#Vivid Garden Scene | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

biteofcherry · 6 months

Text

To find the light, we must first touch the darkness

Please also check out @bluepinkangel’s amazing hot moodboard for this universe 🖤

dark mafia!Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: When you unexpectedly are appointed to run a health center, you foresee many struggles along the way, but not one in the form of a merciless mob boss. Steve Rogers’ core aim is to own and he won’t take no for an answer. To any of his demands.

warnings for this chapter: dark!Steve Rogers; manipulation; power imbalance; forced marriage; D/s undertones; ex-pli-cit; knife kink; choking; choking kink; praise;

word count: 7k

Touch the Darkness Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Chapter 6. Downpour

~ * ~

Victims often described the events of their traumatic experience as a blur. Or a film montage of chopped scenes, often black and white, or with one color prevailing. Sometimes their minds protected themselves so strongly they dissociated, their consciousness floating away into a safe space.

Nothing of the sort happened to you on your dreaded wedding day.

If anything, you felt more present in the moment than in the days leading to it.

Colors were vibrant, sounds clear, your feelings vivid.

You felt the constriction of the built-in corset of your wedding dress, the soft swish of the embroidered, shiny tulle in the chalice of the wide skirt; as well the warm amazement at how beautiful you looked.

Even though your spite tempted you to pick a dress that would manifest how much you didn’t want to say your vows, you couldn’t help the flaming love you experienced at the sight of yourself in a stunning wedding dress.

A fucking princess style, out of all.

You wanted to hate it, to cross it out purely to not give Steve the extra satisfaction, but your parents teared up when they saw you in it. Maybe they had some qualms about the speedy wedding, but they sure got on board with it when they saw your face glowing.

You didn’t have the heart to tell them it was because you felt beautiful, not because you loved your future husband.

Whose handsome face you couldn’t look away from as your father walked you down the aisle.

Dressed in a sharp suit, steel gray a tone warmer than his cold heart, Steve watched you every step of your way to him. Others perhaps saw in his face awe, getting all mushy over how much he had to be in love with you, but you knew it was a glint of triumph.

You said your vows in the wide garden surrounding Steve’s property, under an arch of lush peonies and vines. You were sure it’s only thanks to the two glasses of Prosecco and Steve’s hand holding yours a tad too tightly, that you recited your promise to him without a hitch.

With how smooth and soft Steve’s voice was, how he held your gaze captive, you’d think he was expressing true, deep feelings when he said his vows.

True was his possessiveness.

Steve displayed it first in the way he kissed you - draping you over his arm, like in old Hollywood movies, and branding your lips with a breathstealing, passionate kiss. Unable to resist, your arm sneaked around his neck, fingers splaying on the back of his head, while your other hand gripped onto the lapel of his suit jacket.

Then by keeping you occupied each dance, allowing only your father to lead you through two songs.

To your further annoyance, Steve turned out to be a really good dancer. Or maybe he was simply good at holding you and controlling your body as he guided you across the wooden planks built into a dance floor specially for this occasion.

“You look beautiful, Princess.”

There was no breathtaking awe in Steve’s voice, like you used to imagine your true love would say those words one day. But it was no coy game, either. Steve meant them, it was an honest compliment.

It was also his pride in owning you.

“I’m already your wife, all is signed. No need for bullshit,” you stared over Steve’s shoulder, stubbornly refusing to meet his gaze and see what desires may shine in the ice cold blue irises.

He twirled you suddenly, then pulled you back to him. Kept you pressed against him tighter as he brushed his lips along your cheek.

“I’d think by now you know I don’t really bullshit anyone,” he whispered in your ear. “I do find you stunning. And I’ll repeat those words later, when I have you naked in our bedroom.”

Heat filled you faster than after that shot you sneaked right before soup was served, to calm your nerves and numb yourself further as the reality of being now Mrs Rogers started settling in. No, that fast dose of booze didn’t scorch your insides the way Steve’s promise of the wedding night did.

“Not gonna happen,” you tried sounding fierce, but your voice came much breathier than you’d like.

“We’ll see, won’t we?” Steve chuckled, tip of his tongue flicking the shell of your ear, eliciting goosebumps to appear all over your skin.

His hand on your back was placed low, but he dipped his fingers even further, toying with the ribbon of your corset right above the curve of your ass.

“We have a deal, after all.” He reminded you.

You wanted to argue with him, that technically you didn’t agree to it, but you knew it’s futile. You suffered some disturbing sexual deviancy and your pussy tingled at the mere thought of Steve touching it. So you planned on simply being sneaky and wiping yourself dry before entering the bedroom. And then staying resolved and unbothered, so that Steve’s dark touch didn’t force a single drop of slick out.

You considered stuffing your nose with something too, because the scent of Steve alone now that he was pressed to you so close, was enough to warm up your body.

To ignore your own responses - to his smell, to his touch, to the images of wicked acts he could do to you - you focused your gaze above Steve’s shoulder. Glancing at random guests, at the stunning flower arrangements, trying not to hurt from the fact your parents looked so joyous.

You frowned, noticing Natalie smirking around the rim of a champagne flute as she talked to a man whom you recognized as Steve’s most trusted right hand, Bucky. While flirting at a wedding wasn’t something unusual, alarm bells rang in your head at the prospect of Natalie endangering herself. She was already at risk, being associated with you, but to dance with a wolf was like playing with fire that was surely going to consume her whole.

You didn’t know much about Bucky, practically nothing, but if he was this close to Steve then there was no trace of innocence or clear conscience in him.

No one could stay pure, if they followed in Rogers’ murky wake. A realization which made you wonder, if your own core may rot and dissolve at his feet.

Your heart fluttered, as Steve twirled your body again. Chalice of your dress opened, shimmering in the sunlight as if encrusted in crushed diamonds. In reality it was a faint sparkle compared to the actual bling of the diamond ring on your finger.

You glared at it with disdain when Steve first put it on your finger, seeing nothing but a leash. A brand of ownership and reminder of torment. But the more glances you stole, the more irresistible it was to admire.

It was truly beautiful and you hated it for it.

Steve pulled you back to his body, pressing you even closer than before. Tip of his nose grazed along yours, the icy blue of his irises warming into the shade of pure sky. His breath tickled your mouth, mingling with yours as your lips parted on a gasp.

Then his lips were on you. Soft and coaxing, tempting you to respond in submission.

You told yourself it’s the surprise of it that made you give in, the spectacle you had to continue for the guests, but you couldn’t completely deny the jolt of excitement that spurred heat into every crevice of your body, then melted it into a pliant surrender.

You were vaguely aware of the camera flashes as pictures of you were taken. The sound of cheering and clapping barely registering through the haze of your heartbeat pounding in your head.

There was no triumphant smirk on Steve’s lips when he reluctantly pulled away, which would undoubtedly shake you out of daze. Instead, there was a dark hunger that clenched your heart in fear and your cunt in anticipation.

You found yourself surprisingly reluctant to step out of his embrace as the song ended and Steve took the opportunity to build the lie further by asking your mother to dance.

Trying to avoid dancing with Steve wasn’t as clever a solution as you first thought, because the bastard found other ways to instigate small gestures of intimacy that confused your brain and tickled your clit like a living tongue.

Like him smoothly commenting how delicious that seasoned rib was and how you should try it, then promptly feeding you a piece of it.

With his fingers.

Purposely slipping his fingertip between your lips along with the meat.

It was a split of a second, but enough to have a wave of heat wash over you and your thighs clench.

You thanked heaven that you picked a princess dress, because the layers of the skirt at least hid the movement that would otherwise betray you.

A gulp of wine couldn’t wash away the sensation, nor did it wipe the lewd image of Steve forcing his fingers into your mouth. Would they be salty? Would they feel heavy as he pressed them against your tongue? Would his rings feel cool?

Then you didn’t even have alcohol to numb yourself. Steve made sure your glass was filled with water only as the celebrations proceeded. When you glared at him, trying to yank your hand out of his grip, he said he won’t have you sloshed on your wedding night.

“Don’t want you to worry it was only the booze that got you wet,” he sucked on your earlobe.

But made it look so sweet, the way he pressed his cheek to yours and gently held your hand, that to the others it had to look as if he was whispering love admissions into your ear.

The bastard played supportive and soothing as he caressed your back when you were saying goodbye to the guests leaving the reception late in the evening. Your mom took your teary eyes as an overwhelming, but positive emotion that made her all mushy as well.

You couldn’t cling to her, or your dad, crying in despair that they were leaving you with a monster. Not when that monster was constantly by your side, being most respectful and charming towards them. Displaying a twisted care for you that eased your parents’ worries while irritating you.

There were fireworks bursting in the sky in abundant splashes of color as Steve led you to the master bedroom.

Everyone was gone, only the wedding planner’s team was rushing around like busy bees, cleaning up and packing leftovers. And they all pretended they didn’t see you. You thought some of Steve’s men were also circling around, but you didn’t know yet if it was to keep an eye on the workers, or if it was their routine to guard Steve’s mansion.

Once inside the bedroom, you blurted out your need to use the bathroom and promptly locked yourself inside. Only for a few moments you entertained the thought of staying in and sleeping on the tiled floor, but you knew Steve wouldn’t allow that. He’d sooner take the damn door down than give you reprieve.

He wanted to wreck your body too much.

And you feared how you may react to it.

As you pulled up layers and layers of tulle, to use the toilet and clean yourself from the already obvious reaction to Steve’s touch; you accepted that your anxiety wasn’t for debauchery, but for the inappropriate eagerness of your body.

For fuck’s sake, you were dripping and coming on command when he defiled you with a gun!

How much stronger was your reaction going to be when he caressed you with his hands and mouth?

After wiping yourself dry, you cleaned your hands and with your head held high stepped out into the bedroom. You still planned on fighting tooth and nail to not arouse from whatever he had planned.

Having taken off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves, Steve waited for you in the middle of the room. His eyes glinted with satisfaction when you stepped out. He crooked a finger at you, beckoning you to him.

“I knew you’d come out like a good girl, Princess,” he crooned, not at all bothered by your stomping and glaring daggers his way.

“Didn’t feel like watching a door being splintered into pieces,” you snapped, clenching your hands on the skirt of your dress as you stood right in front of Steve.

“Of course. That’s the only splintering you were concerned about,” he teased, running a single digit down the column of your neck. “But I know, Princess. I know there’s this curiosity that draws you to me. You may hate it, but your body is eager to learn what I’ll do to you.”

“It’s not. I’m not!” You protested, yet you didn’t flinch when his finger drew a scorching line from one collar bone to the other, then dipped lower to trace your cleavage.

“I want to believe your words, Princess,” Steve said in pretend seriousness, “but let’s check in with your body, too.”

As embarrassing the thought of him flipping your skirts up was, you inwardly prayed he’d do it quickly. If he touched your pussy now, he’d find you dry. But if he prolonged the whole thing, you had no certainty it would stay this way.

“I’m aware how fond of my gun you are,” his words startled you, stopping your heart for a split of a second then sending it into a fluttery beat. The memory of the warm muzzle dragging along your thigh and slipping under your panties spurred heat to pool low in your core.

Shit! No!

No, no, no. You couldn’t get wet!

“But I didn’t think it’s an accessory appropriate for the wedding,” Steve’s mouth curved into a lopsided smile that only added to his criminally hot look.

“So I had something special to be custom made for this occasion-” he touched your cheek in a sweet caress- “and for any future occasions… with my wife.”

Your breath hitched in your lungs when he called you his wife. He made it sound reverent, but at the same time his tone dripped with that dark triumph that reminded you there was no way out from his clutches.

You watched Steve dip his hand into his pocket and then a glint of steel flashed before your eyes.

A switchblade so sharp and polished so smooth that it seemed to be honed out of pure light. The handle was a shimmery white, with undertones of rainbow. Mother of pearl, you realized.

Steve had his fingers wrapped around it, but purposely flipped it out, pinching the hilt between two of his fingers so you could see the silver initials engraved on it. Your initials, but with your last name being Rogers.

Eyes widening, you went still as Steve brought the blade to your skin. Just the tip of it, you barely felt its touch, but your mind was already running with images of cuts and drawn blood. It should scare you, cause tears to fall out. Instead, you felt your pulse thundering in places that shouldn’t react to fear with excitement.

Steve drew a soft line over the curve of your breasts and dipped the steel into the valley between them.

He wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the front of your neck. His eyes heated up as your pupils widened in reaction, once again proving how weak you were for this single gesture. Keeping his hold firm enough you felt the silver of his rings pressing into your skin, Steve traced the blade along the trim of your wedding dress and then down your ribcage.

“Are you afraid I’m going to hurt you?” Steve’s voice was deceivingly soft, as if he really cared if you were scared.

You doubted he’d stop, even if you claimed that you are. You’d sooner expect him to mock you and then proceed to torment your body, proving to you how much you craved his depravity.

But it wasn’t the physical torture you wanted to avoid. For how bad Steve was, how he fucked up your life, somehow you knew he wouldn’t harm you physically. Well, perhaps if you betrayed him. He’d kill you then. But as long as you followed his plans, you were certain he wouldn’t raise his hand on you.

Steve’s thumb brushed along your jaw in a seemingly soothing caress. You turned your face to the side, but he forced you to look back at him when you admitted in a defeated whisper:

“I’m afraid you will make me like it.”

Fingers still curled around the front of your neck, Steve inched closer. Blue of his irises seemed to glitter an impossible hue up this close, mesmerizing you.

You were a prey fully ensnared.

“I will, Princess.” Steve’s lips teased yours. “I will give you pleasure that hurts so good.”

A tiny whimper escaped your mouth. You wished it was a sound of trepidation, but it held an unmistakable undertone of need. It was too late now, you felt a wet spot forming on your white undergarments.

Steve kissed you softly, reverently; like a husband in love might kiss his beloved wife on their wedding night. Combined with the pressure of a sharp blade at your side, it made your head spin.

“Stay still, please,” Steve squeezed your throat lightly, before releasing you and taking a step back.

He walked around you, slowly making a full circle as he admired you. Teasing you by making you wait for what he does next. When he stopped behind you and you felt the puff of his breath on your nape, your fingers trembled.

Then the cool blade pressed where Steve’s warm breath tickled you a second ago. He drew a sharper line down the middle of your back. You didn’t feel the sting of a cut, but he put enough pressure for you to feel a tingling scratch that dispersed into pleasant burning.

You gulped when you felt him hook the knife under the lacing of your dress.

“I can just take it off.” You grumbled, frowning. It was a stunning dress and even though you wouldn’t be wearing it ever again, you weren’t happy with the idea of it being cut to pieces.

“You could,” Steve chuckled, “but then I wouldn’t get to hear you-”

You gasped as he swiftly cut through the first string.

“-make that lovely sound.”

Steve relished in each cut, though you weren’t sure if he was more entranced with your little noises (which you tried to suppress, but failed at times), the act of cutting itself, or with your naked skin being revealed as the bodice of your dress parted.

When the corset opened fully, dropping and exposing your upper body, Steve smoothed his hand along your back. Which elicited another gasp from you.

You expected the blade to return, to draw dangerous patterns on your fragile skin. Steve’s warm, gentle caress sent a different kind of jolt down your spine, causing your tense muscles to relax in foolish trust. He pressed himself to your back, moving his hand around your front and boldly cupping your breast. A wave of heat seemed to scorch your face from the inside, but it also pooled between your thighs.

He peppered kisses along your neck as he played with your breast; sucked on your skin as he switched his attention to the other tit.

There was no logical thought in your head when he pinched your nipple hard and you arched; one of your arms flying up to grip the back of Steve’s head. It was an instinctive reaction of your body’s deepest need.

Suddenly, Steve’s touch left you. Only to pull impatiently at your dress, forcing the abundant skirt to fall down. Big hands - one still holding a knife - clenched around your hips. He picked you up so easily, as if you weighed close to nothing.

Then he was dropping you onto the grand bed. Before you even managed to push yourself up, he flipped you over onto your back. A split of a panicked thought almost had you inching away, reheating the idea to fight him. But one of Steve’s hands clenched on your ankle, while the other splayed on your belly - the one holding the knife.

“Lie back, Princess.” Steve’s tone wasn’t harsh, but it chimed with certain urgency.

You stilled. Though you preferred to think it was because of the blade he left on your belly in a warning, not because he asked you to.

Definitely not because you couldn’t look away from him as Steve undressed in a few quick, practiced moves.

The sight was so enticing you didn’t think of grabbing the knife and possibly changing the flow of the night to your advantage.

Without his shirt on, you saw the wide plains of Steve’s chest and chiseled abdomen; saw the tattoos entwining his arms and upper body. Dark patterns, with a few splashes of rich color, that only added to the dark, thrilling aura of Steve Rogers.

You swore that while Steve was a scary motherfucker in his usual wear, he’d appear an even more lethal demon if he approached his victims half-naked.

Your gaze shifted downward when he pushed his pants down, but you forced it back up to his face. Mostly because you feared the sound you may make, if you saw his cock. Partly because you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of you staring.

When Steve knelt on the mattress and then crawled forward, you dropped your head to the pillows and focused on the ceiling. A part of you craved to watch him, to await in trepidation, but you still held onto that sane part of your brain that told you it’s wrong to want it. Wrong to give in to him so easily.

“You’re beautiful, Princess.” He repeated the words, just like he promised.

Calloused fingers traced up your legs. The sensation this touch evoked made you want to clench your thighs, but Steve’s knee was wedged between your legs, preventing it.

Eyes focused on your face, Steve seemed to study and memorize every spark of reaction to his touch. He picked up the knife again. The grin that he flashed you as he brought the blade to your skin was all satisfaction and condescending praise. He didn’t say it, but you almost heard the Good girl. For doing as he told you. For waiting. For being so obviously responsive.

He knelt above you as he trailed the knife along your exposed body. His gaze shifted between the glint of the blade and your face. As his aim traveled south, Steve moved along with it.

Corner of his mouth tugged upward in a dangerous smirk when he slipped the tip of the blade under the white lace of your panties.

Your whole body went rigid. Your mouth opened, your breath becoming ragged.

And yet, when he slashed the fabric apart, you felt a new gush of slick.

Steve cut the other side of your panties as well, then pushed your thighs further apart. Exposing your shameful reaction.

“Princess,” he licked his lips, “it appears that you’re wet.”

He tapped the wide side of the blade against your clit, the jolt of it making you clench around nothing. Steve’s eyes darkened and a low, growling kind of sound rumbled in his chest as he used the knife to flick away the lace that was sticking to your drenched folds.

“You’re not wet. You’re dripping.” He seemed to be in awe of the discovery.

It was in a sense a comforting feeling, to see more than just a cocky triumph. To see Steve affected by the situation. Perhaps not as strongly as you were, but with enough force to make you think perhaps it was a novelty for him as well.

“Say it, Princess.” Steve’s gaze flicked back to your face; his own eyes full of dark hunger. “Say how wet you are, for me.”

Your lips clenched shut, a stubborn frown drawing your eyebrows together. It was humiliating enough that you were so lewdly on display for this bastard, that your body betrayed you and was ready to take him. Admitting it aloud would only strip you of all defenses.

When Steve slapped your inner thigh, the sting of it seemed to zing directly to your clit.

“Ohh!” You couldn’t suppress the gasp, but then managed to spat angrily - “Fuck, fine! I’m wet for you, you bastard.”

As much as you hated it, your anger was less about him demanding your admission and more about him not touching you where you most needed it.

“Your husband.” Steve reminded you, with sinister glee.

With his knee, he pressed your other leg down. Then dragged the knife along the skin of your inner thigh. This time you felt the prick of pain as he cut the tissue. You hissed, head lifting up to stare at the tiny, thin wound. A single drop of blood pearled at the end of it.

Then Steve’s mouth was on it. Warm and sucking, and drawing a surprised moan out of you.

He sucked and licked it clean, making you forget about everything else. His mouth moved up, closer and closer to your core. When he finally licked into your folds as if he was biting into a ripe fruit, you dropped down with a cry.

Fingers gripping the sheets tightly, you rode sensations unknown to you until then. Muscles strained in pain as you held yourself stiff, still sensing that blade pressed against your skin. Steve had his arms wrapped under and around your thighs, keeping you spread as he feasted on your pussy. One of his hands was holding the knife against your abdomen, the sharp tip right on your mound.

“Oh God, please!” Your eyes clenched shut. “Please, please, Steve. I-”

As he lapped at your clit, lashing it with rapid flicks then sucking on it so sweetly, you felt your orgasm building painfully high. You were heartbeats away from climaxing.

“Stop, please!” You begged. “The knife- I can’t- I need-”

Even if you were pleading for him to stop what he was doing all together, Steve wouldn’t listen. Not when he was so close to owning you completely. You needed something slightly different and you hoped Steve would recognize the urgency.

Mercifully, he paused. Though he held his lips close to your clit as he looked up at you from between your thighs - his eyes reminiscing of the stars frozen in dark waters of the northern lakes.

“What do you need from your knife, Princess?” He asked, tilting the blade an inch lower.

It almost touched your clit.

