Warnings: Brief sexual fantasy with brief sacrilege (no need to squint this time - it’s there). A very cruel tease of smut… (I’m so sorry. Okay, not really.)
Word Count: 1198
A/N: Hello hello! So, um, funny story…here’s where things get a bit real. Unfortunately, this particular installment got to where it has to be divided into two installments. So the next part I post, it won’t be an interlude, but a full-blown chapter. And boy oh boy, there will be smut.
Quick reminder for new readers just joining in (hi new readers!): normally, I write fics for Supernatural. However, I’m also a huge fan of WWE and love reading the works of that community as well. After reading some brilliant pieces from - and chatting with - the amazing @devitt-club. I got inspired to write a fic featuring one of my current favorites: Finn Bálor. This fic is starting to grow a bit beyond my control and, quite frankly, I couldn’t be happier.
Apologies in advance because, this being my first foray into WWE fanfic (and alternate universe at that), this will probably suck. Still, it’s worth the risk. ^_^
Aries: a scorching hot summer day, not a cloud in sight and the breeze only occasional.
Taurus: a gentle spring day, with friendly breezes and the perfect mix of shade and sun
Gemini: right after a storm in spring, when the heat has vanished and all that remains are spots of gray clouds and petals being carried in a breeze
Cancer: a desperately needed rain in the end of summer, no thunder, no lightning, just the sense of relief from a cooling shower
Leo: a clear night in summer, the moon lighting the sky as fireflies enjoy the coolness and the trees only occasionally shift in the breeze
Virgo: a summer morning before the heat has set in, there’s a mugginess to the air and fog as the sun rises, the breeze blowing is welcome but it warns of the heat on its way
Libra: the first day of fall, when the breeze snaps into its first chill, and you can wear anything with comfort thanks to the sun’s blanket and the winds fanning, they say it will rain the coming weekend
Scorpio: the tension filled prelude to an autumn storm, the winds blow at full speed and the sky is blanketed by clouds, thunder rolls nearby
Sagittarius: a cold fall afternoon, when the sun is just about to set and though it’s mostly sunny, the hint of winter is just around the corner and can be felt in every breeze
Capricorn: after the snow storm, when the sun has finally rose again to begin melting it away. The clouds have gone away, and even though it’s snowy and cold, it feels like the perfect day to be outside.
Aquarius: a thunderstorm in the middle of spring, the last cold snap before summer and the last stretch of warmth before winter, aquarius is the bringer of what comes next
Pisces: a snow storm, cold and windy, no sign of the sky, it can be scary, but it can be nostalgic too. The storm carries from day to night with the sunset, and howls on till morning.
Rating: Explicit Warnings: Age gap, NSFW content Pairing: Zeke/Pieck Length: 9089 words Summary: He knows that the eyes of others linger on him, knows the embers of lust that smoulder in their eyes, and knows the not infrequent, furtive encounters in darkened rooms, with men and women both, that those embers spark. But he has never much concerned himself with his appearance. His body is Marley’s weapon. It has been forged for Marley, and its existence will find its end at the bottom of a titan’s stomach. At the end of the day, the beauty of his body is incidental, currency to be traded for sex when the mood takes him. His body does not belong to him. Neither beauty nor body are his. They are tonight, he thinks forcefully.
Prelude: Discussion of storm (2006) mini series. I really love this cover, the positioning of ororo and T’challa’s faces so powerful and eye catching. Ororo’s eye brows on fleek while T’challa looks like he’s on the hunt. Ha, but most important it gives you this adorable scene of what appears to be “kid panther and kid storm” before they were who they are. It brings out the romantic in you. The tree forms a half heart and the background seems to be a Kenyan Savannah, Africa where it all started for those two.
Side note: Eric Jerome Dickey is a black writer so my hopes are set high, i predict good portrayals. Props to @discipleofbastet for giving me the heads up.
title: madly, deeply
and irrevocably | AO3 summary: Kuroo Tetsurou falls in love with Tsukishima Kei.
It happens in increments. notes: it’s 1AM here and I can’t sleep bc i was reading @fealle‘s krtsk fics and am now utterly destroyed
Tetsurou knew he liked Tsukishima by the end of that first
training camp. He knew that “so, you can ask me all about blocking” was only
half the truth for him giving his number and asking Tsukishima for his. He knew
he would get so much shit for it once Bokuto realized and he knew that it will
probably hurt to pine after someone that far who might not even be interested
in him the same way. He knew it will be difficult – but not entirely
And, thank whatever lucky stars he had, it wasn’t at all
Because a month later, when he finally grew the balls to ask
Tsukishima out – palms sweaty, heart on his throat – he said yes, and three
months later, he’s still receiving good morning texts and going on weekend
dates, holding hands and eating ice cream in autumn because why the fuck not.
