#it's about the endless cycle where no matter what he does it's never enough but he's not allowed to escape either | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sinningforrory · 1 year

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stupid // stan uris smut

a/n: hey everyone! it's been so long since i've posted and a lot of people have been sending me requests but since my first and only fic i've uploaded on here has gained 1,000 notes i thought i'd gift you guys this fic as a thank you. i'm gonna try and upload a lot more now because i appreciate so much the love my writing gets fr thank you guys so much. hope you enjoy and as always, reblogging really helps me out so if u enjoy, pls don't hesitate!

WARNINGS: dom!stan, submissive!bratty!reader, slight choking, mention of drugs (if you squint) SMUT, majorly NSFW minors please dni, thank you!

WORD COUNT: OVER 6K

SUMMARY: Your parents best friends' son. The picture perfect grade A student of the perfect suburban family. And a cocky douchebag. You hated him. But, since you both got into the same college, Stan has been making it clear that he definitely does not hate you...

Stanley. Even his name irked you. I mean, who in their right mind births a beautiful baby boy and names him Stanley. What a stupid name. It fits him though, that’s for sure. Stupid Stan with his stupid family and his stupid friends and his stupid studying. He was just so stupid that you wanted to bash his brains in any time he so much as breathed around your presence.

Of course, he hadn’t necessarily done anything to warrant your intense hatred towards him. He just irritated you. You were Jewish too so you’d always see each other at the Synagogue and your parents were enamoured by Stan’s stupidness. They saw it as ‘perfection’ instead though. They were always bothering you about how you should ‘aim to be more like Stan’ or ‘Stan’s parents told me he got an A in this class. So why are you getting a D?’ He drove you insane. You weren’t Stan, you weren’t stupid like Stan so why couldn’t your parents just love you for you instead of comparing you to that stupid, stupid boy.

Due to your parents being very good friends with Stan’s family, you saw each other a lot more than you’d like. And every time you were there you took every opportunity to be nasty to Stan just to wear off some steam. But that made it even worse. It wouldn’t matter if he was a dick to you too. But no. He’s NICE to you. And you know he’s doing it on purpose to get on your nerves because every time he compliments your hair and sees you glaring knives into his eyes, he does a subtle smirk to himself as if he’s fucking won this silly little game you play. He knows he’s driving you insane and he’s proud of himself for it. What a fucking douche.

It had always been this way. Stan irritates you, you’re a bitch to Stan, Stan eats it up, Stan irritates you, blah, blah, blah. It was an endless cycle of hate.

However, something had flipped in Stan the summer before you both left for college. Luckily enough, you’d both managed to get into the exact same ivy league as each other so you would be stuck with Stan for the next four years. When you found out you immediately wanted to bash your head into a wall repeatedly until you woke up from this absolute nightmare that was Stanley Uris.

The news that you had both gotten into an ivy league warranted a celebratory party for the both of you. The idea from your lovely mother, of course, and at said party, Stan was acting a lot stranger than normal. So strange to the point where you were currently hiding in the bathroom with your back against the door breathing heavily as if he was chasing after you and about to knock the door down with an axe.

It started in the garden. You wore a white summer dress with tiny yellow flowers scattered among it. Stan was looking very punchable in cream khakis and a navy polo. Unbuttoned, of course, because he could never look TOO tidy. You stood by the refreshments, sipping a virgin pina colada when Stan strutted his way over with a teasing grin on his face, ready to ruin your relaxed mood.

‘So, I guess we’re going to college together. It seems you really can’t escape me, can you, y/n?’ He leaned against the table next to you, taking a sip from his beer. You glared up at him, already infuriated by the fact that he was leaning down with you stood up straight next to him and he was still taller than you.

‘Oh please, Stanley, don’t pretend to be so happy about this when we both know you are just as excited about this as me.’

He gasped in mock surprise before laughing softly at the frown on your face, ‘Oh, come on, princess, you know you love me. I guarantee that you would miss this adorable face as soon as you knew you couldn’t see me anymore.’

He smiled at you gently before moving his sunglasses up to rest on his curls and taking a sip of beer.

You moved to stand in front of him, making a move to leave the refreshments and flee to your room (or anywhere away from Stan). ‘Bite me, Uris.’

‘If you insist, princess.’ He smirked at you and folded his arms over his chest, his muscles straining under his polo.

Your eyes widened slightly, shock evident on your face at his words. He had always been overly saccharine with you but he had never flirted with you so boldly. Shaking yourself out of your daze, you scoffed before walking off with your pina colada into your kitchen for some snacks.

5 minutes later, you were still stood in front of your fridge, supposedly searching for food but instead, you found yourself staring off into space. You could not scratch that smug image of Stan out of your brain, his words engraving themselves into your memory, messing with your mind.

Worst of all, you found yourself repeatedly wondering why you liked what he had said to you. Pulling yourself together, you closed the fridge door but immediately jumped as you saw Stan standing right where the fridge door had been resting.

‘You look a little lost, princess, is everything okay?’ He was stood so close to you that your chests were half an inch away from touching. You gazed into his eyes for half a second before realising what you were doing and coughed before putting some distance between the two of you.

‘Uh-uhm, I’m fine thank you, Stanley. Just couldn’t find what I was craving.’

He nodded his head understandingly before taking a step forward so you were nearly chest to chest once again. ‘What exactly are you craving, y/n?’

He hadn’t meant to sound so enticing, or maybe he had, but the way he said that with his gravelly voice and his tiny smirk made your thighs involuntarily clench together.

‘E-erm, just some guacamole dip. My mom always hides it from me though because she knows I’ll eat it all before the other guests can have any.’ You fiddled with the hem of your dress, avoiding eye contact with the boy in front of you. What had gotten into you, why was he making your confidence dissipate so easily and why were you suddenly acting like a nervous school-girl?

Stan’s eyebrows furrowed before an evil look took over his features. He was planning something, you could tell. And you didn’t like it.

‘Oh, you mean.. this guacamole? The one on top of the fridge? That I can reach? But you can’t?’

Your eyes trailed along his veiny, muscular forearm before they met his slender, mocking hand where you found it gesturing towards... of course: the dip.

Frustration filled you head to toe as you realised that Stan, once again, had the upper hand. Your jaw ticked as your eyes finally met Stan’s cocky, patronising eyes and you had to resist the urge to make those smug, brown orbs black and blue.

‘It seems that you have something you need to ask me, darling. Because, let’s face it, we’re not gonna have a stare-off all day in front of this fridge. So, let’s hear it: “Oh, please, Stanley. I need you to get me that dip off the top of the fridge because I was born with incompetent height and I can’t do it without you, Stanley.”’

You crossed your arms over your chest as you listened, painfully, to Stan mock you with such arrogance you found it hard to resist whacking him with a frying pan. However, to Stan’s surprise, before he had the chance to continue making fun of you, there was no one standing in front of him anymore.

Where had you gone? he thought. That’s unlike you, to admit defeat so easily. Where was your usual snarky bite back, attacking him on his ‘unusually long legs’?

But before he could get too worried, there you were. Returning into the kitchen to fight back to Stan.... with a chair.

Wordless and emotionless, you put the chair down in front of the fridge, stood on its seat and grabbed the dip, finally retreating from the kitchen, not before throwing Stan a victorious wink before you disappeared around the corner.

Truth be told, you had no idea how to respond to Stan’s unusual behaviour so instead of arguing back like you would normally do, your mind blanked of insults completely and you did the next best thing that you could think of: beat him at his own game.

It was obvious that something about Stan had changed since the last time you had spoken and Stan seemed to think he was one step ahead of you. What stupid Stan didn’t know was that you were nowhere near as Stupid as him and knew that the only way to irritate him like you used to was to give him a taste of his own medicine.

Sure, you weren’t exactly completely against the idea of flirting with Stan for fun. He was obviously a good-looking guy; you knew because he would never let you forget it. And you would never pass up the opportunity to get a hot guy flustered.

This was how Stan wanted to play? Fine. He’d better prepare to lose.

It had been two weeks since this little game you and Stan were playing had begun and you couldn’t hold out much longer. The tension between the two of you had sky-rocketed and even the slightest twitch of a smirk in the corner of Stan’s mouth had your panties pooling with desire.

You had an inkling that Stan was in the same boat as you were as your lingering caresses on his arm or leg when laughing with him and his family seemed to make him blush much easier than before.

The point of why you were doing all of this was still vaguely swimming around in the back of your mind: do not be the first to give into your temptations. Don’t sleep with Stan.

However, with Stan so perfectly positioned behind you so your butt met his bulge as he leaned over your petite frame to reach for a glass, you had to take deep breaths to remind yourself once again: don’t sleep with Stan.

You gulped and took a deep breath of relief once he removed himself from his position behind you to lean on the counter next to you. His gaze burned into the side of your face and you met his eyes briefly just to find him with a cocky smirk plastered on him.

Your blood boiled (with rage or desire, you didn’t know) but you looked away without giving even the slightest of a reaction. You could never let him know how much his actions affected you.

It was that dreaded time of the week when you go over to the Uris family’s house for dinner and after eating a delicious meal cooked by Mrs Uris you did the routine of standing in the kitchen and drinking an iced tea with Stan whilst the adults got drunk in the living room.

Usually, you and Stan would bicker pointlessly during this time of the evening, but tonight it was completely silent between the two of you with only lingering gazes and glares thrown from one to the other. The tension could be cut with a butter knife.

However, your torment was put on pause as, suddenly, Mrs Uris appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Hello sweeties,’ she hiccoughed slightly, clearly tipsy. ‘I know that the kitchen is very beautiful but you are welcome to go up to Stan’s room if you want. Stan certainly won’t mind a beautiful girl like you to be up in his room, y/n.’ She winked as you blushed and Stan coughed out an embarrassed ‘Mom!’.

She then made her departure, giggling to herself softly as she went. Stan then coughed to get your attention and gestured with a jerk of his head to the direction of his room, indirectly asking if you wanted to take up his mother on her offer. You shrugged before making your way up the stairs to Stan’s room.

Stan’s room. What a place to behold. You hadn’t been up there since you were about 12 and had to work with Stan on a class project. It had changed a lot since then. Posters of bands that Stan listened to were plastered all over the walls and clothes were scattered all over the floor, and let’s not forget to mention the faint aroma of marijuana.

Stan manoeuvred you out of the doorway, his fingers gracing your waist ever so slightly with his bulge pressed against your lower back as he shimmied past you.

He jumped on his bed, his arms and legs in a starfish position on either side of him, and closed his eyes with a big sigh.

You carefully sat yourself down next to him on the bed, feeling too hesitant to lie yourself down next to him. He leaned up against the bed frame with his hands behind his head as he studied your appearance precariously as ever.

‘Why do you hate me?’.

The question took you by surprise. It was so out of the blue and even more so out of character for Stan to be so straight-forward. You blinked delicately before shrugging your shoulders at him.

‘Do you want the honest answer or the answer that you want to hear from me?’ You pressed, speaking so quiet that it was almost a whisper.

He glanced swiftly over you for a second before responding, ‘Honest.’

It wasn’t like you weren’t expecting Stan to want that answer but the fact that you had to admit it to yourself now, let alone to Stan, was enough to make you faint from nerves.

You looked away from Stan and fiddled with your fingers as you spoke in hushed tones. ‘I envy you. You have better grades, better looks, better charisma, better music taste, better style... a better life. You are better than me in every way. And I despise you for it.’

A masked look of shock ghosted over Stan’s face before it was replaced once again with a stony expression. He sat up straight so that your knees were touching and he placed a hand on the centre of your thigh.

You looked up at him and connected with his gorgeous hazel eyes. He ran his tongue quickly over his lips before his eyes locked onto yours. ‘Now, we both know that’s not true.’

It was as if your body was moving with a mind of its own. Slowly, you were leaning in towards Stan as if you were magnetised to him and to be too far would hurt you in unimaginable ways. ‘How do you mean?’ You breathily responded, your heart pulsing rapidly.

He was so close to you now that you felt his breath against your lips. ‘Because I envy you ten times more.’ And with that closing sentence you felt his lips crash immediately into yours.

All the tension from the last few days swarmed around you both like a storm of arousal and need. His kiss was passionate and rough as he pressed his lips into yours with so much want but his hand on your leg was gentle and sweet as he caressed your inner thigh gently with his thumb.

The constant nagging of your brain screaming at you ‘Don’t sleep with Stan’ was shoved into the back of your mind falling to deaf ears as Stan moved his hand ever so slightly higher up your leg, falling to play with the hem of your dress as he detached his lips from yours to suck on your collarbone with the obvious attempt of planting a hickey.

Stan skillfully moved you both up to the headboard so that he could deepen the passion of your kiss and you quickly maneuvered yourself so that you were now straddling his lap.

His growing erection pressed into your centre as he trailed his smooth hands down to the flesh of your hips, his lips dragging down your jaw to find solace in the crook of your neck.

You felt like you were on fire, Stan’s touch was magnetic and no matter how you’d been trying to resist him, it was impossible. You were addicted to how he made you feel.

Neediness began to bubble through your tummy and you could tell Stan was feeling the same way as his hands were digging into your hips harder than before. Then, his hands began to carefully drag your hips across his hardness, slowly at first.

You could feel every bump of his length through his thin sweatpants and your hands moved down his toned body to fiddle with the hem of his t-shirt.

His hands began to move faster, dragging your thin panties over his hard, clothed dick. He detatched his lips from your neck when you began to let out tiny, little moans of pleasure, thankful for the little bits of stimulation Stan was feeding you.

His eyes trailed down your body, admiring every single bump and curve: the strap of your dress falling off your shoulder, your soaking panties rubbing against him as his hands moulded perfectly with the fat of your hips. They then fell on your face, growing darker at the sight of your furrowed eyebrows, messy hair and plump, red lips from you biting down too hard on them.

Likewise, you were admiring Stan, his sharp jawline clenching and unclenching every time you dragged yourself over his most sensitive spots, his hair uncharacteristically messy from your hands tugging on his curls. He noticed your movements speeding up and he flashed you a dangerous grin; a grin that would make even the biggest prude on the planet drop her panties to her knees.

Acknowledging your shaky hands still fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, he slowed the movement of your hips with his strong hands and dragged you painfully slow now, refusing to let you continue with the rapid pace you’d set before.

“You want this off, baby?” referring to his t-shirt. You nodded shyly, hands still fiddling with the hem.

“Want me to take it off for you? Are you too dumb to do it yourself?” He stared up at you with a patronising look on his face. You groaned annoyedly, but deep down your cunt throbbed with anticipation.

“Just take it off Stan, don’t be a dick.” You glared down at him but your glare immediately switched to a look of shock as Stan’s hands had stopped your hips moving completely now, denying you any release that you were desperately craving.

Narrowing his eyes playfully, he tutted at your lack of control. “Now, that’s no way to ask for what we want is it, sweetheart?” The corner of his lips tugged up satisfactorily as he took in your menacing glare, but also your glossed over eyes indicating your desperation for his cock.

‘Oh, how cute,’ Stan thought pityingly. ‘The poor, little slut’s already gone dumb and I haven’t even fucked her yet.’

You breathed through your nostrils fiercely before succumbing to the begging of your aching clit and gave Stan your best doe eyes before tugging pathetically at the hem of Stan’s crumpled shirt. ‘Please take it off Stan, I’ll do anything, please..’ You pressed down on his length for extra measure just to make sure he would give you what you needed.

A low hum of appreciation mixed with a strangled groan of pleasure escaped Stan’s throat and he mulled it over for a few seconds with that irritating smirk plastered on his face before nodding, clearly satisfied with your begging before he lifted his slender fingers to his collar and removed his shirt - finally.

You took a moment to appreciate the art that was Stanley Uris' abs and sighed contentedly. It seemed your hands had a mind of their own as you wasted no time in rubbing your hands up and down his beautiful torso, gliding over the valleys and hills of his defined muscles.

"Enjoying yourself there, princess?" Stan chimed, clearly cocky that you'd spent about 30 seconds just groping him absentmindedly.

Tearing your eyes away, you glanced up at Stanley's face, adorned with a shit-eating smirk, one of his hands resting behind his head, the other still gripping the fat of your hip, rubbing gentle circles into your flesh.

Slightly embarrassed but, nevertheless, growing quite needy now, you rolled your eyes.

Eyes narrowing at the evil spawn, you thought 'The ego of this man is absolutely atrocious. How dare he try and make fun of me for admiring his physique when if I decided to strip naked right now, his reaction would probably beat mine.'

And then it clicked.

Focusing back on Stanley's disgustingly smug face, you did something you'd never done for Stanley Uris in your entire life.

You gave him a real genuine smile.

The apples of your cheeks beamed down at him and your eyes sparkled lovingly at the boy who was now slightly confused and, albeit, a little bit scared.

Slowly, you leaned down over Stan so your breath tickled his nose and your lips brushed gently against his, just in time to see his cheeks tinge red and his eyes flutter closed, like a naïve teenage girl who was experiencing her first kiss.

Aw, how cute.

Finally, you pressed your lips to Stanley's, so softly Stan thought he might've been kissing a cloud, and just left them there, in a gentle peck, before sitting up again to admire the look of bliss on Stan's face.

His eyes were fluttering open again and his breathing was shallow but fast.

This was the real face of Stan; he had finally taken off his mask for you.

He was so pretty, obviously you knew that already, but you couldn't get lost in his beauty again or your plan wouldn't work.

Then, when he dazedly smiled up at you and made to pull your head down so he could kiss you again, you teasingly began to lift up the hem of your dress until it had been lifted over your head and discarded somewhere on Stan's bedroom floor.

There you sat, on Stanley's clothed, throbbing cock, in just your white silk panties, the little bow just oh so enticing, and your bare, perky breasts on display for Stanley's greedy eyes.

His lips parted ever so slightly as he not-so-discreetly took in a sharp intake of breath. His eyes roamed hungrily over your exposed chest, and you knew you had him when his needy little hands reached up to thumb your erect nipples.

Arrogantly, you smirked down at him, your sweet, loving smile erased. However, Stan failed to notice, too enamoured by your naked body, like a toddler in a candy store.

"Aw, you're like a needy, little puppy, aren't you Stanny?" Your heart beat fast as you finally dropped the sentence you'd been waiting to release since Stan's cocky demeanour had surfaced.

Stan froze as he realised what you had done and his jaw clenched automatically, clearly embarrassed that he had let you entice him just how he had you not even a few minutes ago.

Narrowed eyes were glaring into yours and your confident façade faltered slightly as you realised how deep in shit you were now.

He was gonna ruin you.

However, Stan didn't flip you over dominantly so he was on top of you, or rip your panties off in anger like you had expected him to.

Gradually, he eased himself up his headboard so his back was resting comfortably against it and so the two of you were eye-level, 'innocent' doe-eyes levelled with furious, narrowed eyes.

His hands gently gripped you hips and moved you a little further up his chest, so he could remove his sweatpants, so slow and so patient you were so confused.

He looked deadly, that's for sure. But you'd expected him to be rough with you, teach you a lesson for being so naughty. All in all, other than being clearly vexed, he was treating you like you were a china doll.