“Place it away, please,” you started explaining, sensing that he wouldn’t comply without a satisfying reason. “I- I’m about to come. And I will, um, move. I can’t stay still. I just, I never could. I can’t.”

“You’re afraid I’d cut you, if you get all squirmy and arching?” Twinkle of amusement lit up Steve’s eyes.

“Please, Steve.” You feared tearing up, if he refused you. You also feared he would make you cum and cut you, and that you weren’t ready for that combination of pain and pleasure.

He hummed, holding your gaze as he licked your clit again. Your muscles tensed anew, he had to feel them straining in your thighs where he held you. Then, very slowly, he untangled himself from you. Steve let your thighs drop to the mattress freely. He lifted the hand holding the knife and you sagged in relief.

Steve leaned over you, bracing his weight on one arm. His broad frame cast a shadow over you. He brought the blade up to your face, you could see a fragment of your reflection in it.

“Kiss it.” Steve ordered.

You stared at him, bewildered. He waited, surprisingly patiently, holding the blade inches from your mouth. He called this knife yours. Had it custom made for you. Used it on you in ways you never imagined in a sexual encounter. Teased what more he could do. What he probably would do to you in the future. And he wanted you to kiss it as if in gratitude for all the lewd things it would unleash on you.

Swallowing nervously, you lifted your head enough to press your lips against the steel.

“Good girl,” he praised.

Your gaze followed Steve’s arm as he reached toward the nightstand to place the knife on it. Then his hand swiped along your arm, caressing muscles that strained from still gripping the sheets.

He coaxed you back into the moment with a sensual kiss. The way his tongue dipped between your lips was soft and seductive. You’d never expect someone like Steve to be able to kiss like that.

Heat quickly returned in pulsing beats to your clit as Steve kissed down your body. He settled back between your thighs, with a moan tasting your pussy once more. Relentlessly, he licked and sucked you back to that edge. Then pushed you over it as he pushed a finger into you.

Steve kept that finger pumping steadily into your fluttering walls as he trailed wet bites up your body. He was hovering above you. Mouth, glistening with your arousal, was a lick away from you when he thrust a second digit inside. The stretch made you keen and Steve drank up every grimace you made.

“Touch me, Princess,” he tempted you, curling his fingers just right. “Come on. Touch. I know you want to.”

If your brain wasn’t a post-orgasmic mush, maybe you could muster some stubborn will to do the opposite. But he was right, you itched to touch him, to feel the ripple of his muscles beneath your fingertips, to see how hot he ran.

Hesitantly at first, you placed both of your hands on his shoulders. Your gaze found one of the intricate vines that weaved along his shoulder and up his neck, a branch sprouting from it curved down and over his pectoral. You traced it with one hand, your other instinctively moving to Steve’s back.

When you traced the contoured muscles of his abdomen, fingernails scratching lightly at the narrow path of coarse hair leading southwards, Steve increased the pace of his fingers. It stirred the fire in your core into a burst, evoking another moan.

“Lower.” Steve gritted out, putting more of his weight and heat onto you. “Wrap that small hand of yours around my cock, Princess.”

It was dirty - his words and the squelching sound of your pussy as he fingerfucked you.

But it also made you drop your gaze between your bodies, searching for a glimpse of that dick. It swayed heavy, half-hard, right above your hip. Your walls clenched unexpectedly as you watched it.

This wasn’t the first cock you saw in your life. You were far from a blushing virgin. There was something about Steve, however, that made you feel nervous and out of your depth. It appeared that sex with him was a whole new, scary discovery.

Steve urged you with another command and your hand slipped down instantly. Hot, pulsing flesh in your palm, twitching and hardening as you curled your fingers around the quite impressive girth.

It would stretch you so deliciously. Steve didn’t need to voice it for your imagination to ignite with the phantom sensation.

You tightened your hold, swiping your thumb over the widened, red head. At Steve’s deep moan, your eyes flew up to his face, watching his pleasure in wonder. He didn’t hide it from you, didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t affected. Still, you felt yourself more at his mercy than he was at yours. Especially when you sensed that small kick of elation at giving him pleasure with your touch.

You smeared the beads of precum down his shaft and started stroking. It was a mismatched rhythm, your focus faltering every time Steve drove his crooked fingers against that sensitive, spongy spot inside you.

When Steve sat back on his haunches, you stopped your movement. A rush of heat filled you with sudden shyness as his gaze roamed over your splayed body.

Skin dewy, breasts heaving with quickened breath, legs spread wide. Your hand was still around his cock, your ring and wedding band catching sparks of light. Steve’s own fingers were buried deep in your cunt, your slick glistened on his palm and wrist.

Steve moved his other hand up your body, marveling at your curves and softness. He gave your breast a playful squeeze before trading his fingers further up. Fingers encircled the front of your neck in a familiar way.

“You’re a fucking perfection, Princess.”

Then he was withdrawing his fingers from your heat; milky slick sticking in a web between his digits. He knocked your hand away and spread your wetness all over his cock.

He held your gaze as he dragged his dick between your puffed folds and into your hole. A pause for you to catch your breath, then he was thrusting in one fluid, firm stroke.

A curse bubbled on your lips, stretching into a moan as he split you. Unable to reach him at the moment, your hands fisted the shits, gripping and twisting the fabric. Nipples stiffened into hard peaks, your chest arched upward at the same time as your head bowed back.

There was no second to adjust, no mercy. Steve pounded into you roughly, setting a steady tempo. He watched your body move along the mattress, at least as much as his hold on your throat and your hip allowed. Your breasts swayed with each thrust, your thighs shook with each slap of his hips into you.

He watched your eyes glaze over as an orgasmic haze crept over you anew. Your pretty mouth stayed open, letting out all the sweet noises. It took barely a few of his thrusts and you were cumming again.

Everything was still spinning in your head when Steve yanked your hips more upwards. Your buttocks rested on his thighs, legs thrown over his hips as he fucked into you. Grip on your throat tightened more and more. Your eyes flew open, one of your hands grabbing onto Steve’s wrist. Unbothered, he kept choking you lightly. At the same time, his other hand sneaked across your abdomen.

With your airflow limited, every sensation seemed to heighten impossibly. The stretch of his cock, the pressure of his hand on your lower belly. The coil tightened and tightened, and when Steve swiped his thumb over your engorged clit, you shattered with a soundless scream.

Steve released your throat and the gulps of air you instinctively tok between raw cries seemed to prolong your orgasm. It twisted into a craze that felt agonizingly good.

So good it caused you to cry, salty streaks dripping out of the corners of your eyes and down your temples.

Through the thunderous buzz of blood pounding in your head, the muffled sound of Steve’s voice reached you. Your brain was unable to function enough to recognize it, but it sounded like your name. And something akin to ‘Atta girl.

When Steve shifted, you welcomed his warm heaviness like a comforting blanket, mapping his sweaty back with your hands. He was still moving, speeding up, as he braced both of his forearms on the mattress. His breath was hot against your skin, his lips starved as he kissed and nipped.

He rested his forehead against yours as he came with a loud moan. Warmth of his spend filled you and though you didn’t think of it now, later you would be thankful for the little contraceptive implant you had. As the fog of pleasure held you in its grip, you didn’t care for the consequences. Not when Steve was still rocking slightly into you, his cock twitching.

You sighed, scrunching up your nose, when Steve pulled out a while later. Your pussy throbbed in protest, or maybe it was from the ache that was starting to make itself known. You leaked, too, which would make you really embarrassed if you weren’t too boneless to care.

You managed to wipe at your temples and cheeks, where remnants of tears still wetted your skin, before Steve was touching you again. He flipped you onto your belly then licked a line up your spine with a broad stroke of his tongue.

“Aren’t you done?” You huffed, fearing you may not be able to survive more.

“Far from it,” Steve laughed and playfully slapped your ass.

You were thankful that he spent quite some time just kissing and touching your back, your ass and your thighs. Whether he was giving himself enough time to get hard again, or if he was this dedicated to learning your body.

When he sat on your thighs, his knees braced on the outside of your closed legs, and squeezed your asscheeks, you expected him to play there more. Instead, you felt him spread you enough to expose your pussy. He slid inside slowly, but it still took you by surprise.

Steve laid on top of you, balancing his weight on his arms as he pulled back and thrust back in. The angle unraveled a completely new type of sensation.

“Oh my- fuuuck!” You couldn’t help the unladylike, high pitched squeal.

Nails scratching at the sheets helplessly, you spluttered mewls as Steve purposely rocked his hips back and forth.

“Awww,” he cooed, “is that the spot, Princess?”

Then he pulled back and slammed back in. Each thrust grazed that ultrasensitive area; each time he sunk deeper and deeper, too.

If you were moaning and crying when he fucked you the first time, these sounds were a symphony of pitiful and needy that surpassed others. At one point your mouth just hung open, saliva seeping out of the corner and staining the mattress.

Your toes curled and you helplessly kicked your feet up and down, unable to shift in your position to ease the increasing, maddening pleasure. With your cheek pressed to the mattress, your gaze mindlessly focused on the ring on your finger where your hand rested beside your head.

Steve’s fingers entered your vision, brushing along your hand and intertwining with your fingers. A mockery of softness in the ruthless way he was fucking you.

Your cunt tightened around him, producing more slick the longer he railed that tormenting spot. The sound of him fucking you turned more and more squelching.

“I want you to soak the sheets,” Steve grunted. When you made a noise of protest, he paused to force your legs wide apart with his feet. “Come on, Princess. Make a mess.”

And you did.

Hiding your face in the bedding didn’t suppress the string of cries as you climaxed, squirting a small pool of release.

Steve fucked you through it. Each of his hard thrusts ripping your whimpers into a choked single vowel as you went lax beneath him.

“Fuck, Princess.” He groaned, feeling your wetness drip down his balls. “I would wife you up for that alone. You really-” his hips snapped harder and faster- “are. Fucking. Perfect.”

Your fingers remained intertwined, Steve’s face buried in the crook of your neck, as he came. Perhaps it was the angle at which he was buried inside of you, or maybe this time his orgasm was much stronger, but you felt every throb and every spurt more clearly than before. Felt yourself full with his cum and dripping excess of your combined spend.

Long, long minutes later, when Steve pulled out and dropped next to you onto the mattress, you didn’t even blame him for not having enough power (or decency) to get you a wet cloth.

Honestly, you didn’t have any strength to get up either.

It was later, as you resigned yourself to falling asleep in the mess that you made, that you heard the sound of a drawer being open. Then a soft, wet wipe was pressed to your inner thigh. It was a surprise. Felt a little weird, too. But you rested quietly as Steve wiped you and himself clean, tossing used tissues into the bin hidden behind the nightstand.

When he laid back down on the unsoiled side of the bed and reached for you, you glared at him.

Yes, he fucked your brains out. You seriously doubted there were any functioning brain cells left. Yes, you were officially married. Still, it didn’t mean you were going to play a docile wife in every aspect of this torment.

“You want to sleep on the stained sheets?” Steve arched a single eyebrow. “Swallow your stubbornness and scoot here, Princess.”

It was voiced as if he was giving you an option, but he didn’t wait for your decision. Astonishingly easily, he sneaked a hand under one of your thighs and simply lifted you enough to relocate you.

Nestled to Steve’s side, with one leg hiked over his thigh, you willed yourself to stay awake long enough to sneak out when Steve dozed off. Unfortunately for you, your will was too fucked out.

You fell asleep snuggled to the ruthless mafia monster.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fic #steve rogers imagine #dark mafia!steve rogers #dark mafia!steve rogers x you #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x you #dark mafia!steve rogers x reader #touch the darkness #my writing

745 notes · View notes

beautifulhigh · 7 months

Note

It just occurred to me that the polo scene doesn't get much love as it should. I know it's very short but just the thirst in Alex’s eyes, the way you can see his mouth dry while watching Henry ride that horse and his oh so sexy smile. I feel like that scene required a major dissection, and no one does it better so I came calling.

You know what? I'm doing this one now. I know I said I would do a meta on Henry Fox and I would do a meta on the New Year's Eve party but this is in my inbox now and yeah, let's talk about the polo scene.

(I'm also doing this now so I don't have another thing on my To Do pile, and your kind words made my shitty day a little better so thank you.)

Short scene, not a short meta.

In the book when he and Henry are in his bedroom, Alex has this little moment of clouds parting, sun beaming, angels chorus revelation:

In an instant of sudden, vivid clarity, he can’t believe he ever thought he was straight.

And while movie!Alex doesn't have the same bi awakening that book!Alex does. this is very much his moment of "oh I am very not straight at all" and that is valid of him.

(As this is a Jen meta, we shall also be talking about everything else because you do not analyse a text in isolation.)

This interview talks about the editing of the polo match:

Nick [Moore], my new editor coming in, took a look and he says, “I wanna try something with that polo match.” He spent a weekend of his own time doing something, and then he was ready to show me. He sat me down and said, “I’ve done something crazy.”

And we went from filmed scripted scenes and a lead in, to "bagpipes intensify" and it works SO well for where these boys are in this new stage of their relationship.

Our establishing shots are of the teams, the horses, the uniforms. This is Henry's world and Alex is about to step into it (which is a reversal of Henry at the NYE party - I swear I will write that meta once I have all the gif posts I want to link to) and it's all quick cuts and sharp transitions and moving shots. The pace has been set for Alex to enter.

We pick him out in the crowd but he's lost as quickly as we spot him. He's one of many here and it's all too quick to stay with him.

Firstly, you will never convince me that he didn't pick the tightest trousers he could find. Henry's comment about him being a mouthful is foreshadowed, right there.

ANYWAY

He walks in, he's looking around, he's doing up his jacket as a form of protection. Alex is the proverbial fish out of the proverbial water (and I have a meta about water if you're interested) and we're straight back in with the quick edits. Horses, polo sticks, this is not a game most people know how to play. Alex certainly doesn't. He's doing up his jacket and he is uncomfortable.

He is not a stranger to a suit, and that is certainly not something that is ill fitting. It is circumstance, not clothing.

And then we get our first clear shot of Henry. Only it's not clear, not at first. He literally comes into focus.

Stick aloft, mouth open, like he's a walking riding metaphor.

And Alex's face changes.

Yeah. He is definitely not straight.

From then on we stay with Henry. We, in Alex's viewpoint, have found him. And so we track Henry through the game and it's just generic horse legs if we're looking at anything else. The only player we/Alex see is Henry.

Here, Henry is leading. Going in first, checking it's clear, knowing Alex will follow him. Henry leads, Alex follows. Into the garden, into the bed, into the sexual component of their relationship. Alex admits to Henry right from the start that this is new to him:

“I’ve, uh,” Alex begins. “I’ve never actually done this before.” “Alex,” Henry says, reaching down to stroke at Alex’s hair, “you don’t have to, I’m—” “No, I want to,” Alex says, tugging at Henry’s waistband. “I just need you to tell me if it’s awful.” Henry is speechless again, looking as if he can’t believe his fucking luck. “Okay. Of course.”

When it comes to being with a man? Henry leads, Alex follows.

And then the pacing and editing kicks off. We intercut to the tempo of the bagpipes between the match and the hook up and Henry is leading the charge on both.

He's in charge and Alex is LOVING it:

Turns out being on the receiving end of Henry’s royal authority is an extreme fucking turn-on.

This is risky and the most dangerous thing they have done so far. Amy walking in on them in the Red Room is one thing - book!Alex is VERY thankful for the staff NDAs when it comes to what they know about him and Henry - but neither of them care here. And Alex is very much letting Henry take the lead and set the pace.

Which, given how long Henry has wanted Alex, wanted this, and how he's not able to live and love (at this point) as openly as Alex is, giving Henry this control means that not only can Alex continue his education in this mlm era of his life, but he's giving Henry all of the freedom he can. God Bless America or something.

We intercut the make out scene with shots of things being hit, the hard slamming of one thing against another, of riders in saddles. The hands may be a metaphor for sex in the Paris scene but we have it here as well.

Alex is fully on board by this point and he's not letting Henry set the full agenda. In his White House bedroom we got the scene of Henry going down on Alex (and there is no way that it was a one-way exchange given how long they were there) so now? It's his turn.

My favourite editing choice?

We then cut to Henry's arse bouncing in that saddle. If the Paris scene is making love? This is them fucking. Henry is bouncing away, riding for all he's worth, chasing down his singular aim with precision and determination.

It's innuendo at its finest.

I love this shot. We're looking up at them - we're just like Alex who is now looking up at Henry due to his new vantage point (#NoLongerTaller) - and we see Alex is fully crowding up into Henry's space. And they are right by the door. There is no cover, no escape. Anyone coming in has fully caught them. Please let there be a PPO or a Secret Service be just outside. Please. For their sanity if not mine.

But even if there isn't for some insane reason, they don't care. They are so lost in each other, so caught up in this moment, that they aren't FSOTUS and the Prince Of Wales. They aren't boys with status and expectations. They're just two consenting adults who are testing the boundaries of what public indecency actually means.

They are really going for it now. Henry's arm is tensed with the effort of keeping Alex close, his hand is splayed on Henry's back to give him contact with more of him. They are not letting go. Diving all in like it's a nod to the Olympic event where they met in the book.

And when they come up for air it's because Alex is... well... about to go diving.

Those fingers make VERY quick work of the belt and what he is doing with his hands and those fingers is further evidence in the "this is them fucking" category.

And then the frame which I'm guessing inspired Cordelia's ask to me:

LOOK AT THAT FACE. Look at those fucking eyelashes. But Alex is wanting and he is wanting hard for Henry. Pun intended. He's got a plan for this, he's got a To Do list for those Very Bad Things he promised/threatened Henry with all those weeks ago.

And it will have been weeks. The State Dinner was around February time based on the texts (end of January at the latest) and then Henry says the polo match is "next month" (which would put it end of February, early March because we would not say 'next month' if it were next week, regardless of when the month starts) and so it's been weeks since they hooked up in Alex's room. Weeks of having to just text and email and maybe venture into video calls.

None of that would compare to being together.

This is the first time that Alex has gotten his hands on Henry since his bedroom and he's desperate to get more than his hands on him.

And this shot as Alex pulls Henry's trousers down is fucking pornographic. Matthew López, did you direct Nick to act like this or was it his choice? Go watch his expression as Alex is pulling the offending clothing out of the way and tell me that this isn't pornographic.

And then we cut to the not-at-all subtle shot of Henry well, making the shot. With ease and power and the ball shooting out of frame. Something something orgasm metaphor something release.

There's even a little wisp as he makes the shot. If this post isn't flagged for mature content I'll be surprised.

Next shot?

Congrats on not getting caught, on the sex, on the most smut-filled-while-almost-fully-clothed-sex scene I've ever had the joy of frame-by-framing through.

Alex is doing up his tie again but he's not uncomfortable. And Henry is so fucking happy I could cry. Because he just hooked up with this guy, in semi-public, and got away with it. They are firmly in Henry's world here, a world where he can't be out and proud, and he got to have something he wanted. And, maybe crucially, no one knows about it. His privacy is intact.

But more importantly, this thing he's got with Alex is something. It's not a one night stand. Alex came here specifically for him, because he asked him to. Because Alex wanted to see him, be with him. This wasn't an obligation, this wasn't something set up by anyone for show and to do damage control. This was for them, and them alone.

Look at these smug bastards. Look at them. Gettin' their rocks off and making puns about being hungry and eating like they didn't just devour each other.

BUT

I gotta bring the feels here 'cause it's me.

Henry attended the State dinner because he was expected to, because that was in place before the New Year's kiss. It was an obligation and in both the movie and the book he had been ghosting Alex. And then Alex grabbed him in the Red Room and they hooked up and at the end of that scene Henry nervously asks Alex if he wants to be his guest at the polo event. Alex doesn't actually say yes - he says he doesn't know how to play polo, there's a comment about it being safer if he's on the sidelines - but leaving aside any fear that he would stand Henry up this is the first time they have made plans with the intention of seeing each other, of being together in this way.

This is, for want of a better term, kinda like a date.

Alex turned up, Henry put out, and they're very much committing to seeing where this path will take them. (Forever. It'll take them to forever.)

Alex isn't straight, Henry is very much in love, and they're embracing that giddy phase of a relationship where you just can't keep your hands off each other. And we fade from this to Paris where they're on another kind of date and then there's another kind of sex scene and it's a speedrun of their relationship on screen like they weren't indulging in foreplay with all the text flirting.

Which, by the way, don't think I didn't notice that Henry's jersey number was 4. Four-play indeed.

(Thanks for this, Cordelia, I needed something like this to soothe my brain.)