Liking Tsukishima was easy. They banter, they make fun of
each other, they hold hands and kiss and have fun. They go on dates and train
for volleyball together and it was just easy.
But falling in love with Tsukishima was a different matter
Based on this ask and a prompt, both courtesy of @kaiserfreud. You evil, evil person.
“An… Idea. Your meta on Hayato gave me a prompt idea, that will hopefully spurn your muse to write. “A Storm,” Hayato is a true Storm. His world starts as a world of grey, the prelude to a true devastating storm, the dark clouds looming and casting a dark gloom. Destruction, unrelenting winds and devastation. Blood is spilt, it’s Red flows.”
Genre: Angst/Drama/Friendship (maybe)
Other: No pairing, Gokudera-centric, ANGST. WHY.
He is born into a world of grey.
Bleak, monochromatic colours, a parallel to the life he leads. Nothing but expectations and demands; a detached sort of living. (Only it wasn’t living at all, and the unease set in early.)
His mother is the only one. His sister too, somewhat, but she is their father’s still. Their father’s “perfect child.”
(No matter how he tries, he cannot be, for the blood that runs through his veins is not accepted by everyone else. Image. Status. It is important. “What about happiness?” he’d ask. Silence is his answer.)
But he thinks, ponders. What is happiness?
His mother. His mother, with a warm smile, her delicate touch and the magic that flows from her fingers. “Music.“
She brings life to his world, and sets the strange, discontented roiling under his skin at ease. A mother’s touch, a mother’s compassion and acceptance. Only she, only his mother.
For all that the greys and bleak surroundings unnerve him, he likes his hair. Because it is like his mother’s, and his mother represents safety. Contentment. And… Love.
But she dies. She dies, she leaves, and with her takes his safe place. His stability. His happiness.
He is a bastard child. Unsuited. Soiled. Shameful. No matter how he tries, tried, he was never to reach the heights his sister could. Had.
With his mother’s passing, he loses the internal struggle. He loses the battle with the whispers, the odd unease that he could never put a name to, that feeling that sputtered and faltered before ever truly sparking to life. His discontent culminates full force, and like a dam, his world is flooded in a deep, furious red.
He rages, he hates, he loathes. Hates his mother for leaving him. Hates his father for never seeing him for him, for thinking it is never enough. Hates his sister for always being the better child for something as simple and unchangeable as blood. Hates the families for sneering and looking down their noses at him, the illegitimate child. Loathes the world for his existence, for being forced to live this warring, unstable life.
He becomes a hitman, finding no other avenue to take. He is a genius of sorts, but that has never been enough, and it isn’t until he bursts into red flame in wrathful fury that everyone actually looks at him. Not at the bastard, not at his father’s mistake, not at the young lady’s erroneous little brother. They look at him and see Hayato Gokudera, the child they have shamed, and tremble. It is not the acknowledgement he always dreamed of, but it is enough. (He accepts it with a bitter, spiteful sort of pride, and his flames hiss in pleasure)
His world has gone from dull greys to explosive red, the colour of hatred, anger, blood. He realizes that it is not better—that it is dangerous—but relishes the splash of colour regardless. Because it is his.
His world becomes painted in death. The smells of smoke and gunpowder cling to him, ash and dust the colour of his hair are left in his wake, soaked in the deep crimson of blood. He is a Storm in the center of chaos, and the last one standing in grave victory. He knows it is worse. Morals do not exist in this world and he is in the downward spiral that leads to a grave-less, worthless death. But he knows no other way of living.
He is the hurricane bomb, who lives a life of perpetuating greys and reds. His path is one of destruction, and he leaves trails of death and desolation in his wake.
(He once dreamt of his fingers becoming magic like his mother’s. Of recognition and applause and acceptance and love. Of creating magic with his own two hands, of bringing joy and colour to those round him. But instead, he paints his world in the red of blood and anger, and washes off the aftermath at the day’s end.)
He is angry, lost, unfulfilled, and grasping at life’s tethers as he struggles to find purchase in the down ward spiral.
Unlike Ino, who slipped in and out of her mind whenever she dreamt, there was no real pattern to the timing of Sasuke’s visits. He came and went as he pleased, and often with little warning. Such was the way of the gods, unbound by mortal agendas. But he came frequently enough that the tomatoes thrived, and her ears quickly became attuned to the even the lowest of rumbles, the telltale prelude to an approaching storm. Where there was thunder, there was lightning, and where there was lightning, there was Sasuke. And Sasuke, it seemed, took deals very seriously.