As soon as his sweatpants and boxers were discarded, he moved you back to your old spot on his lap and carefully caressed your hips, his thumbs hooking under the straps of your thong and pulling at the sides, fiddling with them gently while intently drilling into your eyes with his own.

"You wanna be in control, huh, sweetheart?" He muttered so quiet you could barely hear but so full of malice your heart immediately sped up.

You had no idea what to say. No, you didn't wanna be in control. You wanted Stan to bend and contort you into any position he wanted, you wanted him to fuck your cunt until you couldn't even form a coherent word, you wanted him to paint the canvas of your body purple, pink and black, in the form of hickeys, bruises and mascara stains.

And you knew he knew that.

You knew by the look on his face, the restraint in his jaw, the rage in his eyes that he definitely did not want that either.

So why was he doing this?

Just as your brows started to furrow in confusion, Stan's thumb had started to rub harsh but deliberate circles over your clothed clit and you let out a gasp.

He tilted his head to the side slightly, furrowing his brows in faux confusion. "Is that... not what you want, baby? You see, I'm just a needy little puppy, right?" He spat at you, evidently fuming but clearly enjoying seeing you in such a state.

You shook your head and dropped your it onto Stan's shoulder, moaning softly as he used one hand to hook your panties to the side while the other found your soaking wet hole and gently inserted two very long fingers.

But, immediately he removed them.

Your head shot up in irritation but you relaxed and hummed contentedly as you realised that Stan was finally lining himself up with your entrance.

You lifted yourself up slightly to make room for his 'oh my god that's scarily big why am i only just noticing this' cock, fluttered your eyelashes closed, and waited for the stretch of him pushing up into you... but it never came.

The first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was Stan's eyes, still level with yours, looking bored and his hands, once again, behind his head, biceps flexed and causing a big distraction for you.

He looked at you pointedly, but, realising you still didn't get it, rolled his eyes and motioned for you to sit on his cock.

At this point, you would've jumped off a cliff if Stan asked you to if it meant he would grant you some form of release, so you carefully began to lower yourself down onto his tree-trunk of a dick, the stretch of it stinging slightly but the depth of it stimulating you in all the right ways.

You let out a guttural moan as you sat on the base, his cock bottomed out inside of you. You gripped Stan's toned shoulders with force and wiggled about slightly, trying to adjust to this new, amazing feeling and, as you wiggled, you noticed a slight tremor in his mask as his jaw clenched and his eyebrows briefly furrowed in pleasure.

But, as quickly as it faltered, it reappeared and Stan's stoic, unimpressed gaze fell on you once again.

"Well?" He rasped, as if what he wanted was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're in control, right, babe? I'm not moving a muscle."

You knew immediately that he was not kidding, so you bottled up the impatience you had for this stupid, stubborn man and put your game face on.

You could get off without help from Stan, of course you could. You didn't need his touch when you could do a perfectly good job with your hips and your hands.

'Fine.' You thought, glaring at Stan with pure hatred in your eyes. 'Suit yourself.'

So you began to move up and down on Stanley's cock, feeling every vein and twitch as you dragged your walls all over his length, coating it in your slick.

You gripped Stan's flexed biceps, his arms unmoving from behind his head as his eyes flickered between watching your face slowly morph into a dreamy, fucked-out expression, soft, pretty moans escaping from your parted lips every time the tip of his cock would prod at your g-spot, and watching your glistening, stretched out cunt swallow up his length, each time producing more and more slick so every time you slammed back down on his base, you could hear a squelching noise.

The only sign Stan was giving away of him holding any emotion was the twitch of his jaw and brow growing more frequent as the speed of your bounces grew quicker and harsher.

Soon, your bounces grew erratic as you craved your release, the only noises in his room being your desperate whimpers of pleasure, the sound of your wetness, and skin slapping on skin, along with the occasional grunt of approval from Stan.

However, you started to grow tired and out of breath as it had been nearly 5 minutes of you bouncing up and down on Stan's length, with no help from him and your determination to beat Stan at his own game was overwhelmed by your desperation to cum, and you knew you had to admit defeat because you were never gonna cum if you carried on like this.

Reluctantly, you sank down onto Stan and stilled with him deep inside you as you breathed heavily and whimpered with the desperation to cum deep in your tummy, your clit throbbing, begging for release.

Stan's furrowed face quickly changed to that of faux sympathy as he moved his hands to rest on your waist, rubbing gentle circles into the skin. "Oh baby, are you tired? Do you need my help?" He asked, patronising you just a little bit further by stretching out 'need' just to annoy you.

You had no time to be annoyed, however, because you could feel your release creeping just that little bit further away from the loss of stimulation, so you nodded your head frantically, practically begging Stanley to help you with your pathetic little doe eyes, glossy and desperate.

"Please, Stanny, please I need it, I need you, just please make me cum." You whined, your lips ghosting his ear, and gently kissing his cheek just for good measure.

That was all Stan needed to hear as he grabbed your neck, squeezing gently as he brought your face back to his and kissed you harshly, bruising your lips with his teeth as he dragged your lip with him, pulling away, and then releasing it.

"See, that wasn't so hard was it!" He smiled gently at you, pecking your plump, red lips and squeezing your neck in approval, before he moved his hands back to your waist, his grip turning nasty and he lifted you up right to his tip, then plunging his hips upwards into yours.

You choked on your moan from the sheer force of his thrust but soon gained your voice back as he continued his rough, rapid thrusting up into your eager pussy, practically dripping, begging for a long overdue orgasm.

You collapsed your tired aching body on top of Stan, your head buried in his neck, muffling your high-pitched moans from the ears of your drunk parents downstairs.

Stan moved his hands down to your ass and gripped the flesh harshly and his thrusts were slamming repeatedly into a spot that made you clench fiercely down on him and shriek with overwhelming pleasure.

Stan groaned into your ear as you continually clenched around him, whispering filthy praises into your ear making your legs tremble and your stomach flip as your impending orgasm was getting closer and closer.

"Can you hear yourself, princess? Can you hear the noises your pretty pussy is making?" The squelching of your wetness was embarrassing to say the least and you could feel Stan smirking without even having to look at him.

As he kept hitting that same spot, you could feel yourself so close to the edge as your legs trembled and your moans grew louder and higher.

"I'm gonna- I'm gonna come, Stanny." You managed to babble out through your whimpers as you felt that overwhelming rush of pleasure build up deep inside you.

Stan lifted your head up and grabbed it with both of his hands whilst still thrusting repeatedly in and out of your sopping cunt, forcing you to look into his eyes.

He had a look of pure concentration adorning his face, brows furrowed, jaw clenched and hair messy, letting out little breathy moans of his own every now and then.

"That's it princess, I wanna see that pretty face when you come all over my cock." And the coil snapped.

You let out a scream of pleasure as your entire body jolted, your orgasm washing over you, your toes clenching and your pussy spasming around Stan's length.

You collapsed onto Stan once again, letting out tiny moans, clearly exhausted from the intensity of the orgasm Stanley had given you, and the spasming of your cunt had clearly not been lost on him as his relentless thrusting had begun to grow sloppy.

Stan was moaning quite loudly in your ear now, a death-grip on your ass cheeks as he fucked up into you, chasing his own high.

You knew he needed a little push so you sat up slightly so you could whisper in his ear breathy and raspy like someone who was recovering from one of the best orgasms they'd ever had in their life, "I want you to come inside me."

The words that make every man orgasm on the spot did not lose their effect on Stan as he let out a loud groan of ecstasy and his thrusts slowed until they came to a stop, clearly having done what you asked.

He dropped his forehead to yours and grabbed your hands, fiddling with them as you both caught your breath.

Holy shit.

You didn't know what to do as you both just lay there gathering your thoughts, attempting to comprehend what just happened.

However, you knew you couldn't stay in this post-orgasmic bubble forever so you gently lifted yourself off of Stan's softening dick and got up to look for your dress.

You were halted, however by a hand closing around your wrist.

Turning around, Stan was lazily grinning up at you with a look of victory on his face as he was dragging you to lie back down on the bed with him and you couldn't help but smile back at him, full of a mysterious feeling for the boy who was just so beautiful.

How could you say no?

Climbing back into bed with him, you both turned to face each other, him still grinning at you, and you studying each and every freckle and blemish on his skin, realising that you loved each and every one of them.

You loved them.

Oh my god.

You loved Stan.

Suddenly, you burst out laughing and Stan jumped slightly before a grin erupted back onto his face as he asked what was so funny.

You managed to get through your laughter, barely, the words that you never thought you'd say in your life. "I- I'm in love - with - with you." Before you immediately started giggling again uncontrollably.

Stan joined in on your laughter, his shoulders moving up and down from the force of his laughs as he breathed out "I'm in love with you too."

You both laid there giggling uncontrollably like a pair of middle schoolers, laughing at your own stupidity.

Once the laughter died down you smiled up at Stan and nuzzled yourself into his chest, planting a few soft kisses there as he pulled you in closer and buried his nose into your hair.

You were drawing shapes on his arms, daydreaming in the comfortable silence when you heard Stan mutter into your hair something inaudible.

You sat up gently looking at him quizzically for a second until you noticed the look of pure adoration on his face that was directed to you before he said gravelly and clearly exhausted, "I hate you so much." before he buries his face into your neck and peppered you with kisses.

You giggled and whispered, "I love you too, stupid."

#it fandom #it fanfiction #stanley uris #stanley uris smut #stanley uris x reader #stan uris #stan uris smut #stan uris x reader #it smut #stan it #stan uris it #stanley uris it

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plagueoffools · 8 months

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toxic mentally unstable nikolai with a fem reader that just has enough of him? angst to fluff? or maybe no fluff? your choice!!

"INSANITY IS THE MENTALITY! SO DENY SANITY TO UNEARTH THE RAW VITALITY."

(REQUESTED) TOXIC! NIKOLAI GOGOL/ GN! READER

BUNGOU STRAY DOGS

[ slight ANGST/ FLUFF ] 1.3k WORDS

⸺A/N // I figured since Nikolai is already quite literally unhinged I would just write what I depict of the normal Nikolai but with a twinge of toxicity. I'm not quite fond of my sloppy writing but motivation is kicking my ass. //

⸺TW // Google translated Ukrainian, correct me if there's any mistakes you spot. //

⸺INFO // Reader is implied as FEM regarding request but never stated. //

You're not sure how it had come to this, you're not sure how you had expected it to not come to this.

Either way, you want it all to end. All the worrisome days where he does not answer nor visit you and when he does he's quick to brush off your questions regarding his abrupt disappearance. It's an endless cycle that you've found yourself caged in, no matter which key you prod the key lock with, it'll never open for you to leave.

You've realized for the past few days that you're a sitting duck in a cage, willingly waiting for a man who will not wait for you.

You're not sure how it all even started, you recall blurry memories that you used to reminisce with so much vibrance and brightness; have now dulled. You're able to reminisce back when it was all much simpler, where he bombarded you with teasing remarks and when you humoured him. Humoured him, all because you'd thought to stimulate his need for an audience.

However, you're no longer amongst the audience. You're now propped and dressed for a role you've never wanted to be casted for.

He had to admit it to, he never thought his jocular advances would go anywhere-

- but the seed he has planted; like a flower, flourishes quickly. Standing tall and vibrant. All he wants to do however is to so desperately starve it of its sun, thirst it of its water. He attempts to bring himself to cut it down, his heart prevails, rebels against him.

Won over by his ever so fleeting but dreadful emotions nonetheless, he flees cowardly. Confrontation was never his thing anyways, he'd rather just run until the sun sets and he's no longer plagued with the heat of it all. He figures that if he cannot bring himself to destroy what leashes him to the ground he will run until the leash merely snaps. But who knew the same leash he was running from would lead him straight back to you.

After a heavy day with a heavy heart, you return back to croak your problems to your pillow. Burying your face so deep you've wished that was all it took for it to asphyxiate you but you tweaked the position of your head to allow yourself to breathe properly .

You feel cowardly, sulking about a clownish man that made you feel like the clown. Retreating back to the warmth of your bed hoping it would dissipate your thoughts; turning and turning you search for a position to get comfortable in. Your slumber is prolonged due to your restless behaviour, your body aching and seeking for the warmth of the man that not even your bed can replicate.

You groan before pulling the blanket over your head. 'This is something future me can worry about .' you sigh out before shutting your eyes and hoping to find peace by listening to the rhythmic thump of your heart instead of the blaring silence your room offers.

⸻click!

Your eyes groggily shoot open at the sound, your breathing stills as you register the sound . You lay still for a second, figuring if you should continue your slumber or investigate the sound. Your body only runs cold when you notice the breezy wind ghosting over your skin. You're absolutely one hundred percent sure that you did not leave your window open . You hastily shut your eyes as you focus on picking up a sound but when you do you restrain yourself from not letting out a blood curling scream when you hear soft thuds of footsteps growing in proximity towards you.

You're frozen, you internally cry for your body to move, scream for it to do anything, to get away. Your breath subconsciously picks up when you feel the weight of your bed dip just right beside you.

A hand fit with a tight glove presumably leather from what you can feel off of the texture. It gracefully dances across your face, sliding across your skin as If they're testing their boundaries. You start to internally scream when the perturbator leans close, you're aware because you can feel the heat off of their skin right agaisnt you.

-and it is one you undeniably recognize, the heat your body soughts out for.

You hear an amused chuckle before slowly translating to a full heinous laugh,

"You're so cute when you pretend to be asleep."

Your breath hitches, it's him. You're about to jump from your rigid position and tackle him after not hearing from him for so long but your conflicted emotions stops you, restrains you. You're still upset and justifiably angry at his disappearance, you only huff before turning your back to him.

He dramatically gasps, him and his theatrics. "My dove has forsaken me! " - ironic. "My, what will I ever do to regain my doves affection?".

You roll your eyes, "Isn't that what you're trying to abolish? Why run back to something you wish to rid from your life fool." you hissed back at him.

He diverts the topic at hand to something else, hoping to distract himself from facing another dilemma. Just this once, I'll embrace the cage you've trapped me in.

Chirping out he leans closer to you, "Kolya wants a hug, don't you think he deserves one?" he only further whines when you push him away. Pouting childishly as if you've just denied a child ice cream.

Grabbing you at your wrist, halting your pushy motions as he sets it aside and clumsily maneuvers to your side. With a soft thump he lays beside you facing you with an annoyingly mirthful smile, with those stupid big doe eyes he tries to reel you in with.

"I've missed you dovey, do you miss me?" he flicks your nose when you take too long to respond. Groaning you send a short lived glare before muttering out a 'no' and returning to the comfort of darkness behind your eyelids.

"Are ya sure?" you hear him whisper amusingly right next to your ear, he was close, so close to the point you could feel the vibration of every syllable he uttered.

That's just him you suppose, pushing people's limits to see how far he can venture. Your train of thought is halted when a thin sheet of an object falls on top of your arm that was resting outside the safety of your blanket, confused you opened your eye.

The first you noticed was that Nikolai was no longer present, not in your sight atleast. For a man who was so daringly close to you just a few moments ago, he sure knows how to be as far as possible as well. The second were the sharp edges of hundreds of Polaroid photos that are piling at the center of your bed, some you've noticed have already fallen off of your blanket to the floor.

Your hand curiously reaches out and takes a closer look at one polaroid you managed to pick out, your breath hitches as you recognize the figure of the person in the picture. It's you. Snuggling cozily in your bed just the day before this. You'd know because you wore a new set of pajamas that had just arrived on your doorstep just the day before. Your eyes wander more and you noticed a scribbled out date at the back with a number, #689. Six hundred eighty-nine? You gape at the number.

Your hands scramble and you sweep up a couple of polaroid photos in your hand, #520, #638, #459, #381.

Each and every one includes you both outside and inside of the comfort of your house, each and every polaroid coming with their own personalized doodles and notes scribbled from front to back. Hearts being doodled on your sleeping figure, messy scribbled of notes in cursive and some you recognize in his native language, Ukrainian. Scribbled either outside of the border of the picture or behind the polaroid. Never across, you figured he didn't wanna block the actual picture with his writings.

Your hand curiously ventures out to take one more, it's a common occurrence of most of the mass amounts of polaroid photos to include you doing mundane tasks such as this ; watering the flowers you keep near your living room balcony. You flip to look at the back, it seems this one is one of the older ones ; you noted.

22/7/2006

#143

"𝙄𝙛 𝙞𝙩 𝙞𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙘𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙤𝙣𝙚𝙨, 𝙄'𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙪𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙬𝙝𝙤𝙢 𝙄 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙧𝙤𝙬 𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙮𝙤𝙪."

"мій голуб полетить, і якщо його зупинять, я пожертвую власними крилами."

#nikolai gogol x reader #nikolai gogol #bsd nikolai gogol #bsd nikolai gogol x reader #bungou stray dogs #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd #bsd x reader

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maenjiro · 9 months

Text

cookiE and cream 𖦹 headcanons

ft. wakasa x afab!reader

synop + cw: wakasa and his oral fixation aka pussy drunk wakasa is the best wakasa. oral (reader receiving) and everything that may come with that

a/n: hmu if this is any good

old news but this man has THE oral fixation

so he dives in, he takes without asking. anywhere, anytime no matter what.

the gym, mostly the changing rooms otherwise he knows his friend would give him shit for it also he really is trying to be more mindful of other people but again, he has no shame when he's hungry

his house, your house, any place you can have some alone time

he makes you wet with all the shit he’s saying about eating you out

might not even be something extremely dirty but he’s so straight forward he can make you pretty flustered.

gets all frantic when he needs his mouth on you but you're wasting time talking

might pin you against the wall and just get on his knees

lift one of your legs on his shoulder to have more access, closes his eyes and the first moan he lets out is pure bliss

your legs shaking will never be enough for him to stop

or on the bed when he's on top of you, this bitch would lower his head down to kiss you and stop abruptly smirking “whoops, wrong lips”

next thing you know he has your legs on his shoulder and is worshipping your cunt

the rare times he's not in a frenzy to have his tongue make circular motion between your folds he will spread them with his fingers and smile at the sight

low breathy moan against your pussy

moves his tongue like he's starving, he is pussy drunk and he shows it

makes sure his tongue is keeping you all wet and hot

he's messy yet very precise, he knows where to lick and how much pressure will make you see stars

also will prod at your hole with his thumb and keep teasing you around your entrance with feathery touch that will make you clench around nothing (the bastard will smirk against you)

soo i bet he has some tooth rotting nicknames for you and i swear i know he would non ironically call you oreo... and you would tell him to stop calling you that

and he looks at you almost offended “not when i have your legs spread open for me and i’m about to lick your cr-” either you cover your face with the pillow or push his head against your core

endless cycle of him sucking on your clit and poking it with his tongue

overstimulates you and he doesn't even do that on purpose he just loses tracks of time (will make you cum at least three times i'm sorry but i don't make the rules, he does)

you can't even pull away cause his grip on your legs is tight, holding onto your thighs for dear life not to spiral

i wouldn't be surprised if he ended up falling asleep between your thighs

#the oreo thing is canon i know because he calls me that all the time 😔👌#wakasa smut #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo rev x reader #wakasa x reader #tokyo rev smut #𓏲 𓂃 ✒️ ❛ writing ༉‧₊#writing:// tokrev #feat:// wakasa #lil rant in the tags none will ever see bc anxiety came to visit so yea i feel SO NOT enough for this i wanna cry but wtv #i really feel like an outsider and feel like this is not my place either i rlly don't know why i can't feel welcome anywhere #i just want be at least perceived and have people i can share my interests with and love for characters #but it does always feel left out and like there's no room for me at all – i rlly care about this but idk how to do it

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soleilnomoon · 1 year

Text

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･titled — “lady(bug) killer.”