#jen answers stuff #i-cordelia #firstprince #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #prince henry of wales #red white and royal blue #rwrb movie #firstprince meta #overthinking jen is overthinking #rwrb #otp: history huh #long post

397 notes · View notes

campingwiththecharmings · 5 months

Text

*These weren’t necessarily written and/or posted in October, but that’s when I read them 😊

🔥 - explicit/mature content

Star Wars

Sunk (Poe Dameron x Reader) - @reallyrallyauthor

🔥An Unorthodox Method (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @the-little-ewok

🔥Kinktober Day 1 (Love Bites) (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥Kinktober Day 4 (Sex Pollen) (Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥Kinktober Day 7 (Soft and Slow) (Cal Kestis x Reader) - @flightlessangelwings

🔥Kinktober Day 10 (Stripping) (Stripper!Poe Dameron x F!Reader) - @youvebeenlivingfictional

I just called to say I love you (Poe Dameron x Reader) - @nowritingonthewall

Adore you (Poe Dameron x Solo!Reader) - @dailyreverie

🔥Kinktober Day 25 (Breeding) (Cowboy!Din Djarin x Cowgirl!Reader) (Part of the Gardens of Babylon Universe) - @spacecowboyhotch

Moon Knight

🔥Over the Counter (DBF!Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

Vivid (Marc Spector x Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

🔥Shades of the Moon (Virgin!Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @missdictatorme

Boundless (Witch Hunter!Marc x Witch!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

🔥Price You Gotta Pay (Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

🔥The Sweetest Sound (Mafia!Jake Lockley x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

🔥The Sweetest Taste (Mafia!Jake Lockley x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

🔥Kinktober Day 10 (formal wear) (Steven Grant x Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥Kinktober Day 6 (Phone Sex) (Jake Lockley x F!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

🔥Kinktober Day 12 (Formal Wear) (Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

🔥What a Show (Mafia!Jake Lockley x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

🔥La Petite Mort (Ghost!Steven Grant x F!Reader) - @hon3yboy

🔥Pumpkin Porno (OnlyFans!Steven Grant) - @ominoose

In the morning light (Marc Spector x Reader) - @dailyreverie

🔥Nature Boy (Werewolf!Marc Spector x F!Reader) - @hon3yboy

🔥Sleeping Dogs (Werewolf!Marc Spector x F!Reader) (Part of the Dancing with Wolves Series) - @hon3yboy

🔥What A Wicked Thing To Do (Werewolf!Marc Spector x F!Reader) (Part of the Dancing with Wolves Series) - @hon3yboy

🔥Kinktober Day 23 (Begging) (Marc Spector x F!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

Spiderman: Across the Spiderverse

🔥Couch Sex with Miguel (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @romanarose

🔥Kinktober Day 7 (& 8): Soft & Slow (Cockwarming) (College!Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

🔥soft s3x and grey sweats (Miguel O'Hara x F!Reader) - @wyvernest

Ex Machina

🔥Peak-A-Boo (Ghostface!Nathan Bateman x F!Reader) - @hon3yboy

🔥Perfect Little Fuck Toy (Nathan Bateman x F!Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

Sucker Punch

🔥Product Demonstration (Club!Blue Jones x F!Reader) - @melodygatesauthor

🔥Monster Mash (Rockstar!Blue Jones x F!Reader) - @hon3yboy

Triple Frontier

Under cotton and calicoes (Santiago Garcia x Reader) - @dailyreverie

Make this feel like home (Santiago Garcia x Reader) - @dailyreverie

🔥Kinktober Day 30 (Cunnilingus) (Santiago Garcia x F!Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

🔥Just A Little Push (Will Miller x F!Reader) - @missdictatorme

Scenes From a Marriage

🔥Kinktober Day 2 (bath/shower) (Jonathan Levy x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥Kinktober Day 15 (Against a Wall & Voice Kink) (Jonathan Levy x Reader) - @spacecowboyhotch

The Two Faces of January

🔥Kinktober Day 7 (Slow and Soft) (Rydal Keener x F!Reader) - @eyelessfaces

🔥body talk (Rydal Keener x F!Reader) (part of the Oxford Comma series) - @whatthefishh

Misc.

🔥Just A Scratch (Jack Mohave x F!Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

🔥Take Care (Anselm Vogelweide x F!Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

🔥Service Fee (Llewyn Davis x F!Reader) - @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

🔥If You Wanna Be Wild (Javier Peña x Latina!sex worker!informant!Reader x Santiago Garcia) - @romanarose and @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction (i already recced this but there's more so 🙃)

Thank you to all the wonderful writers for sharing their stories with us 🥰❤️

*For more recs, please feel free to check out my fic rec tag.

**If you’d like to have your fic removed from the list, I completely understand, just let me know

#poe dameron x reader #din djarin x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader #marc spector x reader #santiago garcia x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #jonathan levy x reader #nathan bateman x reader #rydal keener x reader #jack mohave x reader #anselm vogelweide x reader #llewyn davis x reader #javier pena x reader #will miller x reader #blue jones x reader #cal kestis x reader #fic rec #damn i read a lot in october

239 notes · View notes

thursdayygrrrl · 9 days

Text

from the sidelines

⌦ .｡.:*♡

characters: natasha romanoff, wanda maximoff (wandanat)

genre: fluff, slight angst

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood & guns, breakdowns/crying

summary: When Wanda comes into Natasha’s life, she gives the widow something to lose.

word count: 3,859

a/n: this is my first time writing for nat/something nat-centric and, technically, wandanat too! this was inspired by sidelines by phoebe bridgers because i think that song is suuuuper underappreciated and that it was a good fit for them (lyrics are in bold and italics). it’s been a while since i last wrote anything for fun and not for uni, so please be kind. i also don’t know much about gardening so some of the language might not be accurate. you can read it on ao3 (here) or under the cut. i hope you enjoy :>

I’m not afraid of anything at all

If there was one thing constant about Natasha, it was the lack of fear. It wasn’t inherent, but was a habit developed essential for her survival. She learned that pretty quickly. One moment of hesitance, no matter how short, could mean life or death.

There were other times she felt brave without risking her life though. Like when she first dyed her hair. She chose the color blue because it reminded her of the sky. The horizon always looked limitless, a reminder that there could be more to life than what she had already experienced. She remembers making that choice and following through with it. It made her feel in control of something, amidst all the other things she had no power over.

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

‘Cause nothing ever shakes me, nothing makes me cry

Not a plane going down in the ocean and drowning

One of her most vivid memories is flying the plane with Melina. The night was normal at first. She was playing tag with her younger sister until she fell and hurt her knee. Then, they watched the fireflies and went inside to help with dinner. Alexei arrived and they started eating. It all felt so nice, so normal until he said they were going on a big adventure. Her appetite disappeared. Yelena was excited, oblivious to what it actually meant. She didn’t have the heart or the chance to tell her.

The drive out was tense and quiet, save for American Pie playing in the background. She watched the scenes change outside her window from the suburbs to highways. They had to move fast, but she felt sluggish, overwhelmed with everything going on. She remembers holding on to a photobooth strip of her and Yelena before finally running to get on the plane after being urged by Alexei. The sound of sirens and the whirring of engines, her heartbeat hammering in her chest, filled her ears. Gunshots started sounding off. One hit Melina’s shoulder.

“I need you up here,” She said through gritted teeth. Natasha clambered beside her.

She was wincing in pain while giving instructions to pull right.

“Mom, you’ve got blood on you,” Her voice came out strangled, and that tight feeling came along with tears forming in her eyes. She didn’t cry often but she knew she hated the physiological sensations that came with it.

“It’s okay, baby.” Two more cars directly in front of them appeared in the distance. “Hit the accelerator there.”

She did as she was told, speeding the plane up. She faltered when a few more shots were fired at them.

“Hold it steady, hold it steady.” More shots, the headlights ahead were blindingly bright. “You’re gonna pull back at 55 knots.” They started counting in unison. Alexei popped one of the cars’ tires with a bullet, causing them to crash into each other.

“Pull back, you can do it! Pull back, all your strength...” Part of the plane grazes with the bottom of the now-upturned car. But they were finally off the ground. Flying. A sense of relief washes over her.

Considering the past few hours, the rest of the flight went smoothly. They landed somewhere remote, it felt like the middle of nowhere. Alexei carried Melina to a stretcher held by some soldiers she and Yelena ran after. After a short exchange of words with the older woman, she remembers wrangling a gun from someone, unwanted tears threatening to fall from her eyes again, and Yelena’s small form hiding behind her.

“I don’t wanna go back there.”

A needle was buried deep into her neck. She was then thrown into a shipping container with other girls. Masked people were pointing rifles at them, shouting and violently wrenching Yelena from her hold. There was a man, he knelt to meet her eyes. Rough and calloused hands held her face.

“The Red Room is your home now.”

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

Watched the world from the sidelines

Had nothing to prove

Natasha had just started getting used to being “normal,” just another child in midwestern America. She was going to school, being around other kids, having a family until it was all ripped away. Even though it was all a lie, she couldn’t say it wasn’t important to her.

Being back in the Red Room was a regimented, isolating existence. No one was able to speak to each other for long. Schedules were planned down to the minute. Excruciating physical training, including hand-to-hand combat, ballet, acrobatics, and weapons training, pushed them to their limits, sometimes even beyond.

The mutilation, both psychological and physical, was the worst of all. They broke down each girl’s hope and willpower if any were even left. They were treated like objects, mere faceless weapons they could manipulate as a means to an evil end. The ones who survived were considered lucky, the prime of their batches, and given an operation. They called it “graduation,” but everyone knew what that meant.

At some point, she was able to get out. Her time with the KGB, then in S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers was filled with twists and turns. It was a lot of battles, moral disputes, and political agendas. There was even a time when she had to expose her own seedy past, much to her discomfort, but it was for the greater good. She didn’t mind as long as it was for the well-being of others.

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

‘Til you came into my life

Gave me something to lose

Now that she thinks of it, the first time she interacted with Wanda was horrible. The witch inflicted a vision, memories that she was trying to bury and leave behind, when she was weakened and vulnerable. There were snippets of a conversation with Madame B. The graduation ceremony. It made her feel like a monster all over again.

The next time they interacted was in the Battle of Sokovia. She remembers regrouping with Steve, but not expecting the very same witch to make an appearance. Despite all the chaos, the jacket she wore looked familiar.

“Is that my jacket?” Natasha gestured at the younger woman, frowning slightly.

“She’s with us,” Steve said.

“That still doesn’t explain the jacket.”

Natasha was persistent. She didn’t shop for clothes often, never dressing up unless she wanted or had to, so this red jacket was special. It was one of the first few things she bought for herself. Wanda, now awkward and unsure of what to do, ran off. The rest of the battle felt like a blur of robots and rubble.

Since then, Wanda joined the Avengers. The younger woman mostly kept to herself when not on missions, watching sitcoms in her room. Vision would talk to her sometimes. Other times, the widow herself would do so. Natasha understood she needed space and time to cope with everything she’d been through but didn’t want to leave her fully isolated.

Their conversations, if you could even call them that, were awkward at first. Natasha would ramble on about whatever, trying to fill the silence.

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen.”

Wanda looks up from her book only to be met with a small, warm smile on the assassin’s face.

“It’s the usual American stuff. Eggs, bacon, sugary cereal, some fruit. Pretty sure Clint’s making waffles too,” Natasha points to the door with her thumb. “You should eat with us. Bond with the team, all that stuff that Steve goes on about. We’ll have training after.”

Wanda hums in contemplation. Then, she nods. It’s the slightest motion that one would miss if they didn’t pay enough attention. Natasha nods back and turns to leave the room. The witch’s voice catches her off-guard, though.

“I’ll come with you.”

It’s raspy in the best way possible, with a hint of her Sokovian accent lingering. It’s a sound that Natasha decides she would like to hear more often. Her smile grows ever so slightly as she gestures for her to walk together.

───

When Natasha started helping in Wanda’s hand-to-hand combat training, the two became closer literally and figuratively. In one memorable session, from when Wanda still wasn’t as skilled at combat as she is now, Natasha was able to pin her down. Her lithe fingers wrapped around the other woman’s wrists while she used her thighs to straddle. All to restrict movement, of course. The flustered expression on the witch’s face could not be more obvious.

Their sessions consisted of a warm-up, some rounds of sparring, and a cooldown. After barely surviving this particularly challenging one, Wanda lands on the bench with a sigh. “Fuck… You kicked my ass today, Tasha. No fair,” She says through heavy breaths, leaning back and wiping the sweat from her brow.

Natasha shrugs and smiles as she sits beside her, reaching for a bottle of water across from the younger woman. Her torso brushes with her thigh, making the Sokovian lose her breath all over again.

“Please. I went easy on you. Besides, it’s revenge for taking my jacket,” Natasha says as she sits back up and takes a sip of water.

Wanda stands on slightly wobbly legs while a breathy laugh escapes her lips. “You’re really still holding that grudge?” She raises her hands playfully, “In my defense, Steve threw it at me and told me to put it on. It was a hectic time, you know.”

Natasha smirks and shakes her head as they both move to gather their bags and leave. The assassin offers her hand.

“Let me carry your stuff. It’s the least I can do. Look, you can barely stand.”

“It’s okay, Tasha. I go—”

“Come on,” The widow urges. A knowing look is on her face.

Wanda’s face becomes flushed, more so than it already was. It looks like she hopes Natasha won’t notice, but she does anyway. She raises her eyebrow teasingly.

“Did the workout take you out that bad, Wands?”

The nickname doesn’t help at all. Wanda rolls her eyes playfully as she hands her duffel bag over. Natasha slings both bags over her shoulder and they start walking together.

“Remind me again why I have to keep doing the hand-to-hand stuff? I literally move things with my mind.”

“If you use your mind, why do you do the thing with your hands then?” Natasha tries to mimic the witch’s signature hand movements with her free hand. This earns her a lighthearted push.

“Oh, you know I’m just kidding. We both know you can’t just rely on your magic all the time. I want you to be able to fend for yourself if anything happens. Yeah?”

Wanda groans exaggeratedly, “Ugh. Okay, yes, you have a point.”

She chuckles at this. The pair, now embraced by a comfortable silence, walks to the elevator of the compound. As they enter, Natasha wraps her free arm around Wanda’s shoulder. She squeezes slightly, firm muscles under her touch, bringing her closer and looking into her eyes.

“Wanna have lunch with me today?”

Wanda raises her eyebrow, “Can we watch I Love Lucy while we eat?”

Natasha nods and hands over her bag. “Of course.”

They smile warmly at each other, parting ways to freshen up before meeting again later.

───

Natasha and Wanda have seen each other at different points in their lives. Happy, sad, and everything else in between. But the Lagos Incident was a whole other thing. Natasha herself was a witness to how Wanda had been doing so well before it. To watch the immense guilt, self-loathing, and depression come over the witch after the incident, after slowly building herself back up, was heartbreaking for the widow.

Old habits die hard. Wanda becomes a recluse again. However, instead of sitcoms accompanying her, it was the news. She couldn’t help but keep watching coverage of it as if being constantly reminded of this tragedy was helping anyone.

Steve already spoke with her, Natasha knows this, but she decides to give a different type of comfort to the person she’s grown to love. A silent one, one that speaks through actions.

On days Wanda doesn’t leave her room, Natasha knows she isn’t eating so she goes up and brings food. Nine times out of ten, it��s a peanut butter sandwich because it’s all she can make without setting the kitchen on fire. Ten times out of ten, it’s returned with just a few bites taken out. It doesn’t matter, Natasha is just happy to provide her with even the littlest bit of sustenance.

On nights Wanda can’t sleep, evident by the faint light escaping from her room, Natasha stays up with her. She takes it upon herself to change the channels on Wanda’s television or switch it off. She puts on some music instead, knowing that noise is a welcome distraction to her spiraling thoughts. Other times, Wanda motions for Natasha to her bed. The contact of skin on skin, the physical reminder that she isn’t alone helps Wanda relax even if it’s only for a few hours. Most nights, the feeling of Natasha’s body pressed up against Wanda’s is enough to lull her to sleep.

And when it’s not, when she falls into that spiral once more, Natasha’s always there to wipe away her tears and pull her out of it.

“So many people… All those lives lost because I-I couldn’t—” Wanda sobs, breaking down in the familiar hold of strong arms.

Natasha squeezes just a little bit tighter. She speaks softly, interrupting the younger woman, “I know, Wands. I know. But you have to stop blaming yourself, okay? We’ve all hurt people and we’ve all made mistakes. Even if we mean well. And you did mean well. It’s just sometimes things work out in ways we don’t anticipate.”

The consoling words fall on deaf ears. Wanda shakes her head and cries even harder while burying herself deeper into the embrace. Her voice is muffled, repeated pleas of repentance, “It’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s all my fault… T-tasha, it’s all my fault…” Unsure what to say now, Natasha resorts to her instinct instead. It has never failed her. She starts to rock Wanda gently, pressing a soothing kiss to the top of the younger woman’s head. A quiet, melodic hum resonates from her lips. She continues until Wanda’s breathing evens out and until sleep takes over both of them.

───

A soft stream of sunlight seeps into the room, awakening the Russian. She looks down at the sleeping figure in her arms. Wanda looks so peaceful right now, Natasha thinks. She would do anything to conserve this moment, this feeling of serenity for her. To take away all her pain, heartache, and afflictions. Realistically, she knows she can’t accomplish that. The best she can do is just be there for her.

It’s been a few minutes since and she feels Wanda stir slightly, who immediately snuggles closer and remains asleep. A warm feeling settles in her body, first in her chest then it spreads all over. She recalls feeling this way many times before, but only ever with Wanda. It’s at this exact instance she finally fully realizes what this is.

I’m in love.

She bites her lip in contemplation, quiet realization, as Wanda’s eyes flutter open. Hazy green eyes look into clear ones and a mumbled phrase reaches her ears. “Your thoughts are getting loud, Tasha. Are you okay?”

Broken from her trance, she looks down at Wanda. “Yeah, I am. Um. I just… I have something to tell you.” She shifts to lean against the headboard. Now is as perfect a time as any, she thinks.

Wanda’s eyebrows stitch together in a frown as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. She sits up, mostly leaning her weight on the other woman, while trying to decipher the look on her face. The Russian waits for a sign of approval from the Sokovian. Wanda nods and hums.

“I’m going to be direct about this, Wands.”

She takes a deep breath in.

“I like that we’ve grown close, that we consider each other as friends. I like doing things for you and with you and I like helping you, giving you what I have. Time, insight, comfort, whatever. Watching sitcoms with you, sleeping next to you, and waking up in your bed. I like your voice and your ringed hands, how graceful they look when you use your powers. The way your nose scrunches up and your bunny teeth show when you smile. How your accent slips when you say certain words and how you say my name. The way you carry yourself. How you care so much about others… If you let me, I would care for you for the rest of time.”

Natasha finishes with a sharp exhale, only now realizing her rambling. Losing control was one of the things she never wanted to experience again, but this time was different. Finally letting these thoughts flow through and out of her felt cathartic.

Wanda’s voice is quiet, “You would?”

Natasha nods, “Always.”

She says it without hesitation. Because she is wholly certain that she has no other answer. Why would there be?

Wanda becomes silent. An unreadable expression appears on her face as she takes in Natasha’s words. Her posture straightens slightly. Tension is now in the air and a silence begins to settle.

Natasha screws her eyes shut, willing the tears in her eyes to stop forming. She was just about to take everything back, apologize for even saying anything, before getting interrupted. She feels slim fingers gently hold her face. Wanda strokes Natasha’s cheek, her thumb moving in slow, circular motions while she speaks.

“Tasha, hey, please don’t cry,” Wanda looks at her pleadingly, leaning in closer.

Natasha blinks rapidly, brows furrowing together. “I’m sorry. I got nervous because you weren’t saying anything and I… I don’t want to lose you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. I just had to take a minute because I didn’t realize you felt this way. Trust you won’t lose me, please.” She looks away. Her touch slows down and ceases as her hands fall to her lap. “I just don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“You didn’t have to do anything, moya lyubov.” Natasha holds Wanda’s hands, “I mean everything I just said. I love you, Wanda.”

She waits for a response with bated breath. Before she knows it, she feels supple lips capture her own.

It’s tender yet electric. It’s everything she’s ever imagined and more. It’s simply perfect.

Natasha closes her eyes and deepens the kiss. She cradles Wanda’s jaw and feels the brunette melt into her touch. They pull away seconds later, foreheads touching as they catch their breath. Wanda says softly, “I love you too, Natasha. You don’t know how long I have been wanting to say that.”

───── ⴵ⋅ᗢ⋅ⴵ ─────

Now I know what it feels like

To wanna go outside

It was a calm morning, both women following a routine established over the past few months. Natasha would wake up early and then proceed to training, leaving Wanda to sleep in. By the time she’d be back, Wanda was up and just finishing preparing breakfast. They’d eat together, talk about their plans for the day, and decide what to do from there. Some days they’d spend together while, on others, they’d have separate activities.

“Detka! Come here, please!”

Natasha was working on some reports when she heard Wanda call out. She looks at the clock and decides now is a perfect time to take a break anyway. She hums as she stands up and stretches her limbs before leaving the room.

Wanda had been tending to the garden in the compound for some time now. She started with small pots of herbs and then moved to random vegetables after discovering she had a gift for raising plants. Lately, she also added flowers and various houseplants to her catalog. Being out in the sun, getting her hands dirty, and nurturing these plants was hard work, but it was work Wanda loved.