This time, she had been on her way back from the river when she felt the storm stirring in the air. So she ran all the way back to her cottage in the glade, returning soon enough to tug her laundry from the line—and to catch the thunder god in her garden, inspecting the tomatoes.
“There is no blight on the leaves,” he said, looking quite pleased with himself, “and the soil holds the moisture well.”
She watched him, sifting the damp earth between his fingers with a careful, practiced hand. Then he reached down and tugged up an errant weed, one whose roots she had feared to be too closely entangled with those of the tomatoes.
“I thought,” she accused, “that the gods were not to directly interfere in mortal matters.”
But Sasuke straightened and met her gaze, unabashed. “You have offered me these tomatoes,” he said. “Since they are mine, they are my business.”
This, Ino had explained to her. The quality of an offering came not from its monetary value directly—else all gods would demand precious metals and rare gems—but from its importance to a particular god. Thus, it was unusual for a god to accept an offering that was not yet ready, for it was impossible to predict exactly how it would turn out and they risked wasting their powers on an uncertain exchange. Sakura had always assumed the proud boy-god commanded such immense strength that a little storm here and there was like nothing to him, but now she began to entertain the possibility that he simply liked tomatoes very, very much.
She laughed. “And what of the balance, milord, God of Farming?”
“Tch.” He glared balefully at her, although she had the distinct feeling it was more for show than due to any offense at her impertinence. “One plant is now dead, and the other will now live. Your garden is balanced enough.”
He stepped aside to make room for her as she approached, maintaining a palpably deliberate distance between her body and his. Then she knelt and checked the soil for herself, then each of the gently unfurling leaves. After that, she walked the rest of her resuscitated garden, examining all the other plants. By the time she was finished, the rain was falling in heavy sheets around them, but she remained dry.
It was not until he had ushered her back into her cottage that she realized he had shielded her from the worst of his storm yet again. She could not say when, exactly, she had begun to stay out in the rain not because she longed for the smell of the fertile earth, or the sound of the raindrops trickling through the leafy canopy, but for something else entirely.
The mourning period for Grandmother Chiyo was scarcely over when Sakura was finally forced to march into the village proper and barter her remedies for basic living supplies: a bolt of sturdy fabric for new work trousers, a sack of flour from the mill, a new cauldron from the blacksmith. Perhaps because it had been several years since Chiyo had last sent her to the village, people stared openly at her as she passed. More likely, however, it had to do with her rose-tinted hair, or her rumored powers of sorcery. But within the next few weeks, after she proved herself to be somewhat more boring than expected, the people overcame their reservations and grew friendly, even asking for her to lay healing hands on their ill. And when some of the local men grew mysteriously clumsy, calling for her multiple times in a week, she finally stopped ignoring the wind ruffling her hair, alight with mischief.
“I told you they’re hitting on you!” the irrepressible West Wind crowed as he accompanied her on the long walk home. “But I wouldn’t trust any of them, by the way. Just yesterday, those two over there were camped out in the alley by the baker’s shop, trying to peek up all the girls’ skirts.”
She frowned at the wind god, whose pranks always seemed to lead to trouble. According to Ino, although he and Sasuke were too volatile a combination to be allowed to roam the earth together, they were practically inseparable when they returned to the heavens, and only Sasuke could keep the troublemaker in check. “Naruto, I think that’s your fault for flipping their skirts in the first place.”
He opened his mouth, but a roll of distant thunder cut off his defense. Already, the gathering clouds were turning the sky grey, and the first warning droplets were staining the dirt road.
“Eh,” he said. “Sounds like Sasuke’s headed this way.”
“Is he?” she replied, nonchalant. But she looked to the forest and the stretch of road that separated her from it, and the anticipation bubbled up in her chest and filled her with heady delight.
“Did you not hear that?” He peered at her, then grinned, for although he was young by the estimation of the gods, he was still wiser than he seemed. “Saaay, hasn’t it been raining a lot around here this year?”
Sakura swallowed. “Maybe? But remember,” she said, voice carefully even, “I didn’t ask for rain for that whole first month.”
Then the lightning crackled violently across the sky, drowning them in a brilliant flash of light, and Naruto rolled his eyes.
“Impatient bastard,” he muttered. But he took a grudging leap into the skies, where he was carried aloft by a great gust of wind. “Later, Sakura!”
She waved until he disappeared behind the clouds. Then, and only then, when she was finally alone, did she surrender to the demands of her giddy heart. She gathered up her skirt in big fistfuls, hiked it to her knees, and ran.