#polarised glasses

[rudyprojectau1]

The 5 Best Things About Polarized Sunglasses

Want to know what are the 5 best things about polarized sunglasses? Visit this informational blog and buy polarized sunglasses now!

[pandalavalamp]

I’m Looking forward to one thing today and one thing only: to pick up my new glasses and trade in these annoying ones

[goggleman1]

Browse Our Premium Quality Prescription Polarised Sunglasses

Are you looking for superior sunglasses that provide the best protection against the sun? Goggleman offers a variety of prescription sunglasses, including glasses with the finest lenses. We have a selection of sunglasses and prescription glasses that are perfect for all weather and lighting conditions. We are committed to providing the best quality, style, fit, comfort and protection. Our sunglasses come in types, including aviator, flat top and round. We also offer prescription glasses with polarized lenses to help protect your eyes from the sun’s harmful rays. Contact us for more details about prescription polarised sunglasses. We will be delighted to help you find excellent sunglasses for your requirements.

[oceanwaveglasses]

Low-light polarized sunglasses give you the best protection for your eyes. These sunglasses have six to seven layers of protection in them. If you're looking for polarized sunglasses, this is the place to be. 

[morrisandgill]

Independent Opticians & Eyewear Boutique in Kingswinford

We are a privately owned Opticians in Wall Heath, Kingswinford.

We offer comprehensive eye examinations as well as personal, professional advice in a friendly, warm, and welcoming environment. Our priority is to provide high-quality personal service and customer satisfaction.

[silica]

Tarot • pick a pile • general reading

Something positive about yourself that you’re not appreciated fully

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Pile 1

Pile 2

Pile 3

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Please pick the image or pile that you feel drawn to the most!

Pile 1

Practical minded, strong mature feminine energy, emotional connection and duality. You know how to take care of yourself and others.

Pile 1, I believe you have more balance within yourself than you realise. I get the vibe that you may consider yourself as more polarised in terms of your personality traits and capabilities than you actually are. You’re got a positive sense of duality within your energy. Not ignorant of your emotions regarding things but ultimately very practical minded. Perhaps paying more mind to all your aspects will make you feel more whole in a way. As this variety in your traits is something you’ve not fully appreciated yet. You’re also a lot better at fostering connections with others than you realise.

Pile 2

Strong emotional fortitude. A sense of grounded optimism and confidence. Talented and competent.

Pile 2, I feel like you don’t appreciate how solid your ability to lock in and get the things done that need to be done is. You have a good sense of optimism to you, and it’s not a naive or toxic kind, you have a very real grasp of yourself and how to consider things in a positive manner. ‘The glass may be half full right now, but I will work to make sure it becomes filled.’ You’re competent at what you do and I hope you realise that. You’re also a lot better at balancing your emotional processing than you realise. Even when things get tough, you persevere, stand firm and still continue onwards. Steady growth wins the race.

Pile 3

Visionary, optimistic and enthusiasm. Looking past the veil. Unwavering love of your life. Strong direction and hopes.

Pile 3, you’re quite the optimist. You look ahead towards the brighter things in life and don’t loose sight of your hopes and aspirations. There is an unwavering hope in you, it still stands strong no matter what has happened to you before. You’re willing to grow and try again even after hardships. You see past the darkness of life even when it seems all encompassing. I fear you may have diminished this aspect of yourself to become more conscious of other people around you, who may tend towards more pessimistic attitudes. A little realism is helpful, but wanting to aim for the best possible outcome is nowhere near foolish. You’re better at making decisions than you realise, I feel you may second guess yourself a lot, and the cards want to remind you that you’re in good hands: your own.

[shibaraki]

THE WHITE RABBIT ┊ GOJO SATORU

synopsis: you’ve been instructed to begin making appearances at the pleasure district. choosing the right man to flaunt was imperative for your family's image. who better to pick than the top courtesan?

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader (called ‘angel’ toward the end), strangers to lovers, courtesan gojo (no curses au), sex work, alcohol consumption, inspired by edo period japan, sexual tension, mutual attraction, reader is a customer from a well known family, feelings realisation, other characters present, fluff + angst, loss of virginity (reader), body worship, finger sucking, bathing, vaginal oral sex + fingering (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex (pull out method), hopeful ending 

wc: 14k+

The dense woodland that lies between the main city and the Pleasure district appeared unearthly in the late evening. If you looked up toward the capillaries of the canopy, you’d find the trees would breathe even on a windless night. East and West, spindling arms of cedar seemed to reach for you. 

It unsettled you. The atmosphere felt polarised, as if it were drawing your rickshaw in and manipulating your direction despite having entered willingly. You thought this might be what it’s like to cross from one plane to another, a coniferous bridge between worlds. 

Such a description was befitting of your destination. The Pleasure district truly was another world in its entirety — a place wherein the rules of the mainland could not reach. A creature that laid its own law and shaped you to its own customs. You could no longer put it off. You were of an appropriate age, and it was your turn to enter the beast. 

The maw is bright where the clearing breaks, illuminated by hues of orange and red. Carmine wood with slightly curved pillars, before you stands a grand archway nestled between two walls built to encase the district. 

Large hand painted lanterns light up the wide open road as you are carried through the swelling crowds. Patrons part around your intrusion as they turn to stare, curious about who you might be. You knew that both the private escort pulling your rickshaw and the expensive fabric fashioned elegantly around your shoulders would be enough to display your family's social standing.

Still, the attention and judgement is stifling. You distract yourself with focus on the establishments lining either side of the street; the air is imbued with an amalgam of sweet scents, thick enough to feel it on the roof of your tongue as you breathe. People with delicately painted faces adorned in jewels call out to you from the balconies, the distinct and striking pluck of a shamisen ringing in your ears.

Logically this place was a place of business, yet the innocent, naive part of you felt guilt simply for ignoring their greetings. But you could not stop to contemplate their suitability or good looks, for your family had already arranged a banquet with the finest house in the district — the Michizane house.

As the rickshaw comes to a slow stop you feel tension return to your chest, wrung tight like cloth. The teahouse appears to be two stories high and quite large when compared to its neighbouring buildings. Decorating the outer walls are intricate patterns of wood lattice, the wide open entrance lit up with an inviting glow. Waiting by the door is the owner, a striking man by the name of Nanami Kento.

He steps forward and bows deeply in greeting, peering up from behind the thin frame of his glasses to where you are perched as he straightens. Not a blonde hair out of place. “It is a pleasure to meet you, and an honour to host your banquet at my establishment,” he says. His words are dipped in a rich timbre that settles warm in your bones. 

Insecure of your inexperience, you try to steel yourself as you reply, “I’m grateful for your time, Nanami-san”.

If he senses your nervousness he doesn’t mention it, rather he extends his arm to assist you down from your seat. In doing so you take a moment to contemplate his garments — he wears a grey toned hakama over his pale blue kimono with a matching haori, embellished with the teahouse crest. 

You take his open hand, habitually tugging the silk of your own kimono closer to your skin. Nanami casts his eyes toward the floor as you descend out of respect for your modesty, and while you felt it wasn’t required it was appreciated all the same. 

“I’ll be waiting for your return,” your long employed escort, Norimitsu, lowers his head to bid you goodbye. Having known the man for most of your life, it comforted you that he wouldn’t stray too far. 

Nanami remains stoic as he leads you into the teahouse. There are various open rooms housing guests of all class and background, conversation and laughter easily heard through paper thin walls. You are beckoned through a teal-dyed curtain, through which you find a large sliding door. He smoothly pulls it open for you, revealing a large parlour. You take note of the hearth built into the floor, and the small alcove of hanging scrolls that houses a single sword stand, displaying a katana. At the further end of the room, three screen doors have been tucked away to connect the space to a modest pond garden. 

“I trust it is to your liking?” 

You startle, glancing back at Nanami to find him at respectable distance. “It’s wonderful,” you answer at the end of an exhale, feeling like you had stepped into a dream. There are already a few attendants present, one knelt by your assigned seat on one side of the low tea table in preparation. 

A delicate sound reverberates through the room, and your gaze is drawn to a young man draped in a green kimono so dark that it is almost black. There are subtle gold finishes along the square sleeves, and gold flowers embroidered into his obi. Laid out in front of him is a wooden koto. 

“Please take your seat. These young men will tend to you as you wait for the Courtesan to arrive,” Nanami startles you out of your reverie, inclining his head forward as another gentle strum of music dances through the quiet. You overturn your hand to clutch the inside of your sleeve, embarrassed to have been distracted. 

“Will they take long?” you ask. 

Nanami’s expression shifts with his exasperation, nudging the frame of his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as it wrinkles. “Courtesans of The Michizane House are skilled. Their beauty is venerated and they are praised country wide for trysts with virtue and vice,” he regards you with an almost apologetic look, “what they do not excel in is punctuality”. 

You can’t help but smile at his tone. It sounds like he knows them well, as if they are children he were lovingly admonishing. “You’re well acquainted with them?”

“Unfortunately,” he meets your eyes and when the light refracts in his irises, you notice they’re the colour of earth. “Though my personal relationship with them is no reflection on their ability to service you. They are regarded highly for a reason”. 

“As is expected. In a place like this, personal and business affairs are kept separate for a reason,” you muse softly. A sudden blanket of exhaustion rests itself on your shoulders, reminded that you were here for duty and not pleasure. “I’ll take my seat. Thank you for your hospitality, Nanami-san”. 

You take your seat in silence, knees sinking into the plush silk pillow as you greet the waiting attendant. On the opposite side of the table there are three other cushions lined up and equally distanced, indicating the number of Courtesan you would be meeting with. For a patron of high standing such as yourself, a banquet was custom. Money opened many doors and the House Managers knew that well — thus you were afforded much more freedom for choice, their top earners given to you on a silver platter.

But even so, the district was fickle for tradition and rules. During the banquet you weren’t to interact casually with the Courtesans, as it was their duty to appeal to you without bias. It could be through seduction, art, music and dance; each one given an equal chance to advertise themselves in whatever manner they saw fit. 

After deciding your final pick you would meet with them a second time at the Michizane house, only in the company of their personal attendants. An opportunity to get to know one another better and cautiously test the waters. If the chosen Courtesan was not to your liking you would still be able to send for another and there would be no quarrel. 

The third visit would be your consummation. Visiting with a Courtesan three times meant solidifying your relationship, and it would be forbidden to take another. You’d heard from many that taking a partner of the night was to be treated as seriously as a marriage, some even went as far as incorporating the exchange of nuptial cups. It was supposed to be romantic, if not slightly archaic. A beautiful lie. 

You knew too well that you were not here for pleasure, but still you yearned for love, just as any other person does.

Behind you is the gentle sound of running water in the gardens, but you are taken by the koto player's song, and the fluency at which he plays it. Three ivy picks adorn his right hand, plucking with plectra on the thumb, middle and index fingers. His left hand presses and pulls the silk string behind the bridge, adding enchanting bends and vibrato to the melody.  

“His name is Fushiguro Megumi,” the boy to your side murmurs, “here. This will help you relax”. You flinch as a ceramic sake cup is suddenly offered to you, reflexively taking it with a small bow that leaves your attendant bemused. 

Bringing it towards your lips, you inhale the slightly sweet aroma before tipping the cup into your mouth, finding it a little dry on your palate. “Thank you,” you tell him. “And what is your name?”

There's a minute tilt to his head as he answers, one of confusion. With the movement, his dark hair curtains his cheek and somehow it makes him look even younger. “My name is Yoshino Junpei. I am a trainee at the Michizane House,” he replies. 

“Oh?” you smile as his chest puffs with pride at your apparent surprise, “you must show a lot of promise then”. 

“Thank you!” you think he might start to shake with excitement, a glimmer in his eyes that was not there before. He bows deeply, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his yukata. As his back straightens he continues, “But it is not just me. Fushiguro is also a Courtesan in training”. 

You glance towards the trainee in question. He too is dark haired and pale skinned. If he sat still you thought he might look like a porcelain doll. His eyes remain closed as his fingers spin a saccharine harmony, though you can see there are smatterings of red across his cheeks. He must’ve overheard you. 

“Then I would say The Michizane House has a keen eye,” you say. Junpei smiles, his mouth strained at the corners with careful hands reaching for your empty cup. 

“I just thought it important to let you know… as trainees we cannot be chosen to service you”. 

You nod sagely. Of course you had known that before your arrival, yet as you process his words and the implication hung between them, you feel your composure slip. “Oh—! Junpei, I never intended to pursue either of you. I was only appreciating his music”. 

Your voice is low, hushed as not to embarrass the other boy any further. Junpei’s eyes widened like a fawn faced with an arrow, the bottle of rice wine almost slipping from his grasp. “Forgive me, I misunderstood and spoke out of turn I— I understand if you’d like to request another—”

Irrespective of etiquette, you cover his hands with your own to still the trembling. “There is nothing to forgive. You were informing me so that I wouldn’t get hurt, were you not?”

He inhales deeply, the air bloating his lungs, exhaling the anxiety from his limbs. Junpei bows again once you release him. “You’re a truly kind person,” he rasps. 

“As are you,” you offer him a gentle smile, hoping he wouldn’t see the fraying edges. Seeing him so frightened at the thought of displeasing you was unsettling. You knew that it could be difficult for those working in the district, but having been sheltered most of your life you never quite understood the consequences. 

Realising the sudden silence, you meet Megumi’s pensive stare across the room. His arms are held in suspension, anticipating your anger. “I assure you everything is alright,” you steady your voice in hopes he’ll hear the sincerity, “please do continue”. 

His eyes narrow in fleeting suspicion. Gradually the melody bleeds back into the room, and Junpei returns to serving your drinks. This song is different, you note. It is light and hopeful yet poignant. 

Yes, to have these two young men punished for such meaningless offences would be abhorrent. 

There is movement in your periphery, low humming voices behind the screen door. You see multiple silhouettes through the lattice frames as Nanami moves into view, the pinch in his mouth smoothing when he sees you’re watching. 

“The Michizane House is at your service”. 

You knew to expect something unearthly, yet nothing could prepare you for the picture the Courtesans painted as they entered the parlour. 

