VISUAL SIBLINGS 💗

OOOF grumpy x sunshine trope but spin it around and make it nanami and reader being ta’s to their college prof who has over 600 students in his class rahhh…. him being clueless as to why you’re such a magnet for the younger, more bright-eyed students and have more of them request you to have a peer-review but he thinks it’s merely because of your looks. he, and quite literally everyone on campus, would have rocks for brains if they considered you anything less of lovely and fair when it comes to the eye (he totallyyy says that in a factual sense, not a complimentary one though, trust him), so nanami merely believes the reason as to why his students refuse to meet his eye and ask boring questions is because he’s overshadowed by you—you coddle them all too much and probably give them the answer without much though merely because it’s easier.

he doesn’t get it, even when your students praise you and your teaching methods—which were just elementary simplifications of the material. it’s only when his student furrows their brows and their confusion unwavering, telling him for the nth time that “(y/n) does it this way though, why are you making it more complicated…” that he sighs and gives up, telling them offhandedly that they can just seek you out if that’s what they want. he’s perturbed by how only when he mentions your name, that’s the only time his student actually seems a little happier.

he doesn’t get it, even as he’s staring at you waiting for your coffee in the campus coffee shop—why so many people pass you by with a smile and a wave or why the barista draws a cute kitty cat on your cup that makes you laugh lightly, the sound drawing in a soft pink on the barista’s cheeks. you carry a tray of two cups of coffees, the other supposedly for the professor so you can suck up to him more and get that stubborn letter of recommendation he’ll give only a scarce population.

he doesn’t get it, even as you walk in the classroom after him, a halo of light only invisible to him beaming around you that attracts “hi!”s and “good morning!”s from all over the lecture hall, a stark contrast to his own presence in which his greetings consisted of eye flickers and occasional quiet head nods.

he doesn’t get it, even as you gently nudge a cup of coffee into his hands—wait, huh?

nanami silently turns to you, confusion bespeckling his countenance at the cat-scribbled cup that amused you earlier.

“one sugar with a splash of soy milk, right?” you inquire with a light grin. you’re right… that indeed is his usual order but how did you—

“i overheard you saying to your friend—what was his name? haiba? haibara?—on friday about your coffee order after class, so,” you gesture to the cup in his hands. “i thought you’d might want that this morning.”

“oh,” nanami chokes out, the warmth on his cheeks beginning to replicate the one in his palm. “… thank you, but you didn’t have to.”

you shrugged. “i didn’t, but i wanted to. it’s the little things that matter, y’know?”

you give him one last grin before unpacking your things and making light conversation with your peers about your weekend, detailing “oh yeah! you mentioned that museum awhile ago! how’d it go?” and “i’m not sure visiting a cat cafe would be good for your allergies…” along the way.

and when he sips his gifted coffee, finding there to be a little more richness than usual, the world seems just a tad bit better.

he blames it on the caffeine, though.

this page has given me so many helpful writing tips ♡

Beginner writers often describe a character's attributes through what is essentially a list: "He had green eyes, dark hair, and a sharp jaw." This can be fluffed-up with more interesting and original descriptions: "Her eyes were dark and quiet, and suggested secrets he would never know of." But at the end of the day, this only serves to form a relationship between the character and the reader: what does a character look like and feel like to the reader?

To make description meaningful, it should impact the way a character is viewed by others and themselves. If a character wears glasses, others might assume they're smart or nerdy, even if they aren't. If a character used to be short as a child but no longer is, they might still see themselves as short and small even when they no longer are. In real life, our perceptions of others and ourselves, whether we like it or not, are affected by physical appearance and inevitably the assumptions or differences in treatment we make toward them. It's important to reflect that in your stories and characters.

#i can’t function #ur the greatest writer wow #love it here

ESCAPE FROM TOKYO. // HEARTLESS.

you got me tattooed on your mind, you just want me all the time.

+ wc. 2.4k.

+ synopsis. you just wanted his attention. he just wanted your affection.

+ cw. mutual pining. car sex. alcohol mention. dirty talk. dictation(?) kink. asphyxiation. orgasm denial. orgasm control. spit kink. heavy themes of infidelity.

+ a/n. first installment of escape from tokyo! i needed a break from smc, something less plot driven and a little more fun to write while i work on that on the side, and that’s how eft was born. also, i wanted to try a different take on sanzu. a lot of people tend to focus on his more...blatantly wild side and i wanted to write him a teensy bit...subdued, in a sense. i hope it came across that way. i hope everyone enjoys! reblogs + feedback are appreciated. as always, 18+, minors do not interact.

+ playlist. taglist. masterlist.

