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macfrog · 5 months ago

Note

I miss our beloved scom family. How are they doing this fine day?

god, i miss them too. here's what they probably got up to today.

something blue 3.6k words | series masterlist warnings: y'all know the drill: being a mom.

Sarah leads Ellie, the way she always does, into the kitchen at seven a.m. sharp.

She stops by Joel first, squeezes into his size at the counter, and pushes onto her tiptoes. When he sidesteps to let her see (even though he point-blank refused to let you), she wraps two arms tight around her sister and hoists her up.

“Pancakes!” the three-year-old squeals, and loses her grip on her plastic dinosaur. He falls headfirst into the counter.

“Shh!” Sarah hisses, slinging Joel a disgruntled look. She sighs and swipes the T-Rex from his hand.

“The heck you lookin’ at me for?” he grumbles.

The girls eye you the entire walk over to the table. One as suspicious as the other. Sarah moves smooth, floats over to her spot with her chin skyward.

Ellie thumps at her heels, staring you down and almost stumbling into a chair.

“Careful, Nel,” you whisper, and her poker face cracks. You turn to Sarah. “I know it’s pancakes. It’s the only thing your dad ever figured out how not to burn.”

Joel’s shoulders jump. He swallows the laugh in his chest and says nothing.

Ellie sucks the chocolate clean from her dinosaur’s head. Last week, she decided his name was Bill. You, Joel, and Sarah are still trying to figure out where the hell she came up with it. Whoever he’s named after, she doesn’t like him much – not with the rate she lobs him around.

Kid’s an enigma. She suits it just fine.

She stares at you, still, as Sarah helps her up into her chair. Judders forward with each shove under the table. Comical, the two of them; like Pinky and the fucking Brain, you once told Joel – though you’re still not sure who’s who.

Your eyes drop to a stain on the toddler’s outfit. “You want me to wash that yet, Gagarin?”

She looks down. An arm swishes up to dab at the tangerine splotch. She grins, amused with herself, and shoves the dino back between her gums.

Sarah shakes her head. She turns back to you and flashes a trademark Joel frown. Eight years old and somehow, she manages to encapsulate the same fifty-six-year-old, unimpressed glower.

“Nel,” she turns, uttering between teeth, “You can’t wear dirty clothes today, remember?”

“I don’t think spacesuits are allowed at preschool,” you sigh as you push yourself up. “Much too sophisticated – huh, baby girl?”

Ellie giggles and flings her arms to the ceiling, sending Bill in a somersault across the table. She’s in nothing but pull-ups underneath the onesie – although it’s rare for her to ever be in much more than her pull-ups and, usually, one loose sock.

The suit means she’s feeling fancy. But what the fuck for?

All of Sarah’s leftover chaos, the magic she left in your veins after she was born, seems to have poured into her little sister. Smaller, mightier – more reckless, but not half as savvy.

Rarely seen without one of her prehistoric pals in her fist; evidence of what she had for lunch smeared around her lips. Chasing after Sarah, after Shimmer, after a butterfly that found itself trapped in her bedroom last month.

She scaled a chest of drawers trying to reach it. Joel caught her just in time. Some nights in bed, you can still feel his heart pounding from the scare she gave him.

Chalk and cheese. Sarah and Ellie. The former calm, composed. Candid and levelheaded, book smart and (alarmingly) wise beyond her years.

The latter – well.

It’s her first time on the planet, too, you try to remember.

You wander over to the washer, tossing the suit into the drum. You dig an elbow into Joel’s side and he flinches.

“Can I see yet?”

He turns, shielding whatever’s in front of him with a wide shoulder. “Not yet, baby. Not done.”

“You’re taking fuckin’ forever,” you mumble, pressing the words into his shoulder blade. From the corner of your eye, you watch the girls babbling to each other, scratching Shimmer between her floppy ears.

Joel twists, still hiding with his hands, and dots a tiny kiss on the tip of your nose. He smells like coffee and toothpaste. It still dizzies you every time he’s near enough for you to breathe it in.

“I’m almost done. Promise.”

You steal a kiss from his lips and smirk, stepping away. “Okay,” your eyes drift down to the counter, “If you say s…Alphabet sprinkles?”

His jaw slackens, moves like a bubbling fish. “Uh – they’re for – they’re for somethin’…Duck?” he clears his throat, “Tell your mom what they’re for, would ya?”

Sarah freezes. She stammers just like her dad. She does a lot just like him.

“A…a…a school project,” she says, and stares down at the dog.

“A – a – a school project?”

Your daughter nods. Still fixed on the smudges of sable around Shimmer’s eyes. “Bake sale.”

“You never told me about any bake sale,” you cross your arms, “What’d you make?”

She’s quick as lightning. “Cupcakes. But we haven’t made ‘em yet. Tonight, right, Dad?”

Joel’s voice is hoarse with panic. “Tonight,” he rasps.

You lean back against the counter, eyes shifting to the right. A different tactic. A rogue tactic, that’s for sure, but she has her moments. “…Nel?”

Your youngest looks up from her belly button.

“Not Nel,” Joel pleads, catching your eye for half a second.

“Why not Nel?”

His voice drops. “That kid would spill a state secret if you dangled a marshmallow in front of her.”

You tsk. “That’s mean. And wrong, anyways. The reason they have state secrets is ‘cause of kids like her. We should be proud, Miller.”

Ellie’s clutching the dinosaur when you look back over, chewing on his tail. She blinks back, and you wonder if there’s anything other than mastermind plans of mischief behind her eyes.

Joel says she has the same look in her eye that you do. Like you’re in on something the rest of the world has yet to catch up on. Twins, from the moment she stumbled ass over foot out of your body.

She talks just like you, and acts just like you, and – some nights, chatting sleepy gibberish under the slow turn of her rocket ship nightlight – you figure she must think just like you, too.

The perfect little riot.

Joel nudges you away, whispering, “Go on,” and you snicker, pushing off.

The sun combs through the room, glinting off cutlery and radiating from your daughters’ smiles. They chat and giggle and kick their feet; Sarah blows raspberries and Ellie sprays saliva all over the table when she tries to copy.

This is life, now.

You used to wake up to a silent house, sip your coffee and watch the oven clock count down the minutes until you had to leave for work.

You used to keep the radio on, even when you were out back – just to feel like someone was home with you. You used to sing to yourself as you flicked every light off at the end of the night.

Now, the laughter lives in the walls. It echoes even when you’re home alone. The oven clock counts down until there’s another pair of smaller hands in yours; until your man’s arms are back around your waist where they belong.

Come nightfall, you pluck odd socks and toy cars from under the couch. You tuck your children into bed, nuzzle your nose into their cheeks. You curl up beside Joel and trace shapes into his palm.

I love you, you write, some nights.

Dickhead, on others.

It takes a village, they all say. And sure, sometimes it does.

Sometimes, though, all it takes is two neighbors, a handshake deal, and a little bump named Duck.

“Woah, Nellie,” Joel chuckles, setting the first plate down. He clicks his teeth and taps a light knuckle on the girls’ hands, locked in a death grip. “Play nice. I got yours here, too, kiddo.”

Ellie straightens immediately. She watches, eyes fixed and glasslike, as her own breakfast is presented to her. And then she breaks into a wide grin, cheeks swelling. Her heels thud thud thud on the legs of her chair.

You lean over, cocking your head to see.

Two stacks of fluffy pancakes – a healthy dollop of chocolate spread on Sarah’s, and Ellie’s drizzled in golden syrup. Shards of strawberry and slices of banana scattered over the towers; blobs of whipped cream like clouds.

And on top of each, in clumsy sprinkle letters: Duckie and Nellie.

Sarah grins, two front teeth brand new and beautiful. She picks up her cutlery and raps them against the table, a nervous jitter about her.

You realize, just as her eyes flicker across yours, that she’s not beaming at her pancakes.

You realize, as he sways over to your side, that she’s beaming at him.

He’s holding two more plates. He sets his own down, a messy crater carved into the chocolate.

Your brows pull. “What happened –?”

“Bill happened,” he scoffs, shooting Ellie daggers.

She’s too busy tearing her stack apart, mixing a paste from syrup and cooked batter. There are few things the kid loves more than food and mess – and nothing she loves more than both at the same time.

She looks out of her mind happy, smothering the glossy mixture all over her cheeks, chewing in contentment.

“Like ‘em?” Joel asks, and you glance up.

“Yeah,” you laugh, eyes welling, “I love them. What’s the occasion, Miller?”

“Just…” his head wobbles as he considers it, “…we wanted to ask you somethin’.”

You turn to Sarah.

She’s still smiling, wider than you’ve ever seen. So bright that you worry she might shatter the glassware on the table.

“We?” you ask, smiling much the same.

She gives nothing away, and yet, at the same time – everything. Her knee bounces with excitement. Her breathing quickens.

“You wanna read yours?” Joel asks, tilting the plate in his hand.

You laugh, shaking your head. “No,” you sniff, “I’m scared.”

He lowers the plate.

The letters blur in and out of focus as you blink.

Red, green, yellow, pink. The second M is an upside-down W. The Rs lean into each other, chocolate pushing from the middle of the letters. A question mark crafted from a C and half of another letter.

Your lungs jump, though you knew it was coming. Though you’ve talked about it for months, now.

Let’s just get it outta the way, make it easier for the girls when we’re older. Few forms to fill out then it’s done. We don’t gotta make a big deal of it.

Can’t afford to make a big deal of it, anyway.

Wouldn’t want to make a big deal of it.

You’ve never been one for big deals.

This is a big deal. This is a big fucking deal, Joel.

All multicolored, flecks of whipped cream on them. Silly little alphabet letters.

Marry me?

Joel kneels as you swivel around to him. He kisses your cheek, takes your hands, rubs his thumbs across your knuckles.

“Look,” he says, voice trembling, “I know we said we wouldn’t make a big deal of it. But…you gotta let me make a big deal of it, honey. You gotta let me make a big deal of you.”

You laugh, tears spilling down the front of your shirt. Your heart is pounding, body alight with nerves or excitement or both, in one lightning bolt of feeling.

It’s everything you ever wanted, and nothing you ever expected.

“Everything I have –” Joel says, “– the kids, the house, the dog – I found it all with you. Because of you. I love you so much, and I can’t – I can’t take another minute that we’re not…”

His hands squeeze yours, and you swear you feel your pulses align. Beating together, two hearts on the same bassline.

He swipes the tears from your cheek, catches them in his palm. “…It don’t have to mean anything, I know that – but you, darlin’…you mean everything. What do you say we go do it?”

It’s the easiest thing in the world. And not just because you knew it was coming, knew to expect it soon enough.

Joel could’ve asked you the minute you found out you were pregnant with Sarah, and you reckon you would’ve said yes.

It’s easy. Loving him is so easy. Being with him is so fucking easy.

Coffee at sunrise, low volume TV in the bedroom. Skin and sheets, marks on your neck and chest and thighs. Laughter for breakfast, homework for dinner. Two bodies squeezing into one tiny shower cubicle, Joel’s hand over your mouth to muffle your giggles.

“Today,” you whisper, cupping his jaw. “I want to do it today.”

“Today?” his eyes flash over your shoulder to his daughters, “We gotta take the girls to –”

“No, we don’t,” your head shakes, “Do we have a marriage license?”

“Got it last week.”

“Then they come with. We get all dressed up, all four of us, and head down to the courthouse. We’re married by the end of the day.”

He laughs, loose and disbelieving. Shakes himself back into the room. “Today,” he repeats. “As in, right now?”

“Right now, baby.”

“Okay. Yeah, alright. Today.”

“Ask me.”

Joel’s cheeks lift. Tears disappear into his beard.

You lean forward, lining your forehead against his. “Ask me, Miller,” you whisper.

It’s no big deal. It’s a regular Wednesday. Packed lunches and dinosaurs with Nutella in their teeth.

It’s no big deal, but when he asks you, time stops.

“Will you marry me?”

“Fuck yeah, I will.”

Sarah takes forty-five minutes to apply your mascara, some powder, and a pink lip. She promises she’s being neat, and you tell her you don’t care – you’ll love it either way.

She says she knows, but she promises she is anyway.

Ellie curls up in your lap and twists your necklace around her fingers. She asks four times if her spacesuit is dry yet.

“Ellie,” Sarah warns – and you know it’s serious when she uses her sister’s real name – “You can’t wear a costume to a wedding.”

“Mama is!”

“No she ain’t! Brides are s’posed to wear white. Mama’s dress ain’t white. What you got on is fine,” she decides.

Ellie knows better than to keep arguing. She catches her heel in her hands, huffing. “Wanted to be an ass-traut.”

You catch Sarah’s eye. Don’t.

She bites her giggle.

“You are an astronaut,” you squeeze your toddler, “Our astronaut. Whether you’re in your spacesuit, or you got your big bare butt out for us all to see.”

She giggles into herself, a sound sweet enough to convince the sun to rise at dawn. Her baby teeth are small and wonky. She snorts, settles in your arms again, and watches Sarah lean in with the lipstick.

You lift your chin, holding steady. “Is Dad ready?”

She pauses, letting go of her breath. “He says he’s been ready the last half hour,” she mutters, and dabs more color on.

“Is he nervous?”

Her eyes lift. Eyelashes long and thick – black mascara that you made her pinkie swear she’d wipe clean the moment she gets home.

She smirks. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Are you?”

You press your lips together, blending the pink. “Little bit. You think that’s a good sign?”

“Mhm.”

Sarah straightens, capping the lipstick. She smiles at her masterpiece. “You look beautiful, Mama.”

“Well,” your chest fills, “I’m only beautiful ‘cause you made me that way, Duck.”

Joel’s voice sails upstairs and into the little pink room.

“Courthouse is closin’, sun’s almost down, they’re diggin’ my damn grave already. Are we good to go, or what?”

Sarah grins and leaps over an upturned toybox in the middle of her room. She pirouettes out to the landing, pursing and then smacking her lips together.

You fix Ellie’s skirt and lead her out after her sister. “’s go, Nellie.”

“Mama,” she tugs at the fabric, “I gotta…Need…need…”

“Shit,” you whisper, watching the ballerina twirl downstairs to her dad. “Uh…Duckie?”

“Hi, pretty Duck,” Joel calls, catching her in his arms. He spins her around and the skirt of her dress billows.

Her little heels click when he lets her down. She keeps on spinning, watching herself in the mirror.

“Baby?” Joel calls. “Y’all ready?”

“Nel’s gotta go!” you reply.

He scoffs. “She nervous or som’?”

“Or som’,” you sigh, walking the kid into the bathroom.

Ellie takes about as long as a three-year-old should, to be fair to her. It requires an amount of determination that right now, neither of you have the focus to lend it. Potty training doesn’t wait up, even for weddings.

Eventually, she announces with a triumphant shout that she’s done, Mama! – and claps her hands as the toilet flushes.

You carry her downstairs, heels clunking on the solid wood. At the bottom you set her free – and she sprints out to join her sister on the lawn.

The pair run circles around one another. They cartwheel on the grass; they race Shimmer and use the flowerbeds as hurdles. They dirty their dresses – ivory stained with bursts of green – though they look better that way, anyway.

They take turns playing Swingball with the only remaining racket (a mysterious disappearance that neither will own up to, and both are most certainly involved in). Sarah tells Ellie that she won – and the smaller girl throws her fists in the air and roars in victory.

Joel stands on the porch, hands in his pockets, watching. Even from behind, you can see the shape of his cheeks: he’s smiling. He crosses one foot over the other and taps his heel against the wood.

You emerge from the house slowly, quietly. “We didn’t get matching corsages this time,” you say, and he turns.

He starts, as though he glitches for a second. As though his world tilts on its axis, just from looking at you. His expression softens, his lips curve into a smile.

Then he breathes a laugh – a shaky thing, like he’s seventeen again, watching his homecoming date saunter over.

“That’s alright,” he replies, and slips a hand into his suit pocket. He fishes out two white tulips. “Remembered Alice dropped these off the other day. Here.”

Delicately, lighter than the breeze, he tucks the flower behind your ear. He steps back to admire his work, just like his daughter did.

All the best parts of you, you reckon, are the parts that are loved by them.

“How do I look?” you ask.