The first is a kind faced man introduced as courtesan Okkotsu Yuta. His robe is a gold silk with a pale obi, over top he wears a moss coloured uchikake made of tulle that has been painstakingly dotted with camellia blooms. His hair is dark and neatly parted to loosely frame his face; the only jewels he wears are around his wrists and neck. At first glance he seems young, but his eyes tell otherwise. 

“Come, Rika,” he calls softly. 

A small girl trails behind him, timid as she greets you but confident in her given task; once Yuta is seated she hastily kneels beside him to straighten the fabric pooling around him and makes quick work of pouring his drink. 

As he introduces the next Courtesan — referred to as Choso, a name quite peculiar to you — Nanami is forced to move slightly back in order to make room for his frame. He’s broad, bigger than most men you had seen, though you could attribute that to the mountain of garments he wore. Light ripples on the sheen black kimono, glowing along the painted gold floral prints. Dotted across the fabric are embroidered chrysanthemum blooms; the obi is hefty where it is tied to his front, and you thought it looked as if he were holding a bouquet 

You have no doubt his hair is long. It must’ve taken an impressive amount of time to comb and style it — parted into two sections and held either side of his crown with black cloth, ornamental hairpins with cascading red beads passing through each bun. 

Forged from left cheek to right, curving seamlessly over the bridge of his nose, is a line of black paint. An innate part of you flares in alarm as he seeks out your furtive gaze in passing, like you were some sort of prey animal. 

What fractures his stoic demeanour are the children at his side in simple black robes, identical in height and appearance. The only thing setting them apart was the elaborate lines painted on one of the boys' faces to match with his elder. They press their small hands flat to their obi’s and bow in a deep but clumsy manner. 

“Hi, I’m Yuji! It’s nice to meet you!”

“I’m Sukuna, we’re honoured to join you”.

Their voices overlap yet their greetings are given out of sync. You clasp your sleeve against your palm to cover your mouth, repressing a grin as Sukuna’s eyes narrow towards his unassuming twin. Not wanting them to be scolded, you quickly incline your head forward. 

“Thank you for being in attendance,” you reply. Choso visibly softens, immediately understanding your show of kindness, and extends both arms to cradle the back of their heads. In doing so he encourages them forward toward his seat.  

It’s quite brotherly of him, you think. Children are sometimes abandoned or sold to houses in the district, so you wondered if he had mentored them himself. It would explain his fondness for them. 

Finally, a man in a cascading layer of pale blue over pink. Gojo Satoru approaches gracefully and you are reminded of a crane. Fine silks hug his body and ripple as he moves, slender and beautiful, wading through pond water and rain. The ornaments tucked into his moon white hair sway with every step, creating hypnotic little sounds that announce his presence to the path he is walking on. 

He regards you with bright mirth, as if he can hear your thoughts, and perches himself on the rouge cushion directly opposite. Again, you cannot help but compare him to a doll, held together by silk and string. You thought you might tap a finger to his porcelain cheek and find it hollow. 

With the best earners now present, the banquet finally begins. An opulent spread of food is set along the tables and bottles are replenished. Lower ranking Geisha are in attendance to provide entertainment as you gauge one another. While his own attendant is tasked with providing music, Satoru beckons one of the smaller pink haired boys to his side. Yuji, you remember. You can tell that he is much more free spirited than his twin brother. There’s a youthful air about him that makes you want to pinch his cheeks. 

Choso doesn’t seem angered by it, casting a glance toward the pair but making no move to rein him back to his side. With unspoken permission, Yuji shines under the responsibility of pouring Satoru’s drink. You can’t help but watch with an endeared smile as his tongue peaks out from the corner of his mouth in concentration, slowly tipping his elbow up to fill the cup. 

Amused by the boy, you almost miss the palpable shift in atmosphere. Looking up, you find Satoru scrutinising your reactions, haunted eyes filled with unexpected curiosity. Even at this distance, you feel it on your face like spring. 

Naturally, both in asking and in passing, you had heard much about Gojo Satoru. He was renowned for his services and heartbreak in the district, and has been permanently moored to the spot of best earner. Not only was he a perfect picture of decadence, he was also skilled in conversation and the arts — a beautiful man that wielded both sword and fan. 

Your family had personally suggested him to you, while still offering their approval for any of the top three; and you were more than qualified to choose any of them. Yet being in their presence now, choosing Gojo felt daunting. Quixotic. As if, despite all his previous conquests, your inexperienced hands might finally be the ones to sully him. 

Lost in thought, you have been staring back at him far too long. His lips are salmon pink, a reflective sheen to them. They curve into a pleased smirk, like you were a naive lamb leading itself into a wolf's mouth. 

Your brows pinch then, eyes averted to Junpei’s pale hands where he steadily refills your drink. It is swallowed in full, the initial sting diffusing into a muted warmth throughout your body, and he doesn’t comment on the cup's emptiness only moments later. 

In part, Satoru’s flagrant arrogance mystified you. It was difficult to tell whether he was peacocking to impress you, or if he really was confident that you’d pick him. Frustratingly, his assumptions weren’t baseless. 

You’re aware the others are more than suitable. Okkotsu Yuta was known for being gentle and firm. Authoritative, but in a way that puts your mind at rest. For one night, his fantasy could cast off the things that plagued you, leaving you adrift and carried by the tide’s cupped hands. Thinking was not something you need worry about. 

Informants spoke of his popularity with newcomers. First timers. You understood why they’d choose him — Yuta appeared to have an uncanny command over his expression, always kind, surrounded by an air of empathy. It is present even now, as he watches Rika perform her dance. Eyes fond, following the practised flicks of her fan as the melody clothes her. 

Choso was venerated as something of a romantic, and adored by experienced customers. His large, oppressive demeanour played well into the guise of gentle giant. He was shamelessly attentive and passionate with his servicing. This kindness was different to that of Yuta’s. It was the type anyone could fall in love with, which admittedly frightened you. 

The way Gojo Satoru carries himself is different from his peers. Selection banquets provided a short window in time to leave behind a lasting impression. Unable to yet get close, Courtesans played to the best of their strengths in the hopes of planting a seed into their clients' hearts. 

Such intentions were clear when looking at Gojo. He is carefully carved porcelain. Everything about him has been curated to serve a purpose. It seemed to you that even his garments were worn not just because of their elegance, but because they were so distinctly reflections of his mouth and his eyes.

Highly experienced, widely recommended, and dutiful at maintaining professional lines. Satoru’s prestige allowed him more freedom than his fellow Courtesans. Having earned so much for the district, Gojo was able to reject clientele if he so wished, and he often ended relationships if they began to cross boundaries. Knowing he could outright refuse you — and at the very least, hold you to account — without concern of backlash, eased some of your anxieties. 

You surmised that he would be the safest option. In choosing Gojo Satoru, you might further elevate your family's standing without worry of developing unwanted feelings. Perhaps, in knowing the background you came from, he had already come to such a conclusion himself. 

Still, his confidence grated on you. 

The evening grows older, and along with it your own gusto. Limbs heavy, capillaries filled with wet sand. Alcohol has heated you from the inside out, just enough that it is a little easier to smile sincerely. Nanami returns during the late hour, as the banquet naturally comes to an end. You cannot deny it had been a success; food and sake always did taste better in company, twice as much when married with mellow ballads and delightful performances.

Custom dictates you should not exchange words directly before the second meeting. These men were products for you to choose from. Still, you make sure to hold their line of sight while bidding them a proper goodbye. One by one, their svelte bodies bend forward into a respectful bow, and you are reminded again of your place in this pocket of the world. 

Nanami escorts you to your carriage, undereyes faintly darker than they had been earlier. You can respect that through his fatigue, the man maintains perfect posture and conduct. Norimitsu awaits by the entrance, having bided his time circling the district. 

In leaving the teahouse that night with a dull ache in your knees, you continue to recall the delicate echo of Gojo’s hair ornament. 

The days are long, longer than usual. You assist in the family business as always, but restlessness threads its way into your musculature, and you can’t seem to get anything done to completion. A letter confirming your choice of Courtesan had been sent the morning after your return, and you would attend a second meeting by the weeks end. 

You endure their lighthearted teasing with a strained smile. “The men must’ve made quite an impression,” they said. “Especially that Gojo Satoru. I’ve heard he’s a sight to behold”. 

You’d heard a lot, too. Plenty. Too much. The ornate bells had followed you all the way to your hometown. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo. Gaggles of women and men had approached you, hoping for details about him as if he were a creature tied to myth. 

While it was tiresome, you couldn’t begrudge them. Gojo was not a man many could afford. Their best bet would be to attend a procession, if only to see him from afar. Untouchable. The thought weighs heavily as you watch the anxious curl of your fingers in your lap. 

The Michizane House comes into view, your body rolling with the movement of the carriage as it cradles you. Taking up much of the forked road ahead, you think the building elegantly traditional in a way that the others aren’t. Yaga, the manager, is awaiting your arrival. Known for his philosophy of letting things speak for themselves, his property is clearly not exempt from such beliefs. 

Lined with rouge lanterns, a dream of autumn-tide. It’s inviting and promises warmth, not at all salacious, almost palatial in appearance. Men and women draped in gorgeous raiment call out to passers by kindly, knelt behind iron bars, displayed for selection in latticed parlours.  

Norimitsu is escorting you a second time. While still young, he’s tall and thick shouldered with a round belly. You knew him jovial, as something of an older brother, but to others he came across as the type of man you wouldn’t want to anger — hence why he was designated as your guard. 

“Are you looking forward to seeing him?” 

No more than you are looking forward to attending to your duties the next morning. Above all, this was work. Or so you tell yourself. 

As if he’d read your thoughts, over the bustling crowds you hear, “I do hope you’ll at least try to enjoy your night”.

Presumptively, “I expect Gojo won’t make it so easy”. 

Norimitsu chuckles as you come to a steady halt, then circling the rickshaw to assist you down. Tabi clad feet kick away any stray rocks in your path, and you step down with bated breath. 

Your escort bows as Yaga announces his presence, stepping out into the road to formally greet you. It drew some attention — the manager of The Michizane House was not often seen by any average customer. “I’ll be waiting,” he tells you. 

The pip of anxiety in your chest does take root, lissome branches curling around each individual rib. Yaga is not very personable; that’s your first lesson learnt. Rumour has it that he enjoys making dolls in his free hours. You suspect such gossip is only humorous due to the man’s rough exterior. 

“We are honoured to service you at The Michizane House,” he politely recites. You nod shortly on the end of an exhale. Alongside his love of craft sits the love for his employees. At the very least, you knew that Yaga treated the Courtesan well. 

The atmosphere changes the further into the maze you go. Tobacco, sake and sex permeates the air. Drunken laughter dissolves into quiet groans, sounds muffled behind cupped hands, a sharp slap of skin meeting skin. A fog follows — clientele chain smoking between rounds, faint grey clouds seeping beneath screen doors.

While the houses found success in abiding by their traditional values, some boundaries were a tangible, malleable concept in the district as long as money was involved. Desire could be stretched, moulded into whichever form you wanted. Here, within reason, you could do as you pleased. A mandated space to revel in your desires; scratch the itch away from the rigidity of civilised society. 

In hindsight, choosing the Courtesan had been the easier part of the arrangement. While Gojo would be there to fill silences and guide the conversation, deftly covering for whatever social qualities you so clearly lacked, that would only be enough for tonight. You ought to decide upon your own itch. 

Come the third meeting, how could Gojo Satoru sate your hunger? 

“Satoru’s private quarters are just up ahead. He will be joining you shortly,” Yaga continues as he guides you out onto the veranda, where there is a beautiful garden; bamboo hedges and interwoven bushes, a winding road of pale sand lining a miniature pond. There are stones left hollow, dwarfed peach trees and azaleas. You inhale with relief as your lungs are cleared by the crisp night air.

Gradually, the awkward thud of your shoes against wood is overlapped by another’s more practised, commanding footsteps. Each step is accompanied by the quiet tinkling of a bell. A Geisha, presumably, that you’ve yet to meet walks out into your intended path, their presence overwhelming. 

Yaga regards them cordially, “Maki”. 

Long, regal fabrics that dance in lavish shades of indigo and gold. The very cosmos stitched into their clothing. Maki. They bow and the moonlight reflects around the crown of their head, highlighting a jewelled comb tucked neatly into a bun — a style common amongst well ranking women. 

“Yaga-sama,” comes the formal reply. You stiffen when her golden eyes sweep over your form. She’s notably tall, and you felt she would still tower over you even in the absence of the Okobo strapped to her feet. Maki bows to you wordlessly, then returns to her pace. The small bell housed in the hollow of her shoes begins to sing. Thud, chime, thud, chime. 

As she passes with a sidelong glance, a stream of moonlight illuminates her face. Handsomely pretty, you think. Her features are distinctive, angular. There is a fleeting thought that she reminds you of Megumi. 

You remain close to Yaga’s heel as you enter another part of the house. The screen doors are painted entirely opaque, and there are less patrons here. While these quarters appeared to be far more private, still you hear the muffled, unmistakable, sound of sex from the end of the hall. 

“Here,” Yaga’s voice snaps you out of your nervous reverie as his arm extends to open one of the rooms. It is atleast a good distance away from the other… occupants. 

Sliding the screen across, a well sized room is revealed. Pale tatami flooring, dark knotted wood panelling. There is a low table and cushions set out beside the far alcove, where you might ponder the two decorative scrolls that hang there. At the foot is a small ceramic bowl, already cradling a lit stick of incense. 

What truly demands your attention is the large wall mounted byobu, kept on the far side of the room over a large futon. It is a quiet depiction of nature, polychrome and laden with silk brocades. To the South are a small herd of rabbits, prancing through a mountainous valley adorned with blushing maple trees. North are a flock of cranes, wings spread as they glide across the skies.  

You wondered how often Gojo would find himself looking at it. Did it provide comfort, or did it leave him wistful? 

“Please be seated and make yourself comfortable. The attendants won’t be long,” Yaga gestures towards the tatami with calloused fingers, “rest assured, The Michizane House will accommodate you well”. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” you reply, the words rolling off the tongue with ease. Formality is what you know best. Chin tucked to sternum in a placid bow, you first rush to remove your geta before entering the room on socked feet. 

The screen behind slides shut and you are left with silence. Suddenly your obi feels too constricting, and the silk of your kimono weighs heavily across your shoulders. Approaching the low table, you clutch at drapes of fabric as you kneel to be seated. This would be your final moment of respite for the remainder of the night, and yet all you can think of is how you are now set in motion towards inexorable change. 