Natasha makes a couple of peanut butter sandwiches and pours two glasses of cold water on a tray, then carries it over to the sliding door leading to the garden. She places it down on a table outside and her eyes immediately search for Wanda. It’s an irresistible sight, her beloved’s face beaming and surrounded by greenery. She even thinks she sees her talking to the plants.

She smiles to herself while appreciating the view until Wanda realizes she’s arrived. She gets waved over, “Tasha!” The excitement in the witch’s voice is barely contained as Natasha walks towards her.

She wraps an arm around Wanda, bringing her closer and kissing her forehead, “Hi, kotenok. I brought over some snacks and water if you wanted them. What is it you wanted me to see?”

Wanda pulls off her gardening gloves, places them in her pocket, and brushes her hands over her pants. She mumbles a quick thank you before taking Natasha’s hand in one of her own and using the other to cover her eyes.

“Close your eyes. I want this to be a surprise.”

Natasha plays along, using her free hand to help cover her eyes. “Okay. Just make sure I don’t trip, yeah?”

Wanda giggles as she leads Natasha by the hand, “Don’t worry, detka, I got you.”

They walk slowly, up a few steps, and stop. Wanda takes a deep breath, “Okay, now.”

When their hands uncover Natasha’s eyes, she is met with vibrant blooms of various colors against a green background of bushes. It’s a masterful arrangement of asters, marigolds, hydrangeas, wildflowers, and many more. She gasps, breath taken away by the gorgeous sight.

“You did all this by yourself?”

The Sokovian nods sheepishly, “Yeah. I read somewhere that getting them all to bloom like this would be challenging, but I think I did decently.”

Natasha squeezes her hand, “It’s more than decent. It looks stunning, Wands. You did an amazing job.”

Wanda’s arm wraps around Natasha’s waist, her head rests on her shoulder. A satisfied sigh leaves her lips. They remain silent, basking in each other’s presence and the garden view.

“If you’re like this with plants, I can only imagine how well you’d be with kids,” Natasha muses.

Wanda lifts her head and looks at Natasha, her shoulders raised slightly, “What if, at some point, you won’t have to imagine?”

Small smiles grow on both of their faces. They share a knowing look before assuming their previous positions. “Someday, lyubov, someday.”

Natasha used to feel the need to keep busy, keep moving because she thought anything too constant would be taken away from her again. Though she never admitted it to anyone, not even herself, the thought of settling down and starting a family of her own was terrifying.

But not anymore. Everything felt so much easier with Wanda. It now truly felt like anything was possible. The lack of fear forced onto her when she was younger came from a dark place of abuse and indifference. Now, it comes naturally. It comes from love.

#ky writes!#oneshot #fanfic #marvel #mcu #marvel oneshot #marvel fanfiction #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #wandanat #wanda maximoff fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfiction #wandanat fluff #wandanat fanfiction #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #wanda x natasha #wlw

69 notes · View notes

aziraphales-library · 4 days

Note

Hi mods! I'm new to the fandom so I was shocked seeing the AO3 tag for the first time. Largest fandom I've joined by far (difference in fic count is in the tens of thousands), so thank you so much for your hard work!! After finishing S2 I've read great fics where Aziraphale apologizes/decides he made the wrong choice, but I've had difficulty finding fics with a POV that A + C were both asking the impossible of one another. I was wondering if you have any s2 recs where that's explored? TY again!

Hello and welcome! Here are some fics in which they talk and both of them acknowledge mistakes...

undercover by Lilian (T)

Aziraphale seeks a broken Crowley out to talk to him again. This time they do slightly better. Story picks up right from where the show left us.

Three Kisses…and then Rabbits. by impatient14 (M)

The thing is, Crowley didn’t know. Not entirely, at least. Not in the same way he knew the measure of every nebula, the heartbeat of every star. He wasn’t given the tools–wasn’t afforded the right–to know. He’d thought around it, of course. He’d spent many a moment (or century) daydreaming impossible things. He’d read enough books and seen enough movies to feel pretty confident about the mechanics, at least. He’d even written a little scene or two himself–carefully vague, of course, and never to the extent of his mind’s vivid imagination. Given an Effort, his body responded the same way theirs do; it was all pleasant ache, shivering heat, and dazzling hope. And yet. When the moment came, it wasn’t what he was promised. *** Or, three kisses between and an angel and a demon.

the human custom of wrong love by pinklemonades (T)

He supposes he should’ve seen it coming from the moment they met in the garden when their lives became inextricably intertwined to the point of mutually assured destruction if either of them tried to leave. (or in which Aziraphale realizes that Heaven will never care for him the way he wanted them to, Crowley can’t figure out why he can’t let go and leave as easily as Aziraphale did, and the two lovers realize they need to learn how to love without hurting)

You must remember this by HolRose (T)

Aziraphale and Crowley have their extremely alcoholic breakfast at The Ritz at the angel’s invitation. Important conversations are had, harking back to their shared experience of one night in 1942. A canon-compliant fix-it fic.

only then i am human by Angelofsmalldeath69 (G)

When his phone rang he let out a squeak, heart stuttering. He stood up so fast his chair almost fell over, and paced for a moment before grabbing the phone. “Hello?” “Hello, Archangel. The demon has arrived! I’ve been asked to let you know.” Aziraphale screwed his eyes shut, holding the phone to his ear with both hands so it wouldn’t fall from his trembling grasp. He managed a thank you, set the phone down, and grabbed the edge of his desk to keep him upright. He could do this. So what if he was the worlds worst liar? Who cared about his awful case of stage fright? None of that mattered, not when it came to him. If he had to put on a show to keep his beloved safe then Goddamnit- this would be the greatest performance of his life.

- Mod D

#good omens #good omens s2 #ineffable husbands #fix-it #communication #apologies #reconciliation #mod d

68 notes · View notes

lovemyromance · 11 days

Note

lets talk about the truthteller scene, so az gives elain truthteller but then feyre was like "the only bridge of connection was THAT KNIFE" would you call that romantic?

I don't think it was inherently romantic actually, but it was significant. That scene marks a turning point in not just Elain, but Elain & Azriel's relationship.

Before that moment, Elain seldom had moments of boldness or where she was even the focus in ACOWAR.

The first turning point for her was when Azriel discovered her powers, freeing her from her depressive state.

The next turning point was when she helped Feyre find the Suriel - showing she did care, she did want to help, however she could.

Then the next significant event was when she asked Graysen to give the humans asylum in his fortress- displaying her boldness and strength to do what is right even if she knew it would pain her.

Then, when Azriel rescued her from Hybern. This scene I do believe was written to be romantic, but it also displayed Elain's resilience and determination when she kicks the hounds away with her bare feet.

The truthteller scene I think is more than just Azriel giving Elain a dagger to defend herself with. Let's not forget that Cassian offered Elain a dagger first, but she took the one Azriel gave her.

This scene is significant for both Elain & Azriel:

For Elain: The fact that she even accepted this dagger shows she was willing to do what was necessary to help her family. Maybe she had a vision, maybe she trusted Azriel after he rescued her and whatever conversations they had together in the garden, maybe she wanted something to defend herself with - but something definitely made her accept Truthteller over the dagger offered by Cassian. She sealed her fate, accepted what had to be done the second she took the blade.

Additionally, the scene is written from Feyre's POV, and Feyre uses some very vivid, beautiful imagery to describe it. It's interesting because the act itself of giving someone a weapon for defense is not something people romanticize- and yet that is what Feyre did when she described the scene as a painting.

That knife is the first indicator of a connection between them. Feyre had no business describing Azriel handing over a knife so beautifully - which leads us to raise the question - Why? She could've said "Azriel gave her a dagger 😐" and moved on to the actual battle scenes, but she didn't.

Compared to the other main characters, Elain does not objectively have that many scenes in ACOWAR. And yet, there are intentional scenes with her dedicated to Azriel discovering her powers, Azriel sitting with her in the garden, Azriel rescuing her from Hybern, Azriel giving her truthteller. It is for a reason. It is all significant to draw attention to that connection.

For Azriel: The truthteller scene is also significant because it is made clear he goes out of his way to make sure Elain is not defenseless.

He says "so I want you to." - Personally asking her to take the dagger.

Furthermore, he gently takes her hand and places the blade into it. When has Azriel ever initiated physical contact? In this scene, he isn't even self conscious about his own hands, no, his focus is on making sure Elain is protected. Their hands even linger on the blade, enforcing that connection between them.

On top of all that, SJM makes it a point to show us Azriel has never lent out that dagger before Elain.

Feyre wonders. Cassian gawks. Rhys confirms the fact that Azriel has never let anyone even touch that dagger. 3 separate people observe and are shocked by Azriel's actions.

The fact that Azriel trusted Elain enough to take his dagger was significant.

The fact that she accepted the dagger was significant.

The fact that Feyre described the scene so beautifully, with an artist's mind, was significant.

The fact that 3 people were shocked by Azriel offering his most prized possession to Elain, was significant.

Without even delving further into what Elain used that dagger for ultimately, and the importance of her stepping out of a shadow and slaying the king with that very knife - the entire truthteller scene was a pivotal moment for both Elain, Azriel and their relationship. It might not have been romantic in the most basic sense, but it marked an important moment in their blossoming relationship for sure.

#elriel #elain archeron #elain x azriel #acotar #azriel #pro elain #elain

60 notes · View notes

cirilla-fiona-riannon · 14 days

Text

Galileo Galilei Main Story

Translations may not always capture the exact nuances or tone of the original text. Expect grammatical errors and inaccuracies. Not proofread.

When I heard the story from her, various emotions clashed within me.

I could no longer put it aside as a coincidence.

Are you really someone who can influence fate?

Also, am I really that involved with you?

Galileo: "........"

After checking Mitsuki's condition, I returned to my room.

After some hesitation, I opened my desk drawer and found an old, forgotten origami crane tucked away in the back.

Galileo: "I suspected as much."

(Was that scar on her forehead caused by me?)

The scar on Mitsuki's forehead, her past stories, and the origami crane I now held in my hand all intertwined, bringing back vivid memories of that time.

Back when I traveled to various countries and time periods using the door in search of my dhampir brethren, I encountered an incident in a certain country.

------------Flashback-----------

Bystander: "A truck is coming! Run!"

A vehicle made of metal was speeding towards us at a velocity unimaginable in my era.

Among the cries of the surrounding people, there was a girl standing in the vehicle's path.

(If this continues...)

Before I could even think, my body moved.

Galileo: "Guh..."

Just before the collision, I embraced the girl and rolled onto the ground.

The vehicle then came to a stop, barely avoiding us.

Galileo: "Are you okay?"

Mitsuki: "I-I'm fine."

The girl was trembling and clinging to my chest, perhaps out of fear.

Still, I was relieved to feel her warmth in my arms.

Galileo: "Ah, finally, I..."

Those words spilled out of my mouth involuntarily.

The girl then looked up, and I noticed the smell of blood.

She had scraped her forehead on the ground when we rolled over, leaving a smear of blood on the right side of her forehead.

Galileo: "Sorry. I've caused a wound on your face."

Mitsuki: "No, it's okay. I was so scared earlier that I couldn't move."

Mitsuki: "If it weren't for you, I would've died. I'm alive, thanks to you."

The girl smiled brightly, and her innocent eyes overlapped with the eyes of someone I had lost, causing my heart to ache.

(Perhaps my body moved instinctively because their heights were similar.)

(Livia...)

Cruel scenes suddenly flashed through my mind.

Mitsuki: "Mister!"

Suddenly, the girl called me.

Galileo: "What's up?"

Mitsuki: "You see, I want to give you this as a thank-you. I folded this at school today."

The girl held something in her hand.

Galileo: "What's this?"

Mitsuki: "It's an origami crane. When you spread the wings like this, it looks like a crane."

Mitsuki: "Origami cranes are symbols of peace!"

(Peace, huh?)

The girl spoke those words cheerfully, even though they sounded like dry words to me.

Mitsuki: "Thank you, Mister. You're my lifesaver."

After that, I watched the girl run off to what seemed like her mother and then left the scene.

(Lifesaver.)

Galileo: "I couldn't save anyone, I..."

(Being called a lifesaver doesn't seem right.)

(Even though I saved one person, the weight of what I've lost remains unchanged.)

Just like how light casts shadows, despair lies next to hope.

Still, that scene remained in my memory and connected me to a strange twist of fate.

---------Flashback Ends--------

Galileo: "The girl I helped back then was Mitsuki."

Galileo: "That event happened when I traveled to the future, which means..."

Galileo: "Mitsuki came from the future, using the door in the mansion."

Traveling back in time, meeting the historical figures who have returned to life, and finally, without warning, meeting Mitsuki in that garden, it was as if I was following the thread of destiny.

Galileo: "Even if she doesn't have any special powers, it seems she's still the woman of destiny."

(On top of that, the girl whom I once saved might have the potential to hinder my purpose.)

Galileo: "How ironic."

The coincidence that turned into fate made me want to laugh at myself.

(But the past is the past.)

(Regardless of any connection between her and me, it doesn't matter to me now.)

I tried to convince myself of this, but the eyes of the girl in my memory overlapped with Mitsuki's earnest gaze.

(The girl from that time is still alive.)

The fact that the life I had saved was now right in front of me made my heart tremble.

Previous Part ╎ Masterlist ╎ Next Part

#ikemen vampire #ikevamp #ikevamp jp #ikevamp galileo #ikevamp translations

52 notes · View notes

strljaem · 2 days

Text

“was it cute like me?"

💿 : dream a little dream of me, michael bublé.

Your love story with Jaemin began in the most magical way—at a concert, where you were lucky enough to get backstage passes. As a dedicated fan of NCT Dream, you'd always admired Jaemin from afar, never daring to dream that he'd notice you. But fate had different plans.

It was a warm summer night when you finally met Jaemin in person. You were backstage after the concert, the excitement still buzzing through the air. The moment he walked in, it was as if the world tilted in his direction. He was stunning in his casual attire, with his jet-black hair tousled from the energetic performance. When he spoke to you, it felt like the universe had conspired to bring you together. The conversation flowed effortlessly, and by the end of the night, you'd exchanged social media and phone numbers.

What followed were countless dates, conversations, late-night talks, and everything in between. You got to know each other in private, sharing your hopes, dreams, and even silly inside jokes. Jaemin was always attentive, his eyes lighting up every time he saw you. You soon became inseparable, often spending weekends exploring the city, trying new restaurants, or simply watching movies at home.

Jaemin's busy schedule as an idol and your rigorous studies for your PhD in computer science meant that time together was precious. But you both made it work, always finding ways to connect despite the distance. You met each other's families, and they welcomed you both with open arms. Jaemin's sweet personality won over everyone he met, and your intelligence and charm captivated his family.

Then came the wedding—a beautiful ceremony filled with love, laughter, and tears of joy. You and Jaemin were finally married, and it felt like a dream come true. The world seemed to shine a little brighter, and every moment with Jaemin was filled with happiness.

A year had passed since that magical day, and tonight was your first anniversary. Jaemin had reserved a grand restaurant for the occasion, a quiet, elegant place with dim lighting and soft music. He looked incredibly handsome that night, wearing a black jacket over a brown turtleneck. His jet-black hair was perfectly styled, and his smile could light up any room. You were equally stunning, with your long black hair tied in a ponytail, wearing a black blouse and black leggings. The YSL high heels he had gifted you for your birthday completed the look, adding a touch of sophistication.

As you entered the restaurant hand in hand, the waitress guided you to your reserved table. The ambiance was perfect, with a candle flickering softly between you. Jaemin looked at you with adoration in his eyes and said, "You're beautiful." You laughed and replied, "I know." He chuckled, and the warmth in his gaze was unmistakable.

During dinner, Jaemin shared stories about his preparation for The Dream Show 3 world tour. He seemed a bit down when he mentioned Renjun's temporary absence, and you nodded, understanding the bond between the members. "Call me as soon as you landed," you reminded him. He smiled and nodded, saying, "I'm going to miss you. Take care." You knew you'd miss him too, but you also knew you had your own work to focus on.

While eating your spaghetti, a memory from last night flashed through your mind. You'd had a dream about you and Jaemin having a baby—a cute little boy with your big brown eyes and Jaemin's nose. The scene in the dream was so vivid, you were in a beautiful garden, walking together. Jaemin was holding a stroller, while you held the baby in your arms. He gently caressed the baby's cheek as he slept, and you both laughed together, filled with happiness.

As you drifted into the memory, Jaemin noticed you spacing out and snapped his fingers in front of you. "Where have you been, darling?" he asked, concerned. You blinked back to reality and took a deep breath before saying, "I had a dream about us having a baby." Jaemin, who was chewing on a meatball, choked at your words, his eyes widening in surprise. You quickly handed him a glass of water, and he gulped it down, coughing a bit. You couldn't help but laugh at his reaction, and he gave you a playful glare.

"Aigoo, really! You had a dream? Was it cute like me?" he asked, trying to play it cool. You nodded and said, "Very. The baby is so cute. He has both of our features." Jaemin laughed nervously, looking down at his food as if avoiding eye contact. You raised an eyebrow at him, questioning his reaction. "What? Aren't you happy?" you asked, and he looked up at you with a mischievous grin. "Maybe it means you're ready to have a child," he teased.

You playfully smacked his arm, causing him to wince and pat it dramatically. "What if I say that I'm ready?" you asked, smirking. Jaemin's eyes widened at your response, and you saw a mixture of surprise and excitement in his expression. "Wow, so sexy," he replied, earning a scoff from you.

As you returned to your food, Jaemin suggested, "We'll see. Give me some time." You nodded, holding back your laughter, knowing he was trying to buy time. He mentioned that the world tour would go on until the end of the year, hinting that he'd have more time then. You nodded, twirling your pasta with your fork, and said, "Thank God." Jaemin pouted, and you burst into laughter at his reaction.

That night was filled with laughter, warmth, and the promise of a bright future together. You both knew that you had different paths to pursue—Jaemin with his idol career and you with your PhD—but your love was strong enough to weather any challenge. As you left the restaurant, hand in hand, you felt that you were both on a journey, one filled with love, adventure, and endless possibilities. And whatever the future held, you were ready to face it together.

#jaemin #na jaemin #jaemin imagine #jaemin fluff #jaemin ff #jaemin scenario #nct dream #nct dream imagine #nct dream fluff #kpop

40 notes · View notes

nexility-sims · 5 months

Text

𝐍𝐎. 𝟑 ❛ 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐦𝐚 ❜ | NAKAWE PALACE GROUNDS, DEC. 1990

❧ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 / 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

❛ Though she had earlier found comfort in the warm embrace of loved ones, Leonor disappeared to the far reaches of Nakawe Palace’s grounds when their eyes looked away. She didn’t leave with a destination in mind, but she ended up in a familiar spot. A stream cut through the high, orange rockland. At its edge, Leonor sank down on the damp ground and pulled her knees to her chin. The water moved slowly, almost too gentle to hear, and she listened instead for the patter of rain. It fell lightly and trickled down her cheeks. Time had already stopped, but now it ceased to exist. Though still, she floated and swayed in a place far from where she sat. Her mind, once a cacophonous and groaning cavern, quieted. Peace proved elusive, but she had needed this—time to simply be.

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

❧ big huge thank you to @300yearschallenge & @sirianasims for reading a draft of this and giving me feedback ! it's much better now :^) i'm taking no feedback, however, on the piss-poor dirt photoshopping sdfsf

Minutes or days later, a voice calling her name interrupted the moment. Leonor should have been relieved or touched, but she could only muster an, “Over here,” in a tone so flat and forlorn that it pushed Arturo forward in a worried hurry.

Before anyone knew him as her boyfriend, he had been the unremarkable middle son of Uspana’s fourth most prominent conservative politician. His father led the coalition today, and some wondered if he may someday be wedded to the Crown. Yet, Leonor thought of Arturo in fonder, more intimate terms. They met before they could walk. He was the second person to kiss her and the first she asked to do so again. She had confessed she lacked time for silly things like dating, so he began accompanying his father to Nakawe Palace where they could chat in the hallways and share lunch in the gardens. Sat by the same fountain, they would devise jokes at the expense of passing aides and debate policy matters, when they weren’t gossipping about shared friends and listening to cassettes. The gardens at Nakawe Palace were also where they made love for the first time. That was how she thought of it then—in romantic terms, all enamored whispers and adoring sighs of pleasure, just like her mother had told her it could be.

Leonor infrequently dreamed of being married. When she did, on rare and happy occasions, it was to him.

He asked how she was, and his voice caught midway as he realized his mistake. They did a dance she had yet to do with anyone; those who had seen her so far were either too grief-stricken, mired in the same morass of abrupt loss, or knew it was not their place to ask.

Without a thought to the wet soil and its clinging pigments, he sat down beside her.

Leonor closed her eyes. Shoulder to shoulder as they were, she felt herself torn between irreconcilable impulses—on one hand, that they were not close enough and, on the other, that she never wanted to be close to anyone ever again. What she saw against the black wall of her mind was a scene playing on loop in vivid color. Beyond her grasp, the blue fabric of her mother’s dress whisked by. The memory stood out, perhaps because she always wore red. Leonor felt the sting in her eyes as she held onto that thought and followed it to its logical conclusion: her own days in red were over, too. Her loss would always be this blue, sharply contrasting the orange rock and the royal red alike.