Joel sucks in a shattered breath. “Beautiful,” he chokes, like it’s all his voice will allow. He sniffs, drags his knuckles across the bottom of his nose, and says, “You ain’t never looked more beautiful.”

“Your turn.”

You take the second tulip from his fingers and drop it into his breast pocket, turning it until it looks perfect. “There,” you pat his chest, “Now we both look beautiful.”

He steps forward, dipping his head to kiss you. Arms around your waist, hands splayed on your back. He laughs against your lips. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is,” he mumbles, tugging at the pale material.

“It still fits!” you say, running a palm down the smooth silk. Flashes of light, a squealing guitar, heated kisses and a thudding bassline. It spins past your eyes as he leans in again.

He tastes the same. Less alcohol, sure – but that same, sweet-as-honey, instantly intoxicating taste. Like you were a goner before you even hit the mattress.

You look back up, and Joel’s eyes are on yours.

“After two kids, it still fits,” you whisper.

“Hm,” he muses, glancing down. His hands slip around your ass. “Looks even better than it did then, Mama.”

You laugh against his lips. “It’s my something blue.”

“Oh, yeah?” He lifts an eyebrow. “What else you got?”

“Well, something borrowed –” you hold your left hand up, a plastic ring glinting in the sunlight, “– Duck gave me some of her finest jewelry. Something new –” you wiggle your earlobe, “– Mother’s Day earrings, and…something old…”

Joel tilts his head. His expression tightens, tightens, tightens – until he understands. He clicks his teeth and steps back. “Funny. You’re so funny, I ever tell you that?”

You giggle, letting him drag you across the porch. “I’m just bein’ realistic, man. What else do I got that’s as old as you?”

He ignores you. It makes you laugh even harder.

It always did.

The wind surfs through silk, lifting your skirt as you stride over the driveway. Your hands stay interlocked – and you know that, secretly, Joel’s as nervous as you.

He whistles and his daughters look up.

“Serena, Venus,” he calls, nodding to the truck. “Get in.”

They skip over. Sarah takes her dad’s hand – the picture of royalty as he aids her up into the backseat – and Ellie swings into your arms.

You strap them in, point fingers to warn them not to bicker, and climb in the front.

The doors slam closed and you exhale slowly. Two kids aren’t any more complicated than one – especially in yours and Joel’s case – but holy shit, they’re tiring.

They compare dresses in the backseat. What color is yours, Duck? Pink, Nel. Is mine’s pink, Duck? Yours is yellow, Nel.

Joel’s hand slips around your knee. He smiles. Gives your leg a little squeeze. He flicks the radio on, and an Eagles track sways through the cabin. He fixes the tulip in your hair, peppers kisses along your wrist.

His voice is as soft as Henley’s, when he asks –

“Wanna go to a wedding?”

#something of a love letter to ellie williams ig #chats #anon #fic: sweet child o' mine #joel miller ficlet #joel miller #joel miller x reader

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michirukaioureincarnate · 1 month ago

Text

The Blade's Shelter

A Mizu Oneshot

Fandom: Blue Eye Samurai Pairing: Mizu x Reader Genre(s): Fluff 𖹭𖹭𖹭 | Smut 𖹭𖹭𖹭𖹭𖹭 | Angst 𖹭 Theme(s): First time | Friends w/ benefits Warning(s): Sexual themes (consensual) | Slightly edited/proofread Summary: After Mizu stumbles into your hiding spot like an injured stray, you two form a silent arrangement of give and take until she gives you more than you can handle. Reading Stats: 6980 words | 27 min read Disclaimer: All characters are consenting adults | Aged 21+

─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────── A/n: bruh I started writing this AGES ago, like, I'm talking MONTHS and MONTHS ago. Idk what's up with me and writing cuz it's been hard to find joy in the process over the past few years despite being excited about my ideas. Glad that I got this over with, finally. Anyhooo, hope y'all enjoy it <3 ─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────────────

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

The bitterness in your mouth made you think your gums were bleeding all the time. It started when you married into a family of well-renowned sumurais, with no protest from Mizu when you broke the news to her.

She hadn't reacted at all, perhaps because becoming a spinster wouldn't bode well for someone of your standing. You were hoping she'd save you from your pre-written fate, just as she had escaped hers. After all, women were simply pawns for negotiating where the wealth went and stayed.

Despite your musings of fleeing the upcoming nuptials, you stayed. Not because you were weak, but because you realized you couldn't do much for Mizu if you didn't go through with it.

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

She often took refuge in the empty barn on your father's estate, and you'd bribed the farmer for his silence in order to tend to her whenever she returned. The barn was your safe space to get away from the frivolities of daily life, until Mizu rolled in quietly through the top floor window one night—and nearly gave you a heart attack—when escaping from some city guards. They bled all over the floor despite seeming cool and collected.

Then they passed out.

You couldn't make sense of how someone could've scaled the barn so quietly and swung themselves in so easily from the roof. It was even more shocking when you found out that someone was a woman.

A very handsome one.

That's how it started. You tending to her wounds, and her waking up in the middle of being bandaged and flipping you onto your back with a dagger to your throat. The strangest part was her patting around for her amber-stained spectacles to put them on before opening her eyes. Warm brown eyes through the honeyed glass. She made sense of the situation just as quickly and got off you, wincing as she clutched her wound. It took some insistence to get her to stay so you could bring her some food, and she complied, eventually falling asleep in the hay. She was gone the next morning, much to your dismay, but came back because she wanted to repay you for your hospitality.

And for not ratting her out to the authorities as well.

It was a blood-stained hair comb of gold with a beautiful lotus of rose quartz petals. That thoroughly intimidated you, and the woman seemed to take some kind of sick pleasure in it before wiping away the still-wet crimson splatters.

"It belonged to a woman who fought for her destiny and sacrificed herself very happily for it," she said as she wagged the comb at you. "Hopefully this reminds you to make better choices in your own pursuit."

Shock was an understatement. "How did you–"

"You're quite loud when you're angry," she smirked. "Also, maybe don't accidentally spill hot tea on suitors that could kill you."

You scoffed and left to get her some dinner. "Stay here. I haven't eaten tonight. You might as well join me."

You gave her your name, and she gave you hers. Mizu. just Mizu. The strange woman who'd drop in every now and then with something to bargain in exchange for food and a warm place to sleep. You understood her intention quite quickly, so you went along with the silent contract, especially since she was quite mindful of the things she brought. Somehow, she always knew what you wanted that week, and you began wondering if you really were all that loud when you talked.

And so began conversations about life and dreams in whispers, but only from your end. She'd listen absently, usually on the verge of sleep until she'd start snoring. That was only until fall started rolling in slowly through the summer months, and she'd be eating slower. You'd start yapping as soon as you were done stuffing your face, and she'd listen with distracted nods. Then you noticed that she'd be done eating sooner and would sat hunched over crossed legs, arms outstretched to rest her wrists on her knees with eyes downcast, probably tuning you out as she gathered her bearings for the evening.

And then she started looking at you. Small glances at first until she had enough courage to look right at you as you talked. Frankly, you weren't ready for her direct and steady gaze. It was so intense behind those yellow-tinted glasses gleaming in the light of the oil lamp. Her eyes were warm like the bark of the sakura bonsai in your room.

It startled you. "W-what is it?"

She raised her brows dubiously. "Nothing? You were saying?"

You narrowed your eyes at her and continued your spiel about a poetry book you were gifted by a suitor. He was attempting to come off as open-minded about women being literate, but ended up offending you with the works of a man who clearly viewed women as beneathe even animals.

Mizu's head slowly tilted to the side, an elbow balanced on her knee to lift her fist, resting her cheek upon its knuckles as she continued to listen. You felt hot in the ears and looked away.

"I-I should let you sleep, I suppose," you stammered. "Long day tomorrow."

"More suitors to chase away?" she asked, a chortle behind her throat. "I'll do you a favor in exchange for missing today's payment."

Your head snapped over to her. "Mizu, I never saw them as payments. I...assumed they were gifts."

"Nothing's ever free. Neither should be your hospitality. Or your silence. Or the farmer's."

You sighed. "You don't have to pay for tonight."

"Then I'm incurring debt."

"No!" you groaned exasperatedly and shot up to your feet, swiping the tray of empty dishes from before her and rushing to the steps. "Just sleep, Mizu. We'll discuss this later."

The next morning, you found a pair of weighted gauntlets by the stack of hay Mizu had claimed as her resting spot. Metal, and quiet heavy. You'd noticed them on her wrists and ankles before.

"Goodness..." you gasped as you picked them up. "Heavy!"

How she could move with those on was beyond your comprehension, except that she must be exceptionally strong. Well, you knew that from the first time you and her met, and how she flipped you over. It was unusual for a woman to have that kind of strength, but it was inspiring to you.

A note on the ground caught your attention.

Collateral, it read. You rolled your eyes and safely put the gauntlets away where no one would see. That evening, Mizu came with her "payment". A book with a beautiful deep blue ribbon embroidered in gold.

Mizu looked quite despondent when she held it out. You took it cautiously��almost fearful, really—and noticed that it was slightly charred in some places. You leafed through it. Poetry.

"She would've wanted it to go to someone who'd appreciate it..." Mizu muttered as she walked past you to settled down onto the hay.

You turned to her inquisitively. "Won't you eat?"

"Don't have an appetite," she grumbled and slightly curled into herself, pulling the corner of the folded blanket over her body. You were confused and looked through the book a little more, finding some pages with smudged ink, as if the writer had cried over them. There were tiny splatters of something dark—blood. As you turned the pages, you noticed the writing becoming more erratic, and sentences becoming nonsensical.

You exaled sharply as something akin to grief came over you. "Mizu, is this...what happened?"

She only sighed. Whatever the truth was, you couldn't imagine how tragic it must've been for someone like Mizu to be affected by it. Even more so, how tragic life must've been for the one who wrote the poetry. Holding the notebook to your chest, you pulled the gauntlets out from their hiding place on the beam above and slowly walked over to her, lowering onto your knees.

"Mizu," you said softly, "whatever it was, don't punish yourself. Please eat."

She sighed again, more deeply than before. "I'm...too tired."

"Then let me help," she said. "I...don't have change for your payment, so let me account for it."

You couldn't believe that it pulled a chuckle from Mizu as she weakly turned onto her back. That's when you noticed the ash on her cheekbone and jaw. Her clothes smelled of smoke...and something else. Burned flesh, but only a hint of it.

You didn't want to think about what she'd been through that day.

Arranging the hay behind her, she leaned back against it to sit up as you pulled the tray over. You softened the bread in the thick soup, hoping it wouldn't have Mizu chewing too much. As you raised the deep spoon to her lips, you caught her watching you intently from behind her amber frames. Warmth rose to your cheeks, and you set your lips in a thin line to avoid making a strange face of embarrassment. You looked at her mouth, watching her lips glisten with a thin sheen of soup.

Much to your surprise, you were overcome with the urge to wipe them. With your own lips.

Mizu quickly licked them clean and snapped you out of your intrusive thoughts, and heat flared around your neck. You turned away quickly to fill up the spoon with more soup and bread, trying to compose yourself in those few seconds. When you faced her again, she had a smirk on her face.

You wanted to smack it away.

"What?" you demanded, your voice much higher than you expected it to be.

Mizu only shook her head lightly and reajusted her glasses. "It's amusing to see someone of your social standing be so..."

"Subservient?" you offered sourly.

She shook her head. "Nurturing."

It came out so soft and tender that your lips parted in surprise. It didn't help with the flush creeping down your shoulders. "We're taught to be, though. We have to care for our husbands this way eventually."

"Ahh," she nodded teasingly, "so I'm your practice husband."

"Mizu!"

She only gave you a lopsided grin before taking the spoon in your hand to feed herself. "Eat your dinner. The change is accounted for, I believe."

You rolled your eyes and did as told, happy to have an excuse to not burn up under her gaze despite the autumn chill. Eating faster than normal, you were hyperaware of Mizu watching you. Constantly.

"What is it?" you hissed at her from behind your bowl of soup. "Is there something on my face?"

She shrugged. "You're just...pretty."

"Huh? Why—you—" you scoffed. "What are you playing at?"

She shrugged again. "I don't blame your family for rushing to marry you off. You're pretty, and men see that. You make yourself even more desirable by making yourself unattainable. Must be a headache for your father."

"What on earth do you mean?"

She raised a brow at you over her own bowl of soup that she sipped from. Tipping her head back to finish it up, she set the bowl down and wiped her mouth. "Word's on the street that you're a challenge to conquer. It's got some Daimyōs talking. Even heard rumors about how you're setting up booby traps for suitors to get through."

"Oh, those aren't rumors," you said immediately before slapping a hand on your mouth. That came out too easily. "Please don't tell anyone I'm doing it on purpose. My parents don't know. They think people are being ridiculous."

Mizu grinned that same lopsided grin again. "Quite the woman you are. Who are you waiting for exactly?"

You.

The thought came to you without hesitation, and you felt embarrassed. It made no sense. Mizu was a woman. How could you, as a woman, feel for another woman? But it just felt so natural for some reason.

You'd never liked anyone so much. Ever.

"I'm waiting for no one," you grunted. "You know that."

"You're waiting for something, that's for sure."

With a huff, you gathered the empty dishes and piled them onto the tray. You didn't want to be interrogated only to be laughed at, especially when she knew everything about you.

And you knew nothing but her name.

"What about you, then?" you demanded. "What's your deal? You come and go as you please, but I don't even know if you're a criminal."

"A secret for a secret, eh?" she said thoughtfully as she fell deeper into the hay, hands clasped over her stomach. "Tough bargain. I have too many, and neither will satisfy any of your curiosities."

"How can someone have too many secrets?" you said on the verge of annoyance. "Does no one know anything about you?"

She raised her brow at you with a pointed look as she reached for her straw Kasa hat, placing it over her face as she relaxed back completely. Before you knew it, she was breathing deeply, but not snoring.

You had one question, though.

Setting the tray down, you shuffled over to her and got down on your knees. With a hooked finger under the brim of her Kasa, you pulled it up to reveal her face. Her eyes scrunched behind her glasses as the light of the oil lamp sneaked in.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Your glasses," you stated. "Tell me why you wear them."

"And get myself killed?"

"You're so dramatic, Mizu," you grumbled.

She popped open an eye. "If you're so curious, take them off yourself."

Simple enough, you thought, and moved to do so. Your lack of attentiveness came as no surprise to Mizu as she grabbed your outstretched hand by the wrist and moved like lightning. And then you were on your back with hands pinned over your head, straddled by Mizu.

Your face was on fire.

Past the bitter scent of combat and injury, she smelled of sweet wood, incense, a hint of sweat, and some of the staleness of hay.

"Did you forget what you're dealing with?" she laughed deeply from her chest, and you cleared your throat as you tried to find the words to say. She was pretty up close as she swept an endearing gaze your way, as if she thought of you as nothing more than a defenseless fawn who couldn't walk yet.

"I-I don't know what you are," you stammered. "Also, how do you move that fast?!"

It was then that her glasses slid a little lower down her nose. Only a little, but just enough for you to get a glimpse of something where it shouldn't be.

Blue.

Her eyes were blue.

You gasped, and Mizu's hands were off you in a flash as she pushed her glasses back up. She curled away from you, almost scandalized as she shoved herself up to stand with a displeased grunt.

"M-Mizu, I didn't–"

"It wasn't your fault," she cut in so coldly that you felt the chill deep in your bones. "I was careless. Too careless. I let my guard down, and that was a mistake."

"It's really not that serious."

"Not to you," she seethed over her shoulder, glaring through her golden spectacles rendering her beautiful blue irises a molten brown of fury. She was angry, though not at you. "I should go."

Before you could say anything, she'd gathered her things in a flash and slipped out of the window.

And she didn't come back.

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

You never stopped going to the barn. It was your safe space, after all. Autumn came, but Mizu never showed herself.

Sometimes you felt like you were being watched, or that a foreign shadow flitted past, but you'd ignore it. Other times, you caught a whiff of her scent, but you knew you were just imagining it.

You missed her, but you never said it out loud. All you'd do is leave food out for her every evening, and come back to it untouched, stale, and cold.

Until the first morning of winter.