+ special thanks to @spidermilfs for beta-ing for me! ily silvi <3

Sanzu's not too sure what kind of witch you are to cast such a spell on him, but you must be a powerful one to have him lusting after you like this.

He watches you from the rim of his glass, the neon lights in the club shimmering over your skin and encasing you in an artificial halo of blue and purple. Purple irises never waver, locked onto the sway of your hips even when he sets down his glass to lean back in the soft suede couch. Someone comes over, a bottle service girl who bats her lashes as she offers to top off his drink once more, but he waves her off without acknowledgement. She frowns and he doesn't care. He's too enraptured with the beautiful being that turned towards him, colored crystals for eyes and a sticky smattering of lip gloss over plush lips.

The way his heart thumped against his chest was inhumane. You were inhumane. You had to be to have this kind of effect on him.

Not only that, but you were dangerous. You were poison, something to stay away from as best he could like a toxic chemical in a dangerous lab. But like most dangerous chemicals, you were sweet. Alluring to his eye, causing him to salivate at the thought of you. You reminded him of his favorite narcotics-- terrible for his health, likely to get him killed, but damn difficult to say no to.

He convinced himself that was the reason why he stretched out, offering his open lap when you sauntered over. It was your pull on him, nothing more.

"Zuzu," You drawled and Sanzu licked his lips, signature smirk already pulling at the scarred corners. "You're giving me that look again."

His eyebrow twitches upwards as he looks down at you through thick lashes. "What look, princess?"

"You know," You squirm a little and he thinks it's the cutest thing. Your nails knock against his buttons lightly, sheepish expression on your lips as you bit your lip and hummed. "that look...the look you give me when you want something."

"Oh?"

Sanzu chuckled. He licks his lips, purple eyes leaving your figure for a split second to survey the area. His rings tapped against the back of the leather couch, fingers rapping against the material. "I do want something. I want a couple things, actually. Think you can help me out?"

"Like what?" Your voice tried to hold back its obvious excitement and failed. You were just so fucking cute, he could barely hold himself back sometimes. He took his time looking back at you, dragging slowly across the outline of your figure before finally, finally gracing you with an answer.

"I wanna leave this place." He mutters, trained on your expression. Your eyes never left his face, flickering between the way his mouth moved and the intensity of his own weighty gaze. "Wanna go back to the car and feel that pretty pussy on my fingers. I want to watch your cute face make the cutest expressions for me tonight. Think you can help me out with that?"

You two were out of the club in less than ten minutes.

It's risky. Sanzu knows it is. But he wouldn't be Sanzu if he gave a fuck.

He's partly grateful for the partition and the confidentiality clause his driver is forced under. The second you two duck into the awaiting limo your hands are already timidly twitching, innocently grazing over his thigh and your lashes flutter as you bat doe-like eyes at him in wanton. Subtlety wasn't something particularly observed between you two in private. There was no reason to be subtle. You both were iniquitous in your own right and Sanzu was akin to Satan when he felt like it. He'd drink in your sin gleefully, uncaring of whatever happened to him afterwards.

His hand snaked up your thighs in moments, wasting no time to knead and pull at the soft, supple skin. His touch makes you shiver; something that makes him smile, scars on the corners of his lips stretching as his tongue licks over glorious white teeth. His thumb, rough and calloused, smooths over the skin as he leans in.

"You want me." He whispers. It's declarative, assured, set and confident with no room to deny its validity. He watches you, eyes trained intently at the way you shudder under him, jerky and timid when you nod.

"I do."

"How bad do you want me?"

This time it looks for affirmation. Consent, in a way, movements on your thighs lulling into thumbed circles on the tops as he awaits your answer. You inhale, diaphragm opening and chest rising, breasts pressing into the satin cloth of your expensive little dress. Dior, he thinks it is.

"Badly."

"That so?" He breathes in deeply. You smell like Chanel No.5 and that ridiculously expensive drink you had him buy earlier. The grin settles on his face, teeth dragging over his full bottom lip before he hums out a chuckle. His hand moves up, ghosting dangerously close to your heat, causing your fists to clench, heartbeat pitter pattering quicker in your chest. "Want you to show me, okay? Show me just how bad you want me. Make it worth my while, pretty girl."

His fingers bump against you and you gasp softly, met with an eyebrow raise from him. "Where's your underwear?" He questions, index trailing on the puffy, soft skin. You shake your head, thighs falling open a little wider. "Didn't wear any."

"You didn't?" He tuts, index tracing over the warm lips. "Racy little thing aren't you? What would your boyfriend say if he knew you did that, hm?"