“Leonor—”

Whatever he hoped to say died on his lips as he saw her shoulders begin to shake. From the corner of his eye, he watched as she struggled for composure. He understood as well as she did that the sobs had to be contained. It was a mandate they all, as Uspanians, were obligated to respect. A tear may fall, but the worst of it had to be saved. He stared ahead, now feeling that sting in his own eyes. He had cried for Safya more than once. At this moment, however, he imagined the funeral, where he would finally see the pain Leonor was saving and cry for her instead.

Their clothes grew more damp as the rainfall increased. It was gentle, still, but they sat so long by the water’s edge that, even beneath the umbrella, his denim jeans and her linen pajamas began to cling. Leonor’s thick hair was wet. She could not distinguish her tears from the rainwater. At her side, Arturo fretted in his own mind about whether she was missed—if her bodyguards, unseen but watching, would hustle them back to the confines of the palace soon.

It was a small relief when Leonor extricated herself and stood up. It was abrupt, too, though he rose with her and attempted to shield her further from the rain drops. She wouldn’t admit that she wished he let the rain hit her. Instead, she walked quickly beyond reach of his umbrella.

“I’ll see you at the palace,” she called back to him as the distance between them grew wider and wider.

TRANSCRIPT:

[A] Leonor?

[L] Over here.

[A] How are you? [L] I’m … here. [A] Should I join you? [L] If you want to.

[A] Leonor— [L] I know. Thank you for being here.

[L] I’ll see you at the palace.

#ts4 story #sims story #sims 4 story #ts4 royalty #sims 4 royalty #ts4 royal legacy #ts4 royal family #royal sims #simblr #ts4 legacy #1992.story.post #1992.a1 #1992.ep01

72 notes · View notes

stellarron · 5 months

Text

:// 𝙸𝙽 𝙰𝙱𝚂𝙴𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙰

[ AN ARGENTI × FEM!READER FIC ]

For @favonius-library 2023 Secret Santa gift exchange 🎄💝 Media: Honkai: Star Rail Characters: Reader (she/her; written in third person perspective), Argenti Word count: ~2.6k

Content warnings: Present day AU. Setting is based off the southwestern United States. Angst — this is (the beginning of) a story about grief, but also about love. Argenti and reader are in a pre-established relationship; both of them are the same age, and of majority age (20-21 years old). From the author: Happy holidays Mimi ( @aimixx ) ! It’s your Secret Santa here. Argenti… He is so… (screams into pillow and bites it). I hope you enjoy the story I’ve written for you — this is only chapter one, so there’ll be more to come in the future! Special thanks to @souglias + @verxsyon + @shiinleaf for giving this chapter a read-through and sharing your thoughts! Soundtrack: Heroes – The Midnight (live version) / 失恋ソング沢山聴いて泣いてばかりの私はもう。(Summertime Render ED2) by Riria. / Way Back Home – Shaun / Meant To Be (Tower of Fantasy OST) – Shymie

:// 𝙲𝙷𝙰𝙿𝚃𝙴𝚁 1: 𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙰

“y/n… y/n…”

She stirs to the soothing lilt of her boyfriend's voice, his palm firm on her shoulder as he gently shakes her from her slumber. Her eyes flutter open to the incessant patter of raindrops outside the car window; beyond the rain-marred windshield, she can make out the sight of asphalt stretching into the horizon, flanked on either side by even concrete pavements and vibrant, tidy rows of bungalows. In any other time of year, perhaps this scene might have served as a tableau of prime suburban living, picture-perfect with lush gardens and the laughter of frolicking children; but today, their once vivid hues stood dampened and dulled beneath the descent of a frigid winter downpour.

The car begins moving again. She sits up in the passenger seat, stretching to alleviate the stiffness in her neck. As the car turns into the driveway and into the shelter of the garage, she shifts her gaze towards her boyfriend. Even against the backdrop of the bleak outdoors, his signature crimson locks don’t lose their blazing lustre, remaining brilliant and bright even when up in a messy ponytail, framing his weary countenance.

He feels her eyes on him, and turns to her. His lips curve into the ever gentle, familiar smile she knows and loves as the car comes to a stop and he cuts the engine.

“We’re here,” he tells her. “Welcome to Roselied.”

y/n and Argenti first met in their freshman year of university.

Their school ranked among the top in the nation. Admissions were reserved for none other than the cream of the crop; even then, those gruelling demands would prove only the tip of the iceberg for those lucky enough to comprise the student body.

It was with this understanding y/n pushed herself to the extreme late one night in freshman year. It would be the tennis team tryouts the next day, and she was dedicated to not wasting a single minute, perfecting serve and swing against an indomitable opponent: the back wall of the school’s locker rooms. Most of the school’s tennis team had been admitted on sports scholarships; anyone who was to fill in its remaining ranks would have to rise to their impeccable standard: that of those who had honed their form and skill for years, who had made the sport their lifeblood. Failure was not an option.

She would eventually lose track of time, though she cared not for the hours that had passed as much as for the number of hits she had missed, for the growing frequency of flaws in her form as the minutes wore on and fatigue crept up upon her.

It was about then that Argenti appeared.

She still remembers the first time she saw him: turning around the corner to sharp, sudden glare she had shot him for his intrusion, wide-eyed astonishment mellowed to sympathy as she softened her gaze in apology, realising just how wound up she was in that moment.

“I’m sorry,” he began, “I heard this weird thumping from back here, so I came to check it out.”

She had merely grunted in reply, and returned to her practice. She could afford no respite — not at this juncture.

Argenti continued to linger, observing her as she practised. He watched as weariness began to take its toll on her, her movements becoming more sluggish, her countenance more frustrated with every move she made. Each motion seemed to prove more laborious than the last. When minutes had passed and he had not left, she paused, intending to lay into him for being a distraction, but before she could speak up, he did:

“Why don’t we play a match together?”

At the incredulous expression on her face, he explained, “I do have some experience from playing back in high school. I might not be as good as you, but still… Practice is practice?”

She cast a glance at the wall before her. He was right — she’d make no proper progress continuing to play against the wall like this. After all, an inanimate entity could never hope to replicate the true circumstances of playing against an actual opponent: the unpredictability of their motions, the intensity of their presence, the dynamism of their being.

And so they found themselves at opposite ends of the tennis court. Her spare racket in his grasp, Argenti primed himself for her serve. It was a pleasant surprise when he managed to receive it.

Thus continued their back and forth upon the deserted court. As the match went on, she realised he was only a little above the level of an amateur, playing not to defeat his opponent, but simply to be able to return the ball across the net. The rational inclination would have been to dismiss his efforts, to deem the current minutes wasted and better spent on practising by herself; yet she could not deny the pounding of her heartbeat, the thrill of the moment, the swirling sentiments rising from the pits of her stomach: she was having fun.

Another hit of the ball back at him. She noted the movements of his racket as he attempted to return it, the angle of which caused it to soar up, up into the air… He had shouted a hasty apology to her, but her attention was focused solely on the trajectory of the ball.

As the ball descended into her court, she seized the golden opportunity, leaping into the air and smashing it back into his court. He rushed to receive it, but his unpracticed swing could not match its velocity; he felt the recoil of the ball against his wrist, and, in his momentary struggle to return it to her court, the ball lost its inertia, bounding off his racket to hit the net between them.

Argenti bowed his head, a chuckle of concession leaving his lips. He raised his head back up to a sight whose memory still takes his breath away: her, smiling for the first time that night, the look in her eyes wishing, wanting, waiting for more.

He could not help the grin that spread across his face. Their eyes met, and in the gaze held between them, an unspoken understanding: gratitude met with encouragement, a newfound relief, and mutual admiration; the precedent of a sentiment beyond the banality of reason, of sparks beginning to fly.

He was the first to break the silence. “It’s late,” he told her. “We should be heading back. You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow… You need the rest.

“You’re going to do great. I promise.”

And taking his advice would prove to be something she would later be grateful for — the following day, as she waited her turn on the bench beside the court, nerves ate away at her, allowing her no mental respite. As waves of anxiety overtook her mind, she wondered just how much more worn out she would be had she not heeded his words.

“y/n,” the team manager announced her name, indicating the beginning of her turn in the tryouts. Taking a deep breath, she stepped onto the court.

Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she’d noticed the movement of a familiar, striking hue across the bleachers. She turned to see who it was, and there, in the top row, sat the face from last night: Argenti, casting her an encouraging smile, and giving her a thumbs up.

She felt a surge of adrenaline through her veins. Tossing the ball in the air, she launched a powerful serve against her opponent…

And the rest was history.

Individual efforts, fates aligned — such was the impression left upon others of the romance between the rising star of the school’s tennis team and the gallant prince of the law faculty. The whispers, cheers and jeers alike dubbed the both of them campus royalty; and for all it’s worth, she knew it a title well-deserved on her part: the reward of consistent diligence and discipline factored into every facet of her life, from her consistently stellar academic performance to becoming the youngest member to represent the school in tennis competitions, and even in her everyday appearance and social engagements.

Yet, when met with these comments, Argenti’s eyes always seemed to take on a certain sadness. It never lasts longer than an instant — a fleeting shadow, a trick of the light — but she had seen it enough times to know it was there. She had brought it up once, early on in their relationship, but he had been surprised at this observation, totally unaware of its occurrence and later dismissing it as a result of fatigue. It was thus that she surmised that perhaps it was an unconscious idiosyncrasy of his; and if there was really more to it, she trusted he would confide in her in time.

When he first invited her to spend the year-end holidays with him at his hometown, the memory of that look in his eyes came back to her. She wondered if visiting the place where he grew up would bring her the answers she secretly desired.

And now, as they pulled up to his childhood home amidst the merciless rain, she watched as the same melancholy bloomed in his eyes, more vivid, more forlorn than ever before.

“Make yourself at home,” Argenti pushes open the door, stepping aside to allow y/n into the guest bedroom. “I hope you can forgive that we’ll be staying in different rooms.”

The room exudes a humble elegance: a high, queen-sized mattress with patterned bedsheets sat upon a frame of lacquered rosewood, complemented on either side by a wardrobe and bedside table of similar makes. Cream-coloured drapes hung before each of the windows, and, on an adjacent wall, a door leading into the attached bathroom, pristine, bright and replete with toiletries.

y/n accepts the handle of her suitcase from Argenti and pulls it into the room. “It’s no problem at all,” she replies. “It’s your parents’ place after all. I totally understand, mine are the same way.”

She walks over to the wardrobe, setting down the last of her luggage in front of it, and turns to face him. He’s leaning against the door frame, smiling at her. He extends his arm, and takes her hand in his. “Want to see my room?” he asks.

She squeezes his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. The corners of her lips twitch upwards into a smile. “Of course.”

He grins, leading her down the hallway. The door just by the bannister of the staircase is painted the same cream white as others like it in the household, leave for the fact that its two panels were coloured in with wide, dry strokes of paint, a larger red panel atop a smaller one in gold. On the doorknob hung a wooden door hanger carved and painted to resemble a wilting rose, the letters of his name affixed to its faded silver stalk.

He unlatches the door to his bedroom. Turning to face her, he takes both her hands in his as he walks backwards, pulling her into the space with him.

Argenti’s bedroom is a museum of memory; the material of his very soul made manifest. The ivory-hued walls that surround them are adorned with posters of movies y/n recognized as his favourites, prints of famous paintings, a triangular flag bearing the colours and acronym of their university, as well as polaroids of himself with individuals around his age whom she did not recognize. Behind her, a hand-painted mural of roses blooming amidst vines bordered his room door on the inside.

Facing the doorway, an expansive stretch of windows occupied the widest wall in the room, framed by red curtains. Before the windows stood a vintage study desk, its surface faintly scratched and stained, with rows of drawers built into both sides of it and a swivel chair neatly tucked into the space between. On either side of his desk stood a wardrobe and a bookcase, while his bed sat in a corner away from the windows, neatly made: two pillows had been stacked at its head, while a row of worn, well-loved plush toys stood lined against the adjacent wall, while a quilt of exuberant hues lay folded at its foot.

Argenti steps towards his bed, unfolding the quilt into a larger rectangle. He sits down upon it, meeting y/n’s gaze and patting the space next to him.

No sooner had she settled down next to him did the older, feminine voice of his mother rise from downstairs. “Argenti!” she calls. He sighs, casting an apologetic glance at y/n.

“I'm sorry,” he explains, rising from the bed. “We arrived earlier than anticipated, and my mom— Well, she was really excited to meet you. She doesn't want to keep you waiting for dinner.”

y/n shakes her head. “It’s alright,” she replies, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shakes his head. “My mom wants to keep it a surprise.”

“Argenti!” yells his mother again. He rushes toward the staircase.

“Leave the door open,” he calls after her. “Just look around at whatever you’d like! I’ll be right back up!”

As he descends the stairs to heed his mother’s call, y/n wanders the room on her lonesome, looking around at the myriad trinkets and items scattered about the room. Her eyes fall on his bookcase.

In the otherwise well-kept room, Argenti’s bookcase posed a region of chaos: books of varying subjects and genres lay upon its shelves in haphazard arrangements, employing no apparent system of organisation leave for that exclusive to the mind of its owner. Her eyes scan past rows of tattered exam guides with frayed spines, yellowed literary classics, thick biographies, glossy-covered fantasy and romance novels, before eventually arriving at the top shelf: the most organised level, chock full of yearbooks and photo albums, each labelled with their respective years.

Her face lights up with an impish curiosity. She perches on her tiptoes, stretching her utmost as she reaches towards the yearbook labelled ‘Roselied High School: Class of 2021’. As her fingertips graze the top of the yearbook, she trips over herself, losing her balance and tugging the yearbook down to the floor with her in a storm of dust and grime.

The resounding thud sends Argenti into a panic. “y/n!” he cries, racing up the stairs from the kitchen, his hand still clad in an oven mitt.

He breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of her unscathed, seated on his room floor. Yet, instead of turning to him or scrambling to help tidy the disarray surrounding her, she continued to face away from him, her interest piqued by an unknown object.

He steps closer to see what she had found.

She holds a stack of photographs in her hands. She takes her time examining each of them, placing one behind the other one at a time. He notices the rest of the paraphernalia in front of her: a bundle of handwritten letters, bound with twine; a dried rose, each of its once white petals tinted with different hues of the rainbow; a spiral-bound notebook full to bursting newspaper clippings and post-it notes; a compact disc, its iridescent surface visible through its yellowed plastic casing; and two sheets of yellowed paper held together by a rusted staple, all neatly placed into the open wooden box he’d hidden at the very top of his bookcase, resting above all his photo albums and yearbooks.

“Argenti.” She senses his presence behind her, but does not turn to face him.

“Who is Idrila?”

#argenti x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #.argenti #.ix #.hsr

58 notes · View notes

clytemnaestraes · 7 months

Text

It has been speculated that sansa might've been unconsciously warging into a bird to see marillion in the sky cell

When she closed her eyes she could see him in his sky cell, huddled in a corner away from the cold black sky, crouched beneath a fur with his woodharp cradled against his chest.

Sansa I, AFFC

I wonder if something similar was going on in these passages in Sansa VII, ASOS

Drifting snowflakes brushed her face as light as lover's kisses, and melted on her cheeks. At the center of the garden, beside the statue of the weeping woman that lay broken and half-buried on the ground, she turned her face up to the sky and closed her eyes.

Sansa goes into a trance like state after closing her eyes, and when she's opened them she starts building winterfell. Could it be that she warged into a bird flying above winterfell, which helped her replicate its layout so effortlessly? In fact, the very moment after closing her eyes, her head is filled with thoughts of winterfell. Following these thoughts, perhaps her warg abilities helped her to warg into a bird flying above winterfell.

She could feel the snow on her lashes, taste it on her lips. It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.

Dreams are heavily associated with warging in asoiaf, so the strategic placement of this word here could be a hint.

So we have Sansa closing her eyes and entering a trance of sorts (by the time she opens them the sky is lighter so a considerable amount of time has passed, and she doesn't remember falling to her knees, suggesting her faculties were directed elsewhere). Then we have her mentally engaging with the snowy landscape of Winterfell in a dream-like state.

And then there's this:

Sansa closed her eyes to see them in memory. "They're just white lumps."

When littlefinger asks her how the gargoyles in Winterfell look, she has to explicitly close her eyes again to bring them to mind. Now again, it might as well be that she is drawing from her "memory" to imagine how they look, as she herself narrates. Or it might be that this is another classic unreliable narrator trap that we've seen the author use. There's a thin line between "imagining" and "warging" and if we assume this is among sansa's early unconscious attempts at warging, it would be hard for her to tell the difference, and she would rationalise what she saw as mere memory. Sansa building winterfell is brimming with symbolic importance, and I don't think anything in this scene would've made the cut if it didn't mean something, so this tidbit can be read as the author emphasising and reinforcing his earlier hints.

I'm not saying that any of this is absolute. I'm merely speculating. You are free to disbelieve all of this. I'm open to being wrong, perhaps she just has an extremely vivid photographic memory and grasp on building layouts and stuff for all I know. Sansa's warging abilities or lack of thereof doesn't affect my love for her as a character. I might even be venturing into tin foil hat territory here, but I just wanted to share something that struck me.

#sansa stark #asoiaf #speculation

104 notes · View notes

pianocat939 · 9 months

Text

I’m feeling really weird the last 2 days- like I’m having short symptoms of pain and sickness that last only a few hours- and my leg is being shitty to me more than usual so…I decided to indulge myself. And cuz everyone loves a good Jiang Shi Donnie brainrot-

Tw: mention of murder, blood, vampire blood sucking bitch, mention of anxiety

You don’t know why you suddenly decided to go wander around the mini forest next to your house. It wasn’t anything grand, just a string of trees clustered together to make a weird garden.

Normally, it’s nothing odd to go take a walk, but it was also pitch black in the night. The only light you had was the moon, which surprisingly enabled to let you see just enough that you knew where you were going.

Everything was going fine, and the silence seemed was comforting to your mind that never seemed to stop thinking. Emptiness. The true form of peace; releasing all forms of negativity or positivity. A neutral state.

You sat on the old white garden bench, a few paint chips falling off. You observed the nearby bushels and grass, staring at the foliage with no purpose in mind. The soft wisp of a breeze flutters through your clothes. Not necessarily a chilling one, just…perfect temperature.

Your mind’s been caught up on too many things as of late. For once, the outside world was working its wonders to you.

Until you heard a pained gasp from a far.

It was barely audible, but it was enough to make you jerk your head towards the direction of the sound. Your eyes wide with caution. What was that?

You slowly stood, the bench making a hushed squeak from being rickety. You approached the sound hesitantly, your hands trembling every so often.

And then you saw a glimpse of vivid purple through the branches and leaves. They were staring downwards…A horrifying sight was before you that very moment.

A young man was hardly conscious, being held up by a creature wearing tattered robes. Its fangs dug deep into his shoulder, as the beast devours the scarlet liquid: a true glutton. It released a snarl, just barely above a whisper.

Its violet eyes were focused on the blood, until they slowly shifted over to your direction. The green-skinned creature released its bite, staring at you dead silently. Slowly, its expression contorted into a cruel, maniacal grin. As it carelessly dropped the man, before it started to hop over to your direction.

Your heart stopped. You felt your muscles tighten. Your eyes were glancing around the scene aimlessly. You were gonna be killed, and fed to a creature of greed.

You back away in hesitant steps, before dashing away, back through the path you explored from. You heard a feral growl come from behind you, and the sounds of jade beads rattling. You were about to exit the secluded garden, when you suddenly tripped over. Hitting smack flat onto the ground.

You felt your knee throb with agony, from knocking into the edge of the old bench. You frantically tried to get your footing, but as soon as you shifted your weight onto your foot, a sharp dagger of discomfort invaded your ankle. You hiss in pain, flinching.

You could hear the heavy footings get closer, louder. You used your arms to pick yourself up, but once more, your ankle failed you. You gasped and narrowed your eyes from the pain, cursing.

You then felt a soft weight on your leg, and you look to see the creature staring at you, its smile still plastered on its face. Its hand pat your leg, before letting out a content grunt.

No no no. You were gonna be eaten up by a stupid zombie vampire- who doesn’t even know how to walk. You didn’t move.

If you fought back, who knows what would happen? Your mind is a jumbled mess, panic and anxiety feeding off your fears.

“愚蠢的…” (Silly/Stupid)

It laughed, its voice hoarse and cutting out a bit. It grabbed you by your shoulders and heaved you up onto the bench. It sat beside you, glancing down at your injured leg.

“跌倒了…絕望” (Fell down, hopeless)

It leaned closer, its blood stained lips and fangs in view. It whispered, “我會幫你…投胎.” (I’ll help you, reincarnation)

Its clawed, bony hands pat your head.

Why did you ever think it was smart to walk out into the woods late at night?