The bowl was empty, and there was a beautiful Kanzashi with ornaments of purple iris flowers hanging off a braided thread.

You'd just broken your favorite Kanzashi last night.

"Mizu?" you gasped, looking around desperately. A soft thud from behind alerted you, and you turned quickly to a silhouette darkened by the cold sunlight pouring in from the window behind them.

But it was oh-so-familiar. When the Kasa came off, Mizu's face looked right at you.

She took her glasses off.

Your mouth went dry at the vibrant shade of blue peering at you, making your heart soar. And you couldn't help it. Your feet moved on their own, running in small steps due to the tight wrap of your damned kimono as you threw your arms around her waist. The warmth of her body was a comforting solace to the reality of her presence, and it enveloped you like a lover's embrace.

"You're okay," you breathed shakily against her heartbeat. It sped up under your ear, though you weren't sure why. "Where did you go?"

She wasn't breathing, and she was quite skinny in your embrace despite her obvious strength. You felt her uncertain hand on your back as her chest finally deflated.

"I had to go to Kyushu."

You pulled away and looked up at her. "K-Kyushu? That's so far away! Whatever for?"

She only shook her head. You finally let go of her, clearing your throat as you put some distance between yourselves, cold air rushing into the space between your bodies in a way that agoonized you. Straightening out your clothes, you tried to think of something to say.

"I'll get you some lunch."

"But–"

"I've been worried sick about you and the last thing I want is an argument about payment or debt," you snapped. "As punishment for your absence, you'll do as I say for as long as you were gone!"

Mizu blinked down at you in surprise, pursing her lips slightly as a hint of amusement spread over her features. She was clearly trying hard to restrain it.

"As you say, Oujo-sama."

Your hand instinctively flew for her face. It was intended to be a light and playful smack of warning, but Mizu caught it inches away from her cheekbone. She gripped your hand in hers securely, the warmth of her blood seeping onto your skin as she tugged you into her shadow.

You gasped softly, stumbling close to her chest with only the backs of your hands between each other's faces. Mizu stared at you with furrowed eyebrows, trying to convey something through her stern gaze as she—to your utter surprise—pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

Your knees almost gave away. Her lips were soft on your skin, and her breath fanned over your fingers as she pulled away, the sound of her parting lips fizzling into the air intimately. Your eyes zeroed in on her mouth, feeling faint tingles of...of yearning spread over your tongue for a taste of her.

"I missed you."

You'd both said it, breathlessly and shamelessly. Except that neither of you really knew what the other meant by that confession. For all you knew, it was all sisterly affection on her part. [A/n: useless fckn sapphics istfg both of you]

"Oh, um..." you flushed with heat as you tore your gaze off hers. "Well, I'm glad you were thinkng about me."

Mizu said nothing, only gripping your hand tighter. "Won't you sit with me?"

"Let me at least bring you some food," you insisted. "I'm hungry, and you must be too."

She raised a brow at you. "Your family's quite lenient, letting you eat alone during the day."

"Oh, no, they think I'm trying to lose weight for–"

You paused. Mizu probably didn't know, and this wasn't how you wanted to break it to her.

"I'll be back," you said quickly and slipped out of her grasp, missing her touch and closeness instantly as you scurried away.

When you returned, Mizu had made herself comfortable in the same spot of hay as she used to. You set down the food, and the conversation flowed as naturally as it did before. Well, it was just you rambling on again, but you told her about the ash-dusted poetry book, how much you loved it, but no details about its writer.

You were sure she was long dead.

Mizu listened more attentively than ever before, or maybe she was gone for so long that you forgot what it was like to be heard at all. Either way, you two talked into the sunset, and you had the farmer bring in dinner for the two of you. You didn't want to let Mizu out of your sight for even a second, fearful that she might disappear forever again.

In the cloak of the dark night with its sequin of stars, you and Mizu shared a blanket on the roof of the barn. Mizu had coolly swung herself up from the window, but you were smarter and simply used the ladder inside. And there you were, pointing out constellations to her and telling her of the stories that inspired them.

Then there was silence, and it wasn't very comfortable. Not for you, anyway. You knew you had to tell her the situation before you left the barn for your room.

"I'm...getting married," you said, "as soon as spring comes."

You were hoping for a reaction that would convince you to go against the fate your parents had decided.

"To who?" she asked coolly, completely unaffected. Your heart sank.

"A daimyō of the Akamatsu clan," you replied, subdued. "Weird guy. Doesn't talk much."

She hummed. "Does it bother you?"

"I guess..." you sighed. "I talk because I want an opinion on things. I could just talk to myself or a statue if I didn't want a response at all."

Mizu seemed to grow sheepish. "Sorry," she muttered, but you only shook your head. You understand she hadn't grown up around the things you had.

"I like that you asked me things," you said. "That's more than what most of these suitors do to impress me."

Mizu smiled. "Something's better than nothing, I guess. Will you be okay, though? Getting married and all?"

You shrugged. "Not like I have a choice, do I?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "Someone like you wouldn't survive being destitute when your father passes. Given your reputation, you'd be...taken advantage of a lot."

"Ah, you heard..." you muttered. Her father's health wasn't public knowledge yet, but you weren't surprised that Mizu still managed to get wind of it.

"Well," she sighed in a bittersweet way, "when you're married, that means no more warm dinners for me. Better find another naive Oujo-sama to take care of me."

You punched her arm, and she laughed huskily up at the stars.

"I take it that you're back here for a while," you said, and Mizu nodded. "Then I'll arrange for something at my husband's residence. We don't have to stop meeting."

"Too risky."

"How else will I be able to help?" you grumbled. "It's not like I can run away to live a life on the road with you, can I?"

Mizu was silent for a moment, as if contemplating it. She eventually shook her head. "No. You'd...hold me back."

She didn't have to say that out loud, you frumbled internally.

"What do you do anyway?" you prodded. "Or is that still a secret?"

"Sort of..." she mumbled. "It's...something I've prepared for since I was a child. A plan of revenge."

You were sure she meant to sound a little more serious, but she just seemed tired.

"I'm getting there," she continued. "I'm getting closer, I think. Something's in the air, and I don't think it'll be long before I have to travel somewhere far again."

Your heart clenched in your chest. "Is it so important? Why can't you just...stay here and live a comfortable life? You'll die if you keep getting injured."

"A rare occurrence."

"Still!"

"Like I said, I've prepared for it all my life."

You knew there was no talking her out of it. "Fine, do as you wish. I'm heading back down. It's cold."

Mizu nodded, and she helped you down the ladder in the darkness, following after you with the blanket in one arm. You watched her walk past you to the haystack lit up by the moonlight, preparing for the night. You didn't want to go just yet, but the oil lamp had run out of flame.

"I'm scared," you blurted out suddenly. Mizu paused and turned sideways to look at you. "I'm scared of getting married."

They looked sympathetic. "Why?"

"I...I don't know," she sighed. "My mother, she gave me some strange pictures and..."

Mizu laughed softly and plopped down into the hay beckoning you over. "It's not all that scary when you're both ready for it."

You shuffled over to sit on your knees by her side, feeling constricted in the kimono as always. "How do you know?"

"I was married once."

"To a man?" you said disappointedly.

She raised a teasing brow, smirking mischievously. "I wasn't aware that marrying women was an op–"

"Ignore what I said," you grumbled, earning the small lopsided grin you'd missed so much. "I'm just worried I'll disappoint my husband and, in turn, my family as well."

Mizu stared at you incredulously. "Wait, you've...have you never had a lover before?"

You scoffed. "Why would I? I simply had no interest."

"Good grief..." she stared at you in a daze. "Wow, you're really just...going into this head first."

Nodding sadly, you looked away as your heart lurched in your chest, followed by a flare of heat up your neck. "I just...wish I knew what it would be like. It's too late for that, though. The whole town will know about my engagement tomorrow. I mean, I doubt my husband-to-be cares if I have a secret lover either way, but..."

Your hands, stacked on your lap, twitched with something. An urge, a yearning, especially for closeness to Mizu. You bravely looked up at her as your heart lurched in your chest.

"Could you tell me what it'll be like?"

She looked back at you uncertainly. "It's not something that can be explained, really."

"Oh..." you sighed, looking off to the side nervously to avoid her gaze. You were hoping she would've taken the hint, but there really was no point to trying. Mizu was married to a man once, and she seemed to remember it quite fondly.

So imagine the surprise when you felt the back of her fingers gently caress your cheek. Your mouth went dry when Mizu cupped your jaw, turning your face to hers.

"I...could show you," she whispered almost breathlessly, red in the ears with a heavy gaze that searched your face in the soft moonlight pouring through the window. "I guess I'd know how to prepare you as a woman myself."

You weren't entirely sure what she meant just yet, so you simply went along with it. "That makes sense, yes."

In the darkness of the night, you heard her shuffle and felt the flutter of her fabric on your wrist. The hand on your jaw moved to brush away the stray locks from your face, fingers brushing your temple and tucking your hair behid your ear. You lost your breath as her nose brushed yours, feeling her breath on your lips. The air between your bodies grew warmer despite the immense cold of the night, enveloping you completely. Heat rolled off her body onto yours like a gentle hearth, except that you were compelled to throw your hands into the embers regardless of the burn.

But you remained patient.

She was close. So close, enough to feel the warmth of her lips on yours. Your eyes fluttered shut, and Mizu's trailing fingers up the side of your neck left sparks of pleasure in their wake. You stayed right where you were, frozen, expectant, your heart pounding harder by the moment until her fingers delicately grabbed your chin.

She pulled you in, and you exhaled sharply as her slightly chapped mouth momentarily brushed yours. Your heart soared, and your soul practically left your body as an electric blossom sparked from your chest and throughout your whole body. She pecked you cautiously, the sweet sound of parting lips dissipating faintly into the air as every cell of your skin buzzed with the awarness of her presence.

You opened your eyes a peek to see Mizu looking at you with concern and curiosity.

"Th-that wasn't so bad," you whispered. Mizu nodded, and your hands found the panels of her haori, clutching onto them as she leaned down to kiss you again. This time, she was firmer. Her hand closed on your throat, a thumb admiring its slender side before sliding to the back of your neck. You mewled softly as her fingers clutched your hair at the nape with restrained desperation that you didn't realize she had. The seemingly unfeeling and reclusive vagabond had a crack in her mask, through which escaped her soft and ardent sigh. You pulled her in closer, wishing to feel her skin on yours, fingertips tracing her clavicle to trail over the bone of her shoulder. Her other hand reached for your waist with purpose, hooking her fingers under your obi to pull you in with a simple yet strong tug.

You huffed upon feeling her body flush against yourself. Your other hand splayed above her breast, not on purpose, but she didn't seem to mind, too engrossed in cushioning your lips with the warmth of her own. Her arm around your back kept your knees from giving away, leaning into you as you tried to stay upright, her kiss tender yet coupled with something akin to need. It was making you dizzy, and you could barely keep your eyes open. You moaned softly, feeling small and secure in her embrace.

Mizu huffed as she paused, pulling you into her lap so she could kiss you better. Her hand clasped your jaw gently with practiced restraint, guiding your mouth open to press her warm tongue against yours.

Oh... you thought helplessly with a faint whine. That's lovely.

The sound you made seemed to have encouraged Mizu as she kissed you deeper, and you found yourself getting drunk on the way she felt; like cool and pure water swirling on your tongue. You'd surrendered to her, falling limp in her very strong embrace as she quenched herself upon your lips. Your hands clamored for her neck, fingers slipping into her hair to keep her where she was so you could continue to remain intoxicated, kissing her back fervently through the small mewls from your throat that you couldn't hold back.

Much to your disappointment, Mizu pulled away, breathing heavily through slightly swollen lips tinged with red. Her breasts pressed against yours with each inhale, and you loved the way it felt.

"Well..." she muttered shakily, "that's how it starts."

You peered up at her through your eye lashes, not really thinking straight. "And where does it go?"

"A-are you sure?"

You giggled, feeling victory in finally getting her to lose composure. "Unless you believe this is a sufficient enough lesson, then—"

Her kiss effectively silenced you, one that was even deeper than the last. She grabbed around your shoulders to pull you closer as she hoisted your higher on her lap. You let out a sound of surprise at her strength, and also of shame as her thigh pressed into a sensitive spot between yours, eliciting a throb of warmth that you were quite unfamiliar with.

She kissed you truly now, like she'd really missed you, softly nipping at your bottom lip after sucking on it when pulling back momentarily, then diving in to explore your mouth once more. You tried to express your desire for her in return by kissing her back, but she was too strong. She'd completely dominated you.

Her fingers dug into your obi, trying to find your curves while grunting into your mouth with displeasure. You pushed her back the best you could, finding a sliver of space between your bodies to undo your layers. You wanted to kiss her without hindrance, and your clothes didn't help. Before you knew it, your lapels fell away, and her hand slipped past the fabric to caress your bare shoulder as you shuddered from the chill of the air.

She leaned down and kissed right at the swell of your breast that peeked over your loosened neckline, following up to your shoulder. The softness of her lips trailing your cleavage elicited quiet mewls of ecstasy that turned to shuddering exhales as her tongue licked up the side of your neck, sucking lightly with breathy groans vibrating against your skin. She paused to breathe, looking up at you for your certainty. The wait was unbearable, especially since you'd been longing for this moment for ages without ever realizing it. Taking her hand, you nervously slid it down your cleavage, breathing heavily as her fervent palm slid onto your breast.

Mizu's eyes grew heavier, her callused fingers squeezing gently to fondle you. A soft, embarrassed gasp left you as her thumb ran over your nipple.

"Is...this how it goes?" you asked timidly, and Mizu gulped, licking her lips as her breath labored. She pulled you in closer, hoisting you higher on her hips until her breath fanned across your sternum, her fingers having pulled away the fabric to now reveal your bare torso to her under the moonlight for her blue eyes to gaze on.

"I..." she exhaled with a stagger, "I must warn you that your husband might not...take his time with you as I will."

You furrowed your brows. "What do you mean?"

Her eyes locked with yours as her face loomed closer to your left bosom, her eager and supple tongue glinting with spit as she pressed it against your soft peak to swipe over it. The rush of pleasure had you gasping, and her lips closed around your aerola with a gentle, wet suckle that pooled electrifying, aching throbs between your thighs. Mizu's hands immediately rose from your hips to your waist, holding you still as her eyes fluttered shut, and you felt her tongue run slow circles over the sensitive bud of your breast languidly.

"M-Mizu..." you gasped sharply, unable to escape her arms wrapping around you as your pelvis pressed against her firm abdomen. Your hips rolled against her on their own accord, your pulsing canal growing damp as it searched desperately for something. Somewhere in the soft folds between your legs was a bud that ached to be touched, and a shot of pleasure permeated from it througout your pelvis as Mizu pressed her body against you, a hand gripping the back of your thigh as her hips rolled up between your legs.

Mizu's chest rose and fell against your ribs heavily as she pulled away from your chest, leaving your damp breast vulnerable to the cool night air. "Y/n, tell me if you want me to stop."

"I don't," you whispered needily, and it was all it took for her to flip you against the haystack and be on top of you. You gasped, heart pounding as she loomed over you, keeping you in her shadow as the rest of your clothes came undone under her watchful gaze. Though you'd been naked before your female servants during baths and whilst being dressed, this was neither of those occassions.

Mizu looked like she was going to devour you.

The shyness overtook you like a wave, arms crossing over your chest as your bare legs remained parted around Mizu's waist. You felt so much more exposed than ever before, yet there was a sense of safety that came from the tenderness in her cobalt irises. Your eyes locked with hers, searching each other as her fingertips trailed down your arms, feathery touches tickling over your waist and navel as they approached the most private spot where the inside of your thighs began.

"Again..." Mizu said gently yet firmly, with a slight tremble in her voice, "you can tell me to stop."

You shook your head, more curious than nervous about what was to come. Instinctively, you knew where her hand would go. You wanted her to touch you there. You just weren't sure what she would do when—

"OH!"