It comes out with a mocking tinge of jealousy. Your boyfriend. Mikey. His boss. The man he devoted his life to without care or thought of consequence. The man he was most loyal and devoted to, more than he was to his own family. Your boyfriend. His Mikey.

Sick, he thought, grin tugging wide on the corner of his lips. Sick that he liked the thought of this so much. This, meaning you, silently inviting him into the warmth of your soft, sacred body, allowing him to defile your temple for what could always be his last time.

You didn’t speak. You never did when he brought up your salacious affair. Instead you opted to whine, eyebrows turning down at the ends while you gripped his jacket, tugging him close to ghost on the swells of your barely glossy lips. Sanzu sticks his tongue out, tip dragging along the fat of your bottom lip, artificial taste of cherries flooding over his receptors. His tongue flicks upwards, over the outline of your top lip, before he dips into your awaiting mouth that drops open slightly more as a result of his fingers now tapping lightly against your previously neglected clit.

“Are you this needy for him too?”

He doesn’t allow you the luxury of thinking of an answer.

His middle finger taps against your clit once more before dragging its calloused length down the sensitive bud, revelling in the way your lip quivers and nails try desperately to break through the delicate hem of his suit. He drags it upwards again until the curve sits on the pad of his finger, and slowly he circles it around. The other hand drags up your body, groping the supple flesh of your tits on its way up, drumming along your collarbone and grazing your neck before his fingers splay and stretch and lock around your jaw. They press inwards gently, enough for you to feel their weighty pressure as he looks down and coos at you.

“Do you make this gorgeous face for him too, princess?”

Your eyes are glassy and glossed over, and in each passing light Sanzu can see the glimmer of the spit accumulating over your tongue. His fingers press into your cheeks, holding your mouth open wider and immediately your tongue stretches forward, pink muscle dripping in clear saliva that dangles from its tip and oozes down your chin. He leans close, forehead nearly bumping against yours as his lips pucker and purse before a clear bead heads from between the soft pink folds. His eyes train and ears perk up at the way your breath hitches, tongue writhing before stilling, fan of lashes dipping down as your own eyes lock onto the trailing liquid seep from his mouth down onto yours. Then, finally, the bead hits your tongue and your lashes flutter as your eyes roll back, but your tongue stays out. Obediently. Just how he trained you.

“Look at me and swallow.”

Sanzu thinks he sees his life in your eyes when you look up at him once more. He can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine, nor the way his grip flexes and tightens for a brief second before travelling down to your neck when your tongue dips inwards and your mouth closes, lips pursing before your throat closes and moves beneath his grip. You open your mouth again, dry of any residue, and he rewards you with a kiss.

“Good girl.”

Sanzu’s spurred on by reactions. He loves to see what he does to people, how he makes them feel. He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t derive some kind of iniquitous pleasure from controlling the amount of pain his victims felt. It’s why he was so good at torturing people, why Bonten garnered the name it got. He loved to see the control he had over someone. He loved to be in control of something no one should have control over.

His infatuation with you was inevitable, he supposed. You were just too good. You couldn’t hold back how you felt if you tried.

It’s reminded when the fingers around your throat press in, squeezing until your breathing is reduced to a soft wheeze, blood pounding in your ears. At the same time he’s pushing into you, thick finger stretching your sodden hole and the sensation is delicious as it is welcomed and familiar. Your eyes flutter and roll, chest raising, sticky sounds of slick gently popping in the air. Sanzu hums in approval, slowly easing in and taking his time at first, just to see you cave.

“There it is,” he comments slickly, licking at his canines. “There’s that face I love so much.”

His fingers flex, drawing back and before you have a chance to whine he shoves it in again, this time middle joined with his ring finger. His palm slaps against your clit with each skilled thrust and the pads of his fingertips curve inwards, nestling against the top of your walls, right against that spot he knew made you shake. And you did, thighs quivering and gentle little moans falling from trembling lips, sloppy sounds of growing slick making you shiver in delight. Sanzu knew your body better than anything else and every time he got the chance to play with you he reminded you.

“Zuzu,” you mewl cutely and his dick throbs in his pants. He squeezes your throat tighter, feeling the way your walls pulse and suck around his fingers. He dips to your face to kiss your cheek, panting in your ear soon after.

“Think I should let you cum on my fingers, princess?” He nibbles on your earlobe. “Think I should make a mess of your pussy and send you home to him?”

