy again, can you come with me to Berlin, is everything okay, come with me to the U.S., are you okay, are we okay, I don't want to break up, I love you, I love you so much, marry me, I'm being serious please marry me, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, I promise I won't leave you—

You don't think you could imagine living without Jiji.

Your looming wedding to Jiji terrifies you, but your ghost marriage does not. You feel calm in your dress, certain in your decision. Jashi has never scared you the way that Jiji has, after all. He doesn't frighten you even when the Taoist priest pulls you aside and tells you, “You can still back out of this.”

“Why would I?”

He dabs at his temples with a handkerchief. “This ritual is dangerous with a being like the Evil Eye. Ghost marriages are meant to pacify benign spirits—not vengeful ghosts. I can't guarantee that he will be calmed by this.”

You give him a quizzical look. “If he isn't calmed, then what would happen?”

The priest swallows. “There are three potential outcomes. One—he is pacified completely and moves on to the afterlife.”

This would scare you ordinarily, but you know Jashi well enough to understand that he would never move on. “Okay. What else?”

“Two—he is unaffected, and things remain the same.”

You wait, watching the way his fingers tremble. A wind blows; it carries the scent of burning sandalwood from the wedding altar.

“And?”

“And three—the most likely possibility—he will attach himself to you and curse you.”

“Oh.” The thought should scare you, but you don't think it's fear that’s squeezing your heart. “What would a curse be like?”

“Devastating. You'll never be able to live a normal life, nor will you have a proper afterlife.” The priest shudders at this possibility, which apparently frightens him too much to further describe. “Listen—if the Evil Eye doesn't pass on, you must not complete the marriage. Completing it would make the attachment permanent, and it would realise any curse he places upon you.”

“‘Completing the marriage”?”

“Consummating it.” His face is white. “Sex magic is unspeakably powerful. I don't believe anyone would be able to break a curse that’s born from it—at least not involving such a great yaoguai.”

Anyone else might laugh at his words, but you remain quiet. After spending so long chasing golden balls and bananas, after nearly a decade of fighting off aliens trying to have sex with Momo and Aira, you know that he is telling the truth.

And besides—you know just how permanently a touch can linger (a lifetime, forever, doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?), so you aren't surprised to hear the kind of curse it inflicts.

“Okay,” you say. “I promise I won't let it happen.”

It is only with this vow that the Taoist consents to overseeing the marriage.

The affair is a hodgepodge of Chinese funerary practices and Western weddings—foreign in every respect, but not uncomfortable. Auntie Seiko, clad in red-and-white robes and a golden headdress, walks you down the aisle. Against all her counsel, a white veil sits atop your head and chases after your shoulders. You stop before an altar of offerings and summoning talismans, Taoist spells lit up by the full moon hanged above. Instead of a bridegroom, you are next to a coffin that holds a tiny skeleton. The priest is before you, now possessed by a death god that will call Jashi back to his remains. Supposedly it is a Taoist deity, but its presence feels more extraterrestrial to you than anything spiritual. You will need to ask Serpo about it later.

You study the audience as the priest begins the summoning ritual. Jiji sits in the front row, watching you intently; if all goes well, Jashi will leave his body for the duration of the ceremony, along with all the vengeful ghosts that once resided in the sacrificial house with him. The spirits of the house scare you more than Jashi; you do not know how they will behave once cleaved from his control. There's a banquet for them in the back, a long table with a spread of incense, flowers, rice, and fruit—but you do not know if it will be enough to pacify them.

Your wedding party is equally on edge. As the White Impermanence begins its rituals, Jiji’s body slumps, and everyone else stiffens in their seats. The air grows rife with malevolence. The stars and moon blink out of existence, the world around you grows silent, and a suffocating darkness overtakes the night—almost as if you have been submerged in Empty Space. Tiny cyan flames erupt in the air around the banquet table, their glow eerie in the darkness. They must all be onibi, you guess.

Jashi himself emerges before you, standing over the coffin that holds his bones. You’d expected him to look like the emaciated child that he'd died as, or perhaps the stick-thin monster that used to haunt Jiji—but he takes another form altogether, a formless shadow that your mind can barely comprehend. You're vaguely aware of Turbo Granny covering Momo’s eyes, Okarun transforming, Auntie Seiko readying her bat—but you don't look at any of them. You only stare, as if in a trance, at the single vertical eye that is now peering at you from the darkness.