There is a restrained knock from the door. Giving your permission, it slides open with a soft hiss to reveal the young man that you know to be named Megumi. This time he adorns deep purple, a garden of peonies both red and pink sewn into his sleeves. Balanced atop one of his pale hands is a tray of cups and sake. He bows forward, a single amethyst peony hairpin tucked behind his ear. 

Tucked at his side and falling short at the hip, is one of the twins. His clothes are slightly disheveled, as expected of a child his age, but it’s well hidden by the violet geometric pattern. Cheeks as pink as his hair, you’re presented with a wide beam. 

“Hi!” he chirps. Yuji, then.

Megumi lightly knocks his knuckles atop the boy’s crown in admonishment. As Yuji reaches to protect his head from a second strike, the trail of his sleeves pool into the crook of his arms. 

“That was mean!”

Lacking discretion, though not without trying, the older attendant mutters, “Don’t act so familiar with the customers. Greet them properly”. 

Yuji looks at you, visibly mustering up a sense of professionalism. He forces his mouth thin, and an unsettlingly placid sheen coats his once bright eyes. His head bows forward, still gracelessly. “Good evening. We are hon— honoured to serve you”. 

You become aware of the dead weight of your robes around your shoulders. A prickling of discomfort under your skin. He’s just a baby, after all. 

Kindly, you answer, “I’m honoured to be here”. 

In return, you are given a toothy grin. The two step further into the room and begin their preparations without instruction. Megumi sets the tray down on the low table, so careful that it barely makes a sound. Yuji rearranges the remaining cushions, one moved suspiciously close and the others appropriately spaced. 

Whenever Satoru arrives, a bright spark follows. There’s something different about him this time. His exuberance tempered, but still crisp; again, you are reminded of the breaking of spring. It rolls into the ambiance, and you find yourself irritatingly giddy. 

“You’re here,” he says. Tonight he’s wearing a simple, light blue yukata dotted with little white rabbits. It drapes effortlessly on his frame, loose around his shoulders and partially open at the chest to reveal a toned expanse of pale skin. 

Yuji and Megumi scramble to his attendance, while you are struck by just how relaxed he is. You can’t look away from him. There is a clink to your left, the neck of a small sake bottle meeting the rim of your cup. “…I am here,” comes your careful reply. “Thank you for accepting my letter, and for joining me”. 

He smiles at that. It is unexpected and entirely genuine. Satoru actually looks at home here. There’s still a professional air to him as he settles beside you, tactile in his touch and deliberate with his words; you parse through them but find no smarm, only that he feels warmer. 

Stilted conversation is not a thing of this world. Where words fail you, he is there to pick up the slack, peeling back the layers of your life with unassuming questions. The year you were born and the zodiac that comes with it, where you grew up, what business your family dabbled in, if you had siblings to care for — you, pleasantly light from the sake, breathing in tones of sandalwood, answer a little too freely. 

Satoru hums as though he were feigning thought. “I have no blood siblings, but I’d say that our precious Megumi here—” he reaches out to the boy with lithe fingers and tousles Megumi’s hair out of place “—is quite like a little brother to me”. 

The younger man cringes away from his touch looking suitably disgruntled. His features are sharp, but still soft in a way that betrays his youth. Yuji laughs. 

“I’ve been wondering, why is it that the other attendants make an effort to match clothing with their Courtesans, but you and Megumi don’t?” you ask, absentmindedly toying with the sleeve of your kimono. 

Satoru observes you for a moment, guileful eyes dragging from the nervous tick to your own, searching for something unbeknownst to you. You fear you might’ve offended him, but then, “Megumi dislikes the things I wear. He calls them ostentatious”. 

Satoru’s mouth twists into a childish pout as he pointedly glares at the boy in question, and for a short breath the faultless mask is gone, “He doesn’t even know what that word means”. 

Megumi snorts and quickly schools his expression, blank faced when he meets Satoru’s gaze, “I’d like to see you spell it”. 

“Oh? Trying to embarrass me infront of a customer?” If he’s attempting to scold his attendant, then he’s failing spectacularly. Voice saccharine, cloying in his throat as he tries not to laugh, Satoru says, “Yaga will have you out on the street”. 

“I wish he would”. 

You watch their interactions from behind the lip of your sake cup. The taste is sweet, fitting for the moment. Skin warming, it sits well in your stomach and has a pleasant buzz thrumming through your veins. “Are they always like this?” you whisper. Yuji nods with his whole body. 

“Don’t misunderstand,” Satoru smiles down at the two of you, his big hand reaching to cradle Megumi’s head once again. His attendant’s glare visibly softens and allows it. “We squabble like any other family”. 

The word ‘family’ stands out in your mind like a stray thread. You pick at it, tentatively, “Is it possible you have blood relatives here? I saw another Geisha here who looked quite like you, Megumi”.  

“You must’ve met Maki-san,” the younger man replies. There’s an obvious glimmer of respect at mention of her and for reasons you can’t place, it saddens you. “We share descendants. She is a distant cousin”. 

“Curious that you both ended up at the same house”. 

Satoru quietly sips his sake, licking at the inner corner of his mouth as he looks to Megumi, seeking permission to speak. Even more curious for a high ranking Courtesan. Megumi nods in silent acquiescence, and you halt when their collective attention turns on you. 

As your cup is refilled, Satoru weaves a sullen tale of a small dark haired boy born to a wanted man and a runaway Geisha. Though riddled with illness and partly malnourished from her time in the district, his stouthearted mother carried him fully to term before passing after childbirth. Left with an infant, his lover's debt and a target on his back, the man snuck his son into the district where he wouldn’t be touched and sold him to the Michizane house. 

“That boy was our Megumi. I saw his potential and took him under my wing. The rest you can guess,” he concludes fondly, though there is a tightness by his eyes. You wonder whether Satoru struggles to balance his gratitude and his guilt. 

Incognisant of the troubled atmosphere, Yuji claps his chubby hands together. Appled cheeks strain where his grin stretches wide. “It’s just like me and Sukuna-nii!” 

Megumi huffs and reaches over to pinch the swell between his fingers. The sleeve of his yukata hangs over the low table, slipping up his forearm to reveal a pale sleuth of skin. “Worm. Our stories are nothing alike”.

“No,” Satoru hums thoughtfully. “Yuji and Sukuna were left outside in a rice sack like a couple of drowned kittens”. 

Megumi shakes his cheek, and it draws the younger boy's lip up to reveal his pink gums before letting go. You listen, horrified, as Yuji giggles. “S’cause they thought Sukuna-nii was cursed. But he’s just really cranky!” 

“Is that right?” you faltered. Satoru takes your unease as a sign to lean in closer, shoulders brushing. 

“Yeah. But it’s okay, ‘cause he’s my cool big brother. Choso too! He looks a bit scary, but he takes real good care of us”.

“You really love your brothers, don’t you?”

“Choso plays temari with us in the gardens when he doesn’t have customers,” Yuji flashes the charming gap between his front teeth as he rubs at his sore cheek, earthen eyes squinted with happiness. “If you spent the night with him, I bet he would play temari with you too!”

Satoru’s hand crosses your line of sight as he reaches out to poke at the young boy's waist, dainty bangles slipping down his wrist. “What’s this, kid? I didn’t invite you here so your brother could gain favour with my customer,” he bemoans, pinching and prodding at baby fat beneath the fabric. 

Yuji stutters into peals of laughter at his theatrics, his arms folded close to protect his stomach. It’s obvious that Satoru does it to prevent Yuji from worrying — to let him act out, as a child should. The sound is so joyful it’s contagious, and the corners of your mouth curve into a helpless smile. 

None of this had been what you expected. The many whispers you’d heard before tonight tell you clearly that this second meeting is an unconventional one. You figured the younger ones were invited to set your mind to rest; not once did Satoru make a pass in their presence. As the evening wore on you felt your inhibitions slip further, anxieties along with them, and enjoyed yourself as though you were in the company of good — albeit, touchy — friends. 

Eventually, the attendants are given leave. Megumi bows deeply, Yuji mirroring him, but then you are thrown an easy wave before the shoji doors slide shut. With no boisterousness to fill the silence, you and Satoru sit quietly and listen as their light footfalls gradually disappear. 

Then, Satoru reaches for your sake cup. Stifling heat flushes through you in anticipation of what he might do. Your tongue peeks out to wet your bottom lip as he brings it to your mouth. “Here,” he murmurs. “Let me”. 

Hand poised by your cheek, you hold the decorative beads pinned behind your ear back while you bend to take a sip. The weight of his stare is unnerving, and inexplicably tempting. You release a pleased little noise at the woody aroma. It’s not unlike the sandalwood incense permeating the room. 

He leans into your space and you hear a shallow intake of breath. After a beat, he confides, “It’s my favourite”. 

You’re immediately disappointed, then you squash it. “Well. Thank you for sharing it with me,” your reflection stares dolefully at you from the bottom of the cup. “For sharing all of this with me. It was unexpectedly… fun”. 

He pouts, and doesn’t miss the way your eyes fall to his mouth. ”I’m not at the top without reason”. 

Sensing Satoru’s mischief, you hasten to deflect from your obvious slip up. “It’s a compliment! I just meant that this was different from what I was expecting”. 

“In a good way?” he coaxed. 

“Yes,” comes your ginger reply. You spare him an equally cautious glance. “I appreciate you letting them stay so long. I’m aware you didn’t have to”. 

After a long silence, Satoru sighs. “Admittedly this isn’t how I usually do things. But I knew I needed to take a different approach tonight”. 

“And what approach is that?” 

“To be myself,” his eyes sweep over your form. “Can I touch you?”

You startle. “That—! We aren’t supposed to be intimate until the third meeting”. 

“Not like that,” he reassures, the corners of his mouth slightly downturned as he fights a smirk. “Though it’s interesting that you would immediately assume something dirty”. 

“We’re in a pleasure district. What else would I assume?” you argued, directing a glare to your lap, “I just didn’t want to overstep house rules”. 

Satoru clicks his tongue, and the sound ricochets throughout your chest. If you had feathers they might’ve been on end, inflamed and splayed out in defense. 

“Are you determined to make this difficult for yourself?” his tone lowers, a warm and playful lilt to it that pulls the breath from your lungs; As if he was actually enjoying his time with you, despite how intransigent you were being about it all. The back and forth was unexpectedly natural, and you think, in part, that is what startled you. “I’m supposed to be seducing you, you know”.

Satoru moves impossibly closer, thighs pressing together. You pull your kimono tighter, feeling exposed under his scrutiny, “And you plan on doing that by aggravating me?” 

“No,” he draws the word out, ducking forward to meet your eyes. “You’re skittish. I thought I might hold you, that’s all”. 

“You want to… hug me?” 

“Hold,” he emphasises. “There’s not a romantic bone in your body, is there?”

Nettled, you lift your chin to glare at him, “I was under the impression you didn’t have any either”.

“You wound me,” he seems all too pleased by your sudden childishness. “Come here, then. Let me show you the difference”. 

You hesitate as his body turns toward you, arms raised a fraction and waiting for your consent. His kimono has loosened further, revealing the defined planes of his stomach. 

Closing the distance, you are pulled into his depths. Tense still, but as promised, Satoru does nothing besides embrace you. Heat seeps through silk garments, an arm secure and branding around your waist while a hand brushes reassuring strokes along your back. Tucked against his chest, soft redolence of floral spice coils around your nose and fills your throat like air. 

With eyes closed, you listen to the pitter patter behind his ribs. His pulse is unexpectedly quick. 

“Are you nervous?” 

It’s surprising that you would be the one to ask. He hums pleasantly. “I wouldn’t call it nervous,” one by one, lissome fingers ascend the length of your spine, “if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the body is always honest”. 

Satoru’s words are flint struck against steel, blood warm and rushing to fill the capillaries as you suppress a shudder. He cradles you securely and gently, as one might hold something precious to them, and your body is alight with it. Lured into a false sense of safety, surrounded by free spirited little white rabbits lovingly sewn into cloth. 

You think you might be one of them now, too. Prey. Lured into the jaws of a man that has eaten his fill many times before — you taste good, but you’re no different. You’re just a rabbit. 

He laughs at your awkwardness and it reverberates, tapering off into a long hum, “Breathe. Stop being so stubborn and let yourself enjoy this”. 

Exhaling at his instruction, you grimace through the obvious quiver and peer up at him. His features are sharper from this angle, cut deep by the shadows. He’s beautiful. A paste of clays moulded into porcelain with smithsonite irises. It isn’t a wonder why people flock to purchase his time — he’s a spectacle.

“Can I ask you something?” 

Then his eyes smile, wrinkling at the corners. It reminds you that he is human. “You don’t need my permission,” he assured. 

I do, you think. 

“Do you believe in love?”

You ache when he laughs again. This particular grin looks brittle up close, and there is a pervading sense of loneliness in it that you can’t shake. “Love is what I sell. Does that answer your question?” 

“Is it?” you ask, lips pressing into a flat line. You were bored of being spoon fed fairytales. “What you sell is short-lived desire”. 

He quietens, regarding you for a moment with dim eyes and you worry that you’ve been cruel. Amidst the silence you think he might be asking you the same thing — is it?

“Well, there’s no shortage of desire,” he says, though mostly to himself. The comment is wary, as if he’d fought something and lost, but his self assured veil is fixed. “They come here to fulfil a dream, one that I can give them. Same as you”.

Just another rabbit. You weren’t sure whether it was his lack of flaw or the idea of him treating you as any other customer that left such an unpleasant taste in your mouth. 

“I think you’ve mistaken me,” you reply curtly.  

“I don’t think I have,” he murmurs, reaching down to smooth over the curve of your cheek, speaking with amused cadence, “you only loathe that choosing me makes you exactly like everyone else”. 

“Gods. You are so—!”

Satoru intrudes into your space until his nose bumps precariously against the skin beneath your eye, practically gleaming with expectant amusement, “—Loveable?” 

Your fingers curl tight into his kimono, lest they find themselves around the pale column of his throat. “Irritating,” you fumed, reflexively pouting. 