“Sanzu,” you weakly call out and he knows you’re in no state to answer. His movements sink into you and don’t pull out, instead opting to draw out your high by massaging right into that needy spot. It’s mind melting, causing your toes to curl in your heels and you try best to gasp out. The feeling in your head is light now in the best way, lack of oxygen and his ministrations the closest thing to ecstasy you’d gotten all night. But Sanzu knows it’s not enough. He knows his prodding only keeps that building feeling from falling and nothing more. It doesn’t elevate it, it doesn’t let it fall, it keeps it sustained. Pleasure keeps coursing through your body, making your pussy wetter and wetter by the moment but that’s all. It’s never enough to make you cum.

He can’t. Well..not today.

You’re nearing Mikey’s penthouse now and he knows his time with you is winding up. He knows he has to let you go to your rightful man, and selfishly he grows to dislike it. With his hands perusing the landscape of your body he’s reluctant to let you go, but he knows he has to. So, first, he releases the grip around your neck, careful not to bruise the skin.

He swipes across your gumminess one more time before pulling out slowly, hissing at the web of slick that pulls across his fingers. He can’t help himself; dipping the same fingers into his mouth he moans at the taste, own lashes brushing against his cheeks as he savored over your syrup. He pulls away only to place a kiss to your lips again, grinning at your slightly fucked out expression. He dips between your legs and smacks your pussy lightly a few times, chuckling at the yelp you make when his ring taps against your clit.

“Go on.” He mutters with a sigh as the car pulls in front of Mikey’s complex. “Take his pussy home to him. He’s got better use for it than I do.”

He watches you from behind lidded eyes as you pull yourself together with a nod, sparing him a short kiss to his scar before you dip out of the car to the other bodyguard assigned to escort you to Mikey’s room. You wobble, be it from being finger fucked to hell or from the alcohol Sanzu couldn’t tell, but the possibility of it being from him has him smirking to himself nonetheless. He sighs to himself when you look back, now ways away from the car, and turns his eyes to examine the watch on his wrist.

You were something unearthly. Only that could explain the foreign sliver of jealousy that bloomed dark over his already charred heart. Jealous that you’d give yourself to Mikey once more. Jealous that Sanzu hadn’t claimed you before his boss did. Jealous, most of all, that in spite of, he’d be crawling back to you the second your pretty eyes and lopsided smile flashed in his direction again, a silent beg to indulge himself in you once more.

“Take me home.” He pulls across the partition and calls out to the driver, who simply nods and follows his instruction. All Sanzu could do now was wait on your call once more.

Some kind of witch indeed.

taglist: @shiwhore @miytsuya @kugoinks @sanzudopeamine @risano @zvchinni @scummy-simp @h-a-r-u-c-h-i-y-o @chloe-nanami @ssanzuu @chsetlantc @rinrinfoxy @shigarakistomura

crossed out names couldn't be tagged!

Shidou <3

PATCH SIX UPDATE COMING NEXT WEEK - SPOILER BELOW

It is finally happening my fellow Astarion and BG3 lovers! The long-awaited new patch is on its way (probably arriving on Valentines day but this is not confirmed).

Larian confirmed new KISS ANIMATIONS will be coming as well as camp idle animations and multiple bug fixes!

Here's an example of one of the kiss animations involving Astarion and Halsin for all those #halstarion fans:

You can read Larian's Twitter/X post here.

Are you excited??

Ooh, Hayato owns a Switch 😄 never noticed that before haha

Wonder what kind of games he plays (probably baseball games lol)

the jailbird (2)

prisoner!simon 'ghost' riley

part 1 | original text post

cw: (former) prisoner!simon, civilian!reader, romance & fluff, smut, size kink, sane and consensual, roleplay, rough sex, spanking, bondage & gags, tattoo kink, dom!simon, sub!reader

bunny says: love the fic? leave a comment! really love the fic? suggest your own! reblogs are encouraged!

-

living with an ex-convict was interesting. he still woke up at the crack of dawn, and as a result you were up too. he didn't know where anything was in your apartment, he hated that he had to wake you up but he didn't know where the spoons were.

you were happy to help him and spend some extra time together before you went to work. the more you were around him, the more you realized how big he was compared to you.

even his hands were much larger than yours. he loved to wrap you up in his arms and hold you while you were making yourself some breakfast. those strong tattooed arms around your middle as you flipped eggs.

sometimes he'd bury his face in your neck and visibly relaxed. he was still dealing with his fair share of trauma from the previous events of his life. and while it often left him stressed, he found comfort in you.

"you're my anchor, love." he said within the first week of his return to society.

you simply smiled and tried not to blush too hard as you said, "well, si. i'll happily be your anchor, as long as your mine."

"you're anchor, your rock, your foot solider, your lover." he said as he kept his gaze on you. since he had been living with you, you found his expression had softened a little. he could relax here.