It is probably strange that you feel so calm. If you were a normal person, you'd probably run from your wedding altar of incense and offerings. Or, actually—if you were a normal person, your mind would be fraying at the edges, gripped by a desire to self-destruct. You would sob and beg the Evil Eye to lift its gaze and let you go and to return to you your life.

But you are not a normal person. The Evil Eye has never really made you feel particularly suicidal, nor have you ever really wanted to beg for your life before it. Your gaze is calm as you recite your vows from memory:

I shall marry this man. No matter what tragedies may arise, I will love this person, respect this person, console this person, help this person—until death, and beyond it. I swear these things before the gods.

When the Evil Eye makes his vows, it is in speech that human ears cannot understand. From the wedding banquet, the spirits of the house cry, their wails cacophonous and wrathful, and suddenly you realise that something has gone terribly wrong. Something has changed with this ghost wedding, and not for the better, but when Seiko rises from her seat, you raise a hand.

Finally, the Evil Eye recedes. The darkness lifts, although the spirits linger. Jiji’s eyes flutter open, immediately anxious and disturbed. You give him a reassuring smile—and the rest of your wedding party, too.

Something has gone terribly wrong. Still, you go about your business cheerfully. You thank the Taoist priest, and you insist to him that you will clean up the altar yourself. You greet your friends and say that they should head for the reception, which will have food for humans rather than ghosts. You peck Jiji on the cheek, beaming at him, and he relaxes and congratulates you.

He cups your face tenderly, kisses you on the nose. “You look happy,” he says.

Something has gone terribly wrong, but you still smile and tell him, “Yes.”

V. THE OFFERING

Your marriage bed is an altar.

Ivory petals are scattered across the bed, along with whole lilies and chrysanthemums. Sweetness permeates the room, carried by the smoke of burning incense. Flames dance upon red candles, flickering as they cast a gentle, soft light. This is your attempt to set an intimate mood, but the Evil Eye does not feel any form of love—he only knows greed. Every object in this room is an offering for the dead, meant for ghosts to consume, and you are the greatest offering of all, waiting for him on the centre of the bed in white silk. You are more fragrant than any joss, riper than any fruit, and he is the most ravenous ghost in existence.

“Isn't this romantic?” you say, beaming at him, and this is when the Evil Eye understands that he absolutely cannot have sex with you.

The wedding was meant to pacify him, perhaps even allow him to move on, but it only did the opposite. Seeing you before him at the altar, vowing to spend a lifetime with him despite all his resentment and ugliness made bare—it only made him more covetous. To move on would be to give up all the love you’ve offered him, the kind of love he'd been denied his whole life.

The kind of love he cannot return.

But he wants it anyway. And like any ghost, he’ll take it—take your love, your heart, your body, your life—if he is allowed to spread your legs and fuck you.

He knows this intuitively, although Turbo Granny also told him this. If you care for her even a little bit, she'd groused, you won’t go through with it. Then she'd threatened to take his banana and his nuts.

But vengeful spirits cannot care for human beings, not truly. It's a wonder that the Evil Eye is hesitating at all, why he feels a pit when he thinks about trapping you. It must be a consequence of his Vessel, who loves you so selflessly that even his body resists hurting you.

“We shouldn’t do it,” he says outright. You blink at him.

“Why?” You tilt your head. “...are you getting wedding night jitters? Do ghosts get nervous?”

He stares at you, uncomprehending. “What? No! I'm not fucking nervous!”

You frown. “Then what's the matter?”

It'll be dangerous for you, he tries to say, but then you're giving him a shy look and untying the sash around your waist. He swallows as the silk robe drops around your shoulders, pools around your thighs. The ivory lace covering your breasts and your core is so sheer that he can practically see through it. It's delicate, pretty—and he wants nothing more than to tear it off and ruin you.

“Don’t you”—you look so flustered, so cute, an echo tells him—“don’t you wanna make love to your wifey?”

Part of him thinks he might cum in his pants. The other part of him wants to leave. Wifey, making love—those are all words that you use on the Vessel. All words that are meant for the Vessel. You're confusing the Evil Eye with your real lover, under the delusion that he is human, unaware that you're being haunted. The Evil Eye is not the man you wish to marry, to live in a House with, to make babies with, to grow old with.