——————————————————

I referenced my own leg problems lmao-

For those who don’t know, “reincarnation” is just a hint back to the lore I have of Jiang Shi Donnie.

Anyway- have some brainrot with a shitty ending

#I wrote this all on my phone lmao #rottmnt #tmnt #yandere rottmnt #yandere tmnt #yandere #yandere x reader #rottmnt x reader #tmnt x reader #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #Jiang Shi

101 notes · View notes

alezangona · 3 months

Text

The Shadow of Khansar (Salaar Fic)

Part 8 - Dawn of a New Empire

Part 7 | Part 9

Note: Slight NSFW I think?

If Varadha was being honest with himself, he didn’t really know how they’d gotten to this point. The last vivid memory he had was of Deva being worshiped like a god in Mahit’s garden. Then the space cleared, leaving him and Deva behind as silence surrounded them like a blanket, unable to voice the emotions bubbling beneath the surface. The stillness continued to unfurl, shrinking and expanding in its journey, till finally they found themselves navigating an unexpected terrain, together yet alone.

Then came the days of battle, where they had gained and lost so much in the span of so little time. There were many moments of glory that brought the men together in celebration and fewer moments of loss. Those are what stood out the most at the end of it all, where soldiers mourned for their fallen comrades, their will to fight vanishing just as fast as it would reappear when the unquenchable desire for vengeance was reignited by Varadha’s rousing speeches.

Through many of those moments, Deva was physically next to Varadha, refusing to let any harm come his way. Yet, there was a fragile distance between them that he wasn’t able to give name to. Maybe he could’ve if he tried hard enough, but it scared him beyond measure to even consider it. Not when it had been days since they’ve felt each other… since they’ve held each other.

So, their army continued to fight. Varadha and Deva continued to stay at a loss for words.

Now they are here, in his father’s throne room: Deva holding his sword to Raja Mannar’s neck.

Varadha considers if he should be feeling more anger after their earlier interaction where his father expressed his disdain towards Varadha, how he regretted having him as a son, how he was a shame to the Mannar clan. Even now, Varadha knows he should be irritated as Raja Mannar refuses to dignify his presence by keeping his gaze firmly on the fuming outline of Radha Rama, his pride and joy, who stands by the entrance of the hall, unable to act. But at the moment, he feels nothing. So he gives the order and his father’s head rolls to a stop at his feet.

A few days later, the scene would appear in his sleep. He would startle awake and cry as regret consumed him. He would wish that he could somehow rewrite the past. He would wish he could’ve stopped his father from killing the Shouryanagas and that he could’ve preserved the loving relationship they had during the first ten years of his life.

That was to come in a few days' time.

Then it would continue to haunt him for the rest of his life.

For now, Deva removes the large bracelet from Raja Mannar’s arm and throws the husk of his father’s body across the room. Varadha doesn’t look, but he hears the corpse thud loudly against the wall. Deva steps to the side, gesturing for Varadha to take a seat on the throne marred by blood. He tries not to think too hard about the squishing sound that envelops him as he takes a seat… or about the barbaric scene in front of him, where so few people were alive to witness this hoax of a coronation.

“All hail to Khansar’s rightful heir!” Deva’s voice booms through the room as he holds up the thick bracelet. “Your Kartha– Varadha Rajamannar!”

Varadha hears shouts of joy from his soldiers and friends as they go down to their knees. The only emotion he feels in that moment is relief when he sees that his family is okay, bowing towards him with large smiles on their faces. Then his hand is lifted from its position on the throne and Deva slips the heavy band on his arm. Their gazes catch for a moment, grasping on with steadfast determination, forcing time to stand still. Varadha isn’t sure what Deva sees in him though, because within seconds, he’s also kneeling by the foot of the throne.

The only person who remains standing is Radha Rama, pure hatred oozing from her striking eyes, clouding the room in a dark fog that jostles Varadha to his core. He knows at that moment that he should let his guard execute her. That it would be the only way to quell the tempest that would approach in his future. Except, he’s sickened by the massacre and tired of how alone he feels in a position he firmly believed he wanted just a few days ago.

So, he continues to stare at her, unfeeling and uncaring as he waits for the inevitable consequences that will follow.

~*~

He doesn’t know how it happens, but within the next few days, the palace is cleaned up so well that there isn’t a trace of blood to be found. Even the streets are spotless, soon filling with the chatter of people milling about in their daily lives, the gore of turmoil forgotten easily. The change in atmosphere is enough to give Varadha whiplash, but there’s no time to ponder it for too long.

Preparations are made promptly for his official coronation. Amidst that and all the meetings with delegates to figure out the logistics of his court and new policy implementations, Varadha doesn’t have time to breathe, much less relax. Even the evenings, where he should technically be free, are spent holed up in a room with Baba and Mahit as they draw up plans for the future of Khansar.

When he does have time to let his thoughts wander, he thinks about Deva. Deva who he hasn’t seen or talked to in weeks. Not properly anyway. They would see each other during certain weekly meetings, where they would be situated on two different ends of the room, speaking no more to each other than was necessary. Then, Varadha would leave with his team to handle his duties as Kartha, and Deva with his own team to handle matters of national security.

With how much their army and people admired him, it was a no-brainer to appoint Deva as the Commander in Chief. At least it was to Varadha. The look of disapproval on Mahit’s face made it obvious he believed otherwise. He later approached Varadha telling him it was a bad idea to let Deva hold so much power over the whole of Khansar. His opinions on that particular matter were never brought up again after Varadha’s angry rebuke.

Finally, a few days after his coronation, Varadha catches sight of Deva wandering in the palace gardens and gives up on maintaining any semblance of aloofness. He pulls on a thin, black robe and makes his way through the wing, a single destination in mind.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” Varadha believed the question would come out sounding a lot harsher and a lot more annoyed than it did. He just sounds tired.

“You’ve been the one keeping me at a distance for weeks now,” Deva doesn’t even seem surprised by Varadha’s appearance, turning to face him slowly. “So maybe I should be asking you.”

“I haven’t been-”

“Don’t.” It’s the first time Deva has ever spoken to Varadha harshly, and it’s enough to stop him in his tracks when he hears bitterness layered beneath the word. “Don’t lie to me. You haven’t talked to me or looked at me the same way since that morning.” He runs his hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration. “I was hoping we could fix it, but you gave me nothing. What was the point of trying after it became obvious that what we had was over? You made it obvious that it was time to move on.”

“Over?” Varadha flinches harshly beneath the moonlight, the pleasant breeze suddenly unbearable against his skin. Deva doesn’t say anything, staring blankly at Varadha and it infuriates him that he can’t read the thoughts running behind those charcoal eyes.

Still, the phrase is enough for a sudden barrage of memories to dance across Varadha’s vision. Every moment since that morning, seen in a different light than before.

Nausea begins to set when he thinks vividly of his coronation ball. It was nothing more than an event Baachi insisted he throw to celebrate their victory and build his network within the inner circles of Khansar. Yet, every time he would jump from conversation to conversation, he would catch a glimpse of Deva sitting in the furthest corner of the room. At first, he was alone more often than not, a relaxed set to his shoulders that signified to Varadha that he was happy not being bothered.

Then, at some point of the night, there was someone else. They were draped elegantly in a smokey, silver sari, thick hair plaited together in a braid that dropped over their shoulder, a bright red rose tucked into the top. They were introduced to him at some point as Ila, a journalist there to cover the event. Varadha didn’t think much of it then, mind filled with a checklist of duties to complete. But now, he remembered the way the two of them sat together the entire night. The way that Ila waited with Deva till the very end of the party, following him out the door…

“Moving on as in, you’ve been seeing someone else?” Varadha whispers into the darkness. Deva’s brows pull together.

“What?”

“That journalist from the party? Ila.” Varadha can’t control the sharp edge to his voice, his eyes narrowing accusingly in Deva’s direction. “Or if not them, other people? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“That’s not what–” Deva suddenly sucks in a sharp breath. “Hilarious coming from you when you’ve been attached to Mahit’s hip for weeks now. What right do you have to be mad at me?”

“Stop it,” Varadha takes a step forward, hands fisting at his sides. “I would never do that. I would never insult what we have by moving on the second there’s a bump in the road. I wouldn’t do that to you because I’m not capable of forgetting you as easily as you did me!”

They glare at each other, bodies wound tight with frustration as the sounds of night surround them. From far away, an owl hoots into the night, its melodious cry carrying gently in the breeze. Every so often, bats pass overhead, the strong beat of their wings echoing in waves around them. As the crickets chirp, uncaring for the plight of humanity, the fresh, green smell of the garden inhabits the space between them, imploring them to break their silence and join the conversations of night.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did,” Deva starts, hands tucking into his pockets. “It would kill me, but I wouldn’t stop you from being with someone you deserve. Not when I’ve been a monster… and I don’t regret it for a second, Varadha. When I found out Rudra was the reason you got hurt, I couldn't think beyond that. I told you before and I’ll tell you again– no one is allowed to touch you, to harm you. If they try, they won’t make it a step past me. They both had to die that day.

“Then you came down that morning, and you didn’t know how to react. You didn’t know what to do. I never meant to put you in a position where you couldn't recognize who I was. Where you were scared of me. And I tried, I tried to come talk to you… but you looked at me differently than before and it broke me. I thought it’d be best to give you space, to let you approach me.” Deva shrugs. “You don’t owe me anything Varadha. I have no right to be mad. Regardless, I’m still on your side, I always will be. In whatever capacity you want me.”

The words ring strongly just as they did that first night between them. It takes all of Varadha’s strength not to drop to the ground. Instead he moves closer to Deva, coming to stand chest to chest, his hand gripping the arm with the tattoo.

“What made you think I was scared of you?” The incredulity rings strong. “I was taken aback because it’s always been too much for me Deva. Every time I start to believe I know who you are, that I know what your limits are, you do something I never could’ve expected. Every moment from the electrical shock, to Naarang’s head, to Rudra’s death… you go so far for me, and I can’t even begin to fathom why.”

“You know why.” Deva turns his face up to the sky, begging for strength. “There’s no one else for me but you, Varadha. Your name is carved into every inch of my being.” He brings his hand up to Varadha’s neck, pulling him so close that their bodies finally align, slotting together perfectly. “You are my sun and I am your shadow… I simply don’t exist without you, ra.”

“Deva, I–” Varadha gives in, finally understanding the extent of Deva’s devotion, and reaches up to press their lips together. The feeling of being able to do so after so many days makes his knees quake and within seconds, Deva’s arms are wrapped around his waist, supporting him. “I love you.” He allows himself to say it, to voice the emotion that has consumed him since he was a child.

Deva’s grip around him turns to vice, a strangled sound leaving his lips as he really looks at Varadha. Then he’s back to where he was before, devouring the taste of Varadha in the cold of night. He refuses to break, hands moving across the planes of Varadha’s body, re-exploring the length of him in fervor, and attempting to melt into him. By the time Deva pulls away, his thumb rubbing gently against his pulse point, Varadha’s pleasantly light headed, choosing to support himself by grabbing onto Deva’s bulging biceps.

“I love you too, Varadha. So damn much…”

~*~

“There’s a swing in your step today.” Mahit raises a brow at Varadha when he steps out onto the balcony for their meeting.

“What?” Varadha questions, blinking at the man through his sunglasses. “No there isn’t.”

“Mhm, could’ve fooled me.” Mahit doesn’t push him too much though, nodding at the seat across from him. “Anyway, I was going through the Nibandana and am worried that some of these regulations clash against a few of the laws we’re trying to implement. I wanted to discuss a couple of thoughts and concerns I had with you before my meeting with Krishnakanth and the legal team.”

They spend the next hour diligently looking over any and all issues, cross referencing them with the pages of notes they had taken down, before putting together a file of information for Mahit’s meeting with the legal team. Anand approaches right on time, bringing with him a tray of coffee that Varadha downs all too happily.

“Okay come on, now that we’re done with this, what’s with the sudden burst of energy?” Mahit’s lips quirk up into a teasing grin.

“Is it a crime to be happy, Mahi?” Varadha shrugs, looking away as he feels himself flushing lightly.

“No, not at all. Not when you look like this.” His eyes sweep up and down Varadha’s form approvingly.

“Okay, that’s enough of that.” Varadha rolls his eyes and sits up a little, fixing his posture to be less casual.

“Fine, your wish. But I hope you know I’m just telling it how it is. Happiness is a good look on you.” Mahit shrugs casually. Then he notices something behind Varadha and his face brightens even more. “Devaratha! Come, join us!”

“Baba’s calling you Mahit,” He responds dryly, coming to stand being Varadha’s chair. “Something about drafting the trade agreement with the Russian Bratva.”

“We did that already, I thought?” Mahit frowns, pulling out his notes and flipping through them. “Did he say what exactly about them?”

“No, just that he needed you.” Deva rests his hand on the back of Varadha’s chair and leans casually to the side. Mahit groans, standing up and grabbing the necessary files.

“Fine, feel free to make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done with Baba.” Once he leaves, Varadha turns to look at Deva, skepticism written on his face.

“I thought Baba was supposed to have a meeting with the Ghaniyaars today?”

“He does.” Deva shrugs, coming to stand in front of Varadha.

“Then what was that about?” He flicks his chin to the side, staring up at Deva in amusement.

“He was getting a little too comfortable with you,” Deva steps forward, leaning down to pull Varadha’s sunglasses off his face. “It was getting on my nerves.”

“Oh?” Varadha observes with open interest as Deva straddles him in the chair, placing the sunglasses off to the side, wrapping his arms around Varadha’s neck.

“Yeah…” Deva leans in, kissing him with teasing nips and licking between his lips. Varadha’s fingers dig themselves into the flesh of Deva’s hips, a low rumble forming in his throat.

“Not that I don’t appreciate this, but he’s going to catch us when he walks back in.” Even as he says it, he doesn’t really make an effort to nudge Deva off.

“So? Maybe he’ll finally get it into that thick skull of his that you’re mine.” Deva gently bites into the flesh of Varadha’s bottom lip, pulling it out slightly before releasing it. He watches greedily as the skin begins to swell, sensitive to the assault, particularly after the events of the previous night. Varadha meanwhile, swallows hard.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep Deva.” His hands lift higher, making their way to rest under Deva’s shirt, coming into contact with his warm skin. “If you’re going to show him I’m yours, I expect you to do it properly.”

Deva’s pupils darken and without further prompting, he tugs at the gray scarf wrapped around Varadha’s neck, peeling it away to reveal the love bites he had peppered on his skin earlier. He places soft kisses across the length of his neck, coming to nibble gently at his earlobe as he brings his hands under Varadha’s shirt to run his nails over the muscles of his abs. Varadha lets out a sigh of pleasure, tilting his head back against the chair and allowing for Deva to explore his body as he sees fit.

Deva slips himself out of the chair, getting to his knees in front of Varadha, who acknowledges the action by gazing hungrily at him from hooded eyes. Deva wastes no time in reaching under Varadha’s black dhoti, wrapping his fingers around his hardening cock to pull it out. He runs his thumb over the tip of Varadha’s head, leaning down to blow at it softly and bites back a smile when Varadha twitches with anticipation.

Deva begins to lick at the tip while his hands pump the length of his cock leisurely. He tightens his lips, inching his way down Varadha’s shaft, pulling back up before going back deeper each time. Soon, he’s bobbing his head at a rapid pace, his tongue exploring every inch of sensitive skin, lapping up pre-cum as the hairs of his beard scratch teasingly across the surface of Varadha’s dick.

Varadha moans at the feeling, fingers twisting themselves into Deva’s hair as he begins to thrust up into his mouth, impatient and desperate to chase his pleasure. Deva hollows out his cheeks immediately, allowing Varadha to take control and to use him for his own gratification. Deva begins to play with Varadha’s balls, tugging and squeezing, while running his other hand across the skin of his inner thigh.

“Fuck,” Varadha whimpers, his cock twitching between Deva’s glistening lips as he continues to shove his dick into the warm cavity. “God, Bangaram. You’re the only one who does this to me. You’re the only one who drives me crazy with need.”

Deva watches from below as the Varadha’s face twists with pleasure. His eyes are closed, lips forming a small O, and chest heaving with aroused breaths. Deva slowly swallows around his cock, savoring the salty taste of him against his tongue as he manages to pull another groan from between Varadha’s lips.

That’s when he catches sight of Mahit frozen in the room overlooking the balcony, shock painted across his features at the unexpected sight. Their eyes meet and Deva feels a burst of possessiveness overtake him. Instantly, he hollows out his cheeks further, taking Varadha so deep into his throat that his nose touches against his stomach. Two more thrusts is all it takes for Varadha to come crying in his mouth, falling back against the chair and swallowing heavily as he tries to control his breathing.

Deva meanwhile, keeps his gaze fixated on Mahit, swallowing the musky taste of Varadha, his tongue darting out to swipe away at any excess lingering on his lips. Mahit’s eyes snap to capture the gesture, his eyebrows furrowing for a second before he turns to leave the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

“Come here,” Varadha grabs Deva by the collar, pulling him back into his lap to steal eager kisses. He then buries his face into the crook of Deva’s neck, laughing to himself. “God, I love you. Do I tell you that enough? That I love you so fucking much?”

“I think you could stand to tell me a little bit more, actually.” Deva replies, a burst of happiness exploding within him upon hearing the words from Varadha’s mouth.

“I’m glad I have your permission, because I’m going to spoil you rotten with those words. I love you, Bangaram.”

#salaar #varadeva #devaratha raisaar #salaar fic #salaar fanfic #varadha rajamannar

36 notes · View notes

pintoras · 2 years

Photo

Sofonisba Anguissola (Italian, c. 1532 - 1625): The Chess Game (Portrait of the artist's sisters playing chess) (1555) (via Wikimedia Commons)

As a woman, Sofonisba was barred from the life studio, a restriction sh side-stepped by using herself and her family as subjects. Her most famous painting, The Chess Game (1555), is a wonderfully vivid and affectionate portrayal of her sisters, accompanied by their maid, Giovanna, playing chess -- a game considered to be both intellectual and strategic, attributes not often associated with women at the time. Bejewelled in gold and pearls and dressed in costumes more extravagant than the girls would normally have worn to play in a garden, it’s clear Sofonisba wanted to honour her sisters’ beauty and lively personalities, while demonstrating her own dazzling gifts. Perhaps she was also aware of how ground-breaking her homage was: she was the first artist to portray her family as a primary subject. Her younger sister, Europa, smiles broadly at Minerva to her left -- in itself a radical gesture, as such levity was not considered decorous. Minerva is seen in profile, but her right hand is raised, as if in mock surrender to her superior opponent. To Europa’s right, Lucia, the older sister, looks directly out at us, faintly smiling: her right hand moves a chess piece, while her left holds a captured queen. The five hands we can see in the painting are all active: holding, moving, raising, touching. It’s a rare, playful image of girls employing their wits against each other and having fun. The scene is set in a garden to a backdrop of a misty, mountainous landscape. As the landscape around Cremona is flat, we can only assume that Sofonisba was dreaming of future journeys to distant lands.

Jennifer Higgie, The Mirror and the Palette: Rebellion, Revolution and Resilience: 500 Years of Women’s Self-Portraits

#Sofonisba Anguissola #early women artists #early women painters #women artists #women painters #art #painting #italian painters #portrait #chess #sixteenth century #clothes #Jennifer Higgie #The Mirror and the Palette

493 notes · View notes

mononijikayu · 6 days

Text

4 o' clock.

Gojo Genmei thinks Satoru is always right when he says that loving people can be a curse. In these past ten years, in their hearts and minds, they were the biggest prisoners. The biggest prisoners to loving the past. To mourning the past. To wanting the past. Yet Gojo Genmei does not mind. She would not be able to live without it, being haunted by the ghosts. She wanted Kaiko to haunt her, for father to find his way into her arms again. For Suguru to smile at her tenderly again.

GENRE: pre - hidden inventory arc to shibuya arc (1990s to 2010s);

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: 4 o' clock by r&v of bts

NOTE: when i first wrote this, i just thought about describing what genmei and suguru's relationship was like but i feel like there was a need to show how it was. also, i needed to write jealous satoru. i like the idea that he's jealous of anyone who comes into contact with genmei. anyway, i hope you enjoy this one <333

masterlist

u s and t h e m

IT WAS QUITE RARE FOR HIM TO VISIT HER IN HER SLUMBER. But she must suppose that he has his moments. In the realm of slumber, Genmei dances with dreams more vivid than most mortals dare to embrace, yet she finds no solace in this nocturnal ballet.

The musings in her mind unfurl like ephemeral tapestries, each thread pulsating with life, beckoning her to reach out and caress the intangible. But dreams, enchanting though they may be, remain elusive phantoms, slipping through the fingers of even the most ardent dreamer.

She contemplates the tears she could shed, should she vocalize the kaleidoscope within her, a million frames of moments she believed time had buried. They resonate with vibrancy, innocence, and the lingering echoes of a youth long eclipsed by the relentless march of time. One cannot simply avoid it, being so sentimental about a past already dried, long written by hands no longer here to hold her own. Gojo Genmei couldn’t help it, she could never help it when it comes to him. She’s no better than Satoru in that regard.