"my husband." you reached out for him. he took your hand and kissed the top of it before he held it for a moment then returned it to you.

simon had a long road ahead of him, being on the inside for so long was going to cause some problems. but, he knew even if he had nothing. he had you.

it was almost five months into living together and he managed to get an interview working in small parts manufacturing. while it was tedious, they didn't need to look at his criminal record. which greatly excited him.

when he came home from the interview, he told you that it went well. that they seemed to like his dedication and were impressed when he mentioned his time in the military. he said, "got the whole 'thank you for your service'." as he held you and kissed you deeply.

it felt like your little lives were coming together. but the one thing you hated to admit to yourself. you sort of had a dark side, it wasn't anything too aggressive or 'evil'. you thought that simon was the perfect boyfriend, he'd never hurt a hair on your head.

but the idea of being with a criminal sort of had a sexy ring to it. to be with the bad boy. you almost felt embarrassed to admit it when he'd come home with flowers for you, or when he smiled at you. or when he held your hand when you went out. with you he got to be a person with love.

deep down you wanted to know the depths of your boyfriend. you wanted to know what a man like him, with his skill set, was capable of. you wanted it to burn, ache and hurt.

it took a lot of courage, you communicated with your boyfriend about a little make believe. while hesitant at first, he slowly started to warm up to the idea. you knew he was open to it when he came home from one, actually the first day at his job, with a bundle of bondage rope.

"the blue looks good on you." he remarked as he finished tying you up on the bed. he had your arms behind your back with you on your side and one leg tied to the bed post.

you looked at him, those eyes of yours were so alluring. you tried to move your leg but was stuck to the bed. he smiled down at you and tapped the ball gag in your mouth.

"but it doesn't matter what you want. right?' he asked, "i've searched a long time for you. you're not an easy woman to catch." he got between your legs, and hiked one leg over his shoulder as he started to aggressively lick your cunt. it was already dripping from the act of him tying you up.

there was no escape for you, even if you somehow got out of the bondage. he was almost twice the size of you and could do some damage if he wanted to.

you squirmed and whimpered around the ball gag as he took long, hard licks against your clit. he wanted to make sure his girl was wet enough for his large cock.

"maybe i should breed ya. bring you back to the boys all fat with my brats.' he purred, "i don't think they can throw ya in the can if you're pregnant. but who knows, you got pregnant by a thief." he continued to lick your sweet cunt. he was in heaven.

he really was so much bigger than you. he overpowered you, he could keep you down and fuck you until he had his fill, and there was nothing you could do about it. you were bound and gagged like a good girl.

he kept at it, he even teased your hole with his thick fingers until you were squirming more with your moans getting louder. he slapped your ass and gave you a stern look over your pussy. he gripped your leg over his shoulder. "shut up." he growled, "i don't need ya causin' a scene. i'd hate to go back to prison because you can't keep your trap shut up."

you hole clenched and he chuckled. he patted where he smacked and grabbed at the flesh before he went back to his feast between your legs. it didn't take long before the slick between your thighs got all over his face.

he pulled away and sat up on his knees. he stared down at you with your thigh wrapped around his waist. he was going to fuck you at a weird angle, but it was the only way he could keep his little prize tied up. he wiped is face, "you are the best thing i've caught." he said, "stolen a lotta loose change, but they're nothin' to the sweet taste of your cunt." he got his cock out his sweatpants and started to rub it against your slick pussy. he let out a harsh sigh from the sensation, "they should be keepin' ya behind the vault door." the tip slipped in for a moment and you clenched around it.

you whimpered and tried to pushed yourself down on his cock, but it was hard to do that when you were so tied up, he pushed the hair out of your eyes, your leftover wetness got on your cheek from his movements.

"but, you need to know." he said, "you're mine to do whatever to. your mommy and daddy aren't gonna save ya. you fell in love with a bad man and now you're lettin' him fuck your cunt raw. what's gonna happen at christmas when you're all swollen with my brats. riley boys are lil hell raisers." he went back to rubbing his cock up against your slit, "you'll be mine forever. my little prize. i should've taken ya a long time ago. just snatched ya up off the train. keep ya to myself." his tongue was getting loose from the buzz of pleasure in his brain.

you whimpered around the gag and almost cried out when he slipped his large cock into you easily. you felt it in your guts and his pace was much more brutal than the other times you've made love. that was the difference, you made love before. this was dirty, primal sex between a criminal and his captive.

the sounds of sex filled the air, paired with simon's heavy breathing. his heart was thumping steadily as he pushed his cock as deep as it would go. he loomed over you as he drilled himself into you. you were a comfortably tight fit around his cock.

you dug your nails into your palms from the immense pleasure and yelped when he slapped your ass. you whimpered when he leaned further into you to get closer into your personal space. his pace was brutal and it excited you.