The unexpectedly overwhelming pleasure of her soft touch brushing over your nub sent your back arching, eliciting a wantonly moan that was much louder than you would've allowed, and Mizu's mouth fell upon yours immediately to silence you. But it was difficult to keep your voice down when her fingers felt so heavenly swiping over the sensitive button hidden in the damp folds. You writhed under her, your knees held apart by her hips as her free arm wrapped around your arched waist to keep you steady. As she drank your surprised mewls, her fingertip petted your moist lips lovingly at your damp entrance, circling over them with a gentle pressure as her knuckles pressd onto your nub.

"Mizu," you cried between breaths against her lips, body tensing up as the ecstasy grew intense, "I—how—"

"Shh," she whispered. "Breathe. Let your body ease into it."

"I—I can't!" you gasped, feeling your walls pulsing quicker, harder as the slick dampness trickled out of you, your walls begging for something to squeeze down on. "I need more of you." It was the only way it made sense to say it. "Please..."

Mizu's mouth pressed harder against yours almost reluctantly, as if she enjoyed hearing you plead. Her fingertips pressed tentatively at the edges of your entrance, exhaling sharply as she collected your nectar to glide up your slit and carress your bud with care, only making you squeal into her mouth.

"This is how you should get," she muttered breathlessly against your tongue, "or it'll hurt when it goes in."

"W—hat goes in?" you stammered. [A/n: was gonna make the "Inserts himself? Inserts himself where?" reference from Bridgerton s3 over here lol]

She didn't give you time to think as a slender digit slipped into you easily, causing your jaw to drop and all air to be lost from your lungs with the way your walls closed around her fingers with unquenchable thirst. "Fuck!"

Your words were lost to her lips once more as another finger slipped in, stretching you out comfortably, but it was the way your canal contracted around them that sent intense waves of pleasure throughout your entire core, jolsting your hips against her palm that cupped your vulva. If her fingers inside you weren't already driving you crazy, the pressure of her palm's heel on your clit was definitely doing it. And before you could even process how the overwhelming fervor consumed your body, she began to pump her fingers inside you.

Slowly.

You were forcing yourself to breathe at this point as the pleasure seized every muscle in your body, trying to comprehend Mizu's digits sliding out teasingly with your walls begging for them to not leave, before she rammed them back into you deep enough to knock her knuckles against your lower lips, sending shockwaves through your entire body. The sound of it, her skin and bone against your thick coating of wetness, only added to the arousal, and Mizu finally stopped kissing you to let you breathe, looking down at you with a daze like wonder as her hand moved once more, thrusting into your core deeply, rigorously, her fingertips finding a particularly sensitive spot in the depths of your crevice that pulled strangled mewls and cries from your lips.

"Everyone's going to hear you," Mizu chuckled deeply. "You have to try being quite. Breathe."

She held you close, her warmth pressing through her clothes and onto your bare body as her lips savored your neck with a gentleness that opposed the way she pumped into you with vigor. The sweetness of her kiss riddled your head with euphoria, making you lightheaded. You could barely keep your eyes open anymore against the budding pleasure in your core, rendering you senseless.

Your hands flailed over her body for grounding as you begged her to keep going, your fingernails digging into her shoulders, breasts bouncing against her chest from the force of her thrusts, and your form instinctively curling against her. You could feel yourself getting sore, but you didn't want her to stop as a sensation in your core pulled like a band, growing tighter and tighter until, suddenly, it released with a sharp snap.

"MIZU!" you cried out, your spine arching like a snapped twig as your hips jumped, pulling your pelvis off her fingers as a violent shudder of bliss ebbed throughout to gush from you like an endless river. Mizu's hand slapped onto your mouth to contain your moans, and you tried to catch your breath, each inhale softening the intensity of whatever addictive buzz had overtaken you. The trembling came from your bones, rendering your twitching body limp in Mizu's arms as she fell away onto her back and pulled you close, reaching out for your undone robes to drape over you before wrapping you in her arms securely.

"That..." you huff as you hid your face into her shoulder, "that was really...um..."

"Yeah," she said softly. "Except it won't be his fingers inside you."

"Shut up," you groaned. "I don't want to talk about him right now."

She chuckled. "If you wanted to bed me, you could've just asked instead of using your wedding night nerves as an excuse."

You smacked her chest with your fist, but it didn't silence her. You were still twitching, but the high of the pleasure had died down quite a bit, leaving you exhausted like never before. It was hard to keep your eyes open, but the fear of waking up to Mizu gone kept your fingers clutched on her haori.

"Please don't leave me like this..." you muttered. "Don't...don't go away."

She patted your back almost affectionately. Well, it felt like it at least. "I'm here for a little while. Don't worry."

Though you didn't quite believe her, you decided to accept it before finally allowing yourself to be lulled to sleep.

⋅ ⚔ ⋅

─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆──────────── A/n: NGL my insecurity about my writing skills have come back. Been working on it in therapy but maybe this is something that will stay. I just need to make the concious decision to persist regardless of how negatively I feel about my craft. ─────────────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆────────────

#mizu #bes #blue eye samurai #mizu x reader #mizu x you #mizu x y/n #lesbian #wlw #sapphic #wlw content #lesbian pride #yuri #lesbian writers

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thedragonagelesbian · 4 months ago

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it's edited! but im sleepy so uhhh posting tomorrow if the dentist doesnt kill me.

Class got out early so im gonna try to get the cyrusXvarric fic edited tonight!!

#and he might kill me. i hate going to a new office :(((#theyre gonna be like oh shit ur gums are bad and i just have to be like yep. i know.#i do literally everything right and you wont find a spot of plaque on me just a shitton of coffee stains and the Bad Gums

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mintmatcha · 6 months ago

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Inevitable Things : chapter eight

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks. Mentions of drug use

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A lot of cheap black hair dye is just concentrated blue.

The first time Touya dyed his hair black, you sat in the sink of his parent's bathroom and pointed out all the spots he missed. You were sixteen and love still tasted like his cinnamon gum. He stood in his tub, school uniform still on, collar and skin stained with ashy blue water that ran down from his scalp. Smears of it were somehow everywhere: against the tiled walls, across the front of his button down, and even down the span of the porcelain tub. The memory is drowned in blue, from the curtains to the twinkle in his eye. A metaphor sits on your tongue whenever you think about it, too obvious to hold, too painful to ignore.

“Your parents are gonna be so pissed,” you said. Your own parents thought you were studying with your friends, instead of perched in your boyfriend’s private bathroom, door closed and away from the prying eyes of his younger siblings.

“Whatever.”

He wasn’t skinny back then, before the tattoos, piercings and heroin. When he raised his arms to wash the sludge of boxed dye from his hair, the tiniest bit of pudge on his stomach stuck out from the edge of his shirt, but Touya was attractive enough -and unhinged enough- that no one ever used it against him. He was handsome in the same way his mother was beautiful: tragically, classically. A button nose, clear eyes, with almost transparently pale skin: loving him, being loved by him, made you feel like Jane Eyre.

“Enji’s been itching to remodel this bathroom anyway. It’ll give Rei a reason to get out of bed.” His relationships with both parents were always so volatile, even before the fall. His mother bounced from overpresent and panicked, to completely absent, stuck in bed for seemingly weeks at a time. Touya said the whole cycle would never stop; it was because she hated the medications her doctor’s gave her, but also couldn’t live without them. Made the world too quiet, she said, couldn’t stand the quiet for too long.

(Later, Touya found out how much he craved that quiet, how much he loved being alone in it all. He’d pick at the medicine cabinet until his dad found out and threatened to kill him if it happened again.)

With freshly black hair, Touya shook his head like a dog and splatters of blue water sprinkled across the bathroom. Wetness makes hair darker, but you know that even dry, You giggled and it pulled out peels of laughter from him too, until you were both hunched over, giggling at nothing and everything all at once. He stepped out of the tub and inserted himself between your legs, hands coming to ghost over your face as he held you exactly how you needed. The spots where his ears were pierced were still and swollen, like unripe cherries.

“Do you like it?” His smile was freshly straight-- or maybe his braces were still on at that point. The details have been revisited so many times that you’ve begun to forget them, but you have no doubt that he smiled-- bright and sweet and juvenile in ways he’ll never touch again.

“I’ll miss the blonde,” you admitted. “But this is kinda cute too.”

He clutched you tight and you held him back, his head in your hands. “You’re so fucking mean to me.”

And you kissed him quiet. And you kissed him until the taste of cinnamon was synonymous with the taste of being alive. There was a metaphor there, something too obvious, something When he pulled away, your fingers were marked with him, dye running down your fingers and wrists, blue burying into your skin, so, deep, so vivid-

“Uh oh, did your pen explode?”

Hizashi’s voice drags you back to the present.

Your hands are stained with ink. The bottom of your pen case is spotted in blue.

“Yeah, sorry, uh-” You flounder a bit as you look around the front seat. Unlike Kaminari’s car, there’s no excess trash or tissues floating about to grab.

“I have wipes in the glovebox, babygirl.”

You carefully pop it open. Hizashi’s car is nice - all black pleather and freshly vacuumed floors, with seats that recline all the way back. You’re careful not to ruin anything as you tug a wipe free and scrub away the stains, silently working until your skin starts to wrinkle. The sun has decided to peek out for the first time in a week, much to Hizashi’s delight; he’s been humming along to the radio since your apartment, bouncing from channel to channel as he pleases. The UA Conference and Exposition starts today and, if the GPS is correct, you’ll be there early enough to get your bearings before the fun begins.

And, if the GPS is correct, you only have 15 minutes to gather yourself before Aizawa Shouta enters the car.

After the incident, Aizawa had started working from home, either for his benefit or HR’s. His absence left a void in the office that was quickly filled with intern’s chaos. Turns out, Aizawa really was keeping them all in line all this time-- as far as you can tell, almost no work has gotten done since he’s been gone. That’s the real tragedy of it all: he’s terribly good at his job and the company probably couldn’t float without him. HR would have a nightmare of a time replacing him.

Not that you want him gone.

You’re hurt, sure, but bringing HR into this mess would only open a can of worms and every little bug would link back to the fact you sent the man an unprompted nude.

Hizashi turns the radio down, leaving you two alone with the whir of the wheels against the road. “You okay? You’ve been bleh all week.”

“Yeah, I’m just--” Sad, pissed, poor, lonely, pathetic- “Nervous about this convention.”

It’s not a lie. As the week crept along, you found yourself more and more nervous for this trip, partially because of Aizawa, mostly because of everything else. You’ve never been to one of these events before-- what if you say the wrong thing, or miss a panel, or you’re not dressed well enough and you make the company look stupid? There’s so many silly little faux paus you could commit without even realizing it-

“Don’t be. It’ll be fun.” Hizashi glances over his pink prada sunglasses. As usual, he’s dressed well, donning a deep eggplant colored button down and freshly pleated black pants. “There’s a lot of things going on, sure, but there’s a bunch of things to see and swag bags to collect-”

He nudges you with his elbow until it teases a giggle out of you.

“And there’s always rich, hot doctors looking for a weekend fling.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun with them,” you say.

“You’re the one who needs to have fun with them!” Hizashi says. “You need a play thing to get your mind off of… everything.”

He grimaces at the last word and you wonder how much he knows about what's been happening in office. Probably a lot; you haven’t told him, but you know how everyone talks. You both get quiet for a bit, then Hizashi starts up again, that seasick smile still on his face.

“I actually think if you guys would stop biting each other’s heads off, you’d be best buds.” he says, “I do! He’s a really good hearted guy when he isn’t-”

“When he isn’t calling my boyfriend a junkie?” you quickly correct yourself before Hizashi can react. “Ex boyfriend.”

“He feels bad about that. Really. He just can’t bring himself to apologize correctly-- I’ll make him tell you, you’ll see.”

“Hizashi, that sounds like hell.” You sink down into the seat with a groan. You can imagine Aizawa’s stupid, uncaring face as he’s forced to apologize to you during your almost three hour-long car ride. No escape, nowhere to hide. God, it feels like some convoluted punishment that an author would come up with for shitty fanfiction.

He pulls off of the highway into a part of town you don’t recognize. It’s more suburban, with neighborhoods right near the train stations. This air isn’t as rich as Toshinori’s neighborhood, but you can taste the money.

“Can’t he drive himself today?” you complain, watching the GPS click closer and closer to arrival time.

“Can you drive yourself?”

The question flusters you. “I could, but I don't have a car.”

“Then you just have to deal with it, sorry!” Hizashi hums a couple bars of music in between words. “See? There’s something you two can bound over: being driven around by me-”

Very funny. If you guys were going to bond over anything, it’d be the fact that you- well--

Huh. Actually, you don’t know very much about the man at all. You know he likes yellow, that he works too hard, that maybe he likes cats… You certainly didn’t know he lived in a place like this.

Maybe he’s a secret serial killer. Or he kicks puppies. You don’t know!

Before you can work yourself into a tizzy, Hizashi takes a turn and you’re there. Aizawa’s house is smaller than you expected-- much smaller. It’s quaint, almost twee, and certainly not a new construct. It reminds you of old New England, this faded blue thing tucked onto the corner of a street. Nicely mowed lawn, small bushes in freshly turned soil: and you have to laugh at the thought of Aizawa doing physical labor. It’s painfully humble.

Before today, it was as if Aizawa didn’t exist outside of Prome. He existed only in those four walls and the stories Nemuri and Hizashi told you over late night drinks.

…and, of course, in your text messages.

The flux of work and real life is always strange to handle-- especially your own. You try to keep the mess from spilling together. Their densities are different: work rises to the top when home keeps sinking below it.

You think of Touya and the ink stains on your palms.

A cat lounges in the window of the top floor, black fur brown in the sunshine as it stretches long. A hand ruffles it for a moment before disappearing and Aizawa Shouta is out of the house about a minute later, bag in hand. Unlike Hizashi, he’s not dressed up-- in fact, he’s dressed worse than usual. Sweatpants and a white t-shirt: he looks like he’s about to fall asleep, not present for a crowd. He takes a second to tuck a key under the mat before trudging over.

Leaning over you, Hizashi wolf whistles out of your window, loud enough your ears ache at the sound.

“Hey, sexy!”

“Children live in this neighborhood, Mic.”

The older man throws open your door and looms down at you, no humor in his face. A beat passes before he clears his throat expectantly. His raven black hair makes you feel uneasy and you don’t want to figure out why.

“I need the front seat,” Aizawa says after a moment.

Of course he does. What a prick. Your head snaps to Hizashi, searching for backup, but he throws his hands into the air.

“Do not bring me into this.”

“But I don’t want to move.” You huff and pretend to scroll on your phone, sucking your cheeks hollow in defiance.

Aizawa’s lip twitches down.

“Are you seven?”

“You’re the one demanding a front seat,” you shoot back. “Do you get car sick? Like a toddler?”

“Are you done?”

“I am.”

“Then move.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

With a rather hefty thunk, Hizashi bounces his head against the steering wheel. “Oh my god, are you guys going to torture me like this all weekend? Because I can’t take much more of this.”

“If she would listen-” Aizawa starts.

“Just tell her!”

Tell you what? You glance up and realize he doesn’t look annoyed. No, his brow is knitted up, his expression is mild. He’s fidgeting with the hem of his suitcase, digging his nail into the seam with a little tap-tap-tap-

He’s nervous?

Your first reaction is to scoff. Who cares that he’s nervous? Not you! Why would you care about some ancient, heartless cunt’s feelings?

But then he clears his throat and steps back, admitting defeat.

“I-” Shouta clears his throat again, voice low. “Fine. I’ll sit in the back.”

Dammit. God fucking damn it. You’re already unbuckling your seatbelt before he can move.

“You can have the stupid seat.” Your attitude is gone, but you keep pretending. “But you owe me.”

Aizawa visibly relaxes, but he still sneers at you. “Whatever.”

You two shuffle around each other and you banish yourself to the rear. It’s actually not bad; the seat is bigger and comfortable. You just didn’t want him to win. This is at least a win on your terms.

“See? Hizashi sighs. “We can all be friends here! This is the ‘good vibes’ car!”

“This is not a ‘good vibes’ car. I know what you do in here,” Aizawa says as he sits.

“You mean who he does in this car,” you mumble, not expecting to be heard.

“No, I don’t.” Aizawa says. “Because he doesn’t know the people he does in this car.”

You don’t laugh, but you breathe a bit heavier through your nose. Aizawa’s shoulders shake with a hint of laughter-- his own joke clearly hitting. Hizashi huffs, clearly more amused than offended.