“Yet here you are”. The pad of his index finger then presses to your jutted lower lip. He hums, seemingly incognisant of the way your entire body has frozen. “I think you like it,” he says, his voice warm and amused. “I think you like me”. 

“I don’t,” you reply. Too quickly. 

He laughs, “Then I’ll get you to like me over time. Think of it like slowly boiling a frog”. 

“That’s an awful idiom to use. What happened to supposedly trying to seduce me?”

Slowly, his finger skims over your cheek to the shell of your ear. You hold your breath. Close enough to count each white eyelash, to see the individual shadows they cast. He follows the curve with lidded eyes. Over the lobe to your jaw, down to the small gland in your throat, pulse quickening under his touch. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” he plucks your wrist from your lap and brings it to his lips. “It seems to me that it’s working”. 

Rocked by the intimacy, your tight fisted hand unfurls. Satoru watches intently. He begins at your inner wrist with a feather light peck, his lips softer than your imagination allowed, leaving behind a warm impression on your skin. 

He carries on over to the heel, then another, deliberate where he kisses your heart line. You remind yourself to breathe and the exhale comes like a tremor as he nuzzles into the shallow of your palm. Pink lips drag along your thumb, pressing a kiss to the pad with a fleeting dip of tongue, searing against the whorls and lines. 

The air is electric. Satoru repeats the motions for every one of your fingers, his gaze never wavering from yours. There’s heat spreading down your neck, prickling along your spine, pooling in your belly. His mouth quirks, equal parts knowing and amused. 

“What do you think?” he speaks with warm, alluring cadence. There’s a desperate lilt to it that you like. It sounds as though he were just as affected by this as you. “Will you choose me again?” 

That evening with Satoru left you feeling like a convalescent child. Fatigued, indulging in familiar home comforts. It wasn’t anything he did; not delivering gentle touches, nor his well practised whispers. More it was your own reactions — jittery and diffident as a newborn foal — that plagued you on sleepless nights. 

You realise that at some point a subconscious part of your being began to seek his approval in some way. To experience his pleasure, aside from yours. Not only in spite of proving yourself worthy company, but because you— 

A long groan builds in your chest, heels pressed harshly into your eye sockets. This is the exact opposite of what you thought would happen. 

—You truly did come to like him. Selfish as it may be, you wanted him to think of you while you were away, just as you thought of him. 

Gojo Satoru had crawled into your skin; made a home between your fourth and fifth rib. Your family are ecstatic, enthused by the arrival of a letter with his name inscribed on paper in heavy strokes. You tuck it away into your sleeve and read it later in the privacy of your room. 

He asks that you visit again. He makes a promise to kiss more than just your hand, if you permit it. You swallow thickly at the thought, the ink trembling in your grip where you hold it a few inches over open flame. How is it he beguiled you this easily? What had happened to your steadfast resolve? Diminished in a single meeting. 

You tuck the letter under your pillow with a sigh and write back. 

That fateful night begins with an awe inspiring procession stretched many metres down the main road. Your family had insisted on commissioning the event. Hand picked Michizane House attendants, all dressed to mirror one another, walk forward slowly wearing stoic expressions. Lantern bearers, apprentices and servants followed close at the Courtesan's side. 

There in the centre is Gojo Satoru, breathtakingly beautiful. His feet swooped outward in his approach and glided forward with trained precision, standing proud, tall and regal despite the many colourful, heavy robes and accessories swallowing his body. 

You stand by the shop in wonder, surrounded by the crowds reverential whispers. The passing mention of your name encourages you to stand taller, to show the same dignity and grace that Satoru has shown. His eyes stare right ahead — right at you, vivid blue and divine in the lamplight. Under all the cloth and jewellery you see vestiges of boyish excitement. He looks happy that you’re here. 

The onlookers seem to hold their breath as he closes in. Your heart beats wildly in the back of your throat, incognisant of the gentle pitter pattering rain from above. You’ve never seen anything like it. Waterfalls of red, gold, green spilling from his front. The geta on his feet are scuffed, scratch marks stark against the black. You cannot imagine the hours put into perfecting such a precise walk. 

Norimitsu hurriedly produces an umbrella and holds it above you. Shoulders already damp with rain, you didn’t mind it. Satoru peers down at you through wispy, dove feather eyelashes, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in ovation. 

You are ushered into the shop. 

The time between stepping into the genkan and being taken to Satoru’s quarters is a rush. Your new partner is taken elsewhere for assistance with removing his heavy garb. A young girl you’ve never met offers you a clean dry towel and leaves you idly waiting. 

Patting at the damp skin around your collar, you take in the surroundings. It is undoubtedly Satoru’s room, now lit only by lamplight. Golden, flickering shadows veil the space, creating a close and intimate ambiance. There is a luxurious futon in place of the low table covered in fresh bedding and pillows. You swallow at the sight of it. 

“This won’t do”. 

You yelp, covering your mouth to muffle the noise. Satoru stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, hand still holding open the screen. He steps forward and slides it closed with a quiet hiss. You take in his state of undress; a thin pale robe draped around broad shoulders, tied loosely to emphasise a tapered waist, open at the front to expose his chest. Gone are the delicate ornaments and grand fabrics spilling forth from his obi. Brought back down to earth — back to you. 

Lost in your appraisal of him, you almost miss the pinch in his brow. He cups your throat with featherlight pressure, rubbing his fingers together as he pulls away. “You’re wet,” his frown deepens briefly. You witness the moment that his thoughts connect to sex, only to smother them in favour of keeping you comfortable. 

“You can say it, you know,” you offer wryly. He blinks, and the discontent melts to give way for mirth as he realises what it is you’re referring to. 

“Well I can’t now. It loses all impact”.

Satoru takes the towel from your grasp. He hooks a finger into the fold of your kimono and you exhale, feeling knuckles brush over your breasts. “I’ll have Megumi draw you a bath. I can’t have you getting sick on our special night”. 

Right, you think. His geniality and carefree air made it so easy to forget that this was little more than a transaction. “Please. Don’t tell me you got us nuptial cups”. 

“Okay,” he chimes, flattening his palm against your chest to iron out the creases he’d left. “I won’t tell you”. 

You clutch at his wrists, swimming in the loose fabric of his sleeves, “Satoru—!”

“A hot bath should help you relax. We don’t need to jump right in,” he murmurs firmly. Voice low and quiet, a pleasant hum in your ears. His hands are splayed over your hips now, stroking in small circular motions. “I’ll be gentle. Soften you up until you’re ready for me”. 

Your nerves lessen steadily into a simmer. Amusement curls in the corner of your mouth, “A slow boil?” 

Satoru grins; small, affectionate and sincere as he leans in, brushing his nose along the underside of your jaw. You feel a warm breath ghost over your skin. “Yeah,” he says. “Like a slow boil”. 

The Michizane house was prized for more than just sex. You are pointed to a darkened, private bathroom and overwhelmed by the scent of eucalyptus. There is flora carved into the walls, topped with extravagant vermillion gables. Megumi rises from his knees, a sash drawn across his chest to keep his sleeves back, his silhouette blurred by steam. He nods as he greets you and sets a small stool over the grate. Rigid, you take in the large, kiln shaped tub.

Megumi bows, staring over your shoulder when he rises. It reminds you of the man standing patiently at your heel, maintaining a short distance as you acclimate to reality. You thank Megumi and he stoops beneath the curtains to leave. 

Anxious as you were, the bath is calling to you. Tendrils of white dance on the water's surface. Wordlessly, you start to undress, loosening your obi until the neck gapes open and pools at your shoulders. The careful press of Satoru’s hands does not startle you. He helps slide the damp material over your shoulders while you untie the cotton belt around your waist.

Your kimono flowers open. Exhilaration frissons through your body and heat gathers under his fingers. All that’s left are your thin underclothing. You tremble as you reach back to undo the final knot. Satoru peels the layer back, stripping you bare. The temperature is pleasant on your exposed skin. Bumps arise over your arms and breasts, nipples perked up, senses sharpened. You can feel his sinuous movement in the air behind you, fingertips brushing the small of your back. 

“Get in,” he quietly instructs. 

The water is perfect. You dip your toes in first. Knee bending to climb in, your thighs part as you go; Satoru takes a sharp intake of breath that sparks like flint in your belly. Slowly, you sink into the depths, muscles bled of their rigidity. You sigh and tip back to rest your head on the edge. 

“Better?”

You peek at him from beneath half lidded eyes. Satoru has taken up station by the bathtub. He looks comically large on the small stool. His arms are folded by your head, and he lowers into the cradle, cheek turned to watch your face closely. Lazily, you reach to curl a stray strand of white, gossamer hair around your index finger, saturating it with water until it holds a curl. 

“A lot better,” you admit. It’s surprising how little you care that he’s seeing you naked. Maybe it was his commitment to honouring your boundaries that made this so much easier. A supposed sexual being, an ethereal creature of the night, so deliberately keeping his gaze above your collarbones. Picture perfect obeisance. “Will you just sit there?”

Mischief returns to his eyes. “Oh? Were you expecting something?”

“Don’t tease me,” you mumble. This is all so new to you. “I just thought you might…”

When your voice weakens with uncertainty, he presses. “Might?” 

“Bathe me”. 

You see his expression light up in the dim shadows. Satoru deigns to respond, rather, he turns to grab a bowl smaller than his palm. Inside it is a bar of perfumed soap and a cloth. He scoots closer with the cloth between long fingers, disturbing the water as he soaks it. You observe, hazy, as he lathers it with soap and moves to run it over your bicep. You lift your arm out of the water in synchrony, swallowing the swell of emotion in your throat as he covers your hand and gives a deliberate squeeze. 

“Did you enjoy the parade?” he asks. The question echoes in the otherwise silent room, almost as quiet as the rippling water. You nod, too lost in the delicious pressure of his hands as he washed over your shoulders in practised, comforting motions. He huffed a laugh under his breath and continued down the planes of your back as you sat forward. 

The words are cloying on your tongue. “You looked beautiful,” you tell him. “Just watching made my feet ache. How many years did it take to learn that?”

“That’s what you were thinking about?” he needled. You shudder at the innocent pass beneath your breasts, barely hearing him. “You were supposed to be enchanted by me. Not worrying about my ankles”. 

“I was,” you insist, voice slightly slurred. The loss of tension has left you loose lipped. “You were so incredible. I could hardly believe you were walking in my direction. I can hardly believe you’re at my side now, bathing me”. 

There’s a wealth of emotion in his eyes that you aren’t privy to. Satoru hums amusedly and bends to kiss your wet shoulder. He takes a copper jug from the shelf and fills it with water, shielding your face when he pours it over you to rinse away the bubbles. Eventually, he whispers for you to get up. 

“Best get out before you prune,” he smirks. Satoru snakes an arm around your waist as you stand. Uncaring of how wet his robe would get, he balances you against his broad chest, leaving behind the wet impression of your hand. You feel something warm pressed to your temple. It is only when you are dry, wrapped in a thin robe of your own, that you realise it was another kiss.

You’re perched on your knees in the centre of his futon. Legs numb under your body, skittish heart jumping behind your ribs. You feel more naked than ever before. Somehow the suggestion of nudity is far more overwhelming than the latter. 

Satoru sets a tray of sake cups on a tray, setting it beside the futon. You are awash with relief to see that they are the house’s regular cups. He must notice, because he chuckles. 

Pouring you a shallow cup, he asks, “Have you ever bedded a man?”

There’s a tremor in your hands when you receive the sake from him. Between sips you reply, “No”. 

“Are you scared?”

There is something in his voice, in the way his demeanour shifts, in how his face softens; it alleviates the panic. The waves become bearable. You can’t find it in yourself to fear what he might think of you now, not when he’s looking at you like he loves you. 

“I’m not scared,” and it’s the truth. 

You like it when he smiles. When he finds you funny and the bridge of his nose wrinkles. It’s no wonder some guests are dragged out kicking and screaming come morning. 

“Why didn’t you choose Yuta?” Satoru splays out beside you. He lay on his hip, legs angled toward you, elbow propped up to rest his head. There is little left to the imagination. His belt hangs low, showing the firm plains of his abdomen. Your sights linger on the fair hair leading from his navel, growing thicker below the confines of his robe. 

“Yuta?” you echo. 

He nods, reaching across your lap to pick up his own cup. The sake leaves behind a sheen on his lips. You track the swipe of his tongue, leaning into his heat. 

“Yuta is widely known to be a favourite amongst newcomers. Virgins especially,” he says. Had it not been for his neutral tone, you might’ve rushed to defensiveness. Empty drink set aside, his hand waves dismissively, “Apparently I’m too intimidating”. 

“I can see why people might think that. You are sort of… otherworldly, at first glance”.

“Then why did you pick me?”

After your third night together the relationship would be sealed. You would be forbidden from accompanying another Courtesan. While it was not a traditional relationship, it still spoke of a high level of commitment and dedication to one another. Pride reared its lion head and you struggled to find the right words. Telling the truth would expose your feelings like a shorn nerve. Lying wouldn’t sit right with you.

“This isn’t one sided,” you tell him instead. “You could’ve turned me away. You chose me too. Why?”

“Because I wanted you,” he says plainly. Then, Satoru, far braver than you, takes your face into his hands, sweeping over your cheeks. You can taste his breath, sweet from the sake. “My world is all about desire and I’m no different. I want you”. 

Satoru wears the warm lamp light well. Painted in strokes over every muscle and curve, it softens him. You let him take your weight, gently guiding you as you recline against the futon; thick and plush beneath, you are ensconced with his body heat as he presses chest to chest. Your thighs part naturally to make room, hooking lazily at either side of his waist. 

His lips brush your own in a whisper of a kiss. “Wait,” you gasp, instinctively gripping his shoulders. Satoru doesn’t pull away nor does he push. As you asked, he waits. “What if I’m terrible at it?” 

Blinking slow, he rubs his nose along your cheek. Eyelashes tickle you like a moth's wing. “Sex isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present,” your fingers slide up the back of his neck, curling into his hair. Your eyes fall closed as he tilts to kiss each eyelid. “It’s about doing what feels good and letting go. Let me take care of you”. 

Satoru’s mouth is hot and softer than any silk you’ve worn. He takes his time with you. The kiss begins tenderly — unexpectedly chaste, but never parting for long.