9k words (shh i know i know), fem reader, nsfw, 18+ mdni; angst city, there’s fluff somewhere somehow i think, smut obviously; shanks is a bully and an ass but that’s why we love him, reader has no self-preservation (when has she ever lbr); feat. cute stuff like making out, alcohol, some smoking, oral (f receiving), biting, reader being shameless; shanks is mean when he’s jealous and reader is equally as ridiculous, also benn beckman, yasopp, and lucky roux make a tiny cameo. anyway this was 1000% self-indulgent, but idc.

this is for @strawhatsoraya, and even though it’s *calculates* 7? months late ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡ lmaooo i finished bb, a labor of love for u because i’m absurd and u enable me. don’t blame me for nothin, i did what i could!!! (if u see typos/grammatical errors no u didn’t.)

DELUSION X IS X INEVITABLE

the seas are not, and never have been, kind — nor are they patient. weakness is rarely tolerated, so to combat that, to give yourself some semblance of strength, you tell yourself stories in the hopes of extracting a bit of courage. there’s one in particular that you like to tell yourself when things get to be a little too much.

it’s about the impossible love between the sun and the moon — the two seemingly trapped in an endless cycle of cat and mouse, chasing one another across the skies for eternity.

golden-hued, dazzling, brilliant; a deity above all others with a kingdom as expansive as its reach — grand and all encompassing. the sun is a powerful, overwhelming force of nature, able to disrupt the earth as he sees fit, his heat infiltrating any crevice it can find with each new day. the stars serve as reluctant guides, leaving behind crumbs for the sun to follow. they’re much too quick, twinkle out of sight, and the moon is nowhere to be seen. she’s a shadow, a mirage, an entity that’s completely out of the sun’s reach no matter what he does.

the moon, in contrast, is serene when in rest, shimmering proudly in the dark sky — illuminating the seas for wayward sailors, dreams, and the like. calm, the epitome of grace, yet unyielding; forever dictating the tides as she sees fit. there’s a sharpness to her beauty; it’s cold and unapproachable — a single rare flower that blooms nightly in the sky, her spores a sweet poison that serves to ensnare unsuspecting stargazers, adding yet another devoted follower to her massive collection. a hopeless romantic deep down, admiring the blazing trail that the sun leaves behind. fear forces the moon to hesitate, never to embrace the sun’s brilliance and warmth.

despite being the biggest star hanging in the sky, the sun remains out of the moon’s reach; and despite priding herself on her uncanny ability to pluck the truth from anyone, she conveniently evades revealing her own dark truths.

the ocean is a reluctant playground, her mirror of truth; if the moon looks hard enough, she can see the golden light from the sun touching the water. if she hangs back, then maybe she might be able to grab onto some of that warmth. she’s always so cold. it’s evident in how she approaches life. her rage is frigid, hidden, forbidden from ever coming out; a stated beauty from afar, breathtaking and life changing up close.

everyone is too afraid to approach her; no one wants to risk her wrath — except the sun.

where the sun chases away his own shadows, the moon welcomes them. there’s poetry in the dance they do; a ballet in several parts — steps light and well-rehearsed, as the stars play a sweet, melancholic melody. it’s indescribable; a work of art fit to inspire the masses.

ascending along the expansive sky, the sun begins his rhythmic march, reveling in the sparkling remnants of light that moon has left behind. it’s always been said that the sun lusts after the moon, but it’s not quite as simple as that. the moon leads the dance — measured, practiced, perfect; while the sun clumsily follows along, sure-footed, and honest. a never-ending cycle of what ifs and maybes; a love affair that is in a deadly, hypnotic loop.

yours is a story about love, about life, and about losing bits of yourself in someone else.

shanks has always been fond of the sun, of its power, its size, and its impact on life; he’s always reached his arms out every morning, soaking up as much of the warmth and heat as he can, forever rejuvenated by its light. you have always favored the moon — its eerie silence, the way life seems to hold its breath for it, how you can gaze at it without consequence.

both of you are fueled by the whims of their love — the former a frenetic storm, hounding islands and ships, dangerous when provoked; the latter a frozen lake, one step and the ice cracks on the shallow surface, pulling bright-eyed victims deep under, freezing them from head to toe.

in stories of antiquity, the two never truly meet, but somehow in this story, you and shanks experience what may be considered the most difficult sort of love to bear. potentially ill-fated and destined to fail, you delude yourself into thinking that you can have the entirety of his heart and not suffer any consequences. there’s no greater love than the one you desperately want to attain and can’t; it’s an addicting cycle that neither of you want to break.

PASSION X NOT X PAIN

from your father you learn obstinance; it’s carefully woven into your daily routines, each stitch tighter than the last, the thread unbelievably strong even as it’s pulled taut underneath your skin. by the time it reaches your bones, you’re already well into adulthood, fragility and naivety carelessly discarded, the remains intentionally desiccated, crumbling underneath your feet as you navigate through life. a never-ending labyrinth of torment and desire, a hunger for the unknown gnawing continuously in the pit of your stomach.

from your mother you learn humility; a tradition, she tells you, but adds as an afterthought: an eternal obligation. it sits on your shoulders, weighing you down, making you question every decision and thought. you never say what you truly mean, never ask for the things you want; resentment lines the crevices of your teeth, dictating your tone and choice of words. your tongue a maestro, pushing out each phrase with purpose; every word pinpricks your skin — a dull, cumbersome pain chipping away at your sanity.

you become obsessed with spontaneity, rejecting routines, and deviating from the norm. they can never keep you indoors long enough; you’re usually climbing something, running somewhere — enticed by the possibility of adventure. you leave your hometown to travel across the grand line, staying on various islands for months at a time — to learn about regional dishes and cultivate your skills.

your heart, unfortunately, has always been a flighty thing — falling in and out of love, leading you down a treacherous path, one that leaves a deep scar you can’t seem to heal no matter what you do. still, you fortify yourself any way you can; it’s not permanent, but it does the job somewhat effectively.

like clockwork, you find yourself in the middle of a busy street, perusing the market. you look over a round, shiny apple before buying a few to take home. unbeknownst to you, your day will quickly derail, bringing about impossibly rash decisions on your part.

as usual, it takes forever to dock the ship; he doesn’t even bother yelling t the new recruits, because he’s trying to ignore the hangover that’s kicking his ass right now. yasopp is cackling off to his right, tears flowing freely as he recants drunken tales from last night. he’d love to join his friend in all that revelry, but there’s a pounding in his head that won’t quite go away.

shanks downs another cool glass of water before loudly announcing that they need to find provisions before heading to their next destination.

the island isn’t hard to navigate, so they wander until they reach the lively town. it’s when you’re fussing with a vendor over the outrageous price for a small bottle of seasoning, that shanks notices you for the first time. as someone who takes pride in swallowing a great deal of pain without complaint, he’s finding it very difficult to not rub his chest — to somehow calm down that foolish heart of his.

it’s doing things it’s never done before; beating much too loudly, making his thoughts scatter around — it’s bothersome and he doubts he has time to deal with it. he almost voices that very sentiment out loud, but is distracted by your smile, which makes him take another step forward. then you’re laughing, another ordeal for him to suffer through — your voice melodic and hypnotizing.

shanks rubs his eyes repeatedly, blinking away any residual fatigue; surely it’s the fault of the bourbon they drank, because he must be dreaming. it wouldn’t be the first time he’s mistaken a dream for reality, although this strangely feels real to him. he’s not sure if it’s the shape of your jaw, or the roundness of your cheeks, but there’s something wholly familiar about you. he frowns at that, brings his hand to his chest to rub the ache away. it’s beckman who catches up with him first, dark eyes landing on shanks for a moment before following his line of sight.

throat dry, head a little fuzzy, shanks asks, “do you see her?”

the question is absurd, but he has to know; and even though it takes a moment, beckman finally answers him. “yes,” he says, voice low but certain, “she’s real, captain.”

he has no need to shop for vegetables, but winds up at the same stall as you. if he wasn’t so damn obvious, you probably wouldn’t have said anything — except, he’s crowding your space a little too much; but when you turn to tell him off, you hesitate. there’s no reason for him to be that tall, no reason for his ruggedness to add to his overall attractiveness — enough to incite irritation, that makes your face burn and siphons all your logic. his voice is doubly offensive — deep, husky, and gravelly, touching parts of you that you don’t want to think about.

what starts as a friendly conversation — of him asking about local cuisine, of you giving him recommendations on dishes to try — somehow morphs into shanks teasing you as if he’s known you for much longer than ten minutes. you’re not normally this social, preferring to keep to your own so that you won’t be bothered by people in general. the townspeople are more than friendly, and a little too overwhelming to be around; yet you don’t mind talking to him and find that it’s nearly impossible to pull yourself away.

fear — of vulnerability and intimacy — threads itself around your fingers, makes your hands shake as you hold onto your bags.

eventually, you give in and grace him with your name. he says it a few times, mostly to himself and you dislike the way you stand there, listening to him — caught in a thick net, completely unaware that the fortress you’ve built over the years has completely fallen apart. a terrifying feat, you think; one that makes you want to run until your legs give out. intrigued by your stubbornness and insatiable curiosity, shanks decides to stay on the island a little longer. his crew doesn’t mind, they like the break. yasopp tries to pry for more information, but shanks simply says he wants to relax for a bit.

it doesn’t take long for them to chisel away at your reluctance, a friendship that buds and transforms quickly. against your better judgment, you grow fond of them — with their rowdiness and frank manner of speech, with their crude jokes and ability to turn any gathering into a large party. adventurers and treasure fiends, a group with monstrous strength, not the sort of people your parents would’ve expected you to hang around.

and maybe that’s why you hardly resist their charm — or, his charm, you should say. because that’s what it really is, much to your disapproval.

you offer to cook for them one night, and after the first bite shanks asks you to join his crew. your initial refusal is met with a frown on his part; he insists that you join them — one can never have too many chefs on board, and lucky roux has already taken a liking to you. still, you refuse; and when shanks asks you the following morning, you refuse again.

there’s no real reason why you keep saying no. it’s mostly because you like seeing how frustrated he gets, where he huffs about it all damn day, claiming you’ve broken his heart for the fiftieth time that week. the best part is how his crew mates make fun of him for being rejected by you again.

he takes it all in stride, though — laughing along with everyone else, ordering another round of drinks. as wary as the townspeople were by shanks’ presence initially, they’ve come to appreciate his generous patronage. it’s not often that pirates settle in a specific area for longer than a few days, but shanks is determined not to leave without you. he’s not exactly sure why he feels compelled to take you along, and while a few of his crew mates have some sound theories as to why that is, he ignores them completely.

it's beckman who manages to convince you after eating a third lemon square; he’s impressed by your talent for creating delicate and delicious pastries, even more so by the fact that shanks to enjoy eating them more than he should.

“he doesn’t really care for sweets,” beckman says carefully, sipping his tea slowly, enjoying the warmth wafting from the hot drink.

you know better than to ask, but the question rolls off your tongue anyway. “who doesn’t?” you feign ignorance, fuss with a stray curl, tugging and playing with it while he eyes you critically.

the vice-captain reminds you that you can only travel so far along the grand line alone; and he’s right, you came to terms with that a while ago. it’s an opportunity for adventure, and a chance to hone your skills.

“fine,” you say, while crossing your arms, leaning forward on your chair. “how much?” not that you really care about the money, but they’re pirates — notorious ones, at that — you won’t risk your life sailing with them if the reward isn’t worth it.

a small smile works its way onto his lips as he motions for you to scoot closer. you oblige without hesitation but end up hopping out of your seat when he whispers the amount in your ear.

“that’s a lot of fucking money.” you almost don’t believe it, but beckman isn’t the childish sort, nor does he lie for the sake of lying. you swallow hard and don’t bother acting coy. “when do we leave?” it’s not exactly the sort of job you’d place on a resume, but you can’t say you aren’t excited to traverse across the ocean.

shanks offers more gold than necessary, but you’re not one to complain, nor do you care about bleeding a pirate dry of his stolen treasure. he decides to spend one final night on the island, so naturally his crew throws a large feast in celebration. you doubt you’ll ever get tired of their impromptu parties, or the raucous way they laugh and sing, voices carrying out into the sleepy streets. the energy is addictive and hard to escape; you soak it all up, allow it to loosen your bones. you laugh and drink with the others but keep your distance from a certain red-haired captain. you’re not sure how to be around him, especially now that you’ve accepted his invitation after fighting him for so long about it.

it’s completely by chance that you spot shanks near the bonfire; you think you’re being subtle when you watch him from afar, admiring the way his throat bobs when he tilts his head back to down a full glass of liquor. the fire emits a deep glow, one that extracts a memory from the back of your mind — oranges and yellows draping over him, an enigma that will always remain out of your reach no matter how hard you try.

the truth of it sits on your tongue — raw and distressing — so you down a shot of whiskey and maneuver through the crowd of people to find a place to sit and rest.

yassop and lucky roux tease shanks mercilessly throughout the day, so much that he ends up smoking more than he means to. a light haze clouds his rationality, and he mumbles under his breath, which only makes them laugh louder, pointing out his plight for all to hear. no matter how much he denies it, or how much he tells them that they’re full of shit, the story remains the same: boss has fallen in love. it’s annoying, to say the least. just because he feels calmer whenever you’re around, and just because his heart continues to beat louder — heavy, relentless, and unsettling — doesn’t mean that he’s fallen in love with you.

if anything, it means he needs to get off this damn island quickly. “it’s probably something in the water,” he tells himself. no need to stay long enough to carry it with him elsewhere.

a few hours later, nearly everyone is passed out, either from drinking or eating or both — and shanks, unfortunately, can’t seem to sleep. neither can you. he finds you walking alone on the beach, sandals in hand, humming something soft and familiar. before he can even make his presence known, you look over at him and a smile tugs on your lips. you’re not sure what compels you, but the sight of him standing there, watching you like you’re some sight to behold — and if anyone asked him at that exact moment, he would say that yes, you are — invites a small warmth to circle around your chest. an irresistible flame that grows hotter the closer he gets.

OBSESSED X & X IRRITABLE

what starts as subtle flirting rife with teasing jokes and lingering touches, turns into something frighteningly intense. shanks routinely teases you in front of everyone, and while you’re embarrassed by it sometimes, you actually like it. there’s a push and pull, where you also have him backed into a corner that he can’t escape from with his sanity intact.

shanks starts being more bold when he touches you, kissing you randomly in hallways when no one’s looking, his hand roaming down to your ass and squeezing it playfully. the rush makes everything worth it; he likes the way you push him away, and you like the way he chases you. if he knew that you’d fallen in love some time ago, he’d never let you live it down. his touches make your skin hot and your head fuzzy, leaving you light-headed and wanting for more. after a few months, though, he’s still given you no indication on whether this is a casual thing or something more.

you’re too afraid to ask at this point, always losing your nerve when he sweet talks you late at night. you swallow back your questions, but they pile up eventually, until you can’t take it anymore. after that stunt he pulled in that pub, he drunkenly tells yasopp to make up a shirt for you that says “angry when wet” on the front. your face burns, both in anger and in embarrassment when you receive the gift, and shanks laughs loudly when you throw the shirt at his face. he confesses that he forgot he even asked for yasopp to do that, which only makes him laugh harder.

in a fit of fury, you tell shanks that you refuse to have sex with him and that he has to keep his hands to himself. for a month, at least. he figures you’re all talk and only agrees to it because you’re so determined and cute when you’re angry like that. when the others find out about the ban, they ridicule their captain mercilessly. he tries to act unaffected, but something about the way you insist on seeing this ban through rubs him the wrong way.

it’s been twenty-two — no, twenty-three — days, and you’re barely keeping it together. shanks thinks it’s hilarious that you believe he’ll cave before you do; and you’re determined to make him suffer. now granted, you are to blame for the predicament you found yourself in just a month prior — even now, you still suffer from that embarrassment — when shanks fucked you in the back of that dingy pub.

they’ve all taken to calling you ladybug — bug, for short; something shanks thought up in the moment, spurned by yasopp’s laughter at the matter. and despite fighting against it initially, the nickname grows on you. shanks appears every bit as unaffected as he always does, still flirting with you whenever he can, but respecting your wishes all the same. regardless of that, he still finds ways to get under your skin. it’s your hope that holding out will make shanks realize that he wants you in a deeper way than just physical intimacy.

you should just let him go and move on, but you can’t. he always pulls you back, always finds a way to make you smile — the warmth from his presence is enough to burn you alive most days — and you find yourself wrapped up in him without realizing. incidentally, shanks also can’t let you go, and never intends to anyway. he’s a selfish creature by nature, not cognizant enough to recognize his own role in that.

on a sleepy morning, you take your time and carefully bake pastries for the crew. last night you promised them something tasty and sweet — your specialty, really — and they’ve given you room to work without interruption. as a chef for the red-hair pirates, you take pride in your work; in feeding the crew, in ensuring that they eat well-balanced meals that give them strength and energy. shanks has always been in awe of your talent — your hands are delicate and exact, skilled laborers that make brilliant works of art whenever you’re in the kitchen.

you’re humming a nameless tune to yourself, cutting up strawberries neatly, as another person silently invades your small sanctuary. while you wash your hands in the sink, shanks approaches you and a sudden awareness makes you freeze. his body barely touches yours, but he reaches over you to crab a cup out of the cabinet above your head. given the difference in your height, it always seems like he’s crowding you without trying. although in this instance, he’s intentionally doing so.

a groan rolls out of your mouth, frustration eating away at the remainder of your patience. you’ve been giving him short answers lately, barely looking at him — although, that isn’t exactly true; you’ve stolen more glances than you can count over the past month — so whenever he can, he finds ways to tease you mercilessly.