"i'm a bad man." he said lowly, his voice close to your ear, "my worst crime is tainting such a precious angel." he held onto your calf as he bent your hips the closer he got. his voice was hot, "fill ya right up, make sure no other man has a chance to get ya knocked up." his tattooed hand went to your stomach which he gave a small rub, "my girl carryin' my boys."

your eyes almost rolled back from the heat in your body. you were almost drooling around the rubber gag in your mouth. it was dirty, it was filth. if anyone saw the state you were in, they would be shocked!

your head felt full of lust, you felt your lover so close to him. you knew despite the roughness and the harsh words, the entire scenario was safe. you knew you could get out of this if you needed to. but it wasn't getting to be too much, it was just enough.

the wetness between your legs and the flips in your stomach only excited you. to have such a large man be so domineering. it made you feel small in a good way. it was almost like being bound made you feel protected.

that you could lay yourself over to him and he'd cherish you. even if you were his little 'prize' for the evening. the hottest part was the pace at which his cock was battering your womb.

you whimpered against your gag and felt the heat rush through you. you held onto your palms as best as you could with your arms bound. the entire situation left you spinning, there was no wonder that orgasm crept up on you so easily.

with a loud moan around your gag, you climaxed around his cock. the tightness of your cunt mid-orgasm milked his cock till he was seeing stars. he came inside of you, his seed hit against the back of your womb.

the feeling of being able to do so left him a little slack-jawed. but he kept it together, even if his cheeks were flushed. when he finished, he slowly pulled out and started to untie you. his hands were shaky from the after effects of his orgasm.

he took the gag out of your mouth and pulled you in for a kiss when he finished untying you. he fell into bed with you and laid on top of the covers with you. he held you gently and kissed your face. he gave you gentle praise as he kept you in his arms.

when he looked at you, all was right in the world. you held onto him and pressed kisses against his face. after care consisted of tea and a small snack followed by a shower together, where he washed every part of you.

even though you were capable of doing it yourself, you still appreciated how detail orientated he was in the manner of getting you clean. little did you know that biology was working its magic and simon's seed found home in your cervix.

you better hope that the line about the riley boys being hellions was untrue or you'd have your hands full. it didn't help that when simon's hand grazed your stomach as he washed you that you blushed and tucked yourself closer to him.

mama riley did have a ring to it.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

His question hit like a punch, and the pressure of it lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. Armed Forces Day? Three years ago? A sharp jolt of recognition hit you, though the details of that night remained fuzzy. The memories were there, but they felt distant—like something you hadn't allowed yourself to fully remember after becoming a mother. 

You steadied yourself, trying to mask the unease rising in your chest. “What are you talking about?” you tried to sound steady but the tightening grip on your purse betrayed the rush of nerves running through you.

Simon shifted, his broad frame nearly eclipsing the dim light of the bar. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he seemed to wrestle in his own head, as though each word carried a burden too heavy to bear. “There was a night,” he began, his tone low and rough, every syllable deliberate. “Here. Three years ago. You were here. So was I.”

Your heart skipped, a wave of realization hitting with an almost physical force. The hazy recollections of that night flooded back, slowly accumulating together—laughter, drinks, an unexpected connection. Something that hadn’t felt planned but had burned far too bright to ignore.

The knot in your stomach twisted painfully, every part of you urging you to push it away, but the truth had already begun to sink in. “You’re…” The words stalled in your throat, heavy and lodged, the sentence unfinished as the reality stung like an accusation between you.

Simon exhaled sharply, part sigh, part laugh—but there was no humor in it. His gaze locked onto yours with unsettling intensity, and for a moment, it felt like he was waiting for you to break. “Yeah,” he replied simply, the word thick with certainty. “And she’s mine, isn’t she?”

A cold shiver ran down your spine, your body instinctively stiffening. The truth strung in the silence between you both, too glaring to avoid. Heart racing, every sense screamed to deny it, to distance yourself from this conversation before it spiraled out of control. But anything that could be said felt wrong, heavy on your tongue as you forced them out: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Simon’s eyes held yours, filled with something you hadn’t seen before—a desperation that cut through his usually composed demeanor. “Please,” he urged, the plea more potent. “Just tell me.”

How could this be happening? How could something so raw, so unspoken, suddenly spill into the air between the two of you? The weight of the moment anchored you, and for a moment, you couldn’t find a way to move past it. 