“Just get in already, you jerks.”

Everything’s quiet until you’re back on the highway. Now, traffic is heavier as people pour into the roads for work. The sun is higher in the sky and the air is still cool post rain, humidity currently drained from the air. You slip off your heels and tuck your legs under you. From directly behind Hizashi, you can catch a bit of his cologne-- or maybe it’s Aizawa’s? No, it has to be the blonde’s: it’s citrus, strangely sweet from a man’s scent.

“House looks good.” Hizashi turns to his passenger.

“Hm.” Aizawa doesn't settle back into the seat, but instead perches on the edge of it, gripping the little bar like a lifeline. In contrast, his voice is uncaring. “It’s fine. The girls are happy about the extra space, at least.”

Hizashi glances back at you through the rearview mirror, shit eating grin smeared across his face. “Shouta's told you about his babies, right?”

An unreasonable panic sets over you. “Human children?”

“What? No-- What?” Aizawa says, befuddled. “You thought I had children?”

“I don’t know!”

“I would have told you before we--- I have cats.”

You remember the little darling you saw earlier. So, he really does like cats. Interesting. Frankly, knowing he isn’t some animal hating freak makes you feel a little better about everything that’s happened between you. He’s just a ‘you’ hating freaking.

“Oh, I saw the black one in the window.”

“That's Sesame.” Aizawa says. “And there’s another one named Sushi.”

You snort.

“Yes, I’m a man with cats. I’m sure it’s very funny.” His voice lacks all ire when he can’t turn around and see you.

“I didn’t think you’d pick such cute names.” you shrug. “I thought it’d be more technical like, I dunno. Motherboard. Linux. Keyboard.”

“You thought I named my cat Keyboard?”

“Or something.”

He shakes his head and pinches his brow. “I don’t like computers; I just work on one.”

“Speaking of work--” Hizashi anxiously cuts in before the conversation can turn sour. Traffic has slowed to a crawl, which is nothing unexpected. He lounges back, unaffected by how others honk and weave ahead. “How’s the presentation going?”

Aizawa slumps in his shoulders and groans. “Not quite as organized as I would like, but luckily it isn’t until tomorrow.”

“You’re co-hosting in that assisted mobility panel, right? That’ll be a nice little warm up.” Hizashi says.

“Barely. That’s Tensei’s brainchild, so I won’t be speaking very much.”

“What are you presenting on?” You know the answer, of course. You’re just trying to engage politely, for Hizashi’s sake. “Our bed, right?”

“Partially.” Aizawa turns part way around, then changes his mind and faces front. The carsick thing must have been right on the money. “It’s more about patient care models and the efficacy of our upcoming monitoring systems for improving quality of life. I won't bore you with it.”

You pull at your seatbelt. You don’t really want to talk to Aizawa right now, but he’s so well informed. “I’d like to hear it.”

Besides, it’s part of your job to know these things, right? It wouldn’t be the worst thing to learn a little more about what Aizawa’s been up to this whole time. It seems like, despite all of his asshole behavior, he’s actually a pretty involved guy. An assisted mobility talk? Quality of life models? Could he actually be a good person underneath it all?

Aizawa gives you a nod, simple, but pleased. “As you know, it’s primarily to back up the paper that’s being published-”

Paper? What paper?

“But, essentially, I’m trying to convince a room of very smart people that I know what I’m talking about. Which, I do, but-”

Hizashi erupts into giggles. “You’re the worst public speaker.”

“Thank you so much. I appreciate your vote of confidence.” Aizawa’s voice drips with sarcasm.

“I assume our product is super good, right? That should make it easy.”

“Yes, it is, but it also isn’t. Once you figure out a method to collect data, anyone can do it. What turns a good advancement into a great one is what you do with the data.” The more he speaks, the more Aizawa’s back untenses and his legs stop bouncing. “And convincing other people that you know what to do with all of this raw human data is the hard part.”

He tilts his head as he continues, eyes focused forward. “This bed tracks body temperature, O2, blood pressure and pressure points, but it’s all nonsense until it’s correctly utilized. When should nurses intervene? If our model is overly sensitive, it makes nurses' jobs harder, instead of easier, and a stressed nurse negatively affects patient experience. Stress increases cortisol-”

You chime in. “And cortisol affects the cytokines, so it can delay healing.”

“How did you know that?” Hizashi asks, surprised.

“She’s smart,” Aizawa waves it off. “But if the model isn’t sensitive enough, it won’t alert nurses at the right intervals, which can also be detrimental to patient health, especially in the ICUs and coma patients that can’t advocate for themselves.”

“And you think we’ve achieved a good balance?”

“I know we have.” The sun hits the side of his face, haloing the soft bits of stubble and highlighting the silvered skin of his scar. The gray bits of his beard are almost golden in the light, and , despite everything, you find yourself smiling just a bit. He looks different in this light, you think, even if its just in your head. “But convincing everyone else is a different issue.”

“I believe you,” you say.

“That’s…” He fumbles for the first time. “Thank you.”

Oh, you try to fight how you soften. Being easily won over has always been your downfall; it would be better for you to stay furious, stay vicious, but that fire inside you darkens just a bit. It’s that same fucking ship metaphor that Touya left you with: you’re used to rocky seas, you’re used to hot and cold, drowning and rescue, rocky and unpredictable seas-

The worst thing about habits is that you can see yourself falling into them again, but you still can’t quite escape the rut you’ve carved for yourself through their repetition.

At least he thinks you’re smart. That sticks with you and buzzes in your chest.

“You must really care about this stuff,” you say.

From what you can see through his dark curls and side profile, Aizawa’s expression is less pressed than usual. “Of course I do.”

“You guys!” Hizashi throws a watery tone into his voice, all for show. “I’m gonna cry! I love when my buddies get along.”

“We aren’t.” Aizawa is quick to interrupt. “She’s just being polite. There’s no good will between us.”

Even though you don’t fully agree, you hum an affirmative. Sure, yes, there was a level of social obligation there, but to say there’s nothing positive between you is, well… Maybe it’s incorrect. Maybe it isn’t.

The rest of the ride is filled with gentle conversation- nothing noteworthy, but nothing boring either. Mostly Hizashi and Aizawa bounce off of each other with little stories and memories- things about friends they used to know, tiny complaints about people around the office, how they miss Toshinori. Aizawa even laughs a couple of times: these deep, rumbling sounds, uneven in a way that sounds like he’s almost unfamiliar with the sensation of it. The two were college friends and you can feel the familiarity in how they feed off of each other.

It’s simple, but nice, and you can see what Hizashi meant when he said you two would get along. When he’s not at work, he could be--

“I’m sorry, I feel like I neglected you the whole time.” Hizashi says. Sleep had almost taken you away at that point.“I’m not trying to leave you out.”

“It’s fine-- I like listening.” You rub the grit out of your eyes, contacts sticky and dry. “It’s like a free podcast.”

“Most podcasts are free, baby girl.”

The cityscape has changed. The buildings are taller, newer, shinier. It’s still the city, your city, but it has a different life than the outskirts. Gone is the touch of suburbia. If you were still young and fun and beautiful, you’d want to live here, feed yourself on culture and nightlife-

Hizashi meets your eye in the rearview. “You’re smearing your makeup, by the way.”

“Fuck.” You try to unsmudge your eyeliner with no success. No, you aren’t a city girl, no matter how badly you’d like to be.

“It’s alright-- we have time to go to our rooms and touch up before the con starts. We each have our own room, right?”

“Mhm,” you hum. “I figured you two wouldn’t share.”

“You and Shouta would share before I shared with anyone. I take this weekend very seriously.”

“He does,” Aizawa confirms. “This is his Olympics.”

“You sound insane right now. It would be a huge liability for us to share a room,” you say.

“I am insane-- insanely good at sex.”

“Ugh.”

“Hizashi!”

It’s just after noon when you pull into the hotel’s valet. Even though the building is wedged into a city block, it’s massive and beautifully built, a marvel in its own regard. Blue tile is pressed into neat lines across the white walls, their polished shine dazzling in the low light of the lobby. With the high ceiling, it's something closer to a Grecian vacation spot than a hotel in the middle of a landlocked city. It’s luxurious, it’s rich, it’s… almost romantic. God, no wonder Hizashi gets laid at this place.

The convention hall is attached by a skybridge, this colored glass beauty hanging in the sky above where you enter. An employee catches you staring at it all with a knowing smile. Your skin itches with the idea that you look like you don’t belong here: suburbs girl, with her smeared makeup, gawking at the city. They can probably smell that you could never afford to go here on your own dime.

Check in goes smoothly, of course. You’re organized and prepaid, so they hand you the room keys and wish you a wonderful stay. The three rooms you’re given are spread between floors. Hizashi claims the one on the first floor for ‘easy access’ and you and Aizawa are on higher levels. You’re relieved that none of you share a wall; the vibrator you have tucked into your bag is still in the wrapping and you have no idea how loud it’ll be. It’ll be equally mortifying if a stranger hears you, but at least they won’t know who you are or what you look like. It would be a secret that died between you and them.

Oh, no. Is this too nice of a place to masturbate in? Are they going to kick you out for being a nasty little horny freak? No, they would have kicked Hizashi out years ago. Unless he knows a secret that you don’t-

“Come on.” Aizawa himself snaps you out of your spiral. Hizashi has already scurried off, leaving the two of you alone in the lobby. “The elevators are this way.”

You gather your bag and walk with him, matching his stride. He’s not a very tall man, maybe even a little short, but he marches as he walks, quick and forward and sharp. You almost have to jog to keep up. It seems like he notices this and slows his pace a little, but it might be in your head.

Neither of you say anything as you wait.

And wait.

You check your phone, put it away, and then check it again. Aizawa presses the button again, muttering to himself.

What is there to say at this point? Where do you even stand?

The elevator comes, the doors close. The floors tick up. You’re both facing towards the door, saying nothing. Muzak floats in the air and it’s gentle tickle feels urging, almost more empty than silence-

“I want to apologize.” Aizawa speaks so suddenly that even he seems a bit surprised at himself. Readjusting his body, bracing his arm against the railing, Aizawa doesn’t look your way, opting to jam his hand in his pockets and watch the floor. “For it all.”

“It’s okay.” The answer is reflexive; it spills out before you can figure out exactly how you feel.

“It’s not,” he insists. “It’s just not.”

The elevator floats to a stop and the doors open. It’s your floor. There’s so much to unpack between you, so much to understand about exactly what his apology is for-

“Thank you.” You grip your bag tight as you step out. “I think.”

A thick, warm hand envelops your wrist. It’s grip is firm enough to turn you, but weak enough that you slip away as soon as you meet his face. Aizawa watches you; his deep, deep, dark eyes are locked on to yours and he tries to speak, mouth open but nothing coming out. He tries again, then again, before clearing his voice and shaking his head.

“Let’s pretend things are good between us.” Aizawa says finally, watching the floor once again-- and you have this awful feeling that what he’s saying isn’t what he really wants to say. “For Mic’s sake.”

You nod, swallowing this down, a beat too long.

“I’d like it if we were normal too.”

“Okay.” The door slides closed as Aizawa says: “For you, then.”

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avocado-writing · 6 months ago

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Idk if you know Mortal Kombat, especially mileena (she's my favorite) but may I please get a Wolverine and/or Deadpool with a gf who has a mutation like Mileena.

She thinks she's ugly when she uses it but the boys think otherwise 🎀

(I'M LITERALLY IN HEAT EVERYTIME I THINK ABOUT THEM)

This is (my wife) Mileena

When Wade fights with you at his side, your carnage is always prefaced with a quiet request.

“Please don’t look.”

And, because he is fundamentally a good dude, he doesn’t.

Fuck. He really wants to, though.

The noises that you make when he turns his back to focus on a different opponent are… interesting. It sounds like a bunch of really wet celery being snapped in half to a symphony of screams. When he’s done slicing people into teeny tiny chunks he turns around and sees you standing there in a pool of blood, trying to get the stain of it off your jacket.

He’s never been so curious about something in his entire life.

You’re so lovely. Loveliest thing he’s ever met. How the fuck he managed to convince you to give him a chance he’ll never know. God, the stars, and luck must have all been on his side that day, when after you’d finished taking down a cartel he’d asked you to grab a coffee and you’d said yes. Ever since then it’s been great. He loves spending days on window-shopping dates with you, fingers intertwined as he leaves you breathless with laughter; lazing on his sofa with some stupid rom-com playing with a bucket of popcorn between you both; snuggled in his usual corner booth at his favourite pizza place playing footsie beneath the table.

Perfect. You are perfect in every way.

So if all it takes is looking away when you ask him to then it’s a pretty easy compromise.

Unfortunately what you don’t take into account is that he is an idiot.

Wade catches the sight of you in the reflection of his katana the next time you’re out on a job. He’s just liberated some dude’s head from the rest of his body and is cleaning his blade when he spots you.

And he cannot turn away.

Your mouth is open so wide it could rival a snake’s. Rows of jagged teeth which help you dismember the man who has been caught in the vine of your tongue, struggling to get away as he screams for help. When your jaws snap shut the man is silenced. You spit out the remains of his face onto the ground beside you like discarded gum.

“Holy shit!” says Wade. You squeak when you realise he’s caught the reflection of you, covering your mouth with both hands as it returns to its normal soft, kissable line.

“Oh no!” you whisper. Wade dispatches the last guy who’s running for him with a well-aimed bullet before coming to gather you in his arms.

“Baby, hey, it’s okay!” he says quickly when it’s obvious that you’re about to cry. You look up at him with glistening eyes.

“But Wade, I look so ugly,” you manage, “I thought… if you saw… you might not want to…”

Be with me any more, are the words which hang unspoken in the air. Wade guffaws.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Babe, that was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Your eyebrows crease together in confusion. He wants to use his thumb to smooth it out, but instead chooses to wipe a tear off your face.

“Yeah?”

“Of course! Shit, you’ve got that fuckin’ Venom thing going on? Like Mileena from Mortal Kombat but sexier? Come on, I’d be a fool if I wasn't rocking a semi right now!”

This makes you laugh properly, from your stomach, and all your worry is forgotten.

“I shouldn’t have worried…” you sigh when you get your wits back.

“Nah, of course not. You’ll always be my boo, okay?”

You grin up at him, before an idea very clearly crosses your mind.

“Oh! That means now I can show you what my tongue can do.”

He isn’t proud of it, but that promise almost makes him cum in the suit.

taglist: @falsewordz @malfoys-demigod @belilwen @mildly-salted @tvwebs @childeslegstrap @getmeoutofhell @s1eep-o @just-a-beatlemaniac69 @yrthr @momopad @sugarplumz100 @captainjinkx @madspads @acrosstheunivcrse @yeethaw13 @na-is-salty @florduarte @hunterispunk @starfleetteddybear

#marvel x reader #marvel imagine #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #mcu imagine #mcu fandom #Deadpool x reader #wade wilson x reader #my writing

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kamesama · 9 months ago

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Hiii, I have a request! Ok so hear me out, what if Sukuna finds another woman and replace reader. make it as angsty as possible with a happy ending pretty please with a cherry on top🥹

you have no idea how excited i got when i read this, and then i got disappointed when i ( after my 3rd time reading the request ) noticed you said a happy ending. BUT SINCE IT HAS A CHERRY ON TOP, i will oblige. i would have made this worse if it wasn't for the happy ending.

— favourite: ryōmen sukuna.