“oops,” his hand lowers so he can rinse out the cup, “didn’t mean to interrupt you, doll.”

teeth sinking into your bottom lip, you count to ten, breathe out of your nose and smile tightly. “uh huh,” his body is still much too close for your liking, “just make it fast.”

a sly grin, one that you can’t see, drifts onto his lips. “you know i can never turn down a quick fuck.”

you slap his hand, make him drop the cup into the sink, and spin around to face him. your face burns painfully, the flush a permanent fixture now that he’s moved on from light teasing, to full out being insufferable around you. “shanks, enough.” you shove his chest, much to his amusement, his eyes gleaming with mischief, but you can’t exactly look at him properly, can you? and when you manage to get over a bit of your embarrassment, manage to look up at him through your thick, dark lashes, you struck by his stupidly handsome face. despite his rugged exterior, you know there’s a gentleness that periodically comes out when the two of you are together.

an unexpected ache plagues your chest and you ignore it; but you miss touching his scars, miss kissing him and being kissed by him. he already smells like smoke and bourbon, a scent that you’ve come to covet over the past few weeks.

belatedly, shanks realizes that he miscalculated; your beauty still takes his breath away, especially when you’re this close to him. his eyes drift along your soft, round features, linger on your plump lips — where he’s suddenly overcome with the desire to trace your cupid’s bow with his fingers — and stare a little too hard at your neck that’s been blemish free for a while. a shame, really, as he likes when your neck shows proof of his affection for you. if he’s not careful, he’ll get sucked back into your orbit; as always, your brown eyes — intense, unyielding, a fusion of dulce de leche and tree bark — keep him rooted in place. your dark, curly hair continues to remind him of a storm that he desperately wants to navigate alone.

caught in a daze, he almost forgets that you’re mad at him, until you roll your eyes and push past him. he watches you languidly, completely smitten with you all over again, eyes transfixed on your retreating form — round ass and thick, curvy hips captivating him entirely.

you stomp away and leave the pastries to their own devices, reeling over the fact that shanks had the audacity to say that to you. but as you keep walking, the brisk morning air whipping around you, you realize you’re not upset because he said it. you’re upset because he didn’t actually try to fuck you in the kitchen.

a shame, you know, but you can’t help the thought.

it’s becoming more and more apparent now that you might be the only one suffering from this ban. you decide you need a better plan, one that is strong enough to withstand shanks’ careless attitude, one that might just push him to the edge.

a childish impulse strikes you, and you opt to give him the silent treatment, which only further amuses him. he watches you lazily, grinning each time you turn your nose up and stomp past him. you make it so easy he doesn’t even have to try riling you up. you ignoring him isn’t much of a big deal — so he tells himself — but when he sees just how friendly the crew is with you, something sinister builds inside the pit of his abdomen and works its way up to his chest. when you head back to finish working in the kitchen, he tells his crew that he’s implementing a new rule.

“no one,” he says, after gathering everyone else, surveying his crew mates critically, eyes particularly landing on yasopp and benn beckman, “touches ladybug. understood?”

they all agree, although beckman, lucky roux, and yasopp pull him aside to ask what this new rule is all about. shanks being shanks, playfully waves them off and starts drinking instead. beckman exchanges wary glances with the others, but they don’t push the issue. every time you try to get closer to someone — whether it’s a crew mate, or an overly friendly resident of a sea faring town — he finds a way to sabotage, laughing as you eye him angrily, hands balled into small fists, which only makes him laugh more.

THREE’S X A X CROWD

part of your duties is to accompany the crew as they go into town to scope out any local fruits and vegetables that you want to try. you like talking with the townspeople, like getting their insight on their regional dishes. you just live for the thrill of creating new, exciting meals and want your crew mates to feel the love that you pour into everything you make for them.

on a particular island, the ship is docked far enough away to not attract too much attention. there aren’t any major navy bases nearby, but one can’t be too careful in the new world, can they? there’s a festival in town, one that they keep advertising for. you catch wind and want to go, but shanks decrees that only a portion of the crew is allowed to disembark, while the others stand by on the ship. too many pirates traversing through the island will set off alarms; thankfully, the island is partial to the patronage of pirates, so they aren’t too upset that shanks’ crew has docked there.

somehow, you’re part of the group designated to stay on the ship, much to your annoyance. you try to plead with beckman, even go as far as pouting your lips, but he doesn’t budge. “captain’s orders,” which seems to be the norm these days. and when he sees the way your shoulders drop, he says, a little quietly, “sorry bug.” you know they’re just going to drink and act foolish on land, so you wait and take your time dressing up. you have an actual reason for wanting to go into town; you need ingredients and don’t trust the others to shop properly for you, so you take matters into your own hands.

no one dares to stop you as you make your way off the ship; you tell the others you’ll be right back, and of course they believe you — why would you lie to them?

and you’re not lying, per se, you do want to get ingredients — although that isn’t your primary focus at the moment.

the festival is loud and seemingly merry with alcohol and food everywhere. thankfully the music makes the shitty alcohol taste better. shanks sits at a large table with the others, drinking, smoking, laughing as various people fawn over him and feed him cut up pieces of fruit. flirtatious by nature, he doesn’t even blink when they allow their delicate fingers to linger on his lips, or when they whisper things in his ear, or when they take turns to perch themselves on his lap.

for some reason, despite knowing that he should, he isn’t exactly stopping their advances.

guilt eats away at his crew mates at the sight of shanks on his usual path of self-destruction; yasopp tries to get him to see reason, beckman too, but he waves them off, saying he can do as he pleases. which only tells him that he’s still annoyed about you not talking to him properly these days. and, despite him not openly saying it, he’s suffering too.

you have fun watching the fireworks for a while, mesmerized by the loud explosions of color decorating the sky; before long, you find yourself in the middle of all the festivities, humming to yourself as you scope out the stalls. you get swept up into a small crowd of people and get turned around when you slip away. as you try to catch your bearings, you hear a familiar laugh and, on instinct, follow the sound of his voice.

while standing off to the side, you watch shanks and the others, heart beating far too loud for comfort. your hands ball into fists all over again, and you sink your nails into your palms when another woman drapes herself over shanks, giddy and tipsy, blushing every time he smiles her way. you know he’s just doing this because he’s pissed off at you, and rather than get sad, you decide to head to the pub and drink.

three drinks later, you saunter back out into the night and join the festival. you enjoy the way the music thrums underneath your skin, the beat thumping in your veins; a cool breeze travels nearby, making you feel light-headed. you forgot how freeing it is to be on your own — without a group of people to worry about, and a selfish captain who tramples over your heart and feelings repeatedly with his blasé attitude. maybe it would be better to just leave? but, the more you think about it, the more your head hurts, so you decide you’d rather enjoy yourself for a bit before heading back to the ship.

the alcohol makes you bolder than usual, and you’re all smiles with flushed cheeks when the vice-captain runs into you on his way to get more food. an incredibly foolish, petty idea crawls into your mind — it barely sits long enough before you act impulsively again.

“what are you doing here, bug?”

you simply shrug, as if you’ve embarked on an innocent expedition and didn’t expect to see him. beckman doesn’t buy the act one bit and pulls you into a nearby alley to talk with you privately. sighing loudly, he fixes you with a steely glare. “you’re suppose to be on the ship,” he says carefully, “d’you know how much trouble you’ll be in if shanks sees you here?” there’s no reason for him to tell you that, but you can’t fault him for trying to be nice. still, the idea of shanks thinking he can just dictate how you live your life, pushes you closer to the edge with your sanity barely intact.

and before you can stop yourself, you blurt out, “i am not a child,” you say angrily; your annoyance has reached the point of no return, so you let the irritation flow freely and allow it to fuel your pettiness. beckman pauses for a moment before chuckling darkly, shaking his head at your antics. from the determination on your face, and the way you don’t seem to want to budge on the issue, he can understand why shanks is so smitten with you — in fact, everyone on their crew understands — so he relents.

“fine, i’ll accompany you, then.”

you hadn’t expected him to offer, and you feel the tension leave your body slowly. maybe you were overreacting a bit, and maybe you just need to relax and enjoy the night like everyone else. you visit several stalls and shop around for a bit; you like the vice-captain’s company as he doesn’t say much, nor does he complain when you make him try various sweets to see which ones you should recreate. and while you might not intend to, you can’t help but flirt with him a little — touching his arm, laughing at his dry humor, standing much closer than necessary. beckman knows what you’re doing, but he doesn’t stop you; maybe shanks will get his act together if he thinks he has competition. you doubt he will, but it’s always worth a try, right?

DIAMOND X IN THE X ROUGH

after a while, the merriment feels stale; shanks’ laughter is hollow, forced, and unbecoming. and while on the surface it looks like he’s soaking up all the attention that’s being given to him, he’s not happy about it at all. a small frown works its way onto his lips as he tries to work out the cause of his unhappiness, completely ignoring his role in all of this. he’s not sure what’s missing — or, rather, he’s sure, but he just doesn’t want to say it out loud. that would make it real, and while he doesn’t want to make a habit out of it, shanks has been lying to himself for some time now. he knows that if he’d let you come with them, he’d be having much more fun — that thought alone makes him reconsider how he’s handled everything between you two.

the universe, it seems, has a cruel sense of humor. as his thoughts continue to berate him, he spots you walking with beckman. he narrows his eyes at you both but offers a smile — one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes — once you approach the table.

jaw clenched, shanks manages to greet you without fail. “hey there, lovebug.” there’s tension in his shoulders, and that amiable demeanor of his is shed, which makes the women near him a little reluctant as they squirm awkwardly in their seats. “thought i told you to stay on the ship,” he says lightly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. beckman sighs, knowing that shanks will most likely read into the situation incorrectly; but before he can explain himself, he sits back down in his seat and pours himself a drink.

“you don’t own me,” you say with a slight huff, glancing over at shanks from the corners of your eyes, “i’m allowed to go where i please.”

shanks almost laughs at that, but keeps it inside; he wants to tell you that you’re wrong, but he knows that this isn’t the right time or place for that sort of discussion. lucky roux offers to make some room for you, but you smile sweetly and announce that there’s no need. they all look at you, confused and a little intrigued, and before lucky roux insists again, you say, “i have a seat already.”

without warning, you gently perch your round ass on top of beckman’s lap, effectively silencing the group around you. it suddenly feels as if time has slowed down for shanks, who shifts in his chair as he watches you and beckman.

the vice-captain sighs again and playfully pinches your side, a move that does not go unnoticed by shanks, of course. you let out a small shriek, cheeks burning, and swat his hand before scooting up higher on his lap. the move alone nearly sends shanks and beckman into an early grave, for different reasons, obviously. meanwhile you’re smiling like a cat — mischievous and proud, as if you’ve cornered your prey and you’re ready to pounce.

you look so damn smug and shanks wants to fuck your mouth for all of that insolence.

beckman holds onto your hip as you cross your legs, revealing the deep slit in your skirt. your legs are on display, catching the eyes of everyone at the table and the random party goers passing by. shanks clenches his jaw so tightly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t cracked his teeth. he knows that you’re provoking him into acting out, and while he doesn’t want to feed into it, his jealousy knows no bounds right now. especially since he knows you’re not wearing any panties — it’s why you chose that particular skirt.

you really only wanted to tease shanks a little, so you’re on cloud-nine when you notice how bothered he is over your little act.

it takes an inordinate amount of strength, on shanks’ part, to not split beckman’s face in two for his complicit behavior. he’s being unfair, he knows that — but he doesn’t really care. yasopp and lucky roux try to diffuse the situation with lighthearted banter and jokes — they also tell their guests to leave, because knowing shanks this might not end well.

beckman leans forward, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear, making your body warmer than necessary. “settle down, bug, we don’t want to cause a scene, do we?” you shake your head at that and swallow back whatever complaints you want to say when you see the hardened look on shanks’ face. you’ve only ever seen him that serious when his anger reaches a certain point — so you know you’ve fucked up pretty badly. you have the decency to act ashamed as you slide off beckman’s lap and grab your bags. you should probably say something to shanks, but you don’t bother looking back at him and instead head back to the ship.

you’re absolutely furious right now and so is shanks.

beckman rubs the back of his neck before leaning forward. “i told you, captain,” he keeps his tone friendly, yet firm, “if you’re not careful, one of us will take bug away.” at that, shanks casts a sharp glance at the other crew members seated at the table — the intensity behind his gaze forces them to turn away and look at other things. shanks motions for one of them to slide the bottle of vodka his way, and beckman groans audibly.

“not again, shanks, let—”

as shanks isn’t in a negotiating mood, he cuts his first mate off quickly — maliciously, even — with venom sifting along his tongue, the layer thick enough he almost chokes on it. his voice is much too hoarse, but he spits out, “drink.”

it’s not a game that the red-hair pirates ever like to play with shanks, and he knows it; which is why he keeps insisting, and why his best friend keeps refusing. shanks’ anger reaches a tipping point; it transforms into a fire that steadily burns along the back of his neck, hot enough to make impulsive thoughts gather around him. the idea of extinguishing it never crosses his mind, although he knows that eventually he’ll need to face it head-on. and as he grips the bottle of alcohol tightly, a sharp moment of clarity hits him.

it’s by chance that he swallows it back, not wanting to make this even messier than it already is.

beckman shifts in his seat, a disapproving frown settling comfortably on his face. “it won’t be fair, i’m practically drunk already.”

“spare me the bullshit,” shanks says with a smile that serves as a small warning; he places a glass in front of beckman. “drink.” beckman pinches the space bridge of his nose and exhales a bit of his irritation. but when he picks up the glass, he recoils from the strong scent.

“this is practically rubbing alcohol.”

shanks only hums while shrugging lazily, before knocking back the drink; the burn revitalizes him, the pain reminds him that he’s alive. in a game of endurance, shanks always comes out on top. so it’s no wonder that beckman taps out after two shots.

“i value my liver, unlike you.”

this time, shanks’ laughter is genuine; he hops out of his chair and claps a hand on beckman’s back. “you’re forgiven,” he says when he leans down. as an afterthought, he adds, “this time.”

you’ve done a good job derailing his night — not that he can really blame you, he was being absolutely shameless in the worse way — so he’s decided he’s had enough. somehow, he’s rationalized that you’re the only childish and ridiculous person in this situation because he intends on stamping that attitude out.

SUN X STARS X MOON

you peruse shanks’ room while sipping from the bottle of rum you found. although you count tonight as a small victory against shanks, you didn’t think he’d get that mad. was all the teasing worth it, in the end? you leave the rum on the nightstand before climbing onto his bed and enjoy the softness of the mattress. maybe you overreacted, or maybe it’s all his fault. the guilt sits with you, until shanks enters his room.

“the hell are you doing back so soon?”

it’s not a proper greeting in the least, but you’re not exactly ready to deal with him just yet. but, since he’s already here, you might as well have it out. shanks closes the door and leans against it, partially obscured in the shadows as the moon bathes you in its light through the window.

“in case you’ve forgotten, this is my room and that’s my bed that you’re lounging comfortably on.”

he’s got you there. you roll your eyes in response, which draws out a chuckle from him once he pushes away from the door and goes to sit near you on the bed.

your emotions swell inside of you and become too heavy for you to keep hidden. “fine, whatever, i’ll leave.” you hop off the bed but then turn around. “you’re an asshole, you know that? you string me along for months and then anytime anyone else wants to talk to me you suddenly intervene.” the words tumble out of your mouth fluidly, you’re surprised your tongue could keep up. blinking back tears — because you refuse let him see you this vulnerable. “you piss me off so much, i… can’t do this anymore.”

it’s the first time that you’ve properly articulated how you’ve felt about this whole stupid situation. you feel a bit lighter but then sense of dread overcomes you, gnaws at your stomach — twisting and creating knots that make you want to run away forever. shanks takes a moment and mulls over your words, but his long silence is all the confirmation you need. you’re halfway to the door when he calls out to you.

“wait, come here.”

against your better judgment, you turn around and head back to his side. he sits on the edge of the bed, pulls you in between his legs, and warms an arm around you. “i hear you, bug, i really do.”

this is the first time he’s ever willingly said anything to make him vulnerable like that, so you relent, soften in his hold, allow your shattered heart to repair itself piece by piece. you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him softly. he’s normally much hastier with you — being a pirate captain, he barely has time to himself, so whenever he does get a moment to touch you, he’s always in a rush.

but tonight — the moon full and pink, hanging heavy in the sky, stars shimmering brilliantly around it — he opts to slow down. shanks takes his time memorizing the shape of your lips, tongue gently caressing yours as you sigh against his lips. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like he’s afraid you’ll leave him if he doesn’t. you’re certainly in no hurry to finish anytime soon. by the time you’re done kissing, you’re a little breathless and can barely hold it together. shanks, unsurprisingly, is in a similar predicament, as his cock hasn’t given him a day of peace since your ban started.

but he decides to let go and mumbles, “thirty days is a long fucking time,” and you laugh, surprised at his words.

you climb onto the bed with him, laughing as he drops playful kisses along your neck, and straddle him once he lies down on his back. you rub your ass against his stiff length, forcing him to groan audibly. he’s always more vocal when he’s tipsy, and the rum has you feeling bolder as the minutes pass by. before you can do it again, shanks slaps your ass hard and you let out an involuntary shriek.

he laughs at you, laughs at the way you’re suddenly acting demure, as if you weren’t the one who started this. “i thought you didn’t want anyone to hear you?” he gives you a knowing look and a sly smile crawls onto his face. heat travels along your skin, making your cheeks burn in the worst way; you place a hand over his mouth on impulse.

“shut up, what is wrong with you?”

you hate the way you’re suddenly embarrassed about all of this. shanks, however, takes it all in stride, laughing behind your hand and mumbling something unintelligible against your palm. he knows he needs to act quickly before she makes him cum in his pants without trying. so when you pull your hand back, he says, “come on, put your pretty pussy on my mouth.” you stare at him wide-eyed, but he doesn’t relent. you mumble something about possibly being too heavy, which makes him laugh at your ridiculous excuse.