In the tapestry of her memories, she revisits a scene painted with the hues of a summer's day—the deep, sharp gaze of a companion, the sturdy frame against which she nestled, and the warmth of shared breath beneath their tree. A fleeting moment etched in the canvas of her past, where innocence and hope intertwined like vines in a garden long untouched by reality.

She used to think about the warmth of summer like him. If Satoru was the bright echo of winter, then he was most ardently, the bright sun of summer. Genmei missed him. She missed everything about him. She dare not voice it out loud. But selfishly, Genmei latched onto the memories, to the dreams that were left behind. It was all she had.

It has been a year. 365 days. Summer, Spring, Fall and Winter came and went.

But the echoes of Geto Suguru still remained; As young as that blue summer.

A tender smile from Geto Suguru, sitting in front of her as her hands slid through the dark tresses of hair. He allowed her to touch his hair happily, a feat very few could ever do. Suguru from her memory was someone who couldn’t handle the touch of anyone lightly. He liked the distance of it, he used to tell her.

But not with people he held dear. Genmei supposed it made her heart warm when he told her this. It meant that he held her dearly. He considered her an occupant of the portion of his heart. Genmei knew that his whole heart, perhaps it would always belong to Satoru. Yet, she knew she could feel happiness build a home in her.

There was a tender melody born from their shared hums, and the golden radiance of a sunlit meadow—all etched in the mosaic of a summer story, a dream painted in hues of joy. Suguru spoke about home, about missing the mountains and the countryside. He wished summer would come soon, so that he could take some time off.

He invited Genmei to go with him, to see his parents and play with his family’s dogs. He promised that he’d bring Satoru and Shoko too. His parents missed them too. Genmei knew they were long gone, ink dried in her memory replaying as a beautiful nightmare. Yet, beneath the surface, even if this was a repeat of that summer's nightmare, the memory that refuses to fade. Genmei refuses to let it fade.

He was so beautiful, so tender with his touch and his smile. There was no forgetting him. He was the whole moon, the whole summer night. Genmei wouldn’t forget him. Not even if she tried. She and Satoru had tried, but they couldn’t. It was as though they would surrender life itself from existing in their flesh and bones.

There was that place, where the windchime echoes against the wind. Genmei found Suguru gazing up at the sky, his dark purple eyes fixed on the vast expanse of blue that stretched endlessly above them. She approached quietly, her steps soft on the grassy plain. It was rare to see him out here nowadays. But she thinks, its good for him. To be out here, feeling the sun. Not locked away in his room, where he'd find only darkness.

"What are you thinking about?" Genmei asked, settling down beside him with a gentle grace, her own gaze lifting to the heavens.

Suguru turned his head slightly, acknowledging her presence with a soft smile. "Genmei-senpai, what do you think exists beyond the blue sky?"

Genmei pondered the question for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered the limitless possibilities. "I like to think that beyond our sky is another realm, perhaps many realms, where different rules apply. The gods were kind to us to give a wonder to think about, don't you think? The gods look to us and think, what creatures they made, who wonder different things."

Suguru nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Different rules, you say? Do you think they have curses and sorcerers there too?"

"Maybe," Genmei mused, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But maybe their sorcerers fight different battles. Or maybe they live in harmony, without the need for battles at all."

"That sounds peaceful," Suguru said, a hint of longing in his voice. "A place where the sky isn’t just a barrier between us and the cosmos but a gateway to something greater."

Genmei looked at him, noticing the wistful tone of his voice. "Do you ever wish you could go there? To escape from all this?" she asked gently, gesturing subtly to encompass their world and its endless conflicts.

Suguru was silent for a moment, then he sighed. "Would it be so bad to say that I often think it'd be easier over there then over here?"

Genmei smiled softly, shaking here head. "No, I don't. Sometimes, its easier to think of what gives us comfort. Remember, it's okay to dream of peace. And maybe one day, we'll find a way to make those dreams a reality here, rather than needing to find it under the vast blue sky. It's a beautiful wonder, I agree. But sometimes, its even too vast for us to hold. Not all of us need to be Atlas, you know."

Suguru turned to look at her, giving her a small smile. Genmei thinks it was enough, even if it didn't reach his eyes. "With you here, I believe we might just do that. After all, isn't that what sorcerers do? Bend reality to make the impossible possible?"

"Yes," Genmei agreed, her eyes reflecting the blue of the sky above. "We make the impossible possible. And maybe, just maybe, we'll find what's beyond the blue sky together."

They fell silent, both lost in their thoughts, yet comforted by the shared understanding that whatever lay beyond the sky, their strength lay in facing it together, bound by their hopes, their fears, and their unyielding determination to shape the world according to their dreams.

As she traces the vacant side of her bed, she yearns for the comforting presence of Satoru. To feel the warmth of his arms overtake the cold echoes of a painful emptiness. Tears flowed from her eyes involuntarily, her lungs halted its usual flow. She couldn’t move herself too well, her muscles tightening in spasms.

A soundless huff left her lips as she tried to get herself together. For a moment she stayed still and just cried. When the time passed, her muscles loosened slightly, Genmei took to taking Satoru’s in her arms and wrapping her arms around it. She can smell the tender scent of his perfume still there.

He stayed there, already ready to leave for his mission just to feel her for a while. They wouldn’t see each other for a while, so he wanted to make sure he lingered long enough to fill his heart with the tender memories of her. Genmei felt herself settle slowly against the pillow, her breathing returning to its usual pace.

She missed him, she was sure. If he was here, it would have been easier to deal with this. It would have been easier to feel at ease with the memories of the person they both loved. Yet he wasn’t and she had to live with that.

In the cocoon of his touch, he could discern the ethereal boundary between dreams and nightmares, offering solace with a mere brush of his fingertips. A yearning for his tenderness echoes through her being, yet she knows he is absent, entangled in missions that withhold him from her embrace. Her husband was a light sleeper, much more so than her.

The Six Eyes keep him from the slumber of mortals. Satoru is attentive, noticing the small differences of her breath from nightmare to a peaceful slumber. Genmei knew that he would know what to say to her at this moment. He would offer her what he needs. Peace of mind, even for a little while.

But Gojo Satoru’s not here to offer that peace.

Genmei lingers in the memories long gone.

It had taken her a while to compose herself, but she managed to do it. The memories of that summer drifted away into her mind, in lock and key. Once more, a new day begins. There would be no time for the new dawn for the dead already gone. That she knew too well.

The clock's resolute ticking marks the passage of the night, and at 4 o’clock, the room is cloaked in a profound darkness. Genmei, now awake, rises from the bed's vast expanse, exhaling frustration into the still air. The ticking clock, a relentless metronome, compels her to face the waking world. With a resigned sigh, she banishes the covers aside and, in the solemn hush, bathes the room in the artificial glow of light.

Too early for the world to stir, yet too late for her to return to the arms of Morpheus, she contemplates the solitude of her nocturnal sanctuary. The impending challenges of the day loom ahead—the elders' den awaits her, and she will navigate its depths once more. The promise of tomorrow, with Satoru's return, is the beacon that guides her through the predawn hours. She yawns, heading towards their shared bathroom, letting the water run from the faucet.

Facing herself in the mirror, the sorcerer could only sigh. The weariness of her face was obvious to anyone who would deem to see it. The redness of her eyes from the tears was just as familiar to her than anything else. She was glad that no one was around to see it. It would have been a different conversation, not one she’d like to have. Genmei let her hands touch the water, feeling the warmth and then the cold of the water’s pour.

The morning ought to start.

There was no sense to stay in bed.

She wouldn't fall back asleep anyway.

IT WASN’T UNTIL SHE WAS GOT TO THE KITCHEN WITH THE CAT THAT SHE HEARD MAIN DOOR OPEN. The sound of purring from the feline led her to crotch down and seek out the beloved white fur from the small bed in the living room. Touching his fur, he purred once more. That indicated to Genmei that he was once more in need of his precious water.

But as she held the bright white feline, she came into a stare down with her weary husband as he took off his outdoor shoes. The door barely shut behind him, Genmei heard the cat hiss at her husband. Blinking for a moment, Genmei was trying to be certain that she was seeing things for what they are. But as he lifted the lower portion of his eye coverings, Gojo Satoru grinned at her.

“Well, I didn’t expect this welcome party.”

Genmei patted the cat’s head, silencing the feline into satisfied mewls. “I thought you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.”

“I thought you had more faith in your husband than that!” Satoru sighed, feigning sorrow at her words. He put away his house shoes easily as he put away his outdoor ones. “You know I could deal with a ton of first–grade curses in a few minutes.”

His wife raised a brow. “So all this time, you just went sightseeing?”

Satoru stopped at his tracks, having been caught. “O–of course not! You know I had to do some wellness checks around the area, you know, to make sure there aren’t any curses I’ve missed.”

Genmei dissected that he already ate his sweets.

Gojo Satoru gulped.

For a moment, his wife’s eyes sharpened at his words which made him nervous. But Genmei merely relented in a sigh, letting the cat down as she headed towards the kitchen and towards the fridge, which she opened to find the water. A short yelp let out of her husband’s mouth but before she could turn around, Satoru smiled at her.

Genmei did not see their cat slowly walk away, with pomp and ceremony as Gojo Satoru’s exposed eye turned to glare at the cat for a mere moment. Satoru would never let his wife know how much he despised the cat. He knew how much she loved the damned spawn. He would bear with it for her sake.

“You okay?”

“I’m more than okay.” Satoru tells her as he leans towards her from the counter, placing a small kiss upon her cheek. “I’m home to you. What more could I ask for?”

“You and your words,” Genmei shook her head as she turned around and headed towards the feline, who rested on the small bed. Genmei concentrated as she poured just enough water. Their cat has had enough salmon before they both went to bed.

Too much water would just indulge him. He’s after all, on a diet plan. Closing the cap, she places the water bottle into the counter and wraps her arms around her husband. He removes his eye covering, his bright blue eyes greeting her. For a moment, they do not speak. There’s usually no need for words when they’re alone like this.

“You’re gonna get a headache.”

“I can bear with a little suffering.” Satoru whispers to her, leaning forward to peck the small of her jaw. “It’s nothing compared to when I’m looking at you.”

Genmei felt her cheeks fluster in a pretty scarlet. She shook her head. “I can always feel the way you look at me without the eye cover. I know what they look like, even when they’re covered.”

“That’s different.” He argues to her, his fingers tracing the edge of her porcelain face. As he traced her features like stars, his eyes followed. Almost as though memorizing each and every essence of her. “I like being able to see you. Just you. As much as I can with these eyes. Covering is a pain in the ass. It's too much trouble."

“You’re insufferable.” Genmei let out a small giggle, leaning forward against his shoulder. He leans against her too, just to smell the lavender he loved so much on her. Closing his eyes, he feels as though he is safe. He knows he is safe. As long as he is in her arms. “I take it you don’t want to sleep just yet?”

“Hm, how did you know?”

“Because I know you too well, oh insufferable one.”

He leans away, his face in a pout as his wife laughs. “One moment you’re sweet and one moment you’re sour. It makes too much of a whiplash for one man to take, you know?”

Genmei laughs. “But you like it, don’t you?”

He snickers, unable to deny it. “And what of it, darling?”

She shook her head, leaning towards him and pressing a kiss on his cheek. “Welcome home, my love. I missed you.”

“Missed you too.” He closed his eyes at the feeling of her lips against his flesh. “I missed all of you.”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Genmei retorted, looking at him. “We’re not doing it. We haven’t eaten anything.”

“But you taste better than the—”

“Finish that sentence and I’m withholding the privilege.” She crosses her arms as he groans.

“Darling, please. It’s been a couple of days. I need you so bad!”

She touts, taking leave of him and back into the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast for you and me. We have to eat first. After that, we’ll see if I’m in the mood for it.”

Gojo Satoru sighed, defeated as he relented as he moved towards the kitchen, following his wife.

Though, he was certain he could hear the cat take a break from drinking water to laugh at him.

He really hated that cat.

SATORU REMINDED GENMEI OF A CHILD AT TIMES. Sitting on their sofa, Gojo Genmei wondered how long this tantrum would last. Satoru wouldn't remove his arms from her waist for about an hour now as he watched an episode of Digimon Adventures. He didn’t speak, but rather focused on his moping. He didn’t even move as the cat moved on his wife’s lap.

As the cat yawned, Genmei let her hand pet the feline’s head as Satoru suddenly started to list reasons why she shouldn’t waste her time around the ‘nasty old farts’ in Kyoto. The top one being that he needed his ‘recharge’ of her after being apart for a few days. The last thing he wanted was to be alone in the house again without her giving him the warmth of her existence.

His bright blue eyes seemed to glow brighter as she detailed her plan to meet with Gakuganji. It was like a god silently judging her as she spoke of the path towards danger she planned to thread. Satoru has always been someone who had something to say.

It was quite a matter when he didn’t have much to say. Genmei had always been aware of Satoru's great distaste for the inner workings of clan politics. He has always been surrounded by it as a young man, with his father dying early and his status as clan head perpetually bestowed at the crown of his young toddler head.

The thought of a young Gojo Satoru sitting through the dull and whining of the higher ups as a boy, with that unimpressed look on his face crossed her mind. Just hearing the gossip about it by the clan ladies at tea time as a young girl in Zenin manor was enough for her then. Coupled with the years of suffering they had put him through, she can understand his preposition against them.

But even more so, the nature of the conversations around clan politics were never one for the idealists. The air of corruption was easy to spot, even more easy to consume those that touched it. People sided with those they knew peaked their chances to self – interest. It was something anyone would be wise to avoid.

Yet Genmei thought there truly was no certain choice. Mingling with that world, playing a game of flirtation, of hide and seek, was what it took to survive in this world. Everything was as fragile as glass. One step and it all shatters and breaks. Satoru may have convinced them to halt the execution for now. It’s not something that would last.

Just a word seducing them against her husband, the unexpected tide would rush in. It was the ugly truth. If Naoya bribes enough folks, if her grandfather whispers enough words. If the Kamo clan turns and smiles at the right people. Genmei knew that all can twist into disaster. Satoru was but one man, the very essence that could make the world bend to its knees.

Perhaps it was the paranoia, perhaps it was the worry.

But Gojo Genmei feared the day they would turn on him.

She would not let this happen, not on her watch.

His dream was her dream.

They cannot falter.

The sandy haired woman wishes her husband took this in stride. Okkutsu Yuuta had already proven himself, his actions alone last year had spoken for themselves. But Itadori Yuuji was not Yuuta. If Yuuta was the typhoon, Itadori was the tsunami. He had a whole magnitude of concerns that the elders cannot bypass. He was a vessel of Sukuna, the sorcerer that a thousand years ago had wrought their world into misery and suffering.

If he was reborn, if Yuuji could not control him — they fear the worst, they fear what they cannot control. Most of all, Genmei was truly certain that they feel more distaste at the thought that they do not have exclusivity over him. Itadori Yuuji would not feel anything for them, as much as the king of curses wouldn’t. No, he’d be loyal to her husband. And that was even more frightening to them.

Yet, the boy that Itadori Yuuji was not just the vessel of Sukuna. He was a young soul, someone who should not be dealing with the baggage of this world. The elders, the higher ups — they all forget themselves. Genmei could only wonder how many times they could repeat their mistakes.

How many times would they waste potential, to burden it with horrors rather than nurture? Memories flood back as easily as they happened, as though they were lived yesterday. So many voices ignored, so many voices silenced. She pursed her lips.

Genmei wondered what her father would have done if he was in her position.

She had asked that so many times before and still hadn’t found an answer.

How could he have survived the tides of this modern world?

Genmei could only release a soundless sigh.

She turned to Satoru, her lilac eyes reflecting resolve. "You know it as much as I do that they’d listen to me.”

“Listening is different than agreeing, darling.”

“There must be a balancing act. Even if it is a lie, we have to play nice.”

“The phrase ‘playing nice’ has nothing positive to correlate with the higher – ups.”

She cocked a brow. “Don’t you think I know that? But it’s worth a try. Just a precaution. He’s not like Yuuta. This is different.”

“I know it’s different,” Satoru retorted back to her, his lips looped in a frown. “That’s why I spoke in threats, not kindness.”

“Do you trust me?” She takes his face on her hands, forcing the cerulean beam to echo against her lilac gaze. “Do you?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I trust you.”

“Then let me deal with them, alright?” She whispers to him tenderly. “You had your games with them. Shouldn’t I have my own too? I thought you trusted me more than this.”

Satoru knew that this was for the best. Her words weighed heavily against the higher – ups. Even when he was injured then after what when he was young, it was her that fought against them to ensure he could rest. Genmei was from that world just like him and he can’t forget it. But she was bred to live that life, more than he was. They trusted Genmei. Or rather, considered her a part of the world they created. A life worth more than the ones beyond it.

If not her, then the blood of Zenin Naoki in her veins.

If not his blood, then the name that birthed her into the world.

A Zenin was more their world’s favorite than a Gojo.

Satoru's reluctance wasn't rooted in a lack of trust; rather, it stemmed from an overwhelming concern. The Gojo clan leader releases his wife from his touch. Her lilac eyes blinked in surprise for a moment. Satoru turned off the television. She watched as he stood up, his hands threading through his pockets.

His body moves into a small shrug. As he stood there, his mind raced with scenarios where danger lurked around every corner. It wasn't a matter of distrust but a manifestation of his deep-seated worry that threatened to drown him in a sea of panic.

The weight of responsibility settled heavily on his shoulders as Genmei prepared to face the elders in Kyoto. Every part of him, from the furrowed lines on his forehead to the subtle clenching of his fists, betrayed the inner turmoil. His eyes, usually bright with mischief, now reflected the storm of emotions brewing within.

It was the same feeling as back then. Back then when he stood in front of Suguru, back then when he knelt in front of him ten years later. There was that pit he could never escape. But he wished he could.

Satoru started to pace and soon enough, it became more pronounced. He released a restless energy that mirrored the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind. He was not one to shy away from challenges, but when it came to Genmei, the mere thought of her navigating the intricate dance of clan politics ignited a fire of concern.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you," Satoru muttered to himself, his voice a low rasp. His eyes flitted around the room as if searching for an answer that eluded him. "It's because I worry."

She smiles softly at him. “I know.”

"It's a normal husband thing, you know?"

She giggles. "I know."

The cat left her lap, yawning against the pillow.

Genmei stood up, rising to wrap her arms around him.

His body relaxes in being enveloped in her warmth.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow or the next day, I’m certain.”

“I’ll be going to Sendai with Yuuji.”

“I see.”

She tries to look at his face, but he refuses and leans the weight of his body more and more against her. She couldn’t help but smile further, her hand brushing against the undercut of his snow – like locks. He was once more a child, a child who cannot take part in the parting. Satoru’s never been good at that.

For all the time she had known him, he had always needed to feel the warmth of touch. To have somebody. Genmei could never deny him. How could she, when she loved him too much? Gojo Genmei knew this was a curse she can never exorcise. Her love for him was too much, too overwhelming. And she knows that he knows. He feels the degree of it all just as much.

“Will you have a day off when I come back?”

He sighs, “Who cares? I’ll not leave you alone when you come back.”

Genmei laughs. “You’ll be ignoring life then?”

“What are you talking about? You are my life, darling.”

Genmei felt warmer as she kissed his ear. “You’re too much.”

“So are you.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Hm, I do.”

By noon, she kissed him goodbye as Ichiji waited outside.

Gojo Satoru wanted to go after her and be with her.

But he knew too well that this was something she needed to do.

As the door closed behind her, Satoru's worry manifested in an absent-minded twist of his fingers through his hair. He was a man accustomed to action, yet at this moment, all he could do was wait. It was a form of torture for someone like him, who thrived on seizing control of situations.

He knew Genmei was capable, strong, and fiercely independent. But the worry, the irrational fear that clung to him, was a relentless adversary. He had always made her feel this way – a constant guardian, a vigilant protector. Even when he knew she could take care of herself, he couldn't help but imagine the worst-case scenarios, each more vivid and terrifying than the last.

In the quiet aftermath of her departure, Satoru's gaze lingered on the closed door. His jaw clenched, the palpable tension in the air a testament to the storm raging within him. With a sigh, he moved to a nearby window, his eyes fixated on the horizon as if searching for a sign that would alleviate the weight on his chest.

For now, Satoru found solace in the memories of their shared moments, in the love that bound them together. Yet, beneath it all, the worry persisted, an uninvited companion that refused to be silenced.

He turned to look at the cat.

For a moment, the feline stared back.

“I still hate you.”

It mewled back with the same gusto.

The feline, Gojonyan, hates him back.

Perhaps it was the paranoia, perhaps it was the worry.

But Gojo Genmei feared the day they would turn on him.

She would not let this happen, not on her watch.

His dream was her dream.

They cannot falter.

Genmei wondered what her father would have done if he was in her position.

She had asked that so many times before and still hadn’t found an answer.