— notes + warnings: *cracks knuckles* utter, sheer, disgusting sensation of feeling replaced; jealousy; mentions of self-loathing; mentions of intimacy/intercourse ( sukuna sleeping w/ another woman, etc ); implication of violence / cruel sukuna moment ( what do you expect? ); happy ending tho ( ? ); hurt/comfort ( ? ); unspecified but it's heian era / true-form! sukuna; concubine w/ an attitude! reader. — word count: 1224

oh, to be the apple of one’s eye — utterly adored, all-too-greatly desired, cherished beyond measure. irreplaceable.

oftentimes you felt like so, when sunken into the mattress for the sake of being ravished. when preyed on by an intense blood-hued gaze. when cradled almost gently upon the throne that was sukuna’s lap.

but how foolish of you to think that you were the single person privileged to chant his name in ecstasy. how adorable of you to think that only your fingernails could claw down his back to leave incoherent trails of pleasure you always lost yourself in. how pathetic of you to think that it was solely your own luxury to occupy the spot upon his thighs. how audacious of you to think that your lips, and your lips alone, were entitled to the act of worshipping his skin; from the sharp angle of his jaw, down his beating pulse, across the expanse of his broad chest. how bold of you to think that your tongue was the single one capable of conjuring up tales that could tickle his fancy and shackle his interest and entertain his unpredictable whims.

and so, you pondered. when another had come to occupy his chamber after dark, with her lush skin and silken hair and slender legs, you pondered, for what else could you possibly do, contained between the walls of your room?

have you rotten already?

you’ve seen her march and stomp to his chamber, leaving an invisible trace of the scent so strong you could swear it still haunted your nostrils. her lips glistened in the candlelight as if coated with a thick layer of honey that she must have rubbed into her tongue and gums earlier that eve. she wore her eroticism proudly; the subtle arch of her mouth was an aphrodisiac of its own.

the walls were always thin, but that night, they seemed thinner than ever. you could swear you’ve heard every gasp, every moan, every writhe. the curl of her toes, the grip of her slender digits at the sheets as her back arched in that wondrous curve. did his lips touch every inch of her body? from the saccharine spot on her neck to the delightful mounds on her chest? the thin skin of her hip; the lush softness of her thighs?

did his tongue utter praises of her performance, of her appearance, of her? did he claim her with nothing short of delight coursing through his accursed veins?

the sole thought made you so sullenly disappointed. your own bedding had never felt colder.

“you look miserable, woman. what is it with that attitude?” as blunt as ever, sukuna questioned, his knuckles sunken into his cheek as he watched you peel a pomegranate. despite the skillfulness faithfully coating your movements, your digits remained stained with the rich hue of the fruit’s insides; despite the effort to be flawless.

your lips pursed in response, a small sign of displeasure standing hand-in-hand with reluctance. perhaps you are acting coy — sukuna concluded — lacing your foul mood with a girlish act and bratty demeanour. not that it would render him surprised. rather, it tickled his curiosity, fueled his fantasy, and made him just a tidbit of something somewhat akin to concern.

“speak, princess,” he cooed, deciding to humour your wits with barely a mouthful of niceties. he leaned back in his seat, patting his lap with one of his hands, whilst one rested on the thigh of his other leg. the remaining two were crossed over his chest either out of boredom or superiority; or perhaps both.

you wanted to disobey; to turn your head away with a huff as your fingertips dug into pomegranate seeds. to maintain your shred of pride, wearing your displeasure with a sense of dignity out of sole respect for all the umbrage and anguish lulling you to sleep on the nights when you weren’t worthy enough.

but you didn’t.

almost too eagerly, you put away the fruit into a bowl to bleed, nearly crawling to his lap. despite the willingness of your body to nest so closely against his, however, your face remained with its little scowl, your eyes almost overfilled with chagrin.

“am i not your favourite?”

the audacity soaked your words, dripping heavily off them. sukuna sensed it; the thickness of envy in your voice, and all the more loathing that nearly looked like some deranged form of self-pity.

his slit brows rose up, his crimson gaze intense enough to have made you feel that — if he were to look just a little deeper into your eyes — he would see the way your hands massaged your own breasts as if to grasp whether or not they were shapely enough; the way you trailed one same line underneath your eye time and time again in an attempt to determine if sleeplessness has made you revolting.

“why should you desire another to warm your bed?”

a grin tugged at the corners of sukuna’s mouth as a sense of understanding weighed on his shoulders. a small hum of acknowledgement sounded from the top of his throat, his eyes closing as he took your stained hand and brought it up to his lips.

“so that’s what this is about,” he mused, his tongue shamelessly trailing across your digits to lap up the sour sweetness coating them, “jealousy is a pesky thing, little one.”

“i don’t care,” you scoffed, trying to ignore the way he gently sucked on the tip of your finger before looking at you, one of his hands absentmindedly caressing up your thigh through the silken material of your clothing, “it should be me. just me. i am the only one you summon to peel your fruits and to accompany you while you write, so why call upon another to please you at night?” you demanded. it seemed to amuse him all the more.

he raised a brow at your words and their curious tone, “you’re forgetting your place, woman,” he spoke coldly, yet the edge of his statement was somewhat softened by a dash of entertainment. nonetheless, it was enough to send shivers down your spine as his fingers sunk into your cheeks, making your luscious lips pucker. he observed your features; that small tidbit of defiance standing in defence of your vulnerability, your need, your craving. it made him grin with a certain kind of wickedness.

“but i do suppose that makes you my favourite,” he uttered, “no one else would dare be such an audacious thing…” his thumb grazed over your lower lip, parting your mouth open just enough to catch a glimpse of the pink flesh inside, “i could rip your tongue out for your insolence,” he cooed slowly, as if imagining your bleeding mouth, filled to the brim with crimson, “and you’d still be just as pretty.”

a shiver ran down your spine enough to make your bones feel frozen to the marrow, yet his touch left your body scorched; blood boiling with desire for whatever wicked debauchery his mind could conjure up.

“but i do appreciate your tales. very much so.” he spoke, easing his grasp on your face, instead morphing it into an almost appreciative caress.

the uncharacteristically gentle kiss planted to your brow seemed to calm your pounding heart for a mere few moments.

“perhaps i have some reminding to do.”

thank you for reading!

— kamesama.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk sukuna #sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna x reader #kamesama

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a-leg-without-fear · 5 months ago

Text

Entre, Rouge🩸🔥

this is very silly

Ship: Logan Howlett x Mutant!Fem!Reader 🩸

Rating: 18+

Wordcount: 666

Warnings: story is told from Wade's perspective. need i say more?

Phew!

Okay, that last Wolverine didn’t quite work out. Several stab wounds in the shape of adamantium kebabs aside, I just wasn’t a fan of his vibe. The puffy hair, the leather ensemble, and the missing hand? No thank you. I’d like an intact Wolverine with access to a shower and a hairbrush to help repair my universe.

I sat on the log I once shared with the extremely-departed Logan. Lots of blood and guts spilled everywhere, pieces of TVA agents and metal bones strewn about the snow, thick snowflakes falling through the naked trees and onto my illustrious red suit.

Oh, I should probably introduce myself.

The name’s Wilson.

Wade Wilson.

Wade Winston Wilson.

Doctor… Esquire.

Also known as the ever sexy and permanently alive Deadpool. Sure, I look like the gum-covered underside of a highschool desk, but it doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop in my quest to fix my universe and save my friends. Like Lancelot and his Holy Grail, I’m going to find a Logan and shove him into my timeline until he fits. Or do whatever happens in that story.

The little dimension doohickey I nabbed from discount Mr.Darcy sat in my gloved hand. Lots of retro graphics and shiny buttons made it look like a flip phone, but fancier. I was scrolling through universes to try and find my next target.

“420? No, I don’t think I want pothead Logan. 69? Now that’s just too obvious,” I muttered with a laugh while flipping through universes. The numbers scrolled by like etch-a-sketched fruit in a slot machine. Except without the pants-tightening excitement of winning a jackpot.

My yearning for walking through rows of old geezers sitting in their own piss puddles while mindlessly playing the slots was overtaken by a fascination in the universe that filled the screen. Confetti exploded in my head like an edged bottom who’d held out as long as he could.

“Bingo!” I said, jumping up from my spot on the crumbling log. My fabulous boots made a nice crunching sound as I walked through blood-stained snow.

Earth-80085.

The Legiverse.

A universe filled to the brim with horror, trauma, copious sex scenes, and hyperfixations switching faster than Nosferatu fiddling with his light switch. You know the one.

I jammed the “go” button on the doohickey and a huge portal appeared in front of me. Orange, glowey, translucent, door shaped. Kinda looked like jello if you squinted.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked myself, naïvely, “I’ll get burst like a blood-filled water balloon by Leg’s OC of the week? Nah, she wouldn’t do me like that.”

Taking in one last chilly breath of determination, I skipped through the portal.

What I was not expecting to step into was a bedroom.

Pale green curtains blocking out any sunlight, wooden walls with cutesy pictures, cat towers and toys scattered on the carpeted floor. And…

Is that… moaning?

My head whipped in the direction of that delicious sound. Rumpled and soaked sheets, wooden headboard slamming into the wall behind it, bed creaking under the rapid movement.

And there, tangled together in the way God definitely didn’t intend, were you and Logan. Him driving into you, toned abs flexing with each thrust and fluffy hair bouncing, with you squirming and moaning beneath him. Logan’s rough hands felt along your lucky hips.

“Damn,” I whispered. Why did you get to have all the fun? Can’t I get a little Lo-Lo action?

I hung my head, disappointed, as I pressed the “leave” button on the doohickey. It wasn’t fair! Readers get to fuck whoever they want, however they want, whenever they want. They even fuck me on a regular basis! And where does that leave poor Deadpool? Either in another fanfiction or taking care of myself the ol’ fashioned way.

Ignoring the growing discomfort in my rather-flattering pants, I stepped back through the stupid doorway to continue my search.

Why are all the good ones fucking, crucified, killing me, or Henry Cavill?

i got drunk and watched the third "night at the museum." this popped in my head while watching hugh be a silly man

Want to be on the taglist? Fill out this form!

#wolverine #logan howlett #hugh jackman #deadpool #wade wilson #ryan reynolds #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool fanfic #wade wilson fanfic #wolverine fanfic #logan howlett fanfic #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x reader #the legiverse #this is STUPID i hope you enjoy it

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goldenroutledge · 11 months ago

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par for the course

pairing ⤜ rafe cameron x fem!kook!reader

word count ⤜ 3.2k

summary ⤜ in which you forgive your childhood nemesis, rafe cameron.

a/n ⤜ season one reminiscent? i’ve had a draft of this piece forever so i decided to finish it!

rafe cameron masterlist

The slam of your bedroom door echoes through your house and the fall onto your bed is cushioned by the decorative throw pillows on top of it, drowning out your exasperation for the moment. A deep exhale fell past your lips as reality sunk in. The nags of your parents reached an all time high so far this summer, as they went on and on about how you were going to be stuck in the house with nothing to do.

Unfortunately, your explanation didn’t cut it. In the back of your mind, you were well aware that your friends would be busy doing their own things. You just chose not to believe it until it came true. John B and JJ became camp counselors for some group of kids over the summer, those poor kids. Pope decided to fill his free time with summer classes, and Kiara was tied up at The Wreck. And with John B going away, Sarah didn’t have a reason to stick around either, much to your displeasure. She’d decided to visit her cousins overseas. Not that you really blamed her, or any of your friends for that matter.

But it was slightly embarrassing to have nothing to say when it was your turn to reveal your plans for the next few months. Any other time, you’d always assumed your plans would be with any one of them.

And now, your problems were a whole lot bigger. Judging by your lack of plans, your parents went ahead and made some for you. And with the last person you would’ve wanted to spend your summer days— or any days at all— with, Rafe Cameron.

Both of your fathers had worked together in the past, and they still kept a friendship because of it. If that’s what you call two middle-aged businessmen drowning in drinks and making small talk at the occasional kook event.

To put it simply, Rafe had it out for you. Just the mention of his name made you shudder; your horrific childhood experiences with the boy forever carved in your memory.

His bratty behavior towards you began at about age 9 or 10. For instance, when you wouldn’t budge off of his favorite swing at the park. It would be impossible to forget how he popped one last bubble from his piece of bubblegum, faded pink and chewed thin, before wading it up and planting it right in your hair.

You lunged off the swing towards him immediately, screams of terror piercing the serene island air. He ran in circles, cackling mischievously as you chased him. All for Rafe to ‘take back’ his spot on the swing while he had you distracted.

As years went on, the memory became less and less vivid— except for that moment when he popped in another piece of gum, one bigger than all his teeth combined, before shouting: “Thanks for keeping’ it warm for me.”

And without an inkling of remorse, he began swinging gleefully while you ran to find your mother, hot tears cascading down your cheeks. The tear stains remained for another day or so. The sadness and frustration was simply too much for your nine year old self to handle. Not to mention the wad of gum that had to be cut out of your hair later that day. And it was all Rafe’s fault.

So it couldn’t be chalked up to anything less than betrayal, really. For your parents to coordinate summer golf lessons with your childhood nemesis. It was pure treachery. Especially after your strong argument of course, not failing to mention the dreaded gum incident. Only to be told off by your mother, as she assumed any child of Ward’s would mature into nothing short of an upstanding citizen. If she only knew.

Days later, you were throwing on a Ralph Lauren polo and a tennis skirt to match, hating every minute of it as you knew what was to come. You couldn’t deny how the material hugged your body just right; and a shred of your subconscious hoped that Rafe would notice too.

For no reason other than revenge, of course. How dare he terrorize you as a child and not be consumed with regret years later? His unforgivable acts couldn’t go unpunished.

Grabbing your keys and phone, you sped off in your car without so much as a goodbye to your mom before leaving. No amount of time could help you process what you were in for, and no amount of forethought would make this reunion any more bearable.

Scanning the cream colored walls of the Island Club, it didn’t take long to spot the tall Cameron leaning up against one of its pillars, scrolling on his phone with an expression of pure boredom. His foot tapped the floor occasionally, his eyes lifting every minute or so in search of you.

Just two taps on his shoulder was all it took to grab his attention. Rafe’s lips spread into a smirk just as quickly as he turned around to meet your irritated gaze. That stupid smirk, one you knew all too well.

“Long time no see, Y/n. Missed me?”

“Not a chance in hell. I’m here against my will.”

“Yeah, right. I bet you were just begging for a chance to see me again.” Rafe whines dramatically.

“Delusional as ever, huh, Rafe? I guess some things never change.”

“Childish as ever, huh, Y/n? Good to know we agree about something. And to think I had hope that you’d leave the hostility at home.”

“Didn’t you get suspended from the Academy for fighting? Twice?”

His expression shifts from smug to scowl.

“That was a long time ago. You ready to get started or what?”

You smile at him with faux innocence, glad to have landed a punch in this endless match between you two.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

—

The silence remained as thick as molasses, tension lingering that not even the sharpest of machetes could slash through.

Rafe steered the golf cart in silence, movements hasty and abrupt as an expression of his frustration. Your memory wasn’t as short as he’d expected; and now he was subjected to a summer of what he anticipated to be vengeful torture.

Lost in thought, he came to a stop at your destination. And by the looks of it, you were more than ready, willing and able to carry on without him as you began teeing up.

“Aren’t I supposed to be teaching you how? Isn’t that the whole reason why we’re here?”

With a sigh, your eyes darted to the clear blue sky, silently praying to a higher power to keep you sane. “I’ll ask for your help when I need it.”

You resume lining up your footing and the club with the ball, envisioning your swing before Rafe interrupts once again.

“Why bother showing up here if you’re gonna act like a bitch?”

“I was sent here against my will, remember?”

“So you say.”

“And I’m not a bitch. Not to those who don’t deserve it.”

“I couldn’t tell the difference.” Rafe scoffs. “And I never said you are a bitch, I said you’re acting like one.”

A cold chuckle makes its way out of your throat at his blatant contradiction. “You do not wanna go there with me, Cameron.”

After the mumble fell from your lips, you were set on taking a swing at the golf ball. Until Rafe opened his mouth once again, as if he was just waiting for you to swing, to piss you off even further. Provoking you at this point.

“Actually, let’s go there. I’d love to go there. Please enlighten me as to why you feel entitled to be so rude to me. Especially since I am the one doing you this little favor, aren’t I? Giving you a break from those losers on the Cut you love so much.”

“Isn’t it disrespectful to talk when I’m trying to hit a ball?” You query, quoting his very own words during an encounter with the notorious blond pogue. “Learn some etiquette, my friend.”

“Pathetic. So it’s Maybank? He’s been whispering in your ear? What, is he your boyfriend?”

“As if I haven’t experienced enough of your obnoxiousness firsthand. Trust me, I hate you plenty on my own. And he’s not my boyfriend, idiot.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, his smirk returning at your defensiveness. “Though from what I hear you have some ‘losers’ of your own these days. Barry, isn’t it? Would be a shame if Uncle Ward found out.”