“how many times do i need to show you?” his strength, he means.

before he can do anything too rash, you pull your skirt up and position yourself over his face, pussy already slick with your arousal. shanks runs his tongue along your folds, slipping it inside to give you a firm lick; he takes his time to eat you out, his pace tortuous but electrifying. you can barely keep quiet and moan louder than you mean to as you shamelessly ride his face. holding onto the headboard, a whirlwind whips about inside of your lower abdomen as he slurps your pussy sloppily. he pulls you closer, and your arousal drips down his lips and onto his chin. your pussy is always so eager for him, so naturally he wants to treat her right.

you lose a bit of your sanity when his tongue slips inside your hole, thrusting in and out, your whimpers and moans circling around him — the best sort of lullaby he could ask for. he flicks his tongue against your clit and you buck your hips, feverishly grinding your pussy on his tongue. he likes it when you let go like this — when you’re uncaring and free. you place so many barriers in front of your own happiness, so he’s determined to knock them all down while he can. you know it’s reckless to give in to your inhibitions like this, to fly this closely to this personified version of the sun. although, you do feel a surge of power, seeing him underneath you like that, in between your thick thighs.

if shanks is apollo, then you are a nymph with ties to the moon and the sea.

it’s when shanks swirls his tongue around your clit, mercilessly stroking it, sending tiny jolts through your thighs, making you tremble above him. the orgasm is transformative — you have tears in your eyes as you whimper pathetically, your pussy puffy and sensitive; but he doesn’t care. he licks your arousal off his lips, thinking you look divine and goddess-like in the interim following your orgasm.

time slows for you both, and maybe you’re imaging it, but your heartbeat matches his once you climb off of him. of course, as usual, shanks is smug and proud of himself, but when you start taking off your clothes and tossing them onto the floor, he follows suit. pre-cum drips slowly from the tip of his cock, and when you rub your wet pussy up and down his length, you let out a breathy moan. shanks watches you with lowered eyes, inhaling sharply once you sink down onto his cock.

your pussy swallows his girth with a slow descent, and he’s losing whatever sliver of control he thinks he has over himself when it comes to you. when his cock hits a particular spot, you shudder and moan his name; he could cum from that alone, he realizes, and it shocks the hell out of him. in retaliation, shanks thrusts into you once, then twice, as you claw at his chest and cry out for more. your pace quickens as you bounce on his cock, thighs trembling as you try to keep strong; the orgasm weakened you, but rather than give in, you keep going, rolling your hips against him, hypnotizing him without completely meaning to. he won’t last much longer at this rate, which is completely your fault, he reasons.

you ride him as long as you can, before frowning and slowing down. shanks looks at you slyly, unable to stop teasing you. “need some help?”

it’s your pride that doesn’t want you to ask for help, but you know that if you don’t, shanks will edge you until you’re on your knees in tears. “please.” if he wasn’t already teetering on the edge, your desperation would make him tease you more. he rolls so that he’s on top of you and leans forward to place kisses along your jaw and neck, loving how smooth and soft your skin is. because he’s obnoxious, he sucks and bites, leaving behind bruising marks on your neck and chest. he’s burning you alive, but you want more.

you drape your leg over his shoulder, and he kisses the inside of your thigh before flicking his tongue against your skin, enjoying the way you squirm underneath him, your heart beating much too fast in your chest, making you think seemingly impossible things. shanks slips his cock back inside of you, burying it completely, letting out a shaky breath at the way your plush walls suffocate him. the angle makes you buck your hips off the bed; he laughs darkly at your enthusiasm, but doesn’t move. the frustration alone could kill you; you want him to fuck you hard enough to shake your doubts, to combat all the warmth that keeps sliding through the cracks around your heart.

he moves his hips at his own leisure, giving you broad, powerful strokes — hard enough, that his balls slap against you, pussy squelching as he powers into you repeatedly. you should be embarrassed from the sounds alone — your pussy is wet enough for him to drown, but thankfully he’s got enough stamina to handle it.

each time his cock sinks deeper into your pussy, he feels reborn; like the sea — tumultuous, dizzying, captivating, and greedy — you suck him back in each time he tries pulling out. eventually, you wrap your arms around your thighs and he feels like you’re squeezing the remnants of his soul out of him. shanks rocks his hips against yours, rough and determined, sweat gliding along his skin. when he moans your name, your heart expands faster than you thought it would. shanks keeps his hips closer to yours, giving you short, quick thrusts, fucking you to remind you that he has no intention of letting you go. his breath is warm against your skin and you kiss him again, giving him ardent, sloppy tongue kisses that do nothing to calm you down. he swallows your moans as another orgasm grips you by the throat and nearly claims your life.

your pussy clenches around him tightly, so he takes that as a challenge and fucks you harder, giving you brutal, punishing strokes — frenetic and dizzying, making your mind spin too fast for you to keep up.

“shanks, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

whatever else you say after that is lost on you, incoherent babbling that makes him laugh at you again. it’s out of adoration, you know it is, even if he won’t openly say it. shanks e works you through your orgasm, hips jerking against yours, before his own pushes him completely over the edge. after giving you a few lazy thrusts, he cums inside of you, messy but satisfying. shanks slows down and tries to catch his breath, as you push your curls away from your face. he doesn’t leave your side after he pulls out, instead he pulls you close to him, his hand rubbing up and down your back, his subsequent kisses intense and possessive.

you don’t exactly know what will happen tomorrow, but for now you’ll cherish this moment and commit it to memory. with everything that’s happened, he doesn’t want to see you in the arms of another, and you don’t want to keep pushing him away. you’re sure something’s shifted fundamentally between you two, especially when you lay on top of him and listen to the steady, powerful beats of his heart. you suppose you can give him a little leeway, but you won’t tell him that right away. there’s a warmth that cloaks itself all over you, keeping you moored to him for the rest of the night; he enjoys the silence that accompanies your presence, and decides that he’s going to keep you for as long as he can.

#it's finally done jfc #fic request #one piece imagine #one piece angst #one piece smut #one piece x reader #one piece x y/n #shanks angst #shanks smut #shanks x reader #shanks x y/n #*washes hands*#‘i can change him’ 🥴#no tf i can’t!!! am i kidding?!#also… beckman… ur day will come don’t worry

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honeyinapot · 3 months

Text

Like A Lazy Ocean Hugs The Shore

4.8k words without the hcs um??? enjoy?? Or don’t idk😭🙏🏾

Suguru and Shoko definitely know he’s head over heels for you. The only ones that don’t know are you and himself.

He’s an absolute brat (at least teen him is). He gets what he wants and becomes kind of a bully? No yeah he definitely bullies other guys flirting with you to back off. But that’s just him being a good friend you know? It’s not because he’s in love with you there’s no way.

He loves getting you riled up.

Something about you getting mad at him is so cute.

He loves making you laugh more though.

He isn’t sure why he wants you all to himself but he just does, because it’s him or no one.

When he realizes though he puts the work in to better himself.

He wants you to know it’s you and him forever. His love never ending never wavering, infinite if you will. He loves you for infinity.

The beach would always be your worst enemy.

Salty waters and inescapable sands where no matter however many times you rinsed, the more particles clung. An endless cycle to become dirty, and you hated getting dirty and soaked in a place other than your tub. Hated feeling gritty and never knowing what could swipe you off your feet. And he knew that.

Despite your protests, despite the moaning and groaning, despite the bickering, he still brought you here against your request. So, here he was without a consequence in the world walking on water smirking down at you while you scowled at the need to look up at him. Standing submerged in blue waters all you thought of was going home. The issue?

He was your ride home.

“Don’t look so smug Gojo, it makes you look ugly.”

Your comment only seemed to satisfy him more. His expression grew into a grin.

“You’re just mad you look like a wet rat and I don’t.”

In his own dumb way he was right. You were frustrated with the fact that salt water was ruining your hair running down your skin with its droplets dripping off your shoulders.

“You three blind bi— “

“Whoa, whoa let’s keep it PG for the kids.”

You’d never wanted to gut Gojo Satoru the “greatest sorcerer” alive so badly before.

Twenty minutes ago you’d been finishing a braid for your date later, you still had just enough time to put together an outfit you’d planned all week. Everything would be perfect, or so you thought. Before you had the chance to change out of your uniform there was a knock on your door. A sturdy rhythm meant only for you. You sighed making your way to the door slowly pulling at the handle. You tilted your head up blinking at a pair of sunglasses attached to a lanky teen.

“What Gojo?”

He leaned on your doorway grinning, pretty white strands swept across his eyes mixing with his lashes. He brushed back hair from his eyes with a singular hand.

“Let’s go to the beach!” His moist lips stretched into a toothy smile.

You raised an eyebrow blinking twice to take in the statement. You didn’t have time for this, you still hadn’t even decided if you liked the outfit you’d been thinking of. Rolling your eyes you began shutting your door.

“You didn’t need to come all the way here to tell me that. You have my number, text me.”

The door wouldn’t close, something had kept it from meeting the frame. You felt your eyebrow involuntarily twitch as you looked back at sunglasses.

“I was thinking a little more…spontaneous.”

“How spontaneous?”

“I dunno.” He tapped his chin with a comically large finger faking confusion. “What about now?”

Gojo looked over his glasses at you as if trying to tempt you to give in.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I have plans and once again you should’ve shot me a text.” You groan, annoyed, as you repeatedly try closing your door with Gojo now using his infinity. Watching this sparked the urge to stomp on his toes despite the fact that the act would be utterly useless.

“Hey hotshot, move your foot I’ve got places to be.”

He took a step forward then another and another painfully slow step. He was pushing you and your dorm door back with every step that his infinity followed. Thus making it easy to now be standing in the middle of your room. A messy room that he gave a once over with his hands in his pockets. Your ears burned with embarrassment imagining how your room must seem through his eyes. Clothing tossed across the bed and your floor, mostly unfolded laundry and the others articles of clothing you’d tossed aside through the week searching for your perfect outfit.

Why was it when you need something it isn’t there, but when you don’t it appears. The same thing happened with your highlighter— wait a minute what was that? You tried unsuspiciously stepping on the object and kicking it under your dresser. Clearing your throat you tried to pretend the both of you weren’t in your room.

“Why can’t you bother Suguru or Shoko?” You needed to do one thing at a time, your date was in forty minutes. The first order of business was to kick this fool out.

Gojo gave you a quick once over as though he’d pieced something together. The realization was over by the time he’d plopped himself onto your bed.

“They’re busy.” He whined not even bothering to move the clean folded clothes beneath him.

“And I’m not?” You crossed your arms with a frown leaning your weight to the right.

“You’re never too busy to not spare time for me.” There he was again grinning with his eyes over the glasses stare again. This time your eyes blew wide and your mouth fell slack.

Usually you were free, any other time you would say yes to hang out with your friends, but the guy you’d been crushing on for two years finally asked you out. The only person you told was Shoko, you didn’t like the idea of telling everyone about a relationship that might not even blossom. You wanted to tell people when you were sure and the only person you couldn’t hide it from was her. Being on the spot you weren’t sure what to say to him.

Actually, it wasn’t even any of his business.

“Why don’t you go help them instead?” You deflected.

“Hm, too much work.” Gojo lazily pushed off your bed, hands in his pockets as he approached you. You made the note to wash your sheets and clothes again if you didn’t want the smell of Gojo’s expensive cologne wafting around you.

You pinched the inside of your cheek with your teeth, biting back more than a few profanities. Now you understood why Shoko smoked.

“Then how about we go after my plans?”

“How about…no?” Gojo leaned in your space, his face inches from yours just to prove a point.

“I don’t even own a bathing suit!”

He nearly fell into you at the force of his laughter leaving him doubling over. Calming from whatever had been so funny he wiped a stray tear from his eye and opened them. Watching him inflate back to his full height you caught a glimpse of his eyes.

Bright and blue. Filled to the brim of you.

A sight so pretty you hadn’t noticed his hands reach out for you until he was pulling you against him.

“Gojo!”

“Why do you need a bathing suit?”

“You know how the school feels about our uniforms.” You scolded.

He just laughed it off.

“Why don’t we test ‘em out for a little swim?”

Despite your disapproval you were easily tossed over his shoulders much to your dismay.

“Gojo Satoru, don’t you dare, I told you I have—“

“What were you saying?”

Before you could even finish you were dangling over a body salt water. Oh how you hated this man.

“Oops.”

Your body splashed into the sea ruining your non waterproof makeup.

You spent the next twenty minutes fighting the waters resistance to chase around Gojo. Yelling curses telling him to take you back to Jujutsu High as you chased his laughing form further into the sea. Every step you took he took backwards with the use of Infinity. Your nostrils flared as tears pricked your eyes. So help you God you were going to break his Infinity and beat him senseless.

“This isn’t funny Gojo!” You coughed and sputtered on salt water.

“Aww, are you finally hitting your limit?”

“I hit my limit ages ago! Take me back—“ You charged forward not applying your full attention to your surroundings. The sand had dipped leaving you with nothing to keep your head afloat. You sucked in a sharp breath reaching out for help before falling under.

“Stop pretending, I’ve seen you swim before.” Gojo rolled his eyes convinced you were crying wolf.

“If you come up now I’ll take you right back to your dorm.” He teased this time with a grin, there was no way you’d keep faking after that. He waited a few seconds, a frown taking over his features. He was sure you knew how to swim, didn’t you? He remembered seeing you swim at the pool party they’d been to last year, he remembered thinking your swimsuit was hot. But that didn’t mean that you got into the water. He didn’t know how long you could hold your breath. Nor how long the average person could. How many seconds? How many seconds had it been? Gojo’s heart spiked in his chest as he called out for you. His infinity broke momentarily.

Something grasped his leg before he broke the stillness of the water that was no longer motionless.

Water dripped off your arms loudly as you used both arms to treat him like a lifesaver before breaking for air with a glare. Or rather a face full of determination. You grabbed at him pulling and climbing his dry uniform until you were no longer submerged. Your hands stopped at his collar as you stared down two big dark pools. Taking a hand you snatched off his sunglasses and tossed them, far.

Without them he was left staring at you with blown out eyes. To you he resembled a lighthouse being crashed into.

“Fuck. You.” You hissed, “Take me home.”

Gojo parted his lips to say something, anything. Instead he was reduced to shudders and barely a second later plummeting both of you into the dark blue sea.

Underneath the large parasol Shoko and you watched two idiots splash each other with water. They were dressed to the nines with gear; scuba slippers, inflatable ducky floaties, and ducky swim tubes, why? You weren’t sure, you both assumed it was for the aesthetic since the both of them could swim.

Resting on the palm of your hand you took in the view breathing in salty air and smell of the heat from the sun. You were content for now. You hadn’t been dropped in icy waters or dealt with too much sand clinging to you.

“Shoko?”

“Hm?” She bit down hard on the blueberry Tootsie Pop, she’d gotten tired of counting to get to the center.

“We didn’t bring floaties with us, right?” You tried thinking back to what everyone loaded into the car, which was the parasol, a picnic basket, blankets, and some fireworks. You thought the floaties may have been deflated, except you still should’ve noticed them.

“No, Gojo flirted with some mom to hand over the kid floats.”

“Huh…” You murmured to yourself more than Shoko as confirmation.

Pushing up from the comforts of the beach blanket you felt the sand settle between your toes. Ignoring the layer of grit built under your feet you approached the water yelling over splashing and laughter. Neither of them heard their names from your distance. You paved your way toward them dodging giggling children and families taking photos. Chills made their way up your spine as water passed your ankles.

With them running closer to you, you called out their names again. You assumed Gojo would look ahead at some point or maybe Suguru would warn him, that didn’t happen since they both were in their own little world.

Gojo crashed into you. Limbs tangled together with his arm around your waist keeping the both of you steady.

“You alright?” He huffed out, chest heaving from the run.

“I’m fine.” You said but you could barely tell you’d spoken. Seeing him soaking wet, water gliding down his body— you flinched back. A droplet of saltwater dripped into your eye. A stream of curses fell from your lips as you rubbed your eye.

“Shit, lemme see.” His arm tugged you closer while the other rested on your cheek thumb ready to wipe at your eye. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” You rubbed at it turning your head from his hand squinting. Eyes landing on something black, blue, and yellow charging forward.

“Suguru! Time out! Time out!” You held out a hand to stop him while Gojo turned to the disturbance. He slammed into Gojo, matching duck floats bouncing off another sending the three of you splashing into the water.

Gojo’s eyes were bare exposed over his sunglasses. Again all you saw was blue and you. Only you. Your lips parted to speak— Gojo’s sunglasses slipped hitting you on the chest.

Beside you Suguru snorted breaking whatever tension had risen. He broke into a full laugh as Gojo rolled off of you. Following his friend he laughed until the three of you were in sync.

Broken giggles passed your lips as the laughter died down. The three of you sat up. Instead of handing back his sunglasses you tucked them behind your ears letting them rest on your head.

“Tell me, who’s bright idea was it to borrow children’s floaties?”

Their giggles seized, both of them seemingly sharing a thought.

“Su—“

“Satoru’s!”

“Hey! No, it was our idea!” He didn’t have the chance to finish since you’d wrapped him in a head lock. He barely lasted before slapping at your arm choking out, “Uncle! Uncle!”

Releasing an arm you reached over to Suguru’s chuckling form to tug him into one. Both of them mirroring another struggling under your grasp.

After you’d gotten back to shore you went to Shoko who’d now been tanning as you toweled off. Next to you was your sling bag, opening it you gathered your sunscreen giving the bottle a few shakes before squeezing some in your hands. Warming the lotion in your hands for a few seconds then massaging it into your legs feeling around for excess sand.

“Shoko?”

She hummed you noticed another lollipop in her mouth, maybe cherry? You smoothed more sunscreen onto your stomach and arms.

“Could you put sunscreen on my back?”

She popped the lollipop out of her mouth, you were right, cherry.

“Yeah, you ready now?” She pushed herself off her towel heading toward you when you nodded. You brought Gojo’s sunglasses down to your eyes before handing Shoko the bottle.

“Want me to do you next, or are you still tanning?”

Laying on your stomach you kicked your legs, toes digging into the gritty sand.

“Almost done, you can share with me once I’ve done my back.” She’d popped the lollipop back into her mouth, you heard the candy hit her teeth. She shook the bottle a few times and snapped the top back. You rested your head on your folded arms closing your eyes behind stolen sunglasses.

Shoko tapped your back three times. “I’ll be right back, hold on.”

You hummed in agreement eyes still closed hearing Shoko yell out for Suguru. A warm breeze swept by wafting the strong smell of salt water and rippling through the multicolor blanket you laid on. She returned without a word shaking the bottle again and warming it in her hands. When she rubbed the lotion on your back you practically jumped out of your skin.

“Youre not—Gojo?” You’d jolted your head from its comfortable position staring over borrowed glasses at the imposter behind you.

“Where’s Shoko?”

His cheeks tinged red turning sunburnt you assumed as the color spread to his ears without meeting your gaze.

“She said something about wanting a cold drink, her and Suguru are running to the store.”

“Oh.” You laid your head back down. Gojo’s hands fidgeted before resting on your shoulder blades rubbing in the lotion.

“…Why..don’t you ever call me Satoru?”

You glanced back at him, focused on covering every bit of skin he saw.

“Are we close enough to do that?”

“Um, hello? I’m literally giving you a back rub free of charge, we’re more than close.”

“This doesn’t count you’re my servant, of course it’s free.” Your laughter was short lived when you felt Gojo snapping the strap of your bathing suit.

“Gojo!”

“Satoru!”

“Gojo!”

“Satoru! You’re not very good at picking up clues.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Are you calling me stupid?”

“Now you’re just putting words in my mouth,” He pouted feigning sadness, “will you at least say it?”

Pressing on your elbows you pushed up in a sphinx pose tilting your head back to see him over his glasses which were slipping off your nose.”

“Satoru.” You sounded the syllables out slowly saying the name alone felt foreign to you. He smiled, Satoru smiled. When he did his eyes did that thing you liked. Bright blue eyes reflecting back the sand, the parasol, the blanket and you. You blinked.

“Again.”

“Satoru.”

“Again! Again!”

“Satoru.”

“Again!” He laughed grabbing at the sunscreen bottle shaking the contents.

You wanted to tease him, how did Suguru usually say it? Your eyes fluttered close thinking back on Suguru’s voice. You mumbled to yourself.

“I can’t hear you~” He hit the bottom of the bottle and popped back the lid.

Clearing your throat and adding volume to your voice you repeated his name again with a slow purr. The same as Suguru does when scolding him sometimes.

A hard dry squeeze was heard with the feeling of an icy sensation on your back. You squealed kicking your legs back to sit on your bottom.

“Satoru!”

His glasses fell on your lap as you frowned at him. He avoided your gaze, fiddling with the bottle.