How could he have survived the tides of this modern world?

Genmei could only release a soundless sigh.

She turned to Satoru, her lilac eyes reflecting resolve. "You know it as much as I do that they’d listen to me.”

“Listening is different than agreeing, darling.”

“There must be a balancing act. Even if it is a lie, we have to play nice.”

“The phrase ‘playing nice’ has nothing positive to correlate with the higher – ups.”

She cocked a brow. “Don’t you think I know that? But it’s worth a try. Just a precaution. He’s not like Yuuta. This is different.”

“I know it’s different,” Satoru retorted back to her, his lips looped in a frown. “That’s why I spoke in threats, not kindness.”

“Do you trust me?” She takes his face on her hands, forcing the cerulean beam to echo against her lilac gaze. “Do you?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I trust you.”

“Then let me deal with them, alright?” She whispers to him tenderly. “You had your games with them. Shouldn’t I have my own too? I thought you trusted me more than this.”

If not her, then the blood of Zenin Naoki in her veins.

If not his blood, then the name that birthed her into the world.

A Zenin was more their world’s favorite than a Gojo.

"It’s not that I don’t trust you," Satoru muttered to himself, his voice a low rasp. His eyes flitted around the room as if searching for an answer that eluded him. "It's because I worry."

She smiles softly at him. “I know.”

"It's a normal husband thing, you know?"

She giggles. "I know."

The cat left her lap, yawning against the pillow.

Genmei stood up, rising to wrap her arms around him.

His body relaxes in being enveloped in her warmth.

“I’ll be back by tomorrow or the next day, I’m certain.”

“I’ll be going to Sendai with Yuuji.”

“I see.”

“Will you have a day off when I come back?”

He sighs, “Who cares? I’ll not leave you alone when you come back.”

Genmei laughs. “You’ll be ignoring life then?”

“What are you talking about? You are my life, darling.”

Genmei felt warmer as she kissed his ear. “You’re too much.”

“So are you.”

“You love me anyway.”

“Hm, I do.”

By noon, she kissed him goodbye as Ichiji waited outside.

Gojo Satoru wanted to go after her and be with her.

But he knew too well that this was something she needed to do.

He turned to look at the cat.

For a moment, the feline stared back.

“I still hate you.”

It mewled back with the same gusto.

The feline, Gojonyan, hates him back.

IT WAS MUCH MORE WELCOMING TO SEE FAMILIAR FACES. As she held the hem of her kimono to avoid tripping, she found herself smiling as she got off the train. The weariness of the hectic day started to fade away as she made her way towards them.

Standing in front of them, the two men allowed themselves into a humble bow in front of her. She fondly sighed, shaking her head. They hadn’t changed, even after all this time. There was no doubt in her mind that they had been here for a while, waiting for her train to arrive.

“Bowing to me like this after all this time,” Genmei says as she crosses her arms together. A tsk sound lets out of her. She waves her hand. “It’s as if we aren’t family.”

“It’s inappropriate to not give you respect.” The smooth tone of the elder of the two, Mikoto Akihiko, echoes. He smiles at her as he positions his body at ease. The glistening of the Mikoto badge, the two herons in flight, was bright on his chest. “You are our liege after all.”

Mikoto Nobuhiko lifts his head, his red haori following gracefully in his movement. His own badge shined in bright beautiful silver, with ruby gems. “Aki–niisama is right. It’s inappropriate to act as though you aren’t our beloved elder.”

Genmei’s lips turned into a tight smile. “Are you calling me old, Nobu?”

Nobuhiko’s bright eyes turned mischievous, but his smile remained serene. “Of course not, Genmei–sama. But seeing as I am younger, shouldn’t I respect you properly? After all, Genmei–sama is four years older—”

Before Nobuhiko knew it, Gojo Genmei started to wrap her fingers against both his cheeks as much as she could. Her smile still remained tight as she squeezed his cheeks, pulling through it as though she was seeing a child for the first time. Nobuhiko started to groan against her, squealing.

“Ah, look at my young baby Nobu! His cheeks are so chubby and cute, what a cute baby boy!”

“Aki–niisama, help me!”

“But Genmei–sama seemed to have missed you, Nobuhiko.”

“I did miss him, Aki–kun! He’s still such a baby. He’s such a cutie, isn’t he, Aki–kun? He’s my cute little kouhai!”

Akihiko chuckled, watching the playful exchange between Genmei and Nobuhiko. “Indeed, Genmei–sama. But Nobu will lose his energy if you play with him too much.”

“I’m already losing it right now!”

Genmei released her grip on Nobuhiko’s cheeks, letting him catch his breath. “I’ll play with you later, Nobu.”

“Please don’t.” Nobuhiko sighed, already weary. “Genmei–sama, I don’t think I’ll last if you do that.”

“But I missed my kouhai!”

“I don’t miss being pinched on my cheeks, Genmei–sama!”

Akihiko, always the calm and collected elder, interjected with a knowing smile. "Well, Genmei–sama, now that you're back, we must discuss the matters at hand. There's much to catch up on."

Genmei nodded, the playful glint in her eyes transitioning into a more serious demeanor. "Of course, Aki–kun. I'm eager to hear about the current state of affairs. Much more on the conversations about Itadori Yuuji.”

“Most of the Mikoto elders seem to be in agreement with the rest of them,” Nobuhiko informs her as they start to depart from the station. “Knowing the clan’s history with Sukuna, they would do anything to ensure his reawakening would not happen.”

The lilac eyed woman nodded. “That’s to be expected. For a thousand years, one of the clan’s will to survive is to ensure Sukuna remains gone.”

“The others do not agree.” Akihiko continues for the younger man, his green eyes gleaming narrowly. “They see the boy first rather than the king of curses.”

“Who’s included in that?”

“Your aunt and your mother.” Akihiko retorts in reply, a small smile on his lips. Genmei returned his smile. “It’s keeping everyone on their toes for now. None of our elders have voted.”

“Hm, Satoru spoke about the Zenin and Kamo votes.”

Nobuhiko snorts, his hands diving through his silver locks. “It’s always those two.”

Genmei reciprocates in kind. “Of course, they have the same mind.”

“The Gojo vote is the most important.”

Akihiko nodded. “The Inumaki vote followed the Gojo vote.”

“Considering its regarding the king of curses, the vote of the Mikoto would sway everyone else.”

The Zenin born lady smiles. “I need to get Gakuganji to back out. He has the most sway out of the head elders.”

“I doubt he’d say no to you.” Nobuhiko grinned. “Master Naoki was his favorite student, wasn’t he?”

Akihiko nodded, smiling in kind. “Some things are thicker than one’s greed, after all.”

Gojo Genmei looks up in the sky.

She wonders if her father is up there.

She lets out a small huff of air.

“Let’s get going.”

GOJO GENMEI REMEMBERS TOO FONDLY WHAT IT WAS LIKE TO BE A STUDENT IN KYOTO HIGH. As she walked through the torii gates with Akihiko and Nobuhiko, the past came alive in her mind. Laughter echoed like a familiar lullaby, boots thumped through the steps like an endless heartbeat.

The warm layers of flesh against flesh as they rested on each other’s bodies and embraced. The cherry blossoms danced in the breeze, their delicate petals creating a picturesque scene around Kyoto Jujutsu High. It has been a long time.

Genmei walked through the familiar grounds, her lilac eyes taking in the sights that stirred old ghosts to haunt her once more. The echoes of her own footsteps resonated with the ticklish whispers of Kaiko’s teasing tone. The wind’s blows resounded through the place, the chimes going through one after another.

For a moment, Genmei wondered if those names carved on those wooden pools still stood. Like she always was, Gojo Genmei is a prisoner of the past, and yearned to breathe the air seemed to carry the weight of stories only she could tell. She was the only one alive out of the three of them after all.

As she approached the towering gates adorned with the Kyoto Jujutsu High’s mighty symbols, Genmei couldn't help but recall her own years as a student within these hallowed walls. Nothing has changed. It was as if the building was still an homage to the past, still stuck in time and unchanging.

The scent of incense and the distant hum of students practicing their cursed weapons and their techniques brought her back to a time when life was simpler, and the future held limitless possibilities. Youth often gave those promises. It’s the same promise she carries in hope, for these kids. That youth this time around fulfilled its promises.

The training grounds, where she had honed her skills and formed bonds that transcended the battlefield, were now filled with a new generation of students. The wooden dummies, scarred with countless strikes, stood as silent witnesses to the countless hours she and her friends had spent perfecting their techniques.

The thought of those summer days came to mind effortlessly — laughter echoing through the corridors, late-night study sessions, and the thrill of facing curses side by side. Genmei's fingers traced over the ancient trees before her, their branches reaching towards the sky like guardians of the past. For a moment she wondered if such touch from her to this ancient observer could reach them. If for a moment, Genmei could speak to them again.

The weight of loss pressed on her heart, a somber melody playing in the background of her reminiscence. Genmei knew Akihiko and Nobuhiko were looking at her with concern from behind her. Each visit was a torture, that they knew. One of the willful reasons that

Genmei had resolved to send Nobuhiko to Tokyo High instead was to ensure she wouldn’t walk these halls as often as she had to alone. Just to avoid the memories that were so fresh, so easily opened wounds that refused to heal. That was out of her own selfishness, she knew. Not that Nobuhiko would mind. He told her as much. He’s satisfied with his own story.

She halted for a moment, her lips pursed in a flat line as she spotted the solitary bench in the corner. The bench was perfect during sunny days. It firmly stood beneath the shade of the tree, its gnarled branches reaching out like the hands of old friends. Namie often played with her creatures here. Genmei couldn't resist the pull of old days, and she found herself touching the frames of its wooden body.

Kaiko, with her infectious laughter and unruly hair, always grinning as she readied herself to balance off the bench. Namie, innocent and brightly smiling, pouting as she couldn’t get beyond the number ten when she balanced off the bench.

And her, Genmei, telling them off with her failure to keep her straight face as she laughed when Kaiko and Namie would get into a row. Genmei closed her eyes, allowing the cool breeze to carry her back to the days when three loud echoes of laughter graced through these halls. Beaming so brightly like three stars in the sky.

“I’m sorry if we’re taking too long.” Genmei smiled, turning to her companions. “It’s just….Nostalgia.”

“Don’t apologize, Genmei–sama.” Akihiko shook his head, a small smile on his face. “We were young at one point.”

Nobuhiko crossed his arms, his face full of unreadable emotions.

Genmei was certain he was remembering his own youth too.

Thinking a lot about that doe eyed boy who never got to grow up.

BY THE TIME THEY GOT THERE, GENMEI WAS CERTAIN THEY HAD MADE GAKUGANJI WAIT ANYWAY. Genmei's strides and steps echoed through the hallowed halls, her lilac eyes focused ahead. It was already late when they got around to the main building, where the offices of the school were located. Akihiko suggested the flow of things, Nobuhiko walking behind him and saying things here and there.

But for a while, she was sure she drowned them out, almost being dragged by her own spirits and not her wits. Perhaps it was the overwhelming emotions, she was confronted by the past she wanted to run away from and bury. By this point, she would have expected the voice in her head to laugh at her. As gods mostly do. But she supposed that gods too have lives to live.

Before she realized it, Genmei stood firmly in front of the massive doors that barred the gap between her and that world she wishes to forget. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ancient corridors of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

The meeting with Gakuganji, the Kyoto principal, was long overdue, and the tension in the air was palpable. Much more so since their last conversation last year had ended in a stalemate. Yet by this point, Genmei was certain the waters had cooled and been forgotten. In his eyes, forgiven. After all, the past was the past. It ought to be over.

Entering the grand chamber where the principal often held discussions of great import, Gojo Genmei found Gakuganji seated behind a large, ornate desk. The room itself exuded an air of ancient authority, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting the lineage of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

The scent of aged wood and lingering incense hung in the air, creating an atmosphere steeped in tradition and gravity. Akihiko and Nobuhiko bowed their heads at the direction of the principal, quietly backing away to the doors and shutting them.

Gakuganji's presence was commanding, it always was something that frightened Namie when they were young. The old man’s figure was framed by the high-backed chair that seemed to possess its own history.

The desk before him, intricately carved with symbols of the Jujutsu world's intricate hierarchy, held an array of scrolls and artifacts, each a testament to the weight of decisions made within these sacred walls. Genmei could see it clearly, the words of a long forgotten script bearing the name of Ryomen Sukuna. At one point, she saw her ancestor's name in one of the scrolls. But that failed to read everything before Gakuganji took her attention off the scroll.

As Genmei approached, the soft glow of paper lanterns illuminated the chamber, casting shadows that danced across the tatami mat floor. Gakuganji's gaze, sharp and discerning, met hers with an intensity that hinted at the countless negotiations and confrontations this room had witnessed.

The air was heavy with the weight of tradition and the echoes of past decisions. One would find it easy to be intimidated if they do not endure this often. The walls after all watch as much as they speak. Each semblance of this place reverberates with the unspoken power of the elders and their chosen favorites.

One would find it easy to be intimidated if they do not endure this often. The walls after all watch as much as they speak. Each semblance of this place reverberates with the unspoken power of the elders and their chosen favorites.

Gakuganji Yoshinobu acknowledged her entrance with a slight nod, his eyes locking onto hers. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, met Genmei's with an equal intensity. He shifted his hand toward Genmei’s companions, who raised their heads from their bow. The room felt charged with the clash of two formidable forces.

"Gojo Genmei," Gakuganji greeted, his voice a low rumble that echoed through the chamber. "It's been a while since someone of the Gojo name set foot in these halls.”

“You never used to address me like that before, Gakuganji–sensei.”

“I’m merely addressing you as your title implores.”

Genmei slyly grinned. “That sounds snobbish even for you, Gakuganji–sensei. I thought I was your favorite.”

The old man snickers. “It is at this point debatable.”

“How heartbreaking!”

“What brings you to Kyoto?"

Genmei beams at him. “You already know what I’m here for.”

“And that is?”

"I'm here to discuss the matter of Itadori Yuuji's execution.” The sandy haired lady exclaims back to the elder. “I trust you are aware of the situation. Given that you've been urging others to vote in favor of it."

Gakuganji's lips curled into a knowing smile. "Ah, the vessel of Sukuna. A delicate matter, indeed.”

“Indeed it is.” Genmei nodded nonchalantly. “But I’ve an even more pressing matter.”

“And that is?” His brow is cocked.

“Tightening the rescindment until further notice.”

He lets an amused breath of air. “Your husband had gotten the execution rescinded for now, hasn’t he?”

“You and I both know the elders shift like the weather does.” Genmei gave a small laugh at his words. “Why else would I be here, Gakuganji–sensei?”

“I do not have the power to—”

“That’s a bold lie and we both know it.”

“The matter is decided."

“But yours isn’t casted yet, isn’t it?” Genmei reminds him, her eyes narrowing at him sharply. “The matter isn't truly decided until you or the Mikoto clan say something."

“You’re observant.”

Her smile tightens as much as her jaw does. “Of course. My blood is Mikoto. I would notice."

“And you mean to use me to get what you want?”

“You promised.” Genmei reiterated to him.

The Kyoto principal leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled together. "Genmei Gojo, you may be a respected figure in the Jujutsu world, but you cannot dictate the decisions of the elders in Kyoto."

Genmei's lilac eyes narrowed, a subtle shift in her demeanor. "I am not here to dictate like my husband. But I don't hold my tongue very well."

"One must know restraint too, child."

"And one must know the value of their words. Is yours so cheap that you forget your place? Or are you just another oathbreaker? Are you not my ally?”

A tense silence hung in the air, broken only by the subtle creaking of the ancient wooden floors beneath them. Genmei's words,though veiled in curtesy, carried the weight of a storm gathering on the horizon.

Gakuganji's gaze remained unwavering. "Do not mistake my fondness for abuse or unchecked power, Genmei."

She gritted her teeth. "You do a good job of that without me interfering."

"Still, the decision regarding Itadori Yuuji will be made by the elders based on what they believe is best for the Jujutsu world. You know that better than anyone else.”

“Oh, I know.”

Akihiko’s eyes started to widen.

Nobuhiko started to smile.

At that moment, Gojo Genmei stood.

Gakuganji Yoshinobu’s eyes bulged out.

"After all, you've made me do worse because the elders said so."

The alarms all over Kyoto High started to ring out simultaneously as Gojo Genmei’s body released cursed energy in loud, bright waves. The abruptness of the alarms shattered the ambient stillness, their urgency cutting through the air like a blade.

Genmei's silhouette was outlined by the pulsating glow of her unleashed cursed energy, casting an otherworldly aura around her. The vivid hues of white and cerulean blue danced in harmony, an unbridled display of power that resonated through the ancient walls of Kyoto Jujutsu High.

Cracks started to take apart the windows, wood started to splinter against itself as the sheer force of Gojo Genmei's energy reverberated through the very foundations of the venerable institution. The large expanse of the office, once serene, now bore witness to the tumultuous manifestation of a power beyond comprehension.

The very fabric of Kyoto Jujutsu High seemed to quiver under the strain. The ancient walls, witnesses to centuries of Jujutsu sorcery, now bore the scars of Gojo Genmei's unleashed power.

Genmei leaned forward, her hands firmly placed on the desk, narrowing the distance between them. "I've come here to warn you, Gakuganji. I am trying to play nice with you. But if you keep pushing my hand, it will be a different story. You’ve proclaimed yourself to be my ally. If you wish to be my ally and fulfill your promises, follow my will. Act like it.”

The principal's gaze, unwavering, met Genmei's. His dark orbs against her lilac haze. The clash of wills continued, but now it was accompanied by the destruction of the room, a manifestation of the stakes involved in the decisions being made. In a flick of a finger, all the power disappeared instantaneously as Gojo Genmei managed to calm herself.

“You’ve become too comfortable as that brat’s wife, child.”

“And you’ve become comfortable being forgetful, old man.”

Gakuganji snickers. “You’ll regret this decision.”

“I do not think I will.”

The old man started to laugh. “We will see about that, child.”

As Genmei turned to leave, the remnants of the grand chamber bore witness to the aftermath of her unleashed power. The air, thick with the scent of destruction and charged with residual energy, seemed to settle. The alarms, having served as heralds of the tumultuous events, now echoed in the lingering silence.

The sandy haired sorcerer walked through the corridors, the echoes of her footsteps resonating with the hushed whispers of the ancient walls. The faculty across the building who had retreated in the wake of her power, watched in awe and trepidation as she passed by. Nobuhiko started to laugh out loud about Gakuganji’s face as Akihiko tried to get him to calm down.

The sun, casting its final golden rays over Kyoto Jujutsu High, illuminated Genmei's determined expression. The branches on the ancient tree, though shaken by the tumult, swayed in a final salute to the departing sorcerer. As she stepped into the fading daylight, the courtyard held the traces of the intense encounter. The shattered windows, the splintered wood, and the remnants of the alarms all spoke of a clash of wills that had left an indelible mark on the venerable institution.

Genmei, undeterred by the lingering chaos, walked towards the gates of Kyoto Jujutsu High. The weight of her decisions hung heavy, but the lilac-eyed sorcerer carried it with the grace of one who had faced adversity before. The courtyard, now bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, became a stage for the next act in the unfolding drama. The alarms, having fulfilled their duty, faded into the background, leaving Kyoto Jujutsu High in a contemplative stillness.

As Genmei stepped beyond the gates, the leaves fell and whispered their silent farewell, and the ancient walls bore witness to the shifting tides of power within the Jujutsu world. The struggle for Itadori's life continued, and the repercussions of Genmei's actions would reverberate through the corridors of tradition and rebellion.

“Where to next?” Akihiko turned to ask.

Nobuhiko yawned. “We should go. I’m quite hungry.”

“Mikoto–mori.”

Nobuhiko looked at her. “To do what, Genmei–sama?”

Genmei smiled. “To play with the Mikoto elders, of course."

facts about this chapter

genmei was born on january 10th, 1976, year of the tiger. this makes her three years older than satoru and four years older than nobuhiko.

two herons are the clan crest of the mikoto, and members of the mikoto clan wear a badge to signify where they're from. red from the line of the original ryomen clan bloodline and purple for the line of the original mikoto bloodline.

not all members of the mikoto clan are blood related. the mikoto clan prefer adoption, akihiko and nobuhiko are both product of adoption. they are part of the family which is why genmei considers them bowing to her unnecessary.

as stated by nanami in what a wonderful world, genmei has adopted gojo's personality and perspectives over the years. its what annoys gakuganji and the higher ups as genmei was prior to this, was very obedient to them.

genmei adopted gojonyan many years ago and did so because the cat reminded her of satoru. however, gojonyan hates satoru a lot. he's however very friendly with megumi.

genmei has great hatred for the higher ups as much as satoru. being a zenin by birth, she has some pull with them. however, she can reveal her true colors when her emotions get too much. especially if they put the students at risk.

genmei was very close to suguru and satoru, both being her juniors. she formed a great attachment to suguru and has just as much nightmares as she does with namie and kaiko, who were her kyoto classmates.

21 notes · View notes