Unfair unfair unfair it hurts it hurts it hurts please please please I don't want to die. I don't want you to die. Why can't I touch you? Why can't I hold you? Please please please—

“I can't.”

Your brow arches. “What do you mean?”

“I can't make love to you.” He pauses, feels a kind of frustration bubbling up when you give him a confused look. “I don't love you.”

Your mouth opens, and you make a faint, strangled noise before asking, “What?”

“I don't love you.”

It takes a moment. You stare at him; you look down; you close your eyes. Your shoulders shake. You'll probably get angry and throw him out, or you'll just calmly ask him to leave. However you do it, you would cast him out, and it would be for the better. You would remain uncursed, free to live out a proper life with the Vessel, and the Evil Eye would get to keep his nuts.

But instead of doing either of those things, you start sniffling—and all the blood leaves his face.

“You”—your voice is so fragile, and it cracks and breaks and his throat feels like it's closing up—“what do you mean you don't love me?”

The Evil Eye's mouth drops open as you start to sob. “W-wait, wait—why are you crying? Don’t cry!”

You start to wail. “You don't love me! I just married you and you don't love me! How am I not supposed to cry?” Between hiccups and sniffs, you pick up one of the pillows and throw it at him. He's paralyzed, forgets to dodge, and it hits him square in the face. “What did I do wrong?!”

“Nothing!” he yells. His heart is pounding. It's squeezing and twisting and it feels so bad that he nearly wants to dispossess the Vessel. “You didn't do anything wrong! It's not you! It's—”

“If you say ‘It’s not you, it's me’, I'll kill you! I'll really kill you!”

“I’m already dead!”

“Then I'll beat your ass!”

“You can't beat my ass! You're not strong enough!”

“Then I'll banish you! I'll spray Jiji with hot water everyday and I won't let you come out! Not even to have Pampy! Not even to play with Okarun!”

The Evil Eye’s mouth drops open. “That's fucking mean!”

“You're fucking mean!” You look at him, and your gaze is so watery and pained that the Evil Eye can't help but go to you. He doesn't realise that he's wiping away your tears until his fingers are wet, and he can’t find it in himself to push you away when you press your face into his shoulder and cling to him. His arms—no, the Vessel’s arms; it must be the Vessel doing this—tighten around you.

“Why—why don't you love me?” you whine between hiccups, and the Evil Eye should call you foolish for expecting him, a spirit who intends to kill all of mankind, to ever love a human. To think that you could spend all these years around him and be so delusional about his true nature—is it that you've forgotten that he drives people to suicide? That his intent is to someday kill all of you, after killing Okarun? The spirits of the House scream at him to grab your face and force you to look at his hideous third eye, to remind you of what he is, to say you're a human you should die like the rest of them you’re as guilty as all of them, you would lock me in a cage too, you would burn me alive and bury my bones beneath a House.

Instead, he rubs your back until your breath begins to even out. And rather than grabbing you and threatening you, he clears his throat.

“I'm… a vengeful spirit,” he says lamely. “Love just isn't something that's in our nature.”

“Why not?” you sniff.

“‘cause if it were, we wouldn't be vengeful. We wouldn't even be ghosts in the first place, probably.”

“B-but,” you whimper, “we've been dating for so long. We live together and sleep together and eat together. You take care of me and I take care of you. We go on dates and hold hands. We even have sex—like, a lot of sex. You initiate it!” You sound accusatory, and the Evil Eye doesn't understand why. Of course he wants to have sex with you; it's one of the most addictive things about having this body. The part of the living world he wants most, nowadays. “If you didn't feel anything for me, why would you do any of that?”

He bristles. “Of course I feel something for you,” the Evil Eye says, oddly agitated. “Just ‘cause I can't love doesn't mean I can't feel. Resentment is what anchors ghosts to this world in the first place.”

“Then what do you feel for me, if not love?” Your fingers dig into the Vessel’s white suit. “Resentment?”

The Evil Eye stares blankly. He doesn't know how to describe it all—the longing, the greed, the envy for the Vessel. The euphoria and closeness of being inside you, a feeling so good that he didn't even know that such joys existed when he was human. The idea of living in a House filled with wedding photos, the thought of making babies with you that he might hold and touch and kiss. So many things that he never had in life. So many things that he can't help but want in death.