“Here.” You placed his sunglasses back on his face tucking his ears under the legs.

“Who would’ve known, the strongest is no match against some UV rays.”

“UV rays?” Satoru echoed his mind light years away, “I’m not sunburnt.”

“Maybe you don’t feel it now, but you will later.”

You tugged on his wrist pulling him closer.

“I’ve got more than enough room to share, get under while I salvage what little skin you have left to save.”

When Suguru and Shoko had returned Satoru had been reduced to a bright red lobster with you rubbing sunscreen on his back.

Satoru and you lazily walked back to your agreed checkpoint. The spot all four of you chose to be yours, the area beside the boardwalk. A memory of Satoru banging his head against the wooden beam made you giggle as you tipped back the bottle to your lips.

Satoru’s blue eyes peered over at you lingering lower before glancing forward again.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing…just…” You shook your head bringing the bottle back down to fiddle with. The sun burned your exposed back and sun clung to your toes.

“Remember when we first came here?”

Satoru’s arm bumped into yours, he twitched relaxing as he began tossing his can back and forth.

“Wasn’t that two years ago? Why are you thinking about that now?”

“Mmm, just thinking about how much of an idiot you are.” You paused, he bumped into you again. He could never walk straight no matter how big the sidewalk is.

“Well more of how big of a pain in the ass you are—“ You shove him away, “Is it impossible for you to not cling to me it’s too hot for this!”

He whined glueing himself and his cold can to your body while you tried shoving him off. Squeezed between him you unscrewed the top of your bottle raising it above his head.

“You’re being unfair! Don’t pour that on me!” He grabbed at your raised arm holding your wrist but you still tilted it anyway. Light pink juice trickled down his hair gliding under his sunglasses, he tried blinking away what had gotten in his eyes.

“That’s for two years ago.” You slid your wrist away as he wiped at his eyes.

“I paid 360 yen for that and this is how I’m treated?”

“Tsk, rich people always complain about getting their money back from the poor.” You sighed.

Satoru shook his drenched hair at you in retaliation.

“Don’t! I’m going to get all sticky!” You backed away, behind his glasses you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes gleam.

“Sticky you say?” He took a ‘menacing’ step forward shaking the can in his hand.

“Ru…Satoru…we can talk about this.” You persuaded as you watched him thumb the tab, air decompressing made you book it.

You ran laughing breathing through your nose smelling dirt. Breathing out you felt your cheap flip flop pop and abandoned it. With you leading the both of you made it back to your destination, Shoko and Suguru nowhere in sight. Passing the checkpoint you headed for the boardwalk dodging and weaving through the structures poles.

Both of you laughing to the point where your stomach hurt if you didn’t breathe again soon.

“Ru, please!” Your face burned from the rush.

“There’s no begging your way out of this, you started and I’ll finish.”

“Wrong,” You barely escaped his attempt to splash you, “You started this two years ago!”

“The past is the past let it go.”

“Yeah Ru,” He tried again making you hide behind a pole which became a back and forth, “the past is the past why don’t we drop the weapon and we talk about this like adults?”

“My rules don’t apply to me.”

A toned arm the width of the pole you stood behind reached for you successfully pulling you near. Your attempts at escaping were futile as he lifted the can above your head. You squeezed your eyes shut feeling nothing for a moment and peeled them open. Finally you were met with soda pouring down your head, you hissed groping at your eyes.

“Fuck that— that burns!” Your eyes watered as you harshly rubbed at them.

“See doesn’t feel nice does it?”

“Neither does being dropped in water.” You blinked out what you could, “Why’d you even do that?”

“Pretty sure I told you I was bored or something back then.” His arms rested around your waist, you felt the half full can against your back.

You slapped his chest playfully, “I had a hot date that day, thanks to you I don’t have a boyfriend right now. All I’ve got now is you.”

Satoru peered down at you almost in the way you liked. This close you could see it when he stared over the rim of his glasses eyes full of blue…and you. Yet something else that he seemed to blink away in an instant tucking his eyes back behind the shades, keeping his blue at a distance.

“Well, nobody’s stopping you.”

Satoru smiled. One that you’d never seen directed toward you before, it twitched, you didn’t like it.

“Ru?”

He turned his head away from you looking bored at the top of the boardwalk.

“You should’ve told me you had a date, maybe I would’ve left you alone.”

You wanted to say something else, you really did a better question then parroting yourself but you couldn’t help it.

“But, why’d you drop me?”

A familiar feeling settled between the two of you as you waited. When he answered you remembered it rained. You remembered…

The gloss on his lips when he smiled at you in such a sad way, “Blue just suits you better.”

Looking back at it no matter how you thought about it he had to have known, because he walked you to class the next day despite your protests. Your ‘date’ wouldn’t look you in the eye whenever he was behind you.

Rumors of letters left in your locker were never true because not a single one ever appeared. The pieces fell together all because of a pair of green earrings. Green earrings your date had gifted you were lost at sea, when you begged Satoru for a new pair he’d gotten the same pair…in blue.

Your heart shook as you stood under the pier once more with Satoru. Deja vu plagued your mind despite the situation.

You could barely look at him.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” You leaned your head against a pillar staring far away. The sun began setting just like the day Shoko and Suguru never showed up. Thinking back you wished you’d begged them.

“Lucky guess,” Satoru glanced at the crumbled paper you held, “You got one too..huh.” He muttered.

“Satoru.”

“I, I saw him.” His voice wavered with his step forward. “I saw him and I couldn’t do it.”

“Satoru.”

“He asked about you.” He nervously flexed his hands reaching for you in hopes of an understanding. “He said something about, about our letters.” Satoru stood in front of you, you barely needed to lift a finger to touch him.

“Can I…speak now?”

“Just please promise you won’t leave me over this, over something I can’t help. I really didn’t mean to I don’t know why—“ He rambled off struggling to find anything for you to stay.

“Satoru, I’m not going anywhere, I’m here Ru.”

He nods pressing his lips together and settling his hands to grab at his pockets to stop his flurry of words. His thumbs danced around his pockets.

“Do you like me?” You gripped the letter with both hands holding proof in front of him.

His fingers froze as he tried to stop his emotions from spilling, but he always slipped up in front of you. Here he stood with nothing to hide behind.

He grimaced, “We don’t have to—I’m fine with being friends.”

“Ru, are you in love with me?”

Satoru shut his eyes white strands falling into his lashes.

“I know it’s weird this isn’t how,” pushing his hair back he let out a frustrated sigh, “this isn’t how I wanted to do this and you must be so uncomfortable I’m so sorry.”

“Ru.” You’d placed your hands over his shaking ones, “I’m here, I’m still here just tell me. Is it true you love me?”

“Of course I do,” he breathes out of breath from you even touching him, “I know I haven’t shown you in the best ways but if you’ll let me prove it to you.” He squeezes your hands when he finally meets your gaze. You see your reflection in Satoru’s sea full of blue and you.

“I have another question.”

“It’s not very cool of you to not respond back to my confession.”

“Well I have something to say before I answer.”

Satoru groaned playfully becoming annoyed with you, you continued anyway.

“Were you really going to die without even telling me how you felt?”

“Are you…are you scolding me for something I couldn’t predict that’s so uncool.”

“You’re uncool I could’ve missed out on the greatest love of my life because he was too chicken to tell me!”

“Huh???”

“I’m not done yet! If you’d really died I would’ve lived to 90 years old all alone how rude!”

“You can’t be serious right now.”

“I’m dead serious.” You said with a grin. One that made the both of you laugh.

He pressed his forehead against yours.

“How can I make up for it?”

“First you can start off by not dying.”

“Do I get a trial period, because I may be the strongest but even I can’t beat the inevitable.” His nose bumped yours.

“Can you last the next ten years?”

“I think I can manage, what else?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

He lowered his eyes to your lips before they flicked back up to yours. You nodded heart practically in your throat.

All the years you noticed his lips really were soft and moist. Surprisingly, his lips weren’t sweet. You traced your fingers up his chest wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him close. You felt as though you were floating, your head becoming mush feeling Satoru’s hands grip your waist, hands shaking.

You couldn’t tell for sure who’s it was but, you were positive his heart was racing too.

Funnily enough the weather cleared up a bit later, giving the both of you time to dry off. You walked hand in hand swinging your arms back and forth.

“Sooo, when did you know how you felt about me?”

You pressed your hand to your chin looking up to the sky in thought.

“Huh…I’m pretty sure that year we did fireworks, I was shivering with Suguru’s button up when I said I was fine you still gave me your jacket anyway. I’d never felt so warm.”

The waves softly crash pushing and pulling from the sand as it sets up another domino effect.

“Mine was when Shoko told me you had a date before she left.”

You shoved him with a free hand the other interlocked with his still.

“I knew it! You’re such a jerk.”

“I was jealous,” Satoru pouted, “I told you I’d do better.”

You laughed, “I know Ru, and I love you for that.”

Satoru’s ears burns red but he lays his head on top of yours anyway, murmuring the same thing over and over again.

“I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Words that distract you from feeling your first ever love letter slipping from your fingers. The paper floating amongst a breeze leaving with unanswered questions.

———————————————

If the ending wasn’t clear im sorry i wasn’t sure how to execute it??? Like I kinda hate it lmfao might fix it some other time but basically:

It takes place after the KFC breakup pretty much and Gojo and Geto also talk about you. Geto mentions to Gojo that after dealing with him he should go find you since he spilled the beans in his letter for you and im not sure if i made it clear when they were all hanging out but Geto was also crushing on you a little letter bloopers were:

“All these years it was obvious to me and Shoko that he loved you, everytime he saw you he’d gotten worse at hiding it. Since I can no longer be there this is my last ‘good’ deed. Please let my poor friend have the opportunity to confess.”

“I know the next time we meet will be as enemies, but tell me if you’d known would I have stood a chance?”

I really REALLY wanted to write the firework scene but it already took me a MONTH to stop procrastinating and type everything and I felt like I was yapping a lot so I didn’t and I really want to add it but I know me and it’d be ANOTHER month 😭🙏🏾 pray for me bro..

It would’ve consisted of Geto being more obvious he likes you by giving you his button up and Gojo sees you a little later like 🤨 ‘now I KNOW im not seeing what im seeing rn’ practically tucking you in his jacket lmaooo and shoko going feed up with both their shit.

See? Look at me yapping away what I MEANT to say was Id been reading this story on here called Intrinsic Warmth (if you are here instead of there I need you to click off and go find it because it is a MASTERPIECE sending me through the 57 states of grief ohmygod it’s so good I love the way they write Gojo so much he’s so 😩 and Heibi(you) 😩😩😩😩 I could yell from the rooftops) what was I saying…OH so basically thatdesklamp (the author) inspired this pretty much Intrinsic Warmth’s chapters take place one day a year so I tried to have my story move in only the same setting. You hate the beach but learn to tolerate it. You tolerate Gojo but somehow learn to love him.

Please read Intrinsic Warmth I really need someone to talk to about it 👁️ 👁️.

#gojo x reader #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #i love boyloser gojo sm i really tried i love when he’s full of himself but still like 😟😟 what if i can’t bag them???#boyloser #geto suguru #geto kinda likes you but has to be the wingman sorryyyy 😌#jjk shoko #Shoko is tired of the bullshit #DO ANY OF YOU READ INTRINSIC WARMTH OMG PLEASE IF YOU DONT GO ON A03 AND READ IT NEOW

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tobiasdrake · 4 months

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BONUS: A religious experience for the last remaining follower of a long-dead faith.

(I just was mulling it over in the car on the way to dinner and wanted to add onto that scene in my characters' voices)

I'm such a huge fan. I can't believe this is even happening. I found this super old book in the woods one day and it talked about how cool you were and-and-and I've dedicated my whole life to--

Don't take this the wrong way but shut the fuck up. I don't have a lot of energy to burn and for once, this isn't about how cool I am. I don't need your praise right now. ...well, okay, maybe a little praise.

Your hair looks amazing.

Thank you, I love the way it glows. ANYWAYS. Not the point. It's all on you right now, man. And that's going to be a problem. Because what exactly are you supposed to be?

I'm... I'm a ninja. From the Mesa Island Ninja Clan. Which... I guess is now the Mesa Island... Soldier Camp....

Cultivated person from a cultivated society built to feed an endless recursion of people into a cultivated cycle. That's a whole lot of nobody in my book. What else have you got?

I'm... um... I'm the Messenger

Okay. Sure. I'll walk with you to that pier. What is the Messenger? What does that actually mean? What does it mean to you? Is it something you aspired to? Something you spent your whole life wanting? Did you train for this, specifically?

...I'd never even heard of the concept before a guy handed me the Scroll and said I'm the Messenger now.

Uh-huh. And if i put a bag on your head and called you Lord Shitpaper would that become your life's ambition?

...if you did, ma'am?

Every world and every timeline, it's all the same. People like you get bent over and stepped on by an endless cycle of cosmic assholes.

With all due respect, should a goddess be saying things like this?

Do you know where I come from? Sure you do. You memorized my biography and mistook that for a personality. It was a "town" called Mooncradle, and I use that term loosely. The entire thing was an engineered social structure. An assembly line of Solstice Warriors, cultivating people like you just so there'd be enough serfs doing the work of cultivating people like me.

That's all you are to the people who would tell you where to go and what to be. I've met all manner of eldritch beings and immortal entities over the course of my life. And you know what? I've also known nobody mortals from the asscrack of one world or another worth a hundred of those people.

You haven't been following any of those beings. You've been following me. So you want my guidance? My heavenly wisdom? Here you go: Fuck 'em. Fuck what they think. Live fast, fight hard, hug a robot. Make friends in weird places. Do what feels right because it feels right to do it.

Because none of it means anything. The fancy titles and the celestial powers and the great battles of good and evil. It's all just another game between two pitiful mummified assclowns with nothing better to do with their lives than play games of human suffering. We win this one and they just put the board away and set up a new one.

I don't understand. One of those guys is supposed to be on our side, right? So don't we want him to win? Does it really not matter which is which?

Oh no, it matters. It matters a lot. Don't get me wrong. One of these guys want to turn people into flesh horrors and exterminate societies and the other wants him not to do that. There is a difference.

But you need to understand that there's rules in place. And those rules? They're only there to fuck you over.

See, that's the difference between me and Resh'an. He wants to win the game. He'll use underhanded tricks to get it, but that's what he wants: To have all the chips on his side and capture his opponent's last piece, then sit smugly in momentary triumph before they set up the next board.

Me? I want to throw the board on the ground and punch the other player in the throat.

...I think I understand now why you were considered legendary at Wheels.

HEY, I never....

ONE TIME. That happened one time and I was still learning.

The point is, none of this is going to work if you're just chasing propriety. You've fucked up hard enough to stall out the system. You put a crack in its hull. That's good. That means you have a chance to pry the whole goddamn mechanism apart.

But you can't do it for those clowns in blue hoods. You can't do it because the Prophecy said so. And you can't do it for me. I mean this in the nicest way possible: You need to get a fucking life, man. Find a hobby. Make actual friends and not just... cosmic coworkers. Do you even have a name?

I'm... I'm Ninja.

That's depressing.

Look, play the game or don't. You know what's at stake. I don't have to tell you. But whatever you do, it needs to be because you wanted something. Whether that's a friend or a goal or just to slide a knife between an asshole's ribs, you need to be doing it for you. That's the only way to win.

You know, this isn't what I thought meeting you would be like. It's strange but it almost feels like a weight is lifting off my shoulders. Like I don't have to try and be some cosmic champion or whatever. It's okay to just. Be. A guy.

You're right. I've been so busy chasing what I'm supposed to do. I haven't stopped to think about what I want out of life. Truth is, I'm lonely. All of my relationships are just about the work. Working the job. Being the guy. Doing the thing.

But I guess we all are, aren't we? Gods and heroes and even monsters. We're all just people looking for connections. Bleeding the same blood, even if it takes the form of fire or something.

The world looks a lot smaller when you've got someone's head up your ass. But if you come down off their shoulders, you might just find yourself in company you can enjoy.

Hahaha that's so gross. I don't know if anyone ever told you this. But you're kind of an asshole.

Yeah. Well. I'm a goddess.

Who the hell are you?

......

Hey. We're outside of time and space, right? Which technically means there's no rush.

This place is full of centuries of old junk. I found a deck of cards while I was rifling through the "merchandise" we don't actually sell to anyone. There's some other old stuff that looks recreational in there too.

Shot in the dark. I'm throwing a game night. Would you like to come?

#the messenger #drake plays the messenger

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eyes-of-mischief · 9 months

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weekly fic recs | 43

prompt: resurrection

fandoms: bnha, dc, hq, mdzs, tgcf, tua, tw, yoi

bnha

help me leave behind some (reasons to be missed) by intheeveningsunrise

(mature)

The darkness had learnt not to swallow him whole, had learnt to dance with him as he felt the warmth enter his veins, and learnt to give him back.

Or, five times Izuku Midoriya kills himself, and one time he... well.

What the Fire Withheld: the Renaissance of Midoriya Izuku by orkestrations

(mature)

Toga, Twice, and Mr. Compress sneak into a morgue. This is the setup to the cosmic joke that is Izuku's life. Or, his re-life? His undeath? What's the proper term for his condition?

Maybe it's actually a bit earlier than that, when he bleeds out beneath Sir Nighteye's hands while Overhaul escapes with Eri.

or, the jason toddification of midoriya izuku

RE: Izuku by thecozydragon

(graphic depictions of violence)

Wheezing through the pain, staring down at the body of an opponent Izuku should reasonably never have been able to take alone at his current level, Izuku realizes he just discovered a latent quirk.

“Fuck.” Izuku hisses. “That’s the worst fucking quirk I’ve ever heard of.”

It only activates on death. You have to die first.

OR... Midoriya Izuku's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day.

Banshee In A Well by liverobinreaction (bugbee)

(graphic depictions of violence)

Tim is five years old when he drowns in his parents' pool. He dies quietly, waiting for parents who love him, but will never be there, to realise that something is wrong. They never show up, and he sinks into oblivion.

When he wakes up and claws his way out of the water, the sun has set, and the lights of his house are on. He is cold and wet and his lungs burn.

But most of all, Tim is alone.

(If you die and no-one is there to see it, were you ever alive in the first place?)

The Next Life by spqr

“I don’t need an exorcism,” Tim says.

“I beg to bloody differ,” Constantine mutters.

Nobly, Tim elects to ignore him. “I want you to teach me.”

“Teach you what? Manners?”

“I already know manners,” Tim says, then barrels on as Constantine snorts in disagreement, “what I need to learn is necromancy.”

Never What You Were Before by Romiress

(mature)

Bruce Wayne is dead, and Gotham has moved on. Slade, for the most part, tries to stay out of it. He has enough work to do without having to take jobs near the Bats.

Until Red Hood calls him in to help, refusing to explain what he's found.

Maybe Wayne isn't as dead as he seems.

one day i'll die by doxian

(major character death)

"What's happened to me?" Bokuto asks, confused.