It touches something deep within you. The feeling intensifies as he parts the seam of your lips with his clever tongue, and when your fingers tighten at the back of his skull, he moans. You shudder under him, thighs reflexively clenching. 

His hand comes up to cradle your crown as he gently coaxes your tongue into his mouth to suck on it, the other cascading the length of your bare calf to your thigh and kneading. Squeezing. Appreciating every inch of you. Satoru slips beneath the hem of your robe. You whine, trying to follow his lead. 

“Yours first,” you pant, pawing at his clothes. Hair mussed from your hands, Satoru looms above you with kiss bitten lips pulled into a grin. You stare as he opens his robe, letting it slide naturally over his shoulders and casting it aside. 

Your hands find smooth milky skin. He settles with his arms braced either side of your head and lets you touch. Fingertips trace the lines and divots of his stomach, feeling his muscles flinch under your touch. He’s a marvel to look at. But what you like best are the noises he makes — each part of his body is a new string to pluck. 

The white hair around his cock is trim and surprisingly soft. He’s pale with a subtle curve, the tip blushing dark pink. Of course his cock would be pretty, too. He’s big. You think he is. You wouldn’t know, not really, but long enough for you to worry. 

With newfound curiosity, you trail a finger from root to crown, spreading the prespend around his slit. You wrap yourself around his length and smile when he twitches, hips involuntarily bucking into your fist. Exhaling a shaken breath, “Can I touch you, too?”

“…Okay,” you hold his gaze and let him see the need there. A part of you wanted to be looked upon as an equal, rather than a fledgling; such thoughts you know to be ridiculous. Surely the power imbalance should lie with you, and yet. 

You turn your cheek to the pillow while he parts the robe. It’s different here. Hugged by a dewy orange hue, the darkness makes the room smaller and casts your body in another light. You’re relaxed, laid flat. A shadow curves around the soft, lower part of your stomach. Your breasts lay slightly uneven, no longer held in place by a bust belt. Your legs are spread and draped around his waist, cushiony next to what looks to be cut straight from porcelain. 

“Gods. You are divine”. 

Satoru sits back on his calves, palming at your own. The oil lamplight flickers in his crystalline eyes and he looks ravenous. He’s looking at you. 

“Satoru…” You ignore the urge to cover your face as he lifts your legs to hook one over his shoulder. You are already breathing heavily and he hasn’t touched you yet. He must know. 

With reverence, Satoru turns and presses a kiss to the arch of your foot, smiling when you reflexively kick. “Ticklish?” he murmurs. The next is pressed to your ankle, drawn out and warm, holding your gaze as he does it. “How cute”. 

Your hands twist in the sheets. He continues up your calf to your knee, then further, forging a path of lascivious words between your thighs. A shudder wracks through your body at the ghost of his breath over your sex. And when he blows lightly, purposefully, you can feel how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. So quiet it might not have been for your ears. Heat spreads under your skin. You’re equally frustrated and aroused as he continues on, abdomen flexing where he brushes a kiss to your navel. “You’re so beautiful”. 

Satoru rubs his cheek over your stomach and takes a deep, contented breath. His hands smooth along your waist, kneading and squeezing at the flesh but never enough to bruise. Your heart jumps as he cups your breasts, mouthing the valley between, gently pushing them together to flick his tongue over each nipple. Wet with spit, he blows again, smiling as your skin pebbles as though it were reaching for him. 

“You’re perfect,” he continues, returning to his place over you. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, now. The kind a man gets when he’s hungry. “I love how reactive you are. Look at you”. 

“Satoru,” your voice echoes, desperate and barely recognisable. His face is warm in your hands — there’s a ruddiness to his cheeks that is unmistakably a blush. You’ve never felt so desired. His eyes watch as you wet your lips, and you try to pull him closer. “Kiss me again”. 

“Another?” He sounds so breathless. Even so, Satoru barely yields, holding rigid over your wanting mouth. “Where, angel? Here?” He kisses the skin below your eye. “…Here?” His lips press to the line of your jaw. 

You whine. Strengthening your grip, you force him to align with you, “Here”. 

And he does, licking into your mouth in teasing, practised motions. He tastes like his favourite sake. Teeth sink into the fat of your bottom lip, pulling gently and letting go, connected by a thin string of spit. Half lidded eyes fall to the laboured rise and fall of your breasts, his fingertip circling around your pert nipple. 

“Talk to me,” he pinches the nub between his fingers. Exhaling a short moan, you push up into the touch. “I want to hear all your sweet little noises. Will you do that for me?” 

“Feels embarrassing,” you confess thickly. The vulnerability is overwhelming; your body continues to betray your true feelings with glaring clarity, all while his own remains hidden. “It’s— it’s a lot. I want you to feel good, too”.

“Good?” A fair brow arches. Satoru rolls his hips down in one smooth motion. He slides through your folds, weighty and hot. The head of his cock bumps against your clit and you both groan in synchrony. “This is what you do to me”. 

“Me?” 

“You,” he answers easily. The thick baritone of his voice quakes through you. Your pulse throbs as he reaches down to cup your pussy. “I wanna kiss you here, too. Can I?” 

The heel of his hand alleviates the ache. Your hips instinctively grind against him, pleasure gathering low in your belly. “Yes,” you nod frantically, wanting more. “Please”. 

“So well mannered,” he teases, thumbing your lower lip. The playful air has you opening your mouth, tongue pressed to skin. You feel his cock twitch. His fingers shift where they’re splayed across your cheek and he taps your jaw. “Get these nice and wet for me”. 

Satoru smooths the pad of his thumb over your tongue, learning the grooves of your teeth. Heat flushes through you. The soft wet sounds of spit pooling into your cheeks rings in your ears as he pulls back, only to slide in another. Two, his middle and index, splitting them so they frame your tongue and stretch your mouth. 

“You really are gorgeous”. 

Embarrassment floods through you, yet somehow, his earnest praise only feeds your arousal. You buck against the hand that has slowly begun to grind against your pussy. Sex is about feeling good, he’d said. It’s about letting go. 

You meet his eyes and steel your resolve. Cutting free of shame you wrap your lips around his knuckles and suck unabashedly. His lashes flutter, jaw slacking with a drawn out groan. “There you are,” he murmurs, retracting his fingers. They’re coated in saliva, glistening. 

Before you can mourn the loss they’re sliding over your clit and the complaint dies in your throat. He spreads you open. Pupils dilated and gleaming, he descends your torso and rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit between the V of his fingers. 

Your hands take root in his hair. He is undeterred by the clench of your legs either side of his head. He leans forward to consume you completely, eyes falling shut in a show of pure indulgence. Covetous, he verbalises his satisfaction with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex. 

The beat of your heart ricochets through your stomach. Satoru’s tongue glides over you, languid and soft. Wherever a pleasured sound falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace. “Fuck, Satoru. That’s—” you keen when he gently sucks your clit between his lips, finger hooked and pressed to your entrance. 

Satoru’s sinks into you, a careful back and forth, relaxing the tension with his tongue as he works his way in. It's foreign. He’s bigger, longer than yours. Not unlike the reverential way he treated your mouth, he pulls out when you’re comfortable and pushes in another. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks. You blink through the warm haze. There’s a sheen of spit and arousal covering his chin. 

You shake your head no, “Feels… feels really good”. 

“It’ll feel even better soon,” he promises, maintaining a delicious rhythm. Fingers curl upwards inside of you, a come hither motion towards your belly. That intense feeling tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs flexing against his ears with hips bucking into his hand. 

“Oh—!” He angles his head to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over your clit and your heels dig into his back. “Satoru!”

The breath is caught in your throat. From your fingers to your toes, something all consuming forces your muscles rigid and your spine arches upward like a bow as you crest. Then the air is pushed from your lungs. All at once, the sensation lessens, diffuses, and warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses. 

You hear the fond intonation of your name. It sounds so natural in his mouth. You’re awash with afterglow. Was sex always like this? You felt as though you were floating. Releasing a satisfied sound, you slump into the futon. Satoru laughs and the room glows a little brighter. 

“Done already?” he asks, massaging your calf. There is a hint of pride in his voice. “We have all night together, you know”. 

“No,” you mumble, teeth worrying your lip as you push up onto your elbows. He’s hard, you notice. Hung heavily between your bodies. You want that power at your disposal — to render him as useless as you. “I want you to cum, too”. 

There’s a pinch in his brow. Satoru shifts with you and squeezes at the fat around your hips, “You don’t need to push yourself”. 

You try and fail to articulate it, stringing together a breathless request, “No I—I want you to cum because of me”. 

Satoru laughs and the sound dwindles into a light groan as he squeezes himself. “Angel. All of this is because of you”. 

“Then fuck me,” you say. “Properly”. 

The lamplight flickers, moving the shadows on his face. He’s gazing at you from above, big, hungry. Exhilaration frissons down your spine. Satoru manoeuvres your hips, dragging your lower half unceremoniously into his lap and slipping a spare pillow beneath you. 

When the head of his cock catches, you instinctively clench. “Breathe for me,” he coaches tenderly, and you let the tension go. The stretch is unfamiliar and uncomfortable, but as you exhale the sting lessens until there is no pain at all. Skin to skin, Satoru lingers patiently in the cradle of your hips, letting you adjust to his length. 

“Move,” you rasp. “Please”. 

He pulls out with an indelible pace. You’re still sensitive, but it feels good in an odd way. Melting into the sheets to savour the drag of his cock. Your breasts shake with every rock of his hips, blue eyes enraptured and following the movement. Bending to cage you in, Satoru captures your lips in a deep kiss, groaning loud into your mouth with his hand laid flat and pressing to your belly. 

“Taking me so well,” he rumbles. “I knew you would. Wanted you the second I saw you”. 

That sensation returns. It begins like a trickle, the heady pleasure slowly seeping and growing in intensity until it’s an enormous wave. He indulges, and you arch into his touch as he continues to transverse the length of your body to tuck into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck. Feel that?” the words press against your jugular. His hips rear back for emphasis, “You keep sucking me back in”. 

Inhibitions lost, you tether yourself to him, nails embedded in the pinked skin of his shoulders. You stutter out a warning, “Fuck, Satoru. I think— I’m going to—!”

“There you go,” he punctuates the demand with a firm thrust. Eyes squeezing shut, your arms lock around the expanse of his back, toes curling as your legs seize forcefully around his waist. More overwhelming than the first, you clench down on his cock as you’re tipped over the crest. 

Satoru carries you through it with the languid undulation of his hips, peppering kisses to your cheek. His own broken whines are hot against your skin. Your arms are limp, still clinging enough to keep him close. You don’t want to let go. 

That thought passes just as his breath hitches and he abruptly pushes up from your chest. Gripping the base of his cock he pulls out, he fucks desperately into his fist and cums over your bare stomach. Satoru exhales a long moan and the sound tapers into a sigh. 

Regaining his bearings, Satoru murmurs your name again. You watch dazedly as he lifts his head. The corner of his mouth curls up into a satiated smile as he notices you’re already looking back at him. Leaning to press a kiss to your forehead, the room falls unnaturally quiet. The dregs of afterglow slowly dissipate, and reality creeps into the forefront of your mind. 

“Are you in pain?”

There’s urgency in his expression and you realise he has sensed your change in mood. “Not…” you wriggle slightly beneath him. “Wow. No pain. I’m just a little sore”. 

“You felt incredible,” his face softens with relief and glances to where your bor bodies once connected. You grimace as he drags a finger through the cum on your belly. “Rest here. I’ll fetch something to clean us both up with and have Megumi bring some water to drink”. 

What follows is akin to a lovesick haze. A memory before you can even register it. You awake to the brilliant ochre of the morning, swaddled in thick blankets and laid next to a warm body. Satoru has you cradled to his naked chest, rising and falling with shallow breath, sleeping soundly. 

The sunlight has flooded into the room and that is enough to conclude that it is long after dawn. Your ears prick at the sound of movement in the rooms around you, and the events of last night flash unbidden through your mind. Noises like that are commonplace in a pleasure house — still, you hope nobody heard you.

Cautious as not to wake him, you lift your head to survey your surroundings. The atmosphere is so starkly different during the day. All the allure and taboo is gone. It is just a man's bedroom. The only space that truly belonged to Satoru. 

It tasted bitter in your mouth. 

“What’re you thinking about?”

Satoru had roused so easily. You wonder if he always slept so light. “I was thinking that…” you pause, giving your next words some thought. “I think you don’t… belong in this place”. 

Satoru readjusts himself and meets your gaze from above, bracing over your body with one arm. His head tilts, lazing against his shoulder as he watches you, tracing a lithe finger over the swell of your cheek. 

“Oh? What will you do?” his voice is tired, lilted as if he were mocking you. But he’s smiling, too, and it is unlike the others — soft and sad. His vulnerability leaked through the crescent-shaped indentations you’d left behind. “Will you buy my freedom and deprive my other loyal customers of their fulfilment?” 

“I don’t care about their fulfilment,” you mutter, eyes falling to the space beneath the linens where your legs are still entangled with his. He laughs. 

“You’re more selfish than I thought,” his fingertips smooth along your jaw, gently tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. “And then what? You’ll keep me all for yourself?” 

It reveals a lot, you think, that his first assumption is you’d still expect him to serve you somehow. All Satoru has ever done in his life is give, give, give. He was beautiful, strong and skilled, and such gifts from the Gods were obligated to be shared. 

But as he said, you are selfish. When his thumb skims along the bow of your lips, they stretch into a promising smile. “No,” you tell him. “You can go anywhere you like”. 

It’s a pleasure to watch his expression wane, the push and pull of hope and disbelief. Now, his eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them. “Anywhere?” he breathes. 

“Anywhere,” turning into his palm, you kiss the heel and feel a tremor rush through him. “Be whoever you want. Just Satoru”. 

A brief silence stretches thin. And then he laughs again, an abrupt sound. Satoru dips to press your foreheads together; close enough that you can see the dreamer's expression on your face reflected in his own pupils, and individually count the striking white lashes along his waterline. 

“Selfish and cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Instead of warmth, you suddenly feel cold. “Even if that were possible, I have responsibilities here. Megumi, Yuji and the others are here”. 

“But—!”

“—I have influence. High ranking customers. I keep those kids safe here, and I bring in enough money that they can enjoy their youth before they’re made to work,” he continues. As it goes on, his voice is steadily harder; the cradle along your jaw firmer. 