“She is,” you muttered at last, the confession slipping out like an unwanted secret. Fingers clenched tightly against the table’s edge, grounding yourself against the suffocating reality pressing in. “I never thought… never thought you'd come back into the picture.”

A brief silence stretched out before you spoke again, everything tumbling out in a rush. "I didn’t even know your name. All I recall was you kept making me." The admission hung in the air, lighter than it was, an attempt to lighten everything you didn’t want to say. 

The memory refused to stay buried. His face from that night, the intensity of his stare under the bar’s muted glow, how his presence seemed magnetic and overwhelming all at once—it all surfaced, unbidden. The connection had been undeniable, but that was your secret to carry. He didn’t need to know the details you still clung to.. 

“I don’t even know how it happened,” The sentence barely made it past your lips. “We used protection.” Doubt crept into your mind, unraveling the careful narrative you’d built for yourself. Did we? The past, fogged by alcohol and blurred moments, refused to come into focus.

Simon blinked, the blankness in his expression giving way to confusion, then disbelief. “Did we?” he asked with an edge of uncertainty. He was searching for answers neither of you seemed able to provide. Silence filled the space between you, heavy with unspoken questions.

"That parts a bit fuzzy," you admitted quietly, thoughts drifting away, the edges of the remembrance blurring with every passing second. “And clearly we didn't given our current situation.” 

Meeting his gaze, you knew this was the man from that fortunate night. Only different. More mature as if life hadn’t been kind to him. “All I know is… I woke up, and it was just me.” The recollection hung heavier than expected, twisting in your chest. "I never imagined I’d run into you again."

A heavy silence settled between the two of you, the gravity of everything left unsaid pressing down on the air. Neither of you knew how to move forward, or even if moving forward was possible.

“I knew she was mine,” Simon muttered, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. He looked like he was trying to hold something back, fighting against his own emotions threatening to break free.

You blinked in disbelief, the reality of his revelation settling in like ice in your veins. “You saw her?” The shock was evident. The idea that he had been so close—watching, perhaps even knowing—yet remained silent was almost too much to process.

Simon nodded, his gaze never meeting yours as he began. “Last month. When you were leaving the café with her. Johnny stopped you, and I was there.” He hesitated, swallowing hard as if the bulk of it all was pressing on him. “Johnny and the lads, they were the first to say they saw a little girl with my face. I was skeptical at first But then… then I saw the two of you together. And I saw it. Saw me in her. I had no idea she was even a possibility. Or that you were, for that matter."

Your breath hitched, a sharp sting rising in your chest. The anger that had been simmering beneath the surface, the hurt, and the confusion all collided in one sudden wave. “Why didn’t you say anything?” The question shot out before you could stop it, the accusation sharp and loaded with all the frustration. He had been so close. Watching. Why didn’t he speak up?

Simon paused, his gaze dropping to his hands, fingers flexing as if he were trying to grasp for something he couldn’t hold. The silence stretched long between you, the tension palpable, as if the room itself was holding its breath. He wanted to say something, anything, but nothing came. 

“I…” He started, staring at his hands as though they might hold the answer. “I’m not good with things like this, love.” He rubbed the back of his neck, having a hard time fully expressing how he felt but this moment needed authenticity. “I needed time to figure out if I could step into a life that was already doing fine without me. I was afraid of complicating things, of ruining something that was just fine without me."

You didn’t expect what he said to hit you so hard. The impact of his confession—that he had stayed away because he wasn’t sure if he was fit to be a part of your life, Adira’s life—settled deep within you, heavier than you could have imagined. You’d been fine, hadn’t you? Raising Adira, carving out a life on your own. But there's always been that lingering voice in the back of your mind, that small, quiet thought of “what if?” What if things had been different? What if he had been there from the start? Maybe you wouldn’t have had to quit those overpriced mommy-and-me classes because of those judgmental women who gossiped behind your back. Maybe things would’ve been easier.

“I wasn’t about to just waltz in, love,” Simon’s voice softened, more vulnerable now, like he was carefully weighing his thoughts. “I needed to know if you’d even want me here. You and her…” His gaze darkened for a moment, his voice trailing off as though unable to bear too much out in the open. “I wasn’t sure if I was the right person to step into something already so… perfect.”

In those words, there was something you hadn’t expected to hear from him: honesty. He was afraid. Afraid of being the one to ruin what you had built. Afraid of not being enough for you or for Adira.

“I guess I understand,” you said quietly. "I just wish you showed up sooner."

Simon didn’t answer right away. Something within him flickered with guilt, and for a moment, you both stood there in silence. He glanced down at his hands, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out, but wasn’t sure if he had the right to.