Akaashi sits with his face in his hands for a long time. Then he straightens up and asks Bokuto: "Would you like to see where you were buried?"

Moon in Water, Flowers in a Mirror by PlumTea

(mature) (graphic depictions of violence)

When Oikawa turns up in the corner of his garden, crouched behind the bushes, Iwaizumi couldn't be happier. He'd lost Oikawa months earlier, but the long days of mourning are gone. Now he's back. Still, there's something odd about Oikawa, something that just seems wrong.

mdzs

in the land of gods and monsters by rikke

(mature) (major character death)

Lan Wangji was never supposed to die. Thirteen years later, the Yiling Patriarch rules the world with his corpse bodyguard.

Somewhere Sits an Empty Throne by Siamesa

(explicit) (major character death)

There is a dead man in the mountains.

A corpse in mourning robes, a ghost with bleeding fingers. A power beyond measure, with too-pale eyes and red blood dripping down his throat. - In which Wei Wuxian finds himself brought back to life as a very confused god, stumbles into a revenge plot, and wants to know what's up with all these ghostly rabbits. - TGCF fusion, god!WWX/calamity!LWJ

tgcf

carousel: an endless cycle by potatopersonal

(mature) (graphic depictions of violence)

Frustration builds in his chest, an angry sob leaking from his mouth. It hurts, agitates his destroyed torso, but does it really matter?

His wishes don’t matter. His actions only hurt others, only cause suffering and misery. Even with four centuries spent atoning, he hasn’t learned.

(Xie Lian can't die. This is something he never truly learns.)

lion's tooth by curiositykilled

(mature) (graphic depictions of violence, major character death)

The second time he dies, it’s almost funny. He laughs—or well, he tries to. It catches on his broken ribs, comes out a rasping gasp instead. It’s funny. Really. The Flower Crowned Martial God, dying of a broken neck amidst the wildflowers.

tua

And When I Look In My Window, So Many Different People To Be by CowgayKermit

If you were to go looking for Klaus, you wouldn't look to the alleys where drugs are bought, or to a rave where you could lose yourself in dance, no. No, you would look to his garden full of protective herbs, to his bedroom at three in the morning where he tends to make magic amulets. Klaus grew into his power, both as a witch, and as the Séance.

The End Times Are Blue by Jumblejay

Klaus’ skin is cold as death, just like the rest of his siblings had been. Five lets his hand linger for a moment, steeling himself, preparing to grab on tight and haul the corpse to its grave.

What he’s not expecting is for Klaus to suddenly take in a deep, shuddering gasp, cough harshly, and flail around until he slips off the mound of rubble he’d been lying on with an abrasive clatter.

Five snatches his hand back with a shriek and stares wide-eyed as Klaus props himself up on his hands, blinks hard, and glances around at his surroundings until his eyes catch on Five.

“Oh, shit,” Klaus says, looking almost as shocked as Five feels. “Five?”

Five promptly bursts into tears.

Thirteen year old Five time travels to the future and finds himself trapped in the apocalypse, surrounded by the dead bodies of his siblings. Klaus, however, happens to be immortal. They figure it out from there.

i am addicted to death (so remind me what it’s like to live) by cywscross

Stiles is sixteen years old. He has already died seventy-eight times.

yoi

Triptych by feelslikefire

(explicit)

Victor is a human; Yuuri is a fae. Relationships between the two are always doomed to end in disaster, but true love is stronger than any magic — even death.

#weekly fic recs #bnha fic recs #bnha #dc fic recs #dc #hq fic recs #hq #mdzs fic recs #mdzs #tgcf fic recs #tgcf #tua fic recs #tua #tw fic recs #tw #yoi fic recs #yoi #prompt #resurrection

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oscarisaacasimov · 10 months

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Anything But by Hozier & why I love it

First off this was the biggest surprise off Unreal Unearth. I knew nothing going in, and did not expect such an uptempo break from the sorrows in the lowest levels of hell.

The instruments have a more global sound, evoking perhaps the Caribbean or Africa? Somewhere far from Ireland, a place above ground where the sun shines bright. Out of context, I might not have recognized this as a Hozier song right away.

We get 2 verses and 3 "scenes" of escapist fantasies, rejoicing in freedom and endless possibilities.

But at the end of each daydream, no matter how far our singer has travelled or what they have become, they are drawn back to thinking about the person they are trying to leave behind.

If I was a rip tide, I wouldn't take you out.

At first glance, it seems the narrator is taking the high ground, extending benevolence rather than revenge to their former lover. No matter how powerful I become, I won't hurt you.

If I was a stampede, you wouldn't get a kick.

However these are also sly insults – even if I was the sea, or a stampede, or death itself, I wouldn’t come close enough to touch you.

If I had his job, you would live forever.

Imagining that death would never take this person from the past goes beyond an insult. it's a profound curse to wish on someone. A major theme of Unreal Unearth could be summed up "The only way out is through." The darkness and suffering and burial of parts of your self are necessary to see the new dawn and to truly begin again.

Dante travels through literal hell, but he keeps moving and so he comes back out again as a changed man. In contrast, De Selby's novel (The Third Policeman) shows how repeating the same thing again and again IS hell, even if you don't have the fire and brimstone.

The narrator of Anything But is wishing that fate on his former lover - to never "die" on Unreal Unearth means to never grow or become self-aware. To be in an unchanging cycle of making the same mistakes and keeping their toxic traits forever.

youtube

As Who We Are took an introspective look at anger, Anything But does the same for fraud.

The narrator is trying to deceive the listener, the ex lover and even themselves that they are happy and fine and moved on, even as their thoughts repeatedly return to this person, and the singer makes some intense statements about them. The soul-crushing work of Abstract / Psychopomp and Unknown / Nth is still ahead, before the true recovery of First Light. At the end of this journey, you can at last say not only

"I would do everything if you'd hear me say Go Look the Other Way"

but confidently

"A voice your body jumps to calling out your name But after this I'm never gonna be the same And I am never going back again."

#hozier #andrew please #unreal unearth #anything but #first light #unknown / nth #abstract / psychopomp #who we are hozier #8th circle of hell #circle of fraud #eighth circle of hell #dante's inferno #the third policeman #de selby #Youtube

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sakura-no-oto · 1 year

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Fragments

In which Sakura reflects on her childhood

There may be triggering content below: read at your own discretion.

Shoutout to @eccentriccollective for helping me edit this piece.

Screaming. That’s the first thing she remembers when she reflects on her childhood. Endless, muffled screaming that carried through the four walls of her tiny room. It’s hard to picture now; there’s a musty, dingy darkness that arises whenever she tries. She used to cover her ears and burrow under her blankets – she knows because the habit carried through much of her early childhood – an innocent wish that if she simply shut out the noise, it would take the hint and eventually quiet down. A child’s mind is sweet in hindsight but small and unable to grasp the greater scope of the world around it. The screaming never stopped, and she’d had no choice but to live with it.

She shudders now, looking back; what sort of child learns to sleep through another’s dying breath (it’s not your fault, she tells herself. You didn’t know any other way). She feels no better, but it is true enough: up until her third birthday, her world was confined to those four, dingy walls. Flashes of memory suggest a trembling wet nurse would shuffle in to feed her and cloth her and tend to her general infantile needs.

There was more to it, she’d learn later on – the sort of sinister that went hand in hand with the cocktail of needles and bloodwork that left her crying for her father (ironic, she knows now, but again, she was a child). It didn’t matter either way, Orochimaru never came when she called. She wouldn’t learn what reliable meant until she met her older brother.

He wasn’t really her brother – not by blood. He simply showed up one day, toting gentle eyes and a friendly smile and silver hair that glistened like moonlight (at least, she imagined it did; she’d never seen the moon). “Sakura-chan,” her father said one day, pausing in a way that suggested he’d only stopped upon noticing the door was open. She’d looked up from the puzzle or doll or whatever it was she’d been playing with, peering at this boy in confusion and awe. He was a boy, likely nine or ten years old, though to a child of nearly three, that seemed so mature.

“This is Kabuto,” her father told her, phrasing the name as if it were someone’s best kept secret. Not understanding this, she’d shyly glanced from this boy, this Kabuto, to her father, waiting for an explanation. “Kabuto will be staying with us from now on.” Again, he said it like she was supposed to understand. She doesn’t remember how she answered him. Kabuto told her later, much later, she’d mostly stared and tugged nervously on the ends of her hair (despite her age, it was already thick and hugging her shoulders). She believes that. She wouldn’t find her voice for years yet.

What she does remember is Kabuto stepping towards her. He raises a hand in greeting, his eyes, black as coal but somehow still so bright, smiling along with the corners of his mouth.

“A pleasure to meet you, Sakura-sama.” It’s one of the few times he’d ever call her that. They were family in so many ways but one; let the formalities lie unless absolutely necessary.

“Hello,” she says quietly and after a moment of debate, lifts her hand in a brief half-wave. At three years old, even she can tell there’s something strange about this meeting. She thinks perhaps Kabuto might be a new nurse, only he doesn’t fit the type she’s seen come through her door. For one thing, his clothes are all wrong. Nurses don’t dress in black and purple.

He also doesn’t look at her the way they do, with wary, tired eyes that dart around as if something in her room will jump out and eat them (it might – she still doesn’t know where the screaming comes from). Third and most obvious to Sakura is that Kabuto is a boy. Every nurse she’s met has always been female (Sakura wishes she could give her father courteous credit for that, but she’s grown now and understands why he cycled through so many medics: her care was a kind of purgatory between life and the operating table).

No, Kabuto is different. She doesn’t understand it yet, but she will. In just a few weeks’ time, her father stops visiting. Instead, it’s only Kabuto. This is…strange, but no less strange than her life so far. Kabuto still smiles, still looks at her with friendly eyes and talks to her like no one ever has before. She can’t put it into words just yet, but she’s never had a real conversation before. Has she? For all her father’s talk, he’s never had much to say to her (it’s usually a flurry of “how are yous” and “Don’t worries” and “Stop crying you insolent brat or I’ll make you—”) Her father said a lot with very little.

Kabuto doesn’t say much either. He asks the questions all the other grown-ups do and fusses with scrolls and checks her vitals…but he listens too, and Sakura isn’t used to this. There isn’t much to share at her age, but she appreciates it anyway. It will take a little longer to realize, but when she does at last – of course – it couldn’t be more obvious. Kabuto isn’t like her father. He isn’t like the other grown-ups either. Kabuto is a kid. A big kid, but a kid all the same. Sakura has never seen another kid before. Having one around might be fun.

The nurses stop visiting. At first, this happens periodically – once a day to three times a week, then so on and so forth until one day, she’s in the dark from the moment she wakes until whenever Kabuto opens her door.

“Sakura-sama,” he says, stepping into her room. “Would you like some—” He doesn’t finish; she bursts into tears, cutting him off. Sakura remembers a lot of tears in her youth. She doesn’t blame herself for it, but that day (or night) was the first time she’d cried in front of her new…what was he to her then? A doctor? A babysitter? (A friend?) She’s never had a friend before—wouldn’t know how to identify one. Looking back, reaching for this sort of friendly, sort of acquaintance as he shuffled into the room, lighting the wilted stump of a candle while awkwardly telling her not to worry, that day might have been where friendship began.

He hands her a bowl of food and some water, then sits down outside her playpen (cage, it’s a cage) until her whimpering settles down. “It’s okay, Sakura-sama,” he says. “I’ll try to visit more often.” Sakura stays quiet for a time, nibbling on the rim of a weathered canteen. “I don’t like the dark,” she mumbles. She looks up at him, perhaps searching for a cue for whether or not this was the right thing to say. Kabuto meets her eyes for a moment, then glances away. For the first time, she sees something in his face other than casual compliance. “I don’t either.”

Her father comes for her later that night. It’s late – she knows it by the bone-deep fatigue hugging her like a shroud (the word is unknown to her toddler mind, but looking back, it fits). Sakura rarely sleeps well. Though her eyelids droop and she’s buried in blankets, she still sees the lanky figure appear like a ghost beside her bed. At first, a chill snakes through her and she nearly screams (a gut instinct she now wishes she’d heeded in later life). Then, she hears her father’s voice and the fear barking at her throat subsides. “Did I wake you, Sakura-chan?” He asks, but it isn’t that of a concerned parent. There’s a strange, slippery urgency in his voice. She feels goose-pimples pinch her skin and her stomach tightens.

“No,” she answers, and looking back now, she’s thankful he believed her. Three is too tender an age even for the best of spies. Her father sort of smiles at her: once again, it’s missing the warmth she’s come to know as real affection.

“Good girl,” he says, and then he brings his hands together. His blood-stained hands. Her eyes dart to his, but he isn’t watching her anymore. His attention seems faraway and present all at once, casting deep shadows over his face. “Don’t worry,” he says, says it like he has so many times. His fingers begin to move, forming signs she’ll come to associate with genjutsu. Worry? She remembers thinking and this, too, is a faraway thought. What is there to worry about?

Whatever it is, she can’t recall now. The last thing she remembers is her father’s voice and a trickle-down of white feathers, lulling her into a doze.

>>There’s a gap in her memory here: a sleep spell contorts one’s perception of time, and she’s been told her father spared no expense when it came to covering his tracks. She believes it, although the thought makes her pale skin crawl like the monsters that bend to her father’s every whim. Sound Country sits far removed from the other villages: It is a place for those who don’t wish to be found, and more than a day’s journey on foot. How long then, was she left under that spell?<<

Their new home is…quiet. That’s the first thought in her mind as she lays awake at night. Her room is double the size of her old one, and while still dimly lit, she’s free to explore without restriction. She’s asked Kabuto about it once—because he’s come with them, and she’s thankful for that. He smiles politely and tells her she’s a big girl now.

“A big room for a big girl,” he says, and it makes sense in her four-year-old mind. If she remembers correctly, she was proud he saw how much she’d grown. Maybe her father would notice too. He always seemed to pay more attention to grown-ups. Not that Sakura has much frame of reference. There is a catch, though. She learns not long after, the one and only time she wound up lost in a maze of tunnels. Kabuto found her huddled under a torch, her hands over her ears and tears staining her face (the screaming never stopped, she’d learned; it simply moved further away.)

He puts a hand on her shoulder, waiting until she lowers her arms. “Come on,” he says gently, taking her hand in his. Sakura sniffles and wipes her eyes. There’s an urgency in the air, one she’s not felt since that last night in her old room; she doesn’t question it. Some things speak for themselves. When they return to safety, Kabuto turns and locks the door behind him. He lets go of her hands, then bends at the knee so his dark eyes meet her drying gold ones.

“Sakura,” he says; it’s the first time she’s heard him say her name without the honorific. “I need you to promise me something.”

She tugs on the ends of her hair. “What is it?”

A shadow falls over Kabuto’s face and his black eyes fill with concern. “Don’t go exploring on your own. It isn’t safe.” Though only four years old, she’s able to pair those words ‘not safe’ with the scent of blood. Sakura hasn’t seen it beyond needles and scrapes and bruises, but the smell is burned so deeply in her memory, there’s probably something she’s missing.

“Okay,” she mumbles. Kabuto’s brow furrows.

“Promise,” he says. Sakura swallows and stiffly nods.

“I promise.”

She hardly sees her father at all. This isn’t really a surprise. To say he qualifies as a ‘hands off’ parent is an understatement: observing, at best, from a careful distance. She can count on one hand the time he’s taken to drop in for a casual visit, and the most affectionate he’s ever been is a polite pat on the head (she cherishes these moments now, but they will stir and fester like sores in adulthood.) Still, he is absent even by his own standards and after a little while, the first seed of resentment will plant roots. No child likes a change in their routine, and Sakura is no different.

She tries to tell herself that she’s getting older: she can dress and feed herself, as long as there’s something in the cupboards. If she sticks to the rooms she knows, there’s no need for a nanny at all. She knows all of this and yet…Sakura is lonely. She wants a companion. She wants a friend (she wants a family).

Sakura isn’t sure when it started; some memories remain jumbled, even after years of backtracking.) At some point, she latches onto Kabuto like a lost little moth. He’s busy too, but back then he was still near enough to check in once a day. The anticipated arrival of her father, who often seemed to forget he even had a daughter, when she did hear him slithering through the long hallways, became anticipation for Kabuto. He never stayed long, not usually, but he’d talk to her or read to her and sometimes he’d bring her outside.

She has no memory of being outdoors before that time. Obviously, she must have during the migration from her old home to Sound Country, but asleep under genjutsu hardly counts. The first time, it was night, a warm, summer night with the moon a dainty crescent and the stars twinkling like nothing she’d ever seen.

“Quiet now,” Kabuto murmurs, letting go of her hand. “Don’t go far.” She nods, once and deliberately, waiting with a pounding heart while he opens the wrought iron gate. The night air rushes forward to greet them and Sakura audibly gasps. It’s so…so sweet and warm and light in a way she can’t even describe. How wonderful and tragic that something as simple as fresh air had such an effect on her.

She remembers an influx of fear after that, clasping her small hands over her mouth. She glances at the older boy with wide eyes: are we in danger now? Kabuto pauses, save for his hair, tousled by the wind. He motions for her to step back and she does, watching as he peers through the opened gate. A second passes, then another, but time is both endless and meaningless to a child; when he finally eases it closed, she has no idea how long they’ve waited in silence.

“It’s okay,” Kabuto finally whispers, turning to her again. He smiles and just like that, she knows they’re safe. Sakura drops her arms and takes his hand when he offers again. He leads her away from the entrance and up a flight of stairs. She’s never climbed stairs before, and it takes a few uneasy steps before she gets the hang of it. When she does, her feet move of their own accord; climbing like this brings her closer to the stars, and the ever-present breeze rustling her hair like a new friend ready to play.

A moon-lit clearing awaits them at the top; a bed of milky sand that almost glows, and a sea of grass stretching further than the light can follow. That’s the forest, Kabuto tells her. It isn’t safe, either. She must have taken his caution to heart, because not once among those early fragments does Sakura recall venturing into the woods. That would come later, and it wouldn’t be her decision.

They visit the clearing every so often. Sakura likes the outside, she’s decided. It’s quiet and different and a kind of magic only children understand (an escape, she knows now, but advanced terms like isolation and captivity won’t enter her vocabulary for a long time yet). Sometimes they’d chase each other in the dark. Sometimes they’d watch the stars. Other times—so rare, in fact, they stood out among the fog of childhood memories—he’d teach her hand signs. Nothing elaborate, and never for combat (her father would’ve taken his head, she knew). Just a slow, simple walk through the roster: bird, horse, dog and so on. He never showed her how to put them together. She was too young to memorize them, anyway. She only remembers the incident because years later, she’d score higher than nearly all of her classmates at Konoha Academy. A strong foundation starts somewhere, right?

>>There’s another gap here, one she attributes to the clockwork repetition of her day and seamless nights playing outside. Whenever it started, Sakura knows that somewhere between trailing after him during the day and running around on a select few nights, she’d stopped calling Kabuto by name. Instead, she referred to him the way she saw him: as a close friend. As a brother. Her nii-san.