Rafe rolls his eyes at your disingenuous mention of his father. Sure, your fathers were somewhat close friends, but for some reason, it made his blood boil. “What’s it to you? Don’t tell me this is your attempt at blackmail.”

You shrug, grip still firm on the golf club. “Not necessarily. Have to admit it does feel good to get under your skin, though.”

“Touché.”

—

You moved through the golf course rather quickly, nearing its end. Both of your intentions were evident that you were eager to get home, and best of all, away from each other. Rafe slides into the driver's side of the cart, but doesn’t pull off immediately.

“You never actually answered my question, by the way. About why you’re being such a pain in the ass to me.”

You stop scrolling on your phone to look at him, trying to understand his purpose for bringing this up again. “You don’t happen to have some sort of short-term memory loss, right?”

“You said you hate me plenty on your own. But what fucking reason have I ever given you to?”

“Oh?”

“I told you to go there, didn’t I? I’m giving you a chance to let out your grievances. And that’s one more than I should, you know patience isn’t my strongsuit.”

“Can’t a girl just hate Rafe Cameron with no strings attached? I’m sure it’s not the first time.”

He looks over to you, blue eyes staring into yours. “You and I both know there’s always strings attached.”

“What can I say, Cameron? Guess it’s just par for the course. Or are you so desperate to know because you crave my validation?”

“What can I say, Y/l/n? I guess you wouldn’t be able to understand what it means to learn from your mistakes.”

“You’re full of it.”

“No more than you are, peach cake.”

“Just drive us back to the club already.”

“Not until you confess.” He protests, dangling the keys in your face before sliding them into his pocket. Rafe leans back, unintentionally manspreading as he does so, and drapes an arm over your shoulder. “We could be here all day.”

The exasperation was pretty much dripping off of you. His antics felt so familiar in the most intense way possible, and it made you want to scream. He was the same Rafe bullying you out of the playground a decade ago. The same Rafe you were now wondering had you misjudged. Or judged a little too harshly over some measly childhood rivalry.

“Primrose Park.”

“Excuse me?”

“Primrose Park.” You reiterate. “Don’t feign amnesia. I know you know.”

“How could I forget? I was the king of that place for years.”

“King? More like dictator.”

He shrugs. “I had a delicate ego back then.”

“As well as no patience or manners. If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought you were raised by wolves.”

Rafe chuckles, amused by your memory of him as a child. “Blame it on Uncle Ward.”

“Sarah and Wheezie were always sweet as pie, so I don’t know if that’s fair.”

“Probably just caught me on a bad day, Y/n. I, too, am sweet as pie.” He defends, eyes twinkling as he smiles.

“Like hell you were! Do you recall wading up your gum and sticking it in my hair? Does that ring a bell?”

His eyebrows furrow as he recollects the memory.

“When we were kids at the park, you got all pissed that I wouldn’t give you a turn on the swings, so you spit your gum in my hair.”

He chuckles at first, but his laughs grow much louder as he ponders the memory.

“It’s really not that funny, Rafe. My mother had to cut that chunk of gum out of my hair.” You remind him. “You’re lucky I don’t shave your damn head right now!” You take a swat at his cap, knocking it to the ground as he’s struggling to get his laughter under control.

“And after all these years you never forgave me? It’s been decades, Y/n.”

“You never apologized.”

“Well I’m sorry, now. If that means anything.” He mumbles the last part, apologies being a foreign art to him. “But you should be thanking me, actually. You have no idea what you were in for had you stuck around.”

“What?”

“Henry Haberstroh. He was gonna give you another one of those stupid bouquets of weeds.”

“The dandelion bouquets?” Your mouth hangs open at the revelation, remembering the boy with an incessant crush on you. A crush so intense in fact that he wouldn’t stop giving you bouquets of dandelions he’d picked from the grass— not until you’d agreed to a playdate with him despite being painfully uninterested.

“The gum idea was more of a last resort but I thought you might wanna get out of there. I mean, dandelions? You’re allergic to bees.”

“And how do you know this exactly?”

“As King of Primrose Park I was privy to information. And was subtlety ever Henry’s thing? The kid was a blabbermouth. He never shut up about you.”

“Well I must say I’m impressed, Cameron. That’s quite a scheme you pulled off. Not that you’re forgiven or anything. But Henry was a creep.”

“Couldn’t take a hint to save his life, either. I don’t think I’ve seen you run away from someone so fast, not even from me.” Rafe teases, nudging your arm with his as you giggled.

“The bees!”

Rafe gives you a look of disbelief, knowing damn well it wasn’t the pollinated dandelions you were running from.

“Seriously, I’m really allergic! But you already knew that?”

“What kind of secret admirer doesn’t know his admiree’s allergens?”

His blue eyes lock with yours, smiles replacing the scowls on both of your faces from earlier. You raise an eyebrow at him in question.

“Shame on Henry.” Rafe critiques, realizing the implication of his words.

“Yeah. Shame on Henry. But I wouldn’t call us even quite yet, so sleep with one eye open just in case.”

The two of you share a genuine laugh for the first time all day, before Rafe begins driving towards the next hole.

“Remind me to lock my windows when I get home.”

—

You move towards your ball once again, but gaze at your target uneasily. Maybe you still had a thing or two to learn about the sport. Rafe leans up against the cart, arms crossed and biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt much thinner. The tension was almost gone in comparison to how you started the afternoon. Almost.

Now looking at Rafe, it felt different. How could you be angry anymore? Holding a vendetta against him took too much energy at this point when it was no longer warranted.

To your luck, you could excuse the fiery feeling rising to your cheeks as a result of the sweltering sun. No matter how hard you tried, your former memory of him melted away. You could no longer see Rafe as the pesky little boy he once was. Perhaps a symptom of heat stroke, you thought. Hopefully it would be temporary, you still had the whole summer with Rafe ahead of you.

“I almost forgot you’re supposed to be teaching me how to play this joke of a sport.” You gripe. “Will you show me?”

Rafe bites his bottom lip to avoid cracking a smile. That you had finally cracked, giving in to ask him for help. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Leaning off the cart, Rafe saunters over to you. “I need you to start on your form first. May I?” He offered, gesturing to set his arms over yours for some adjustment.

With a slow nod, you decide to taunt him further. He’s not gonna get away that easy. “You’re not chewing any gum are you?”

“No, Y/n.” He responds, and you can just hear the smirk in his tone. Hearing your name roll off his tongue makes your stomach flutter— now feeling his body against yours, the heat increasing tenfold.

“Hold the club firmly, and swing through the ball, not at the ball.” He guides your arms with his, mimicking how to prepare for a swing. As his head peers over your shoulder, you swear you hear his breath hitch at the faint aroma of your perfume. Rafe almost seems relaxed, doing the movements with you a few times over again before stepping back to let you try it.

You do just as he taught you, and Rafe repeats the instructions under his breath as he watches you take your swing.

From the woosh of the ball leaving the grass, your eyes follow as it lands in a close proximity to the cup. With a scream of victory, your hands collide with Rafe’s in a high five, before wrapping your arms around his neck, his hand instinctively falling to rest at your waist as he pulls you into a hug. “Atta girl!” He marvels.

“I did it!” You cheer, smile beaming off your face. Once the initial shock wears off, you realize whose arms you’re engulfed in, stepping back from the embrace abruptly. “Uhm- I’m sorry. I didn’t…” You begin, trying to explain yourself and your sudden outburst of physical affection.

“Don’t apologize.” Rafe assures, reaching his hand out for yours. You accept it with a shy smile. “You did great for your first big swing. Can’t say I’m surprised, though, you do have one hell of a teacher.”

“He’s not bad.” You confess. “Actually, better than I thought.”

Rafe quirks an eyebrow, his cerulean orbs gazing into your eyes, finding for once they held not one drop of bad blood while looking back at him. He steps forward, the space keeping you both apart dwindling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell him I said that, it’ll go straight to his head.”

His eyes flicker from yours then to your glossed lips, which is the final straw before giving into your growing urge to kiss him. Rafe’s free hand clings to your cheek immediately as he deepens the kiss; as if a magnetic pull between you two had clicked.

Pulling away, the surprise on Rafe’s face is evident, but the confidence in his voice made it impossible to tell a difference. “I’m glad to see you came to your senses and forgave me.”

“Jumping to conclusions already? What makes you think you’re forgiven?”

Rafe shrugs, and that familiar look of pride returns to his expression. His thumb grazes across the apple of your cheek, and his hand gives a gentle squeeze to your waist. “Call it a wild hunch.”

taglist @ilovejjmaybank @missevi @nxsmss @cameronsrafe @msgorillagripcoochie @bibliophilewednesday @tovvaa @rudybarnes @annab-nana @reawritesthings @moniamaybank @outerbankspreferences @laneylaneylaney @jjpouggues @milkiane @mildkleptomaniac @whcclxr @mrs-cameron @alanniys @amourology @luversgirl @fallingwallsh @scenesofobx @bradleybeachbabe @chrisevansfuturewife @drewstarkeysbitchh @littlementalpolaroids @destourtereaux @iammirrorball

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the-universal-sun · 2 months ago

Note

i love these so much :(( your a massive comfort for meee,,, could we maybe have a story of stanley getting his first paci? jhgfjfkhd <3333

I'm glad you find my headcanons and drabbles comforting! I hope i continue to please with my blog!!! I hope you enjoy this little drabble!!! Thank you very much for your request!

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"Hold out your hand, please. I have something to give you," Ford asks Stan on a day when he's feeling Little. Stan does as he's asked, hands cupping together to hold his brother's gift to him. "Here you go, Lee, I have a solution for your spittle problem!" Ford says, pride clear in his voice as he pulls out an object from behind his back and drops it in Stan's hands. He looks at it from all angles, trying to, as Ford says, use the "Scientific Method" to figure out what he's holding. It has a rubber end that kind of looks like his sippy cup, but it's more bendy. And it has fishies all over the hard part of it. Stan still doesn't know what it is, so he holds it up to Ford and cocks his head, silently asking for help.

"It's a pacifier, Lee! We both know you have a bit of a chewing and gumming problem when you take your dentures out, leaving drool stains," here Ford points to Stan, who has his sweater in his mouth. He lets it drop and covers the drool stain with his sleeve and a blush warming his face, "and we won't be back in Gravity Falls for a few more months now to get your-anyways," Ford quickly averts around the subject of the dentist and Stan's impending dental implant appointment, no use to make him upset and fussy now. "It's to help mainly with your oral fixation habit, but I imagine this will lessen drool stains as you'll hopefully stop putting your shirts in your mouth." It's here that Ford's look goes more stern, which makes Stan feel squirmy in his tummy. He doesn't want to make his brother upset with him, he doesn't even realize he's chewing things most of the time! Not until Ford point it out to him! Stan brings the pacifier back to him, examining it. He runs his fingers over the chew spot. It probably feels better to chew than his sweaters and fingers and stuffies do. And it has fishies on it. He loves fishies.

Stan brings the pacifer up and puts it in his mouth, giving it a small suck and chew. And. Oh Boy, he just melts because it feels so nice in his mouth, it doesn't itch his gums like the sweaters do and Sixer must have put something on it, it tastes sweet and makes his mouth feel so cool. He gets lost in the soothing motions of sucking and chewing, mumbling slightly as he feels six-fingered hands help him up and into a lap. He's handed Poindexter, wrapping his arms tightly around his friend. Stan sighs as he feels Sixer rock him, he must be sitting in the rocking chair they found in the Shack's storage room, because the rocking feels so smooth and easy.

Stan lets his mind drift hazily as he sucks on the pacifier and cuddles Poindexter and Sixer at the same time, humming softly as words he can't comprehend are said in his ear, a pleasant buzz moving through his body.

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savorypink · 1 year ago

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need late sias!alex as a barista and u as the annoying customer who comes in during closing time. he angry fucks you in the bathroom cuz u annoy him

“cuz u annoy him” makes me giggle, but here you are anon!

“...and that’s why I stopped paying my taxes!”

You speak into your phone’s speaker, swinging the doors of the small cafe open. Caught up in a conversation over the phone, you miss the scowl on the barista’s face as you saunter towards the counter. The lights of your favorite coffee spot have warmly dimmed, the minimal lighting enhancing the coziness of the atmosphere. This lighting, however, is an indication that closing time is near. To the dismay of the night shift barista, Alex, you have always made it your business to show up right before the doors close. Your horrible timing isn’t entirely your fault, though; 1) you’ve got things to do, 2) the cafe has become rather popular recently, and your patience isn’t the best. Why would you want to wait in line?

Your conversation continues even when faced with the barista, completely ignoring the chairs sitting on the empty tables, the lemon scent of cleaning products breezing past your nose entirely. The barista’s cute, large doe eyes look up at you from the counter he’s wiping down with a bleach-stained rag; he doesn’t seem happy to see you.

“Hold on just one second...” you say to the barista and your rambling friend on the phone. Digging into your bra, you pull out the crumpled-up bills and coins for your usual drink, all in exact change. You hand him the money with a warm, lip gloss-coated smile. You’ll see if he’s worthy of a tip.

“You know what to do.” You finish with a wink before he takes the money out of your manicured hands. Your perfume's pleasant candy scent lingers when you turn your heel to the tables behind you, dizzying and addictive to his nostrils, but he scowls as soon as you pick up a chair. Plopping down, you continue entertaining your friend on the phone, and you aren’t quiet about it.

“Yeah, I’m at the cafe now. It’s so cute!” you squeal. “You should totally hit it up sometime. Make sure the Elvis-looking guy makes your drink, though. He’s the best.”

Your words wash away the barista’s annoyance as he prepares your drink, knowing your preferences like strings on a guitar, pure muscle memory. Your loud mouth quickly tarnishes this somewhat peaceful moment.

“It’s the ginger-haired girl you gotta watch out for. Ugh, she’s the worst! Can’t make a drink for shit. And guess what? I found a hair in my muffin! When I flipped out on her, she kept saying, ‘Calm down,’” You do perhaps your worst impression of the nasally lady, “and she was like, ‘Do you want another muffin?’ No! I want my money back, Ed Sheeran!”

Your friend on the other line laughs alongside you, a bubbly yet ear-piercing cackle that makes Alex almost crush the mixer in his hands. His brain bounces from wanting to hear your laughter again to shutting you up with a kiss. As your gums continue flapping, you allow your eyes to examine the barista behind the counter. His backside is as cute as his front, the lean muscle of his shoulders contracting under his white t-shirt, strong arms flexing as he scoops up the ice and pours it into the mixer. You put a gelled nail between your teeth as you watch him, shifting in your seat as your panties become uncomfortably wet.

“Hey! Are you still there?” Your friend calls on the other line.

“Yeah!” Your cheeks warm up at the interruption, “Like I said, make sure Elvis makes your drink. You’ll know exactly what he looks like. If his back is turned, just look for the one with the cute butt.”

Alex is thankful his back is turned, your words tinting his face a rosy red. The silver bell on the counter dings once your drink is prepared. You don’t bother putting the chair back as you approach the counter. You thoroughly look through the transparent cup, ensuring the amount of ice and the number of dried fruit is accurate; you have no notes. Taking a sip, you let the liquid linger on your tongue before swallowing. Cold, sweet, and punchy; you couldn’t ask for more. You reenter your bra, dig out some change, and place it into the tip jar near the register. Your sunny, warm smile conflicts with the barista’s snowy, freezing shoulder.

“Thanks, Alan!”

“Alex.”

Your eyes dart to the pastry case behind him, a croissant drizzled with chocolate catching your eye. “How much for that croissant? It looks tasty…”

“For you? Free of charge.” He’s more concerned with getting you out of here before you give him gray hairs.

“Wow, really?” you beam in amazement. “You’re so kind! Alan, you’re the best! You’re way nicer than that ginger chick who tried to poison me. Ugh, she doesn’t work here anymore, does she? So unprofessional. She’d be better at scrubbing toilets than making drinks.”

Alex smirks at your remarks as he hands you the pastry in a white paper bag. “You mean my boss?”

“That’s your boss?” You immediately take the pastry out of the bag, biting into the flaky treat. “She’s in the wrong line of work if you ask me!”