Brows pinched, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed forward. Your nose bumps against his cheek, lips awkwardly aligned — you let him kiss you. It’s too quick, and almost punishing. 

Pulling back, he rasps, “It is my job to sell dreams. Not yours”. 

That’s right. How could you forget?

He cups your face again, as though he didn’t want to let go. The pad of his thumb strokes over your cheek, tracing a shallow crescent shape beneath your eye. You’ve never felt so helpless.

You leave the Michizane house soon after with a smile painted on your face. It will not slip, not until later in the night. You cannot allow Yaga to question Satoru’s treatment of you. A courtesan’s duty is to appease. Norimitsu scans your body, entirely lacking subtlety, and steps forward to assist you into the rickshaw without a word. You’re thankful for it. 

When you do not return to the shop, a letter arrives. The parchment is perfumed with a comfortingly familiar scent. Satoru inscribes his longing onto the page. He’s asking if you’ll visit with him again, and in the bottom corner he has cleverly convinced Megumi and Yuji to sign their names alongside his own. Your chest tightens. 

Weak, you reach for your ink stone and brush.

Satoru sold dreams — and yours had been to be loved. You wondered if that was his dream, too.

[wreckedandpolemic]

she's got a boyfriend anyway - matty healy

part i - the night's like a whirlwind, somebody's girlfriend

yes u read that right its a series babey!! we love u cheatersss!!

warnings: not technically 18+ but the series will be, cheating, drinking, smoking

You clutch your plastic cup of wine like a lifeline, your pulse thundering in your throat to the beat of the song playing over the speakers. Snatches of indistinct conversation float around you, too intangible to grasp. You can’t hear your footsteps on the kitchen tile — are you even really there? It doesn’t seem like it. You bump into people and they don’t even notice, like you’re a ghost. The relief is palpable on your face when you step out of the crowded, close heat of the house into the cool night air. You slide the glass door shut, muffling the violent bass shaking the building. The cold metal of the chair you sit on bites your thighs, revealed by your too-short dress riding up.

A soft clicking sound accompanied by a brief flash and a frustrated scoff catches your attention and you turn to see a silhouette. His face is shrouded in shadow, the spark of the lighter illuminating him just long enough to catch pretty, almost feminine cheekbones and long, messy curls.

Matty turns to you. “Hey,” he says, lifting his chin at you. “You don’t have a light, do you? This thing’s a piece of shit.” He waves his empty lighter at you and pulls out the chair opposite, taking a seat across from you. Resting his elbows on the table, he props his chin up on his hands coquettishly and looks you up and down.

“Yeah, giz a sec,” you reply. You hate that it’s so awkward between you — you haven’t spoken in months, not since you left for uni, and neither of you reached out when you got back last week. You’ve missed him, and you miss him more acutely now he’s within your grasp and yet still so far. If you reached out, you think he would dissipate, shimmering, like a mirage. The sound of his fingers drumming impatiently on the table makes you remember his request and you wrench your gaze away from his hands, rings sparkling in the low light. You don’t miss the way his eyes latch onto your tits, spilling out of your low-cut dress, as you dig in your bra for your lighter. It’s warm in your hand as you pass it to him, something flickering between you when your skin brushes his.

You’ve always been each other’s forbidden fruit, polarising magnets circling each other for years but never colliding. The time was never right; there was always something in the way — his girlfriend, your studying, the band, work. Then, when you were packing up for uni, you told him it had to be over for good, no more dancing around each other, prodding at boundaries to see if they’ll give. It was easier to tell him over the phone, and you got to hide from the fallout in London for a few months. You even have a boyfriend, a sweet, loving, devoted boyfriend, and you’ve not (okay, barely) thought about Matty since. Until now, and the realisation hits you like a bucket of cold water that it isn’t over, because it never will be.

“Thanks,” he says, low voice muffled by the cigarette and cutting through your thoughts and reminding you with a bump that he’s there, in front of you, close enough to reach out and touch. You have to restrain yourself from brushing a stray curl out of his eyes.

You shrug. “Anytime.” Matty lifts the lighter up, illuminating the soft planes of his face for a second. You watch, fascinated, as he hollows his cheeks, filling his lungs with smoke, the tip of his cigarette glowing orange. Smoke pours from his mouth when he exhales, and a familiar itch buzzes under your skin.

“Giz a cig,” you say, leaning forward and swiping his pack from his front pocket before he can protest. “I’m dying for one.” You pluck a cigarette from the pack and twirl it between your fingers, reaching for your lighter.

Matty snatches it away with a grin. “Cheeky,” he teases. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you? Still a thieving little bitch. Thought London might straighten you out, but no luck.”

You grin, easily slipping back into that oh-so-familiar playful, flirty banter. “In your dreams, Healy,”

“Oh, every night since you left, princess.” His words strike a bolt of sinful lust through your body. You want to crack that pretty head of his open, see exactly what he dreams about, live it through his eyes, feel it through his body.

“Is that so?” you grin, leaning forward, the part of your brain warning you against him growing quieter and quieter with every passing second. Matty nods, inching closer as if entranced by you, that magnetic pull overtaking him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, delicious and red and tempting. While he’s distracted, you make a grab for your lighter, but he’s still faster.

“Not so fast,” he grins, lifting it just out of your reach. “Come here,” he says, returning his cigarette to his mouth and beckoning you. You have to stand just a little for your cigarette to touch his. “Deep breath,” he instructs, as if you don’t know how to light a cigarette. From anyone else, you’d find it horribly patronising. You pull obligingly, though, the embers catching your cigarette alight and flooding your mouth with smoke. It’s intimate, a kiss without touch.

A deep inhale sends the nicotine buzzing through your blood, your head going fuzzy for a second before everything clicks into even sharper focus. “Thanks,” you murmur faintly, dragging on the cigarette again before you trust yourself to speak.

He leans back, eyeing you, scrutinising your guarded expression. “How come you came out here all alone? Bored of your fit friends?”

You squint at him. “They’re your friends too.” Then you shrug, pondering his question. You wonder if, subconsciously, you were looking for him. “Just wanted a fag, didn’t I? Plus it’s loud as fuck in there,”

Matty gives the barest hint of a nod. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it as if thinking better. But, of course, he never thinks better for long. “Not brought your boyfriend, then?” he asks, disparaging tone making no secret of what he thinks of him. They’ve not even met, all he knows is what he’s seen on the Internet and what your friends have told him. But then, he’d find a way to condescend anyone you were dating, even if he were a consecrated saint.

You roll your eyes. He’s such a boy. You can tell he wants you, it’s written all over his face, but he won’t say it. He wants you to be the one to make the leap, he wants you to feed his ego by throwing your morals aside for him, dirty up your hands until the stain of infidelity clings under your nails. “Nah,” you say, leaning back and watching him wait for elaboration you won’t give. “But I can call him.” You pause. A vein jumps in his forehead. “If you want,”

“Go on, then,” he says, smoke billowing around him. He’s calling your bluff, and six months ago he would have been right. But he doesn’t know you inside and out anymore. You’re sharper now, a thing with corners and shadows to hide in, and you don’t make empty threats.

You pick your phone up from where it rests on the table, unlocking it and navigating to your contacts. Your finger hovers over your boyfriend’s name, and you quirk an eyebrow at him, giving him one last chance. Matty doesn’t move, so you pick up the phone and lift it to your ear. It rings once, twice, then his hand shoots out to snatch it from your grasp. He hangs up, stabbing the button violently, then surges forward.

He crashes into your waiting mouth, sending fireworks rocketing through your body. The kiss is intense, years of pent-up want and longing flowing between you. Kissing your boyfriend has never felt like this.

Wait.

Your heart stops and you pull away, flickering your eyes over his wet mouth and heaving chest before forcing yourself to look down at the table. It’ll be easier to force the words out without looking at him. “I…” You swallow thickly. “We can’t. My… I’ve got a—”

He presses two fingers to your lips to shut you up. “Love, I don’t give a fuck about your boyfriend.” Your eyes track him as he walks around the table, coming up behind you and turning you around. He’s so close to you. Danger, your mind screams, vision pulsing red, but your body calls out to him and you press closer. “And I don’t think you do, either.”

Against your better instincts, you kiss him again, burying your hand in his soft curls the way you’ve wanted to for years. Matty grips your waist, nails digging like you’re something precious he’s caught and can’t release. His tongue sweeps your mouth, tasting of cigarettes and orange gin and some underlying taste that’s uniquely Matty, and it’s addictive. You kiss harder, rocking your body against him, open-mouthed whines escaping you. “You’re right,” you admit, his hands on your body making it feel like something sacred, a prayer instead of confession. “I don’t give a fuck about him. Not if I can have you,”

Something that sounds suspiciously like a moan escapes him, and he presses his lips to yours one last time before pulling away with a smug grin. “If you’re throwing him away for a kiss, imagine how much better I fuck.” You still, your body betraying you. He gasps, that infallible smirk stealing back onto his face. “Oh, poor baby. Is that it? Your pretty boyfriend can’t make you come?”

You shudder. How did he know? Encounters flash in your mind, every time he’s rolled off you with a grunt, leaving you with nothing, every time you’ve faked it just to get it over with, and Matty watches your face as if your memories are flickering in your eyes. “...No,” you admit, cheeks heating. He brushes a thumb over your cheek, sparks tracing in his wake.

“I could,” he murmurs, breath warm in the cold night air. “I could make you fall apart with my hands, in my mouth, on my cock. I’d fucking worship that gorgeous body of yours, princess.” You’re panting into his mouth, the mental images so vivid you can practically feel him inside you. “Do you want me to?”

Every nerve in your body screams out for him. The air between you is thick with lust, a plea balanced delicately on the tip of your tongue. “I—” The door clatters open and you bite back a frustrated scream, shoving Matty off you.

“There you are!” gasps the host, a high school friend named Rebecca. Then she catches sight of your compromising position and smirks knowingly. “Well, don’t you look cosy?” You freeze, a dozen explanations springing to your lips, all of them faulty and insufficient. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She mimes zipping her lips shut, then darts out of the kitchen and seizes your arm. “Now, come on! We’re doing shots!”

You let her drag you away, as much as you’d rather stay with Matty, because it is her party, after all. Several rounds of shots later, your mind is fuzzy from drink and you’re stumbling around with the singular goal of finding Matty again and finishing what you started. After a few minutes of hunting high and low, someone tells you he’s gone home. You pout; it’s not like him to leave a party so early. Then, someone presses another glass of wine into your hand and drags you off to dance and you forget all about him until you make it home.

You lay in bed, face clean and painkillers dissolving in your belly, and your thoughts turn back to Matty. His warm breath on your face, hands tight around your body, dirty words staining your memories. Closing your eyes and clenching your thighs, you ignore the pang of guilt and let your mind wander to the promises he made, replaying those vivid pictures over and over.

God, you are utterly and completely fucked.

[solradguy]

might be wrong but iirc you have (sun?)glasses for your sensitive eyes right? if so, do you have any recommendations on where to get any kinda non prescription glasses? i also have sensitive eyes... orz

I do but they're just shitty $10 ebay sunglasses that don't do much at all :')

A while ago I did some research to find out what to look for in sunglasses for particularly light sensitive eyes, and the best ones are polarized, mirrored, and category 3 or 4. Light protection lenses come in "categories" with 0 being basically no UV protection at all (think general seeing eye glasses), cat.1 having light tinting but not much protection, cat.2 being basic/standard sunglasses, 3 being really good, and 4 being "don't drive while wearing these" lol

Unfortunately, glasses that have all of these are expensive as all hell... Ones I had written down are Ray-Bans' Flash Polarised glasses or their Chromance range... Someone else I found recommended green-tinted glasses helping a lot and those are generally more affordable than friggin Ray-Bans. Black and dark grey lenses work best for me too, even if the UV protection on my sunglasses isn't the best. Aviators look cool as hell but they tend to slide down my nose after a while and don't have protection on the sides so light still gets in from certain angles

My best pair of glasses right now are these things:

"Retro Steampunk Sunglasses Side Shield Vintage Metal Round Eyewear Glasses," $10 on ebay (there are a lot of sellers of these and they're all the exactly the same—don't pay more than $10 for them). They've held up surprisingly well and seem to have nearly indestructible lenses; I throw them into my pocket regularly when I'm out haha Those side shields are awesome too. Biggest downside (?) is that they get compared to a lot of things...

(Crowley Good Omens, Alucard Hellsing, Ozzy Osbourne)

So uh... That can be good or bad depending on your aesthetic choices lol

These Heron Mountain shades by Vallon seem pretty good and decently priced, but the side shields limit vision and I wanna see if I can find sunglasses like these without vision-limiting sides for maybe a lower price first. If I do, I'll be sure to post about it on here

[uglyfisheyewear]

undefined

Why Should You Buy Kid’s Sunglasses?

[rudyprojectau1]

The 5 Best Things About Polarized Sunglasses

Want to know what are the 5 best things about polarized sunglasses? Visit this informational blog and buy polarized sunglasses now!

[mimiriko]

I need more merman geto in my life

part one

Your heart hasn’t stopped weighing down on your chest ever since you managed to gather your jelly legs together and run back home from the ocean. It’s an emotion hard to describe, plenty to feel.

Restlessness, dizziness. A hole gnawing itself bigger as days go by.

In daylight, you don’t escape him. Not when the biting smell of sea salt still lingers in each breath you take, filling your lungs with an acid hard to neutralise. The books you once bubbled with excitement to read now seem bleak in your hands as you stand motionless in an aisle of your library. A frequent place you visit. With its mahogany hardwood floors and a slew of soft fairy lights hung all over. A contrast you welcome from the waters plaguing your mind.

But maybe you don’t know it well enough. Otherwise you wouldn’t have felt surprised at a wide section of books in the fifth aisle full of sea life and its wonders. It felt like mockery, faith taking pity on your frazzled form. Your nimble fingers clasp around the binding, flipping through pages as strands of smooth dark hair dance over the surface of your memory.

At night, submerged in dreams where you are supposed to be the one with the handle, he takes control. You see him in his blue domicile, swimming in all his glory—elegant with the strokes of his tail and powerful with the force of them. Bulldozing through waves like a whetted blade on skin.