So many things that he can't help but want to trap you for them.

“...no, I don't resent you,” he says. “It’s more like I wanna curse you.”

He expects you to cry more—after living for such a long time among humans, he now has enough manners to understand that it is rude to curse someone who has only ever treated you with unconditional love, even if in error—but instead, you become strangely quiet.

You pull away from him so that he can see your face. It's—hopeful?

“You wanna curse me?”

“Yeah. Curse you—haunt you, possess you, control you.” He shrugs. “The usual things that ghosts do when they're so attached to something that they can't move on. You know.”

“Oh.” You wipe your eyes, and the Evil Eye has to stop himself from helping. “I'm so happy.”

“...you're what?”

“I'm so happy that you feel that way about me.”

He stares at you. “You're happy that I wanna curse you?”

“Yeah.”

The Evil Eye studies you. You never react to him in ways that make sense—you’re endeared by him when you should be afraid; you treat him sweetly when you should be callous; you even seem to enjoy his violence when everyone else always punishes it. Now you’re touched by the idea of being cursed.

“Why?” he asks flatly. “I thought you wanted to be loved. Or make love. Something like that.”

You give the Evil Eye a long, thoughtful look.

“Jashi,” you start, voice gentle now, “what do you think love is supposed to look like?”

A married couple in a House. A baby in his mama’s arms. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight.

“Dunno.” When you stare at him, as if expecting something, he grows agitated. “I said it's not in my nature. Talk to the Vessel about that stuff, not me.”

One of your brows arches. “Why? You're my husband”—his heart kicks violently at that; he hates this fucking body sometimes—“I want to know what you think love looks like. And besides…” Your voice gets all quiet, and you look away. “It’s not like Jiji would necessarily agree with my views anyway.”

That gets his attention. “What do you mean?”

You hum. “How do I explain it… well, for example—if I found happiness with someone else and left to be with them, Jiji would be heartbroken, but he would be happy for me. Because he loves me, it's ultimately most important for him that I'm happy.”

A married couple in a House. Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A baby in his mama’s arms. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Three children dancing in a field, giggling in the sunlight. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair I don't wanna die I wanna play with other children I want to dance in the field please please please why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—

“That's fucking stupid,” the Evil Eye blurts out.

“But that's what he’s told me—and I believe him.” You smile at him. “Now, how do you think I'd react if someone took you or Jiji away from me?”

This feels like a trick question. He squints at you. “The same?” he tries.

“That would be ideal. But honestly,” you admit, “I would resent you all for the rest of my life and then think about killing myself. That's what love looks like for me.”

“Oh.” The Evil Eye nods, relaxing. “Yeah, that makes way more sense.”

You laugh, sounding genuinely amused. “Jiji doesn't think so. It really worries him that I feel this way. It would worry most people, actually.” Then you get a little quiet. “I do want to get better for him, but it doesn't come naturally to me, the way that he loves me.”

He doesn't like the tone you're using—soft, uncertain. Mournful. You feel like one of the spirits in the House right now. He thinks about the way you cradled his bones, and his hold on you tightens.

“Where are you going with this?”

“I'm saying that I don't mind that you want to haunt me, or possess me, or whatever.” Your eyes are earnest. Steadfast with the confidence you had as you unearthed his grave. “To be honest, being cursed by you isn’t nearly as frightening as being loved by Jiji.”

The Evil Eye cups your face, thumbing away your tears. Would you cry like this if you knew what it would mean, to be possessed by him? Would you regret your offer to him, the way that the Vessel regrets his? Or would you stare at his true face as you did at the altar and vow to love him anyway?

Instead of asking you any of this, he allows you to loop your arms around his neck.

“I want you to make love to me,” you murmur sweetly as you climb atop him, and that makes him pause.

Two corpses dangling from the rafters. A child suffocating in the darkness, crying for his parents. Starving in a cage nearby, I'm so hungry, I'm so cold. Unfair unfair unfair why can't I touch you why can't I hold you why why why—

“I said I don't know how to do that.”

“Fine,” you say, and then you’re pressing your lips against his, grinding your cunt against his hardening cock. “Then curse me instead.”

VI. THE DEMON

You've always known that the Evil Eye couldn't love you in a normal way.