He must have taught her that word: nii-san. A little girl in isolation would have no real concept of family. A father, certainly. A mother…well, she’d heard the term from her father’s lips, but only in passing (and only when he grew impatient with her: ‘just like your mother,’ he’d hiss whenever she’d recoil from a needle or cower in a darkened room. This, like everything else, she wouldn’t understand for years). Siblings, however, were a strange and faraway concept. Children to grow up around? Play with? Seek comfort in? How was that any difference from friendship?

Kabuto smiled at her and told her something she’d never forget: ‘Family is a blood bond, Sakura-chan. Blood is thicker than water.’ She looked up at him, her golden eyes wide and filled with confusion.

‘But you and I don’t share the same blood.’

Kabuto’s smile never wavered. ‘Well,’ he told her. ‘In our case, it’s the other way around.’

The four year old’s brows came together in a knot. ‘I don’t understand.’

Kabuto smiled, and this, too, felt faraway. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, and then the moment passed; her ruffled her hair and chuckled softly. ‘Just know that I’m looking out for you, okay?’

Smiles are infectious, and despite herself, a little one tugged at the corner of her mouth. Kabuto was all of those things, she realized. If that’s what having a brother meant, then he was right. Water held more closely together than blood. ��Okay.’ <<

It’s during this gap that Sakura finds favor with her father again. When exactly it occurred, she has no memory; she only knows it happened because she still carries the mark on her shoulder…and she remembers the pain. Burning, blinding agony that tore through her small frame with teeth and claws and unyielding resilience. She knows she cried—she used to wake up crying several times after that, gasping for breath and shivering. Sometimes Kabuto would overhear and check on her, although how he sensed her distress, she’s never quite figured out.

“It’s alright, nay-chan,” he’d murmur, wiping away her tears. Nay-chan, he called her then—called her now, too. Right up until the end. His little sister.

Her father’s archives tell her later that the curse mark healed faster than expected. Something or other about sharing genes, although it offers little comfort in hindsight. He still fooled her into compliance. He still branded her. There’s a chance he considered her, too, before other, more suitable potential host bodies crossed his radar. The thought makes her ill, so she keeps it at bay for now. Without proof, this is all speculation. Just like much of her childhood.

__ Sakura spends her fifth year preparing for the rest of her life. She doesn’t know it at the time (how could she? She’s barely past toddler-age). She can, however, sense that’s something’s changing. She knows the feeling like a poison that won’t leave her system no matter what she does. It’s easy to look back and point to the eye of the storm, but as a child caught in the middle of it, only one difference jumps out at her: she spends more time with her father and sees Kabuto less.

It isn’t that he’s explicitly gone anywhere. Kabuto is just…busy. According to her father at least, the rare few times she’s brave enough to ask. She knows her nii-san is busy, she’s accompanied him during medical rounds on more than one occasion. What she doesn’t understand is why he’s suddenly too busy for her. She won’t pursue the matter though; Orochimaru is still quick to anger. No time apart will ever change that.

When is it her father’s lies truly begin? Is it before she hears of Konoha? Before casting her first jutsu? There’s no way to know for sure, and Sakura’s decided ultimately, it doesn’t matter. There was no avoiding this road. What she does remember is a fractured sense of hope and caution warring within her: her father wanted another child? A new playmate for Sakura to brighten her dismal days? She can’t believe it (she wishes she hadn’t). Orochimaru merely smiles. At the time, she mistook it for sincerity.

“That’s right, Sakura-chan. I know you’ve been lonely. Kabuto is so preoccupied these days, isn’t he?” Her eyes widen, but she can’t find the words: could it be she was wrong to doubt her father? Has he known what she’s wanted all this time?

“What do you say, my dear? Shall we find ourselves another member for this family?”

The prickling sensation on the back of her neck tell her to be careful…but her heart, her lonely, wounded heart, clings to a dream. She’ll have another brother or a sister. She won’t be lonely anymore.

“How…how will we do that?” Sakura asks meekly. In a flash, her father’s smile grows teeth.

“Don’t you fret over the details. You’ll learn soon enough.” Though his voice is warm, there’s a layer of ice behind the words. In the moment, however, Sakura hears only one thing: maybe, just maybe, this is the start of a new beginning. Maybe he’ll finally be the father he’s always wanted. It was harder to let that go than almost anything else.

Her face takes the longest to adjust to. Ironic now, considering she once longed to adopt it permanently: pink hair, seafoam eyes and a healthy complexion. No trace of Orochimaru whatsoever. That’s the idea, she knows, but it’s jarring, seeing a stranger in your own reflection. From the day she was born, she’s looked exactly like her father (wider eyes, and maybe a wider forehead, but those are the only differences).

She’s sure she asked him why: why change her appearance so drastically, why hide it at all (and was there a way to turn it off?) His answer was always the same: “You want to make daddy happy, don’t you?”

She’s grown to hate that word, hate the way he said it: daddy. He’d held onto it as long as he could, wielding it like a weapon that chiseled away at her heart, twisting her bones out of shape until she buckled under his demands. At five, however, Sakura merely nods, wiping away her tears.

“Good girl,” her father answers. He pats her head like he always does and turns to leave. Then he crouches, to her level, and that complacent grin drops from his face. “You must never release the transformation,” he warns, his golden eyes sharpening like daggers. “Do you understand?”

Sakura knows better than to wilt under those eyes. She bobs her head—once and deliberate—and though her voice is small, she answers with unwavering certainty.

“Yes, father.”

>>If he notices the ease with which she mimics his hand signs, he doesn’t say. She’s already proven to be bright beyond her years (his words, not her own). She certainly could have picked them up after a glance. It’s more likely he didn’t care, so long as it secured the transformation jutsu. The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. <<

He grills her repeatedly after that. She only knows because the mantra still disrupts her now and then, marching through her mind like a twisted lullaby. Maybe it is, she thinks from time to time: she used to lie awake at night, staring into the darkness where the ceiling ought to be, wrapping her father’s instructions around herself as a means of comfort. She was looking for an Uchiha. Uchihas were important. They were powerful and all came from the same family. A clan, her father would snap, whenever she fumbled during their lessons. Sakura would wilt and curl her small hands into fists.

“A clan,” she’d reply meekly, fighting the urge to look away; something in her gut told her doing so would not end well. She’d say no more after that, waiting until the hard lines in Orochimaru’s face smoothed over again.

“That’s better,” he’d continue with a cold little smile. “And why are clans important, Sakura-chan?”

She knew the answer to this one. “Because they have special jutsu.” “That’s right. Do you remember what I taught you about those special jutsu?” Sakura nodded (she’s sure, looking back, that her innocent naivete bled through in her reply).

“They make special friends.” Her father smiled, his thin lips peeling back above sharp teeth.

“Not just friends, my dear, but an excellent addition to this family. Just imagine it; another brother or sister to keep around. You want that, don’t you?” Her stomach rolls to think about it now: keep around and play with were two grotesquely different things. If only she knew now what she does then; at the time, she merely bobbed her head again, and probably smiled back in a small, shy way. Sakura desperately wanted another playmate. She hardly saw her nii-san anymore.

>>She asked him about it once, the final time they spoke before she left. She found Kabuto in the infirmary (lab, it was a lab, she knows that now). He was curt with her at first, probably caught in the middle of some unholy experiment, but when she shriveled in the doorway, Kabuto’s stern face melted to one of concern.

“I’m sorry, Sakura-chan,” he said, setting down his tools (if there’s anything else questionable lying around, she can’t remember. Maybe that’s for the best). “I didn’t mean to scare you,” Kabuto continues, crouching down in front of her. “I was working.”

“I know,” Sakura says quietly. “You’re always working now.” She searches his face but finds none of the harsh creases so often seen in her father’s. If anything, he looks a little upset. Maybe guilty.

“I know,” he echoes, and with a gentle hand, carefully ruffles her hair. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen my nay-chan. You’ve grown so big. Did you cast this jutsu by yourself?”

Oh, she thinks. That’s right. He hasn’t seen her new face before. Sakura shakes her head.

“Daddy taught me. I don’t like it.”

Kabuto smiles faintly. “You’ll adjust. Think of it as wearing a costume. Remember the games we used to play outside? Like make-believe.” Make believe. She says it again out loud. Put that way, it seems more like a game than anything permanent.

“I miss you,” Sakura says suddenly, small and framed in sadness. “I wanna play like we used to.”

Kabuto’s eyes match the ache in her chest. “I miss you too. I wish things could be different.”

“Why can’t they be?” Kabuto sighs, a soft sound that rolls his shoulders forward.

“I have too much work to do. Besides, aren’t you leaving soon?”

“Yes, but—but can’t you come with me?” She remembers looking in those black eyes for the answers she wants to hear. Sadly, Kabuto is older and wiser (and better at lying). He takes her small hands in his and gives them a squeeze. “I promise I’ll always look out for you, nay-chan. Alright?”

Sakura’s brow furrows. “Does that mean you’re gonna go with me?”

Kabuto doesn’t answer. “It’ll be dark, soon. Let’s watch the stars one more time.”

“Nii-san…?”

“Everything will be alright, Sakura. You can trust me. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He lets go of one hand, and with the other, leads her out of the infirmary. She used to reflect on that last part fondly; lying on the grass, practicing hand signs and watching stars dart about the sky like magic: a final memory to share before venturing off into the wide, wild world. ‘Remember this when you feel lonely, nay-chan,’ Kabuto told her. ‘No matter how far apart we are, we’re always under the same sky.’ (Sakura digs her nails into her arm until she nearly bleeds. One day, she promised herself she’d cut out his traitorous heart underneath the very same sky).

She remembers that last night clearly. Orochimaru woke her in the dead of night, rousing her from a heavy sleep with hushed words and an undercurrent of urgency.

“Right now?” Sakura remembers mumbling in her half-awakened state, too tired to remember her manners.

“Yes,” her father hisses, glancing at her with cold eyes. There’s more than ice in them now, something Sakura at the age of five didn’t recognize. She doesn’t need to, and scrambles out of bed, looking around her room. Her sleep-addled mind is slower to catch up: they’re leaving? Right now? What about her toys? Her books? What about spare clothes? She tries to ask her father, but he’s antsy and irritable and shoos her out of the room, so close on her heels he nearly tramples her.

“You don’t need any of that,” he insists, his voice hushed but cutting like a scalpel. Sakura bites her tongue, her false green eyes swimming as they plunge into the darkness ahead. A lonely candle flickers in her father’s hand, but the pitiful flame casts long shadows on the walls that jerk and twitch in time to their every step. Like monsters on the hunt, Sakura thinks to herself: the ghost of a memory snakes across her mind with cold fingers. ‘Don’t go exploring on your own,’ Kabuto had warned her. ‘It isn’t safe.’ She remembers something else as well. She didn’t get to say goodbye.

When they step outside, Sakura’s heart crawls into her throat. The air feels…different, tonight, she remembers that very well. The looming trees, the milky grass, her old friend the moon all yield to the starless sky above, painting their surroundings in almost perfect, inky black. Sakura shivers. For the first time that evening, her step hesitates. Orochimaru notices. He always noticed when it served in his benefit.

“What’s wrong, Sakura-chan?” He asks with clipped sincerity, a cruel little smile meeting her eyes when she finally dared a glance up. She hates him for it now. In the moment, however, Sakura knew only to bite her lip and choose her words carefully.

“I don’t like the dark,” she says quietly. It wasn’t a lie—that would come later. Her father regards her for a moment. Then he kneels before her, the flame dangerously close to their faces.

“No?” She shakes her head from side to side. Another pause. Orochimaru’s eyes gleam red in the firelight. “We have a long journey ahead. Are you sure you’re up for it?”

Sakura recognizes the warning in her father’s voice. There’s no backing out of this. No retreating to her room, no hiding under the covers. She lets go of her lip, sucks in a small breath and answers in a small, quivering voice. “I-I can do it.” Her father’s smile splits into a nasty grin that reveals his elongated canines.

“Good girl,” he says, and then he turns, walking straight into the unknown. “Come now, before the sun comes up.”

This arrangement doesn’t last long. Sakura knows this only because she remembers finishing the journey on her father’s back. The why of it is lost to time, but she doesn’t need a memory to figure out the reasoning. She was still so young then; even the most obedient six-year-olds will crumble under fear. Crying children draw attention, especially at night. That didn’t bode well for stealth.

“Enough,” her father likely hissed, all but a shadow himself in the lightless forest.

She huddles under his cloak now, daring glances over his shoulder in haphazard bursts of bravery. At least, she must have, because the wind in her hair, her heart in her ears and the black void swooping up to greet them again and again still keep her up at night (why place so much on her tiny shoulders if he always intended to carry the weight himself?)

Time blurs. So do their surroundings. There are no landmarks, no stars to mark their way. For all she knows, they were frozen in place, running in an endless circle until the darkness decided to swallow them up. Ha. More irony. That’s all she’s got to look forward to now. Darkness and isolation. Funny how things come full circle (except it isn’t, it isn’t funny and there are days she’d rather tear her hair out than carry the mess her father left behind).

The Hidden Leaf village is no casual walk from Sound Country; to cover that much ground in a single night meant running nearly non-stop...or her father cast another sleeping genjutsu over her. She wouldn’t put him past him. What she does remember is the way the wind sank and settled as his pace slowed, and the gradual halt in the heart of this aimlessness. Sakura’s own heart wakes up inside her chest, throwing itself against her ribs like a prisoner behind bars; the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Something is coming. She doesn’t know what, but it circles the air around them like a dense cloud now: anticipation. Fear. Trauma, although she’s never been able to fully digest that word. Trauma implies there’s a victim, and she shares too much of the blame for that.

Sakura doesn’t want to climb down from her father’s back. She doesn’t want to let go of him and she certainly doesn’t want to stand out there by herself. Alas, ‘no’ is not a part of Orochimaru’s vocabulary, and so she very carefully, very slowly, lowers one foot and then the other onto the grass. It’s cold; she remembers it because she’s never experienced the sensation outdoors. It’s so much sharper than the stale, suffocating chill she’d feel from time to time at home. Home…at home, her nii-san used to check on her, bring her an extra blanket or something warm to drink. She wonders what he’s up to now. Will they ever see each other again?

Her father’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts, low but biting like the wind. “This is where we part, my dear. The Hidden Leaf village lies just beyond this forest.”

She remembers the shock that hits her. The dread that pools down to her toes. He was going to leave her? Here? Right now?

“But I don’t want—"

“Don’t what?” Orochimaru snaps. “Don’t want a new playmate? Did I hear incorrectly, before?”

“N-No…” Confusion burns her face and guilt gnaws at her stomach when she’s accused of lying. Sakura didn’t lie. She was a good girl. A big girl. Sakura meekly tugs at her hair, her eyes wide and frozen ahead, terrified to look away in case her father sees it through the darkness.

Silence passes between them. When Sakura begins sniffling, Orochimaru speaks again.

“There there,” he says, patting her head as though she were a wounded animal instead of his daughter. “There’s no need to cry. This will be over before you know it, alright?”

She can’t tell if he’s warning her or offering comfort.

“Alright?” Her father asks again, and there it is, that careful teetering on the edge of a blade.

“Okay,” Sakura says quietly.

“Good girl,” he says, and then he takes her by the shoulder, pointing her in what must be the right direction. She flinches—she remembers this clearly—and a voice she’ll come to know as her instincts begs her to run, go back, stay with me, I don’t want to be left alone—

Her father’s voice in her ear yanks her out of her thoughts. “Sakura-chan? One more thing. You are not to return to Sound Country without an Uchiha. Do you understand?”

She doesn’t, not really (how could she at that age?) But she wants to be grown up, to be trusted the way her father trusts Kabuto. To be depended on the way her father depends on him. She hears him shuffling again, then a brush of hair that isn’t her own against her cheek. Her father leans in close and when he speaks next his voice sounds like a snake’s. Her blood chills with his parting words: “If you fail me, I’m afraid I’ll have to kill you.”

I’ll have to kill you. She wasn’t familiar with the word itself, but she knew the feeling, knew that tone of voice. It was the same one he’d hissed when the nurses drew her blood. The same one that barked over her desperate attempts to claw out her curse marked when it first formed. A tone that rattled her very core and urged her still-developing instincts to stay quiet and stay small and whatever you do, don’t you dare disobey him. What kind of monster imprints that on one so young?

The terror sinks deep into her bones and will remain that way for the next eight years. It follows her like a second shadow through her time at the academy, chasing her day in and out long after she graduated to Genin status. If she stands still long enough, she can still hear it, creeping around the corner like an echo of too many mistakes, too many bridges burned.

Sakura remembers how hard she tried not to cry that night. How hard she tried to be brave. She listened as her father’s footsteps faded and disappeared. Was he watching from nearby? Waiting, as always, to see if she’d mess up? Probably. The bastard always needed to be in control. A tight line forms between her lips. He likely followed her to the gates as well, congratulating himself when Haruno Kizashi heard her whimpering. By a cruel twist of fate, the man who would ultimately welcome her into his family behaved more like a father than the one who gave her life.

A shame it hadn’t mattered in the end. Once a snake, always so and like it or not, a snake can’t hide under cherry blossoms forever. No matter how badly she once longed to. Kabuto was wrong: in the end, water mopped up without a trace. It was blood that stained indefinitely. She’d been stained since birth, marred by the sins of a man committed long before her time. Konoha hadn’t forgotten that. Neither had Kabuto.

When Orochimaru breathed his last, she’d expected her nii-san to stay, help her find her way forward, build a new foundation and keep Sound Country from collapsing. She owed it to them, the shinobi who’d carved a life for themselves at her father’s side. No matter what they’d done (what he’d made them do) they deserved a chance to start anew. Kabuto didn’t see it that way. He didn’t care. Her dear brother, her caretaker and only friend for so so long proved himself to be every bit the traitor she once so despised in herself. I should have known better, she told herself, tells herself every time his eyes—his true eyes, pale and haunting and no longer hidden behind layers of lies and jutsu—burned into the back of her brain. This wasn’t his home. She wasn’t…she wasn’t his family. Kabuto could walk away, leave this place and everyone in it without a second thought.

Sakura wasn’t so fortunate. She’d grown up in these hallways; her childhood bedroom still sat at the other end of the complex, a little dusty, but otherwise untouched by time. This place formed the essence of her very core, and no matter how hard she’d tried to separate herself over the years, that would never change. Besides, she knew long before she’d received word of his death that Orochimaru’s daughter would never be welcomed in Konoha. She’d be put on trial—exiled or worse and what would she do then? How could she explain the mark this place had left (literally in some cases) on her?

There was nowhere else to go. No one else to rely on. So Orochimaru’s daughter chose to embrace her fangs, embrace her heritage as heiress of Sound Country. Under her leadership, she decided, they would step out from under the shadows. They would grow and thrive and one day, one day the Hidden Leaf Village and all those she once foolishly considered friends (once considered family) would hear their battle cry. She’d make sure of that.

#naruto #sakura haruno #orochimaru #kabuto yakushi #sakura no oto #kabuto hyuuga #tw: emotional abuse #tw: childhood trauma #newstuff

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