You dream about him through third person, looking into his hypothetical life behind a stained glass window. Sometimes you’re even right next to him, with your tails intertwined like two capillaries ready to join into a vein.

You wonder what your tail would look like. You remember his to be blue and purple.

The veil of fear you forged around yourself lasted one whole December, before you decided for the new year, you would return.

The snarl of winter keeps all life away from your home. Polarised, just the way you like it. Frosty sand prickles your feet and you stretch your toes in response. Each layer of clothing you strip off makes your blood wail, bones rattle.

You take a step into the wet sand, when all you have on is safety shorts and a tank top, and relish the way it sinks slightly with your weight. Fizzing sea foam clings to your ankles in a greeting, and the water changes its shape around you as you walk deeper.

It was always supposed to be like this, you think.

——————

He senses you before he sees you.

Your scent is different from the rest of humans. It lays thick on his tongue, overpowering with familiarity. It finds him every time, through valleys and bundles of waves, like a lost child in search of its home.

To the rest of his clan, it’s just another breath in their gills. To him, it’s a calling.

And he always picks up.

His heart beats like a rabbit as the space between the two of you slims; a gulf that narrows into a pond, but this time he halts at a place much farther than he’s used to.

That’s because it is you who is swimming much ahead of your usual distance.

Strange, flowy material hugs your figure, rippling like river water against the soil bed. Your movements are small but filled with purpose, and a warm burst of light explodes in his chest as his eyes catch your face above the surface, splashes of water hitting your chin in a way that oddly endears him.

He flicks his tail, suddenly skittish when you stop.

A chorus of voices in his head sing closer closer closer. Until the soles of your feet are near, and he leans forwards to face them. You remain calm, unaware—in search of the silhouette that haunts you.

Geto quietly breaks the water, and your shock almost sends you reeling.

———————

There’s an unearthly beauty to him. Angular features, slender nose and salmon lips. Milky skin with soft cheeks you crave to cup. The path down his neck and shoulders are delicately moulded and held by string, the rest dissolving into a smudge underwater, dim twinkles of his marble scales catching your vision.

“I didn’t expect to find you so quickly,” you rasp, voice rough from disuse of the day.

“Couldn’t let my human shiver in the water for too long, can I?”

My human.

Maybe you were in his thoughts just as much as he had been in yours.

“..No,” you softly say, “I guess not.”

“You have a habit of coming when the God’s above are peeved,” he says with mirth, intently watching you tilt your head.

“The Gods abov… you mean the weather?”

The corner of his lips quirk up. “The Gods' control the change of the atmosphere, so yes, the weather.”

You blink. “I see. Do you not feel the cold?”

“Sometimes,” he admits, “We have alcoves for shelter. Mainly for children.”

He hesitates before adding: “Would you like to see?”

[coltrainbat]

what about Reader been a brat and trying to embarrassed lloyd Hanson, who is trying to patient and has no choice to punish her

You're Not Sorry

Lloyd hadn’t really done anything in particular to piss you off. You just decided that you weren’t getting enough attention from the man. 

So, you felt tonight was the perfect occasion for your brand new little black dress. Also, because you told Lloyd you’d meet him at the party. His words ringing in your ear as you adjusted the position of the lace up panel to cover your bare pussy. 

“This is a very important work event for me baby, lots of important partners there so please wear something nice.”

It’s his fault really, nice is a very polarising word. You personally found this dress, nice, Lloyd on the other hand probably wouldn’t let you leave the house in it. 

Oh well, too late now. 

You made your way into the event, heels clacking against the marble stairs towards the entrance. You could feel eyes following your every move and the subsequent scoff from the wives who had caught their husbands’ eyes on your barely covered ass. 

Perfect, the dress was working. 

Grabbing a glass of champagne from the attendant, you looked for your lover amongst the group. But it was too late because his eyes had already found you, most likely following the murmurs and chokes that were let out when you finally made your way inside. 

He immediately, b-lined for you. His broad figure stood over you, his blue eyes now dark with anger,

“What the fuck are you wearing?” He seethed through clench teeth.

“You said wear something nice, this is nice.” You gestured towards your dress. Eyes innocently gazing at him.

“You look like a fucking whore.” He spat in your ear.

“Oh well.” You smirked.

“We are lea-“

“Lloyd!” He was cut off by the sudden appearance of an equally attractive man. Arguably a little older than Lloyd but no less handsome. He maintained a healthy head of salt and pepper hair, his top buttons undone, revealing a hard chest. 

“Spencer! Hi… how are you.” Lloyd stutters as he went to accept the man’s outstretched hand in a shake. 

Lloyd never stutters let alone gets intimidated by another man. Oh shit. This guy was important. Time to really turn up the heat. 

“And whose this beauty?” The man turned towards you clearly checking you out as his eyes drank in the sight of you. 

You caught a glimpse of Lloyd’s face, pure rage at this point, the vein on his forehead pulsating slightly, as sweat started to form.

“Y/N.” You outstretched your hand in which his took in his, delicately kissing it. 

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s all mine sir”

“Please call me Spencer.”

“Spencer.” Still holding his hand in yours.

“She was just leaving Spencer.” Lloyd eyed you, giving you a look that read “You better fucking stop it’s not funny anymore.” 

“Nonsense, I haven’t even treated her to a drink yet.”

Spencer’s eyes never let yours.

“I’d love one.”

“Well let’s not keep you waiting shall we” Spencer’s arm clasped your waist, leading you towards the bar. Leaving Llloyd to trail closely behind. 

After getting 2 martinis, Spencer led you towards a secluded seat in the back of the venue.

“Here honey, there’s no room for all of us, you’ll be more comfortable on my lap anyways.” Pulling you on top of him, your ass fell to his hardening cock. 

“So, Lloyd, about this deal.”

The men drank and negotiated, you never leaving your spot-on Spencer’s lap, toying with his tie. 

Lloyd sat across from you both, swirling his scotch, eyes never leaving you as jealousy and anger burned inside of him.

You yawned as their talk of teams and assets bored you.

“Something wrong beautiful?” Spencer turned his head to you in his lap, hand coming up to pull some hair off your face. 

“I’m just feeling a little tired, I think it’s time for my exit.”

“Great idea.” Lloyd jumped out of his seat, offering his head to you.

“It was great talking to you Spence, but I think we should save this for some time next week.”

“No agreed, it is a party after all.” He stood up from his seat, a boner presents against his dress pants. Lloyd managed to get a quick glance only furthering his anger.   

“Y/N, honey, here’s my card. Call me if you ever need anything… that is if Mr. Hansen here ever lets you out of his sight.” He eyed off Lloyd before bringing his attention back to you.

“Thank you so much for tonight, Spencer.” You slipped the card in your cleavage. He leaned down towards your ear. 

“We should do it again sometime.” He whispered, nipping your lobe lightly before pulling away. 

“Lloyd.” 

“Spencer.” The man left you both in the area alone.

You immediately went to wrap your arms around Lloyd. He pulled away, pushing you off him by your shoulders. 

“Don’t fucking touch me. Car. Now.”

Too stunned to speak you made your way outside towards Lloyd’s car. Annoyed at his sudden rejection of you. 

You couldn’t help the wetness forming between your legs at the excitement at what was to come. 

After what felt like ages of you sitting in the passenger seat. Lloyd joined you in the car, reversing out without even so much as a hi.

You drove in silence as Lloyd raced down the empty highway in his sports car. His knuckles whitening as he gripped the wheel. 

You finally arrived home, car parked out the front, his hands still on the wheel. 

“Go upstairs, get on your knees and wait.”

You made your way upstairs quickly, almost tripping in your heels as you raced up the stairs. Settling yourself on the carpeted floor, you held your hands behind your back and waited.

 2 minutes turned into 20 but you didn’t dare move a muscle, eyeing the security camera in the corner of the room.

Lloyd strolled into the room, closing the door behind him.  He swirled the old-fashioned glass in his hand, he seemed calm… too calm. Taking a gulp of the dark brown liquid. 

The silence was shortly broken as he threw it at the wall, the glass shattering on impact leaving a wet spot on the white wall.

You flinched at the sound.

“You stupid fucking slut.” He spat

Your eyes falling to the floor.

“You could have fucked up a 500-million-dollar deal in there, and you bet your ass you’re gonna pay for it sunshine.” He smirked, forcing your chin up to look him the eyes. 

He ripped his zipper down in a single motion, unbuckling his tight white pants, whipping out his harden cock.

“Open.” He grabbed your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling your hair back. You winced at the sudden pull. 

He didn’t even give you time to ease his pulsating member into your mouth, pushing himself down your throat, you gagged at this sheer size.

Letting him use your mouth to satisfy his desire to have his cock soaked with your spit and tears. 

Once has he had finished his assault on your tender mouth, a mascara and tears combination dripping down your cheeks, lipstick smeared around your mouth. 

“Good girl. Stand up.” You scrambled to your feet, wobbling slightly after so much time on your knees. He pulled you by your neck to lick the tears off your cheeks, a smear of black transferring to his tongue forcing your mouth open with his thumb and then he promptly spitting it back down your throat.

His hands ran down towards the lines on your dress, trailing his fingers down each individual string holding your dress together.

His hands grabbing the fabric on either side.

“You humiliated me.” A sudden rip had formed at the top of your dress, revealing your flushed decolletage 

“Flirted with another man in front of me.” Another rip, this one revealing your breasts as they bounced at the sudden release.

“And disobeyed me… on purpose.” The final rip, your dress now in two parts on either side of your body, you stood naked in front of him, your heat dripping at the sudden exposure of air. 

“No panties you really are a fucking whore.”

You whispered a meek sorry.

“What did you just say? Sorry? Look at you, you’re dripping with arousal, you are clearly not fucking sorry. But don’t worry you will be.” He pushed you back onto the plush mattress. 

“Turn over.”

You got into your submissive position, head in the mattress, ass high in the air. The sound of skin hitting skin filled the air. You could feel the red mark on your ass forming but not before he landed another on the other cheek. 

“Youve been such a dirty girl showing yourself off. Hope you enjoyed tonight because you will never do that again.” Another harsh slap fell onto your ass;

“Yes daddy.”

His thick tip tickled the folds of your pussy, painstakingly teasing your hole, avoiding your aching clit completely 

“Do you want this baby? You want daddy’s cock in you?”

“Yes, please daddy please I need it.”

“I know you need it, but do you deserve it.”

“No daddy but I promise I’ll be good.”

Without warning he plunged into your needy hole, starting his assault on your core;

“Do you think Spencer could fuck you this good baby?”

“No daddy.. no.. he couldn’t” Your words came out as a mumbling as you tried to focus on responding to Lloyd, eager not to prolong the orgasm longer than it will be; 

“Such a dirty slut for me. Your daddy’s slut isn’t that right baby?”

“Yes, daddy just yours, only Lloyd’s dirty little slut.”

“Good girl…” his hands smoothed over your ass as he continued to plummet into you 

“Still fucking disrespected me” he interrupted the moment of tenderness with another hard slap on your rump. 

He pulled your hair back roughly, “Twerk on my cock, make me cum.”

You immediately did what you were told, bouncing your ass onto his cock, moaning at the new angle that came with the push of your ass down to his base. 

His hands fell to your hips, gripping them roughly to help guide you onto him. 

You could feel his heavy ballsack slapping against your clit, your knees started to give at the euphoric sensation of pleasure and pain, the sting of your ass still present as continued to hit your g-spot.

You reached your hand between your legs desperate to touch your aching nib. Your hand was pulled away by a sudden jerk, your wrists now pinned behind your back. 

“Nah-uh sunshine you’re not allowed to cum.”

His hands sneaking underneath you to support your weight. Grabbing your boobs in his hands with a harsh squeeze, leaning over you to trap your arms between your back and his body. 

“Yeah, baby oh yeah daddy’s gonna cum, yeah you want daddy to put babies in you? You going to be a good cum dumpster for daddy’s load?”

“Ah huh.” You let out a groggily moan

“That’s not a fucking answer.”

“Yes, daddy please give it to me, I want it inside of me.”

“Good.” He released inside of you, his seed shooting into your pelvis, filling you up fully. 

He pulled out with a groan, and you whimpered at the loss of contact, collapsing on the mattress as cum slowly oozed out of you.

Lloyd licked his fingers, quickly shoving the creamy release back into you.

“Gotta keep it all in there.” 

“You gonna help me finish daddy?”

“I told you bad girls don’t get to cum didn’t I?”

“But Lloyd… I…”

“No, arguments or I’ll make it a week. This is your punishment now get into bed.”

You crawled upwards and under the covers, shivering at the sudden loss of warmth inside of you.

He pulled you into him,

“Maybe tomorrow if you can prove that you’ve learnt your lesson you can cum ok sunshine?”

“Ok daddy.”

“Good. Now sleep.”

You cuddled him close, trying to ignore the ache between your legs.

[acerathia]

somebody's watching me || Chapter 2: Collapse

Summary:

Meeting him was your fate, your salvation, and you shall do everything to keep things this way.

Wordcount: 3.5k

Read on AO3 || Masterlist

Pairing:

Getou Suguru / Reader

Tags/CW:

no-curse au, Getou is still a cult-leader, cults, Getou's fake personality, dark content, Major Character Death, Paranoia, schizoid form of anxiety disorder, isolation, overthinking (in connection to the anxiety), some form of descent into madness, violence, stream of consciousness to show the mental state of reader, everything has meaning (dreams, colors, symbols etc.), warped look on reality, dissociation, blind trust, indoctrination, manipulation, mind-altering practices, polarisation of people/society, peer pressure, denial of reality, emotional abuse, body horror, drugs (implied), hallucinations,

Note:

Please be cautious reading this work, as it contains heavy themes, which might affect some people. Minors do not interact!!

Your eyes opened abruptly. You were in your own room. In your bed. But everything lay shrouded in darkness. It was as if you were still in this prison. But you could move your hands again, freely. But relief was only a temporary guest. The pain in your throat and the roaring in your ears steered you back into your dreams, even though the sensory phenomena only seemed to be dull shadows. Your fingers searched at your throat for the cause of the pain. But there was only soft skin. Nothing else. Perhaps a bruise? The reason for this mark would be unknown to you; after all, you had done nothing all week except march to the middle of nowhere. But that didn't explain the pain on the skin of your throat .