It was obvious from the outset, simply cataloguing him for what he is: a monster born from human sacrifice; a curse that drives people to madness, to suicide; a thing that regularly exploits Jiji for his body and makes him commit violence against his will. Jiji and Okarun and the rest might be delusional about the Evil Eye nowadays—thinking that he's just like a kid, that he just wants to play, that he’s in love and wants to get married and play house—but you are not. He can't play with Okarun in normal ways, and he can't love you in normal ways. Every desire ends in blood. That's how it began for him, after all. How he was born.

Your mind has always known this, but your body only learned it the first time you had sex. The Evil Eye doesn't know how to make love to you the way that Jiji does. You’ve tried countless times now, and he's even demanded that you make him do it that way so that he knows what the Vessel gets to feel during sex with you. You've kissed him deep and slow, gently touched him until he felt desire, taken him inside you and pressed your forehead to his. Just like that, you encouraged him countless times, you're doing so good. Good boy. You're doing so well. I love you.

You always end up with your face pressed into the mattress, cheeks wet with tears and throat hoarse from screaming. Sore and bruised and fatigued and it's too fast, it's too big, I can't, please, and with any other man you'd probably hate it but when it's Jashi you always end up moaning and begging for more. You'd always thought you’d be disgusted with yourself for having this kind of sex, but with him, you feel too good to really care. All you can think about is his teeth marking your neck, the cruelty of his rough hands, how his cock fills you so well that you can hardly breathe.

He’s taken you like this countless times, but something feels different about it right now. It might be the incense, so thick in your throat and your lungs that you're dizzy with it. It might be the fragrant petals crushed beneath you, soft and strange things that you stole from your wedding altar. Flowers for the dead, the priest had said to you, given to the ancestors, or to bodies as they're lowered into the ground.

You think maybe that's happening to you, right now: you’re dying, you're being torn apart, you’ll break in Jashi’s hands. It'll leave a mark on your body for a lifetime, forever—and you don't need to be saved.

But even after being fucked so many times, even after your mind has been made so hazy and distant, you're still trying so hard not to come apart at the seams. An agonizing pressure is building in your belly, and you can't let it burst. It’s inconvenient when you get too wet; it makes Jashi switch, which is normally hilarious but would feel catastrophic right now, when you’re drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you and don't want any of this to end. But it's so hard, keeping yourself from drenching him—you can hardly think when he's fucking you like this, let alone control yourself.

“I c-can't anymore,” you whine. “Jashi, you gotta stop, I need a break, please—”

Jashi doesn't care. He takes and takes and takes, and of course he does. It's in his nature as a vengeful ghost, as an existence so empty it can't do anything but consume the life around it. It's not enough that you’ve been ruined by his cock, that you're being used like a fleshlight. It's not enough that he’s made you cum countless times—not out of consideration to you, but simply because he's addicted to the feeling of you squeezing and milking him. It's not enough that he's spilled himself inside you more times than should be possible, uncaring of the consequences. It's not enough, it's never enough—he always needs more from you; more tears, more begging, more feverish, white-hot pleasure.

You shouldn't be surprised when you feel his hips start to stutter again, his cock twitching inside you. Some distant part of you is alarmed anyway, even as your cunt tightens around him, eager to be filled. You've never let anyone fuck you raw before tonight, never had anyone fill your womb up like this—not him and not Jiji; you've always been too afraid of pregnancy—but with each passing moment, it is harder to remember why. Not when it feels so good to be pumped full by him, your body flooded with a strange warmth each time. Unnatural, you keep thinking, this feels weird, he's doing something to me, he's cursing me, he's claiming me. But all you do is wrap your legs around his waist when he cums again, greedy for more, and you sigh in relief at the feeling of it.

He has to stop after this. He has to be sated. He pulls out, his cock throbbing against your swollen pussy, painting it a creamy white—and then he throws your legs over his shoulders and sinks back into you.

“Nooo,” you moan, squirming, thrashing, knowing you'll burst if he fucks you again. “I can't, I can't—I can't hold it in anymore, I can't—”

“Then don't,” he grunts. He looks straight down at you, his weight heavy on you, oppressive, unnatural. You hold your breath as you look at his face—dark and vicious, the vibrant eye on his forehead enrapturing. For the first time in your life, you feel a madness creeping in as it stares at you, fraying at your control. You can't move, can't resist him, can't think, and when he starts thrusting again, your body floods with a euphoria so hot that all you know how to do is cry.