“Oh, yeah? Do tell.”

Your mouth moves before you can detect the sarcasm in his voice. You’re oblivious to the flakes falling into your shirt, decorating your cleavage as you continue munching and talking. Alex second-guesses giving you a napkin before handing you a few from the dispenser. If he didn't, he’d have more reason to stare at your chest. Flakes and chocolate stain the corners of your mouth and lip, and he hates to admit it, but you’re looking very…cute.

“Anyway,” you finish, wiping yourself clean, “You should totally be running this place, Alan. It doesn’t hurt that you’re super hot, too. Just work on the resting bitch face, and you’ll be amazing!”

Your final comment digs painfully into his skin, and it’s a shame. He was starting to like you.

“You’re too pretty to be talking with your mouth full,” Alex crosses his lean arms over his chest. “ I could teach you proper etiquette if you’d like. I’m a tough teacher, though. Be warned.”

Offended, you blink wildly before smiling at the compliment he snuck into his invitation. You gladly accept.

“You think I’m pretty?”

---

The cold marble of the bathroom sink raises the tiny hairs on your skin. You claw at it to no avail, sheepishly bent over the sink with your thong and velour tracksuit pants hugging your ankles. The empty bathroom echoes a slapping sound, a mixture of wetness and the noise of your ass against Alex’s relentless hips. His cock drives in and out of you at a brutal pace; each thrust angrier than the next.

“You’re awfully quiet,” his large palm comes down on your ass with a vicious spank. “Come on…you were mouthin’ off about a muffin just a minute ago.”

Your cunt gushes at his words, the tight walls of your core needily squeezing him in a vice grip. Lust clouds your brain, unable to form a witty comeback to his statements, your weak moans becoming a new language. Before you lay your head on the marble, Alex fists your hair in a ponytail, tugging you upwards to face the mirror. Ignoring the messy reflection, you allow your eyes to roll into your skull, heat beginning to pool in your stomach, his cock hitting the right spots repeatedly and harshly.

“We’ll figure out a use for your mouth in the next lesson. You're doing a great job at taking me, muffin.”

#mickey is typing…#alex turner fanfic #alex turner smut #alex turner x reader #alex turner x you #so much fun to write! apologies for the wait!

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princessbrunette · 1 year ago

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Just thought about Spiderman!JJ affected by the Venom suit feeling the urge to visit shy!reader in the middle of the night 🤭

the venom suit bringing out mean!jj??? i’m hooked.

౨ৎ🕷️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

there’s something different about him when he arrives at your window in the pouring rain, the darkness of your apartment doing little to illuminate the figure you recognised as him sprawled on your fire escape. you’re quick to yank him inside, not even caring when your thin little silk night gown gets splattered with rain drops.

“are you okay?” you breathe, your hands on his strong arms as you attempt to eye him over the best you can in the dark of your living room.

“oh, better than ever, sweetcheeks.” you can hear the smile in his voice before he yanks his mask off, fluffy head of blonde hair popping out into shape almost comically. he didn’t seem injured, minus the slightly bloody cut on the corner of his mouth. he’s still grinning, and as your eyes adjust on his glinting canines you catch the glimmer of dark red blood staining his gums, evident he’d been in some kind of tussle.

“did you get into some kind of trouble tonight?” your voice is quieter, concerned and you gently lift your quivering palm to cup his cheek, wanting to turn his face to get a better look at him from the light of the window. his face is cold, and where he’d usually lean slightly into your touch— he doesn’t move, just continuing to stare you down with an expression you hadn’t seen him wear before. hungry, slinky, smirky. you remove his hand on instinct for some reason, and take a step back. “jay you’re being weird.”

“am i?” he asks, beginning to walk you backwards. “‘cus i told you already that i’m feelin’ great, princess. what, you’re not digging the new suit? i’m hurt. thought you of all people would be the first to notice.” your back hits the wall, and he closes in on you— lips curled up fully once he tongues at the cut on the corner of his mouth. his hand leans against the wall beside your head, and you’re trapped. “y’know… seein’ as it’s totally clear how bad you want me to give it to you good. think i didn’t notice? s’cute, like actually.”

your lip quivers at the humiliation, eyes filling with tears as they flicker between his. it’s then, you drop your gaze to his suit and finally notice the lack of colour. where a vibrant red and navy blue would usually illuminate against him, there was simply black in its place. your brows knit together.

“you’re… not you. somethings happened. you’re different — you’re worse.” you try to be brave, but the sentiment seems to irritate him, his hand shooting out to grip your jaw.

“ouch. s’not very nice of you, mama.” he tilts his head in faux sympathy. you’re frozen, staring up at him — half in fear and half in shameful arousal. as if sensing this, he chuckles — warm breath wafting over your lips with how close he was. if jj was finally going to kiss you, you wasn’t sure if you wanted it to be like this.

as if there had been some kind of divine intervention, there was a crash — sounding like it came from a few blocks away, followed by yelling and sirens. his pupils dilate further in curiosity and he turns his head a little, spidey senses honing in on the source. finally, he pushes off the wall— eyeing you down once more.

“yeah, uh— gonna have to cut this short.” he strolls to the window tugging his mask back on, slinging a leg out and sitting on the window sill before turning his head to face you. from this spot of your dark apartment, his silhouette was illuminated by the lights of the city behind him. “should really start lockin’ your window, cupcake. might let in unwanted spiders.”

with that, he swings off into the city— leaving you wondering who or what that was.

౨ৎ🕷️ ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

#jj maybank prompt #spiderman!jj

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stealingyourbones · 2 years ago

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Submitted Prompts #98

Danny and Raven are both hybrid supernatural creatures. Which means, they end up meeting during a couple of pagan celebrations.

They get to talking, and realize they get along really well. So, since on Raven's side of things, she still hasn't met the Titans yet, Team Phantom just essentially adopt her. Sam adores her new goth friend. They help her feel normal, and she gives them precious advice on magic and how, sometimes, defeating an enemy comes at the cost of their life, because they might not give you much of a choice...

Soon, Raven meets the Titans, while Danny goes along his usual business of keeping Amity Park safe. They keep meeting up for celebrations, birthdays and random meetings for no reason other than a slightly feral sense of "I missed your presence at my side" they all have with each other.

The Titans are very curious on why she keeps disappearing every year at the exact same time, but all they know is the bare bones "magical meeting of magical entities that practice magic".

Until one day, when Raven almost tore Titans Tower apart while desperately trying ANYTHING to contact a friend who seemed to be "gone, and nothing can reach him. What did that idiot do?!?!?!" They are...justifiably concerned...and Robin smuggles the Batplane out of it's hangar so they can help their friend, who's always so composed, actually get to Amity with some backup in case things are going wrong.

Nothing would have prepared them for the SMOKING GODDAMN CRATER in the ground where a town should be. Raven can't reach past the Veil. The way seems to be blocked (since Amity, in the Ghost Zone, has the Ghost Shield up and running) and her powers are going a little wonky and unstable, random rocks lifting and orbiting her and the town limits as the Titans investigate as much as they can.

Until, with roaring thunder, Amity is thrown back into it's proper spot. But something's wrong. Phantom is easy to feel. He's always been a shimmering beacon in Raven's senses, but right now he feels...subdued, and yet swelling with new power...

It's not until Twam Phantom goes to meet her, that raven realizes what's wrong. She knows that Crown, and the Ring her friend is cradling in his hands. Ectoplasm is staining his hands, his suit, and, most noticeable, his teeth.

He looks like he'd rather be anywhere than here, and Sam goes in for a hug, and tells Raven they're calling a "Code Panda" (because pandas have a startlingly high chance of abandoning their Cubs before adulthood, and are generally idiots).

Robin volunteers to destroy the portal when they're ready to go, while the rest of the Titans start closing ranks around the seemingly traumatized teenage hero in case he needs help. The most he reacts is to let Raven float to him and hug him as he whispers a soft "Hey Ray...I had to follow your advice..."

(I imagine that Raven's own experiences would help Danny come to understand that, even if his Rogues can be reasoned with, there will eventually come a time where a new one might not. So they have to be prepared for that eventuality. So Danny treats Pariah's Core like one of those chewing gums with the liquid in the center of it, when he realizes the Old Tyrant King isn't going to go quietly, nor will he listen to reason. And hearing his parents talk about how Phanton would have to be exterminated soon before he "got too powerful" leads Danny and his friends to get out of Amity ASAP. Luckily, they have a friend who's very happy to have them around. Is this an "Everlasting Trio+the DC character they fell for" thing? Not necessarily, but my brain pictures them as starting to date while Raven got busy with the Titans, and when they're all together, they platonically drag Raven to their cuddle pile, where they romantically confess their shared feelings for her. But it's really up to interpretation of whoever reads it.)

#bones submissions #dpxdc #dc comics #dp x dc prompts #i just like the idea of a soft character dynamic that can be both platonic or romantic #but doesn't need to be either/or #it can just be a soft moment #i also have the same feeling when it comes to Tim-Kon-Bart-Cassie dynamics #are they dating? uh.....maybe?#but also not really? it depends on how you view romance?

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peachdues · 7 months ago

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necrosis

a peach original, I guess??

CW: 1.5k • dark content • dead dove do not eat • body horror/rotting • abusive relationship • gaslighting

Toxic love except it actually rots you from the inside, out.

It starts with a spot of black that appears on your tongue one morning. You scrub at it with your toothbrush, your tongue scraper, yet it won’t budge. You rinse with the most stringent mouthwash known to man until it burns your throat and stings your nostrils, but when you hold your tongue out to inspect it, the black lingers.

You make a doctor’s appointment even though you hate them, but when you sit in the examination room, fingers digging into the armrests of your chair as a metal tool is shoved into your mouth, the doctor cannot give you an answer.

“I see nothing wrong,” she says, sitting back and snapping her gloves off. “It looks perfectly healthy to me.”

But when she turns her back, click clacking her notes into your chart, you find a mirror and stick your tongue out.

The black spot has grown larger.

—

“Do you see it?” You ask him that night, when he comes home later than he should, a hint of perfume that isn’t yours lingering on his neck.

It isn’t the first time. You never mention it.

“See what, love?”

“The spot.” You hold your tongue out for him to inspect. “Thee?”

He studies your mouth and a small smirk curls up the corners of his lips. “I see only my love for you.” He taps his index finger right atop the small black mark and you nearly hiss at the eruption of pain that explodes under his touch.

Out of the corner of your eye, you swear he grins as you wince, but when you look to him, his frown is the portrait of concern.

“Let me kiss it better,” and he swoops down on you before you can protest. His lips feel like a blade sawing back and forth over your mouth and yet, there’s a sweetness to his kiss. A comfort in the violence he bestows upon you that has your hands tangling in his hair, begging for more.

Beneath the pain blooms pleasure, the kind you’d known in the early days of your romance, hot and honeyed and addictive.

When you wake up the next morning, you find your entire tongue is black.

—

Weeks later, he brings home your favorite pastry.

It’s a distraction; one to keep you from asking about the lipstick stain on his neck the night before.

The sugary diversion is unnecessary; you’d learned not to ask him about the trophies he receives from others years ago, when your nagging had been met with the sharp sting of his palm against your cheek.

Do you want me to leave? He’d asked, bitter and cruel. Do you want to be all alone in this world?

Alone.

The word had filled you with dread, made your skin turn gooey with sweat. You’d fallen to your knees, begged him not to go, to stay, to love you.

He knelt down with you, pinched your chin between his fingers, and promised he would.

As long as you apologized.

Your mind railed against you, shouted and screamed that you had no reason to apologize, that it was he who should be begging your forgiveness —

The words rolled right off your tongue, effortless and earnest.

And as he brought his lips to yours with sage smile that was all self-righteousness and pride, your heart had whispered its thanks. You would not be alone.

So no, the bag containing your favorite croissant from down the street isn’t necessary to keep you in check. But it’s there, held out to you like a prized offering, and you tell yourself it’s because he loves you.

“It’s your favorite,” he says with a grin too full of teeth, glossy and sharp. “Go on. Eat.”

You mimic his smile and bring the croissant to your lips. You take a large bite, the layers of crisp pastry and sugar crackling under teeth that sit too loose in your gums.

You make a sound of delight, and his smile only grows.

“Again.” He commands. Like always, you obey, repeating the motion again and again until there’s nothing left but crumbs and powdered sugar clinging to your hand.

His fingers latch delicately around your wrist, and he brings your hand to his mouth. Slowly, sensually, he licks each of your fingers clean.

When he’s done, you bring your hand back to your lap and you try and ignore the way the skin of your knuckles splits; how your fingers swell with gangrene.

He gives you a knowing smile. “Good, right?”

You smile and nod. You always do.

You don’t tell him you haven’t been able to taste a thing in weeks.

—-

The black stagnates for a month after he brings you the pastry. It is kept strictly to your tongue, and no one seems to notice apart from you and him. You decide you can live with it; so what if you can no longer taste anything that isn’t the burning fire of his lips? Food and drink were only necessities; you have all the pleasure you could ask for, sleeping beside you at night.

But then that pleasure disappears for a morning, two, three, before he returns home again. He offers no explanation and you ask for none; you only peel the blankets off your cold body and invite him in to warm you up.

The next morning you sit at your vanity, readying to face another long day at work when you catch sight of yourself in the mirror.

The compact of powder you’d been holding clatters to the floor, its ashes spilling across the hardwood.

Your skin has turned gray; dry in some spots, melted in others. More black whittles its way under your skin, inking the veins that creep toward your eyes.

You hold out your tongue to reveal a dark, shriveled lump. Ink coats the inside of your mouth in place of where your saliva once gathered, staining teeth that now seem too large, too brittle. A maggot peeks out from between them, its pale, fat little body wriggling against your receding gums.

He saunters in a few moments later, undisturbed by your earlier disquiet. He smiles at you through the mirror as he eases up from behind, dropping his head to plant one kiss atop your bare shoulder.

The skin shrivels under his lips.

“Beautiful,” he says as you stare in horror at your reflection. “You’re so beautiful, and you’re all mine.”

He fists the hair at the nape of your neck and tilts your head back for a kiss. When he pulls away, his mouth is covered in an oily slick that he cleans with his tongue.

“I love you.”

Your heart flutters against your thinning sternum, each beat sending small fissures along the porous bone. You smile at him and a fly escapes your mouth.

“I love you, too.”

He withdraws his hands from you and you spy a clump of your matted hair tangled between his fingers.

——

You make another doctor’s appointment.

“There is nothing wrong with you,” she insists even as you stain the thin paper sheet of the examination table black, soddening it down with your rot until it disengages. “You’re as healthy as a horse. Perhaps you need a psychiatrist.”

“Perhaps I do,” you try, but your echo is garbled by the teeth that fall into your lap. “Thank you, doctor.”

She looks at you with something like disgust and at last, you think she might finally see.

But then she turns and closes the exam room door firmly behind her, leaving you and your black alone.

——

By the time you learn the word for your affliction, it is too late.

It’s a necrosis; one that spreads from tongue to lips, until your teeth turn to dust and black slime seeps from your mouth. It drips down your chin, splashing onto your chest where it rots away the skin over your heart.

You’d been taught that the sternum is the most resilient bone in the human body; hard and thick, a near impenetrable fortress that guards the human heart.

If that were true, then how is it that the black slime spilling down your chest sinks so easily beneath your skin? How can you see the weakening beat of your heart pulsing under rotting flesh as though no rampart of bone ever existed?

He lays beside you in bed, unaware or uncaring at the way you seep into the mattress. Flies circle your head, born from the maggots that nest in the corners of your eyes. If you looked down, you would see the emporium of wriggling things that feast on your carcass, have made their home among your bones.

He does not care that he fucks a dead thing; he has loved you into his image. To rot is to be whole for him and you have let yourself fester into perfection.

He lovingly plucks a worm from the gape of your nostril and you almost thank him.

“I love you,” he says, fingers brushing away a flake of mottled, decaying skin from your cheek.

What’s left of your mouth stretches into a smile. Your tongue has long since rotted away, but you try to mouth the words back.

I love you.

divider from @/saradika-graphics!

#🍑’s writing — original #writing #fic writing #original content #writers on tumblr #writeblr #writerscommunity

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