For a moment you stared at the blue ceiling above you. The memory of the dream seemed to slowly fade, but the fear remained. Almost as if the feelings left behind were seated deeply in your spine. Adrenaline raced through your veins, amplified by the violent pounding of your heart against your ribs. All of this clenched into a single thought. Something bad was going to happen, but you had no idea what it might be. Finally, you tried to ignore the squeezing in your body. You blamed the panic on sleep paralysis, even if it was usually something you remembered. Worrying about it any more would only make the rest of your day more difficult. Still, you needed to calm down again, to get yourself back on the right level. So, you got out of bed and made your way into the kitchen. Nothing would help you more than a glass of cold water. Every movement made one of your joints crack softly. These ached in a strange way, one you had never felt before. The feeling was almost as if your limbs had been taken apart and then, like the pieces of a puzzle, put back into place. Those pieces were probably only now moving into their proper places. A reason could be a weird sleeping position or a misplaced pillow. There were many possible reasons for the pain in your bones and all of them made sense. So you decided to ignore the whole thing.

So, with quiet steps, you made your way to the kitchen. The whole house was enveloped in an eerie silence. In the middle of the dark hallway, you stopped. It suddenly felt like someone was standing behind you. You wonder if it was someone from your family. But you hadn't heard any doors or footsteps. Still, you felt someone's breath on the back of your neck. The small breath caused goose bumps on your back and you shivered. You then felt fingernails scratching across your palms. This feeling was too close for you, so you turned around. Hopefully, this way you could look the culprit directly in the eyes. But there was no one in front of you. You were alone in the hallway and no matter how many times you turned around, you couldn't see anyone else. Maybe it was just some of the paranoia left from your nightmare, but that thought didn't even occur to you. Instead, you hurried toward the kitchen. There you opened the refrigerator, whose blue light calmed you down a bit. You didn't notice how much your hands were shaking until you took out a bottle. So, you just gripped the plastic even tighter and started taking big gulps from it. The coolness ran pleasantly, almost burning, down your throat. The cold caused the sluggishness of sleep to fall away. With a swing, you closed the door of the refrigerator. You almost felt reassured again, but at the same moment you glanced toward the window. As you stared at the glass, it seemed to you that someone was standing on the other side. Faintly, with narrowed eyes, you could make out a broad grin. Your breath caught and you turned abruptly on your heels to get back to your room as quickly as possible. But there, too, shadows seemed to lurk in the corners, grabbing at your ankles. So you grabbed a blanket and wrapped yourself tightly with it, as if it were a shield. Wrapped, you sat down in the brightest corner. Your eyes darted back and forth between the walls. It was almost as if they suddenly became darker when you weren't looking. But when you turned to the side, everything seemed normal again. You felt like you were in a cursed game of hide and seek. One where you only could end up as the loser.

You had no idea how long you had stayed in that position, but after some time you heard the birds outside your window. This made you realize that you had been wrapped up like this all night. Without even putting your head onto the pillow. That was one of the reasons why you almost burst into tears at the touch of the first rays of the sun. You were so infinitely tired. You wanted nothing more than to just go back to sleep. At the moment, you almost preferred the nightmares to staying awake. You felt absolutely miserable. As if you had reached a new low. So much you would like to lie back down and catch up on your lost sleep. But to your sorrow, you had to act like a functioning person. That meant going to school. You really couldn't afford to be absent in any way or form.

Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes. This was not the time to burst into tears. You needed to distract yourself. So you gathered yourself up while blinking away the liquid collecting in the corners of your eyes. With quiet steps, you crept into the bathroom. In those movements, you felt a lurking sensation on your shoulders. Had this one been there all night? You had no answer, so you stretched your neck to loosen the muscles a bit.

Carefully, you placed your feet in front of the sink and then stopped. The mirror was in front of you. If you would only look up, you could see right into your own face. You didn't know why you hesitated. With a jerk, you looked up and stared at yourself. Your image stared back at you from bloodshot eyes. But with the next blink, signs appeared and covered parts of your face, blinding you with their appearance. Their garish colors and rushing movements were too much for you. You felt them moving on your skin. Quickly you looked at your hands. They seemed normal. Your fingers groped along your face, but nothing seemed to be amiss.. Taking a breath, you looked in the mirror again. This time everything was normal, even after several blinks. Was this a hallucination? You took another breath and licked your chapped lips. Your reflection appeared normal. It followed your movements and showed your tired face with startling clarity. You decided to ignore this incident as well. Who would believe you? You had no one to talk to anyway. All the people around you thought you were nothing but a sick person anyway, a lunatic, even though you were fine outside of these occurrences. It wouldn't help you if you confirmed this image by talking. So, you freshened up your face a bit, so that you wouldn't look as if you had walked through the forest at night. In doing so, you avoided the mirror. Safe was safe. And you didn't want to see any of those pictures, not until you had to go outside. With her things packed and looking, you hoped, fresh, you headed out into society. After all, your degree was much more important than what was going on inside you at the moment.

You had to honestly admit that you had no idea what kind of day it was. Normally, reality was blurry and interwoven, as if you were holding intertwined threads in your hand. But on this day, you were all too aware of everything around you. The weight on your shoulders crushed you. Everything was far too loud, far too bright, far too heavy. Even your periphery was filled with loud colors and signs, as if a folk festival was taking place around the corner. The images danced in sensual, promising patterns outside your direct vision, as if they were trying to lure you somewhere. But they did not exist, no matter how hard you tried to bring the patterns into view. Your thoughts were in a conflict; either you surrendered to the unknown, or you were afraid, or you wondered what was wrong with you. These three, opposing possibilities paralyzed you. You had no other choice but to simply carry on with your day as usual. As if the only problem was the road ahead of you.

Your shoulders hung down like wet weights. It almost seemed as if they were getting heavier and heavier as the day progressed. Maybe it was exhaustion, but there was nothing you could do. That's why you reached your end, at the same time as the school day was winding down. The heaviness had also shifted to your head and neck. You felt as if someone was sitting on your shoulders and making yourself comfortable there. To your sorrow, you couldn't just go home. You had a meeting with the therapy group that day. You hated it there. These people had the ability to put you in grippy socks with a wave of their hands. So, you had to make a stable impression in front of them. Still, you wondered if you should tell them about the nightmare. After all, they had to talk about anything and if you were honest, you would rather talk about that than about your real feelings.

Lost in thoughts and with your head down, you walked into someone. This encounter brought you back to reality. And you just wanted to apologize and continue on your way.

"Oh darling, you look worn down. Would you like a sip of tea?"

The unknown man addressed you in a deep, smooth voice. His words promised trust. Yet you were conscious enough to refuse his proposal. A simple shake of your head should have been enough of an answer. But despite the rejection, his eyes were filled with some kind of understanding. But understanding of what exactly? Even if you didn’t have an answer, you had the feeling he only wanted the best for you, even if you didn’t know each other, though he looked familiar, a tingle tickling the back of your mind at his sight. He simply pressed a brochure into your hands, turning away with fluttering sleeves and warm goodbyes.

"If you need someone to talk to, our doors are open."

Those words floated in front of you, the woman's last words. You had no idea what to do with them, and even less with the paper in your hand. For a while you just stared at them, not really wanting to understand what was written on them. So you just stuffed them recklessly into your pocket. You would forget it there sooner or later. Nevertheless, you had read part of the inscription. The words promised open ears and gentle care. But you didn't need more therapy. With a shake of your head, you walked on.

You had walked down the same streets a seemingly infinite number of times. The walk to the therapy group had also become a part of the day you had grown to hate. The empty streets. The footsteps behind your back. The whispering in your ears. This environment was full of factors that only intensified your inner turmoil. You constantly felt like you were being followed or watched and there was no escape. Every time you walked past the alleys, you had to pull yourself together to keep from going back. Everyone told you that it was just paranoia, but you were convinced that your fears were absolutely justified. Still, you tried not to let the tension show, but your jaw remained tense, grinding your teeth as you entered the old, dark building. If you hadn't been there often enough, you would have thought for sure that the place was actually deserted.

With silent steps on the creaking floor, you followed the tracks on the worn carpet. The moment you entered the open living room, you laboriously brought a fleeting greeting to your lips before settling into your assigned chair. The seats next to you were still empty, but the familiar strangers soon gathered in their places. While waiting, you played with your fingers to distract yourself from the piercing stares. Then, when a new, completely unknown person sat down next to you, you couldn't stop your body from twitching. You did not know this person. What if you did something to you? Nervously, your eyes darted to the exit. You wanted to get away.

But before you could come up with a proper escape plan, the leader began the meeting. As usual, everyone began to take their turns to talk about something that was bothering them. No matter how much you tried to pay attention, you just couldn't concentrate. You really tried. But the knowledge that it was soon your turn put you in an uneasy mood. The pressure in your chest returned. All the while, only the prepared words rang in your ears, the words you wanted to tell these people so you wouldn't trip over your own tongue. They drowned out all other sounds around you. That's why, for a moment, you didn't hear the leader call your name. When you recognized the words, you had to swallow a few times. Your throat felt dry and raw. You forced yourself to take one deep breath. With the air in your mouth, you began to talk about the nightmare. How it had felt, how much it had affected you, and how it had shaken you. You didn't realize, until you were done, how much you had really told. Way too much. Even though you had tried to hide your feelings, they had still leaked out. You had no idea how exactly you had actually told the whole thing, but you felt the gazes of everyone present rest on you. The silence just felt stifling. No one wanted to say anything. But then the leader took up the floor to calm the situation.

"This is normal…you're stressed and everyone gets these…nightmares."

You realized what the situation was. Those words were meant to calm you down. Were supposed to help you feel normal. But you recognized the tone he was taking toward you. He wasn't taking you seriously. No matter what your response would be. Older people never did. All of your feelings were normal, everyone had them once, they had them too. But that didn't help you. It bothered you. So much. It was the same reaction over and over again.

You were just a kid. You were a drama queen. You were looking for attention. You were just confused. You were making jokes. You were lying. You were lying. You were lying.

It was the same thing over and over again. These words were filled with one statement. Of course you could recognize it. No one really tried to hide it. It lay open and put salt in your wounds.

'You're just a liar, stop wasting my time.'

But surely that wasn't your fault! They had asked you about it, after all. Why ask something if you don't want to hear the truth? Was that even the truth? Were you lying to yourself by now, too? You had no idea who to believe. But you didn't want to stay here any longer. These people didn't believe you anyway. Why should they? They had no reason to. You were worth nothing to them anyway. Which one of them would help you? They didn't even want to help you! After all, you were a liar, you were the evil in their midst. For this reason, you deserved nothing from anyone. Nothing!

Suddenly you found it so much harder to breathe. Your lungs felt like they were slowly being filled with water. Your fingers clawed at the skin under your throat. Desperately trying to help you breathe. Everything seemed to be rushing at you. Your surroundings became suddenly too unbearable. The sharp glance of everyone bored themselves like thumbtacks into your skin. You felt every single one of them. Their grins resounded loudly in your ears. The echo of it grew into a screech. Everything overwhelmed you enormously. It felt like you were about to throw up. Your thoughts spun around, seeming to change your field of vision in a dizzying way.

You wanted to scream, but your body no longer seemed to belong to you. You couldn't even lash out, even though you wanted to break something. You wanted to get away. Away from this place. As fast as possible.

With a jerk, you managed to stand up. Without noticing the other people and their comments of indignation, you left the room with stiff steps. The only sound in your ears was the grinding of your teeth. The pressure in your mouth grounded you far enough to continue using your body. But as you opened the door to step out, you heard footsteps rumbling behind you. That sound triggered some reflex in you and you began to speed up. You had no idea what to do, but you knew that under no circumstances should the others get their hands on you. If that happened, the future would not look very bright.

Your initial plan was to run towards where you lived, but after a few minutes it occurred to you that the pursuers probably already had people lined up there. Or it would be the place where they would search first. Therefore, you directed your steps towards an open square. That place was relatively well frequented right now. Thus, you would be able to easily disappear in the crowd of people. So, you slowed down the pace when you arrived at the edge of the square and walked leisurely into the masses. At least that's what you tried to do. Your breathing was still quite fast. The rattling sound of your lungs rang loudly in your skull as your gaze darted nervously around. It seemed you had lost the pursuers for the moment, but that also meant you had lost sight of them.

For a while you ran a few laps around the square before your path drew a spiral. You were pretty sure the people around you would have noticed you. At some point, you walked around in loops without any destination. Then, when you reached the center of the square, you stopped for a moment. But at that moment you noticed your pursuers a few meters away from the spot you were standing. After a second glance, suddenly there was no one in that place. With apologies on your lips, you pushed your way through the crowd. Suddenly you stopped in front of the man you’ve encountered earlier. You nervously ran your tongue over your chapped lips as you stared at him. What were you supposed to tell him? That you needed help? That you were being followed? Why should he help you at all? It was true, he had offered his help, but how were you to know if it had been serious?

Before you could put your feelings into proper words, the man met you with a gentle smile, one which made anyone want to snuggle right up to it. The man seemed to recognize you. It probably wasn't even that hard given your current condition. Briefly you cleared your throat with an apology and your hands ran over your skin, over your hair. Then, in a cautious voice, you asked if the offer from earlier still stood. As if he had been wished a happy birthday, his face lit up. You ignored how that look sent a shiver down your spine and at the same time the weight lifted from your shoulders. With an elegant movement, the stranger offered you his hand and you had no choice but to take it. His skin was hot on your own, seeming to set your bones ablaze. Then, with feather-light steps, the man led you away from the square… In fact, they encountered no one known on the way. Yet the danger still felt real. As if it were lurking right behind you. That's why you couldn't stop looking back. At the same time, you didn't know if the man was dampening your alarm bells or amplifying them many times over. All the sounds in your head were confused and too irregular to trust. Your head began to hurt, but you ignored the throbbing. However, you still had enough mind and sense to ask where you were going. You just got another smile and a sentence, one you were too tired to question.

"I'll lead you to your new home, my dear."

[oceanwaveglasses]

Low Light Polarised Sunglasses are built to withstand the sun and to keep your eyes protected.

For more information on polarized sunglasses, visit: https://oceanwaves.com/blogs/news/looking-for-low-light-polarized-sunglasses-here-s-what-you-need-to-know