You’re going to break from the ecstasy.

“W-what,” you gasp, “what are you doing to—”

Something hits your sweet spot, and your voice clips off into a desperate whimper. His cockhead starts grinding against it, and you try so hard to squirm, to stop, to control yourself—but whatever he's done to you has made you weak, pliant, and you feel yourself start to pulse. Pinned beneath his gaze, you can neither get away nor fight it. You can only surrender. The pressure is too much, your womb is too hot, and suddenly your back is arching and you feel like you're dying as you gush all over him.

You're in hysterics as you come down, panting and gasping for breath. “No more, no more,” you beg, squeezing your eyes shut, clinging to him. You sob into the crook of his neck, and finally—finally—he relents.

He’s gentle as he pulls out, careful as he sets you down on the bed. Kisses pepper your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips. Then, finally—his forehead pressed against yours, lashes fluttering against your skin.

“You're alright,” Jiji murmurs. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

VIII. THE CURSE

The Evil Eye has cursed you.

Jiji saw it on your body: a sunburst of strange characters on your stomach, an eye in the centre. The Taoist priest had broken into a pale sweat at the sight, its implications: if anyone else tries to touch you, whether with the intent to do harm or pleasure, then the untold carnage will be wrought upon them. Should you ever try to leave the Evil Eye, he will drag you back with such violence that it will shatter you. That so long as that vengeful ghost is bound to this earth, then so too shall be you.

Jiji is less worried than he probably should be. He doubts that the Evil Eye would truly ever hurt you, and also doubts that you’re physically capable of leaving him anyway. Ever since being marked, you haven't been able to go a day without having either of them inside you—brutally if it is with the Evil Eye; gently if with Jiji. Either way, you’ve been desperate for their touch, plagued by an all-consuming lust if you can't have them. It puts a wrench into all the plans for your respective careers and for the long distance arrangement. Auntie Seiko plans to train you to suppress the curse, but it isn't sustainable.

Privately, though, there's a part of Jiji that doesn't mind the excuse to see you all the time. It’s not that he wants to deny you your freedom, quite the opposite, but—you're his beautiful wife. And he's ridiculously in love with you. He can't help but miss you every day you're apart, and he also can't bring himself to complain about this particular aspect of the curse.

He also understands the Evil Eye for doing this to you. Sure, cursing you wasn't Jiji’s first act as a newlywed—but he also kinda gets it.

Jiji shares dreams with the Evil Eye, sometimes. He sees within them everything that the Evil Eye has experienced—not just as a demon, but as a spirit, a child, a waif. Sometimes he hears the thoughts that he once had, the ones that made him turn vengeful: unfair, this is unfair let me go it hurts it hurts please stop please stop help me help me help me I don't want to die.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

After all that? Of course the Evil Eye doesn't experience desire the way that a human would. Of course playing with someone is the same thing as killing them. Of course loving someone is the same thing as cursing them. And the Evil Eye loves you—that much is obvious, would be obvious to Jiji even if they didn't share a body—so of course his instinct was to carve you open and mark you with his spell.

Jiji feels poorly about it sometimes, guilty and selfish and like he should have ended things after all. Then you'd be free to love whoever you want, without the threat of certain death looming over you. But then you smile at him in bed, so tender and pretty and glowing beneath him. “I'm glad I get to be with you both,” you sigh, and then he can't really complain. After all, you're his beautiful wife. Jiji is ridiculously in love with you. Of course he wants you to be happy.

If it really ever comes down to it, if you really ever wanted to leave—Jiji knows he'd have himself exorcised. He'd rather die than hurt you. But the possibility seems so distant right now, with how you're studying the stone monument before you. You seem peaceful, tranquil, a calm figure cut against a placid, blue sky. Jiji guesses that's appropriate: cemeteries are meant to be resting places.

This plot of gravesoil belongs to the Enjoji family, and there is a spot carved out for you, right next to the space reserved for him. You bear his surname now, so when the two of you pass, you’ll be allowed to rest side-by-side. He already knows what the Evil Eye would say to that: you'll live in a House together and make babies together and eventually die together and be buried together. And if Jiji could talk to him, if he could for once directly speak with the monster inhabiting him, he'd beam at him and say yeah, we sure are.

But the Evil Eye would miss one thing, and it's that he'd also be buried with you. He'd be buried with both of you.

In your hands is an urn, plain but dignified. It carries the ashes of a waif hundreds of years old, the remnants of a brutal sacrifice. The last step of a ghost marriage is to bury the bones of the bride with the remains of the groom, but you're an Enjoji now, and Jiji’s family does cremations, not burials. When the time comes, you'll be burned, and your ashes will be mixed with those belonging to Jashi. He’ll go before either of you: by the end of the day, his remains will be in the crypt, though Jiji doubts his spirit is going anywhere.

“We’ll be interred with each other, someday,” you say to the ashes, tender. “But first we’ll spend a lifetime together.”

Then you turn to Jiji, your smile sunlit. It's shy, because you're always shy around Jiji—even though he's now your husband and you’ve married him in front of five hundred people and he's made love to you every which way on every piece of furniture in the house since then—and you add, “And we’ll spend a lifetime together too.”

Jiji laughs. “I guess you're stuck with me,” he says, and a frown briefly overtakes your face.

“We’re all stuck with each other,” you correct him. “You're cursed as much as I am.”

“I guess.” He scratches his cheek, sheepish. “Sorry you ended up with a husband who’s possessed by a ghost.”

“I wasn’t talking about Jashi,” you say, and you seem a little uncertain, but Jiji can't help but smile. Partly because he appreciates it when you're earnest with him, but mostly just because he loves you.

“You're so beautiful,” he says, “did you know that?”

You huff at him, turning around. “You’re too much,” you chide, but he hears the fondness in your tone. Jiji grins, and—in the privacy of the cemetery—takes the opportunity to loop his arms around you. You giggle when he squeezes you, and then your voice goes quiet.

“I love you,” you say, “did you know that?”

“Uh huh.” He spins you around so he can waggle his brows and give you his most reassuring look. You snort violently at his expression. “It’s super obvious. You can't resist my charms.”

When your laughter passes, you look down at the ashes in your arms—the child that you carried out of the House.

“Do you think,” you ask, voice odd, “he knows that?”

Jiji’s eyes soften. Because he shares dreams with the Evil Eye, and sometimes he shares thoughts with him too—like the pain in his chest that's been aching ever since he found his parents hanging side-by-side from the second floor, the one that grew every time he found the body of a spirit medium, the one that choked him when his relatives called him cursed and slammed the door in his face. He slept on the ground in front of their house after that—he didn't want to go back to the place where his parents nearly died—and called Auntie Seiko the next day, when he realised that they truly didn't want him around.

Sometimes he shares dreams with the ghost haunting him, and when he screams in his sleep he can't tell if the voice in his throat is truly his or if it actually belongs to the Evil Eye. But no matter its origin, it goes quiet when you hold him in bed and kiss his forehead. Just like how it went quiet when you carried that skeleton out of the House.

Doesn't anyone love me enough to save me?

“Yeah,” Jiji says. “Yeah, he does.”

END

some general notes:

this was a weird fic to write. ordinarily I would write the evil eye as having a childish and immature narrative voice; however, I (1) had to balance it with an aged up characterization, and (2) did not want to get cancelled, so I instead ended up with something in-between that feels a little awkward

there is jiji-focused companion fic that is like 50% done about him fucking you nasty after he switches places with the evil on your wedding night. I will probably finish it and post it when s2 comes out LOL

i know this is not my best writing rip please forgive me

some cultural notes:

taoism has real-life sex magic practices and places a lot of significance on, err, certain bodily fluids in terms of spiritual energy. none of these beliefs have anything to do with getting cursed via freaky ghost marital sex, but they served as the general inspiration for the curse in the fic (alongside dandadan canon, which coincidentally also places a lot of spiritual significance in sex and sexual organs lol)

the vows recited by the reader are a modification of standard japanese wedding vows (found on Google, take with a grain of salt). incidentally, western-style weddings are apparently quite popular in Japan, hence the decision for the bridal dress.

a lot of the wedding details are inspired by chinese funerary practices in addition to actual taoist ghost marriages. I took a lot of creative liberties with the wedding scene in general; real-life ghost marriages are quite different (from my understanding; I have never attended one)

#fuji reads!#i'm scared to reread what i just wrote bc i lost my mind i think

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