"Can I meet her?" Simon asked nervously, a grown man fidgeting in his seat, the weight of his request sinking in.

"Now?" You chuckled, trying to brighten the moment. "It's late. I'm sure she's already asleep."

Simon’s gaze flickered with hesitation, but the desire was clear. He was barely holding it together, as if afraid that the chance to meet his daughter would slip away if he didn’t ask now. 

"I understand," he mumbles after a pause, almost to himself, but there was a longing there you couldn’t ignore. "I just…I need to see her. To know her. Even if just for a moment."

The magnitude of the situation pressed down on you again, this wasn’t something you had expected when you woke up this morning. You had no clue what to do with all of this, with him, with Adira’s future—your future. But still, you could hear his sincerity.

"Tomorrow," You decided. "We can meet up tomorrow, but it has to be on her terms. She's not exactly the warmest with new people."

Simon nodded, his expression a mix of relief and determination. "I can wait."

You gave him a small smile, a silent acknowledgment of the moment. There was still so much to figure out, but at least now, for the first time, there was a possibility. A chance to rebuild what had been lost. "Bring toys," you suggested sincerely, thinking about what would make her happy. "She likes trains. Doesn’t need to be anything cartoon-ish, just a proper train."

Simon blinked, a touch of confusion in his gaze. "She doesn't like dolls? Like most girls?" His tone had a hint of disbelief, as though he couldn’t quite picture a little girl who wasn’t into the typical, pink frilly things.

The thought of dolls made your stomach tighten, and you shook your head vehemently, as if to expel the very idea. "God, no," you replied, unease creeping into the conversation. "Please, don’t bring dolls. That’s the last thing I want." You shuddered as you spoke, recalling all the unnerving memories. "She gets all Sid from Toy Story with them."

Simon’s brow furrowed even deeper, clearly unsure. "What does that mean?"

You visibly grimaced, the image flashing vividly in your mind. "It means I wake up to doll heads scattered all over the place," you say, your voice low and serious. "And it's... creepy. Like she's planning something with them. It’s like waking up in a horror movie."

Simon chuckled at first, but as he saw the unflinching seriousness in your expression, his laughter quickly turned uncertain. His grin faded, and the unease that filled his eyes told you that he was realizing this wasn’t some joke. "You’re messing with me, right?"

Your stare at him, completely deadpan. "I wish I was."

For a moment, Simon just stared, taking in your unwavering expression. His lips parted, a nervous laugh escaping him as he absorbed warning. "Alright," he said slowly, now understanding your cautious warning. "No dolls. Trains. Got it."

You gave a relieved sigh, feeling the baggage lift off your shoulders. The tension hadn’t fully gone, but for now, at least the toy issue was settled. There were plenty of bigger things to confront later, but this? This was a small victory.

This one is a little shorter than the rest, simply because I want the meet up chapter to be really long for yall! :3

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Who could ever leave me, darling?

SImon "Ghost" RIley x Johnny "Soap" McTavish x Reader Warnings: guilt, kinda cheating but not really, usual Simon fucked up thoughts, pining, a bit of religious imaginery. Summary: Men only feel good when they're drowning in guilt.

Simon has his alarm set at four hundred sharp; not a minute less, not a minute more. Before the birds and the people, before schools and training camps and the Sun itself. Suspended in time, even if he can hear his watch tick every second.

Activities at base start at five hundred, almost exactly. The big, old speakers blare that horrible music that you can still hear recruits groan at, while the rest just sigh and sit up. Simon hates it, always had. It somehow reminded him of Manchester and dear old daddy, of screams and the door slamming and things breaking again and again. A few weeks into his career, he bit his way through the panic attack he had for breakfast. 

But it isn’t why he gets up before that time. It isn’t because he’s nuts either-although, he won’t deny that one.

The kitchens start at four hundred, just like him. He remembers, back when he still had some baby fat and less baggage to carry, the fights that would break out with the other recruits, just to see who would get the chance to help inside there for the week. 

The kitchen is an absolute nightmare. Everyone is always yelling, fighting, clawing at each other’s throats. He had to dodge quite a few knives when he was the lucky bastard, but he wouldn’t so much as flinch when a glass broke or some plates ended up crashing against a wall. Violence is banned all over base, and especially inside there. But in the unspoken rule book, violence isn’t the same as aggressiveness, Simon-and all armed forces- know that. 

He has never actually asked, but he’s pretty sure some of the staff remember him from when he was younger and wasn’t Ghost yet, just Sgt. Riley, or even before that. Definitely before that. 

They must remember him standing in a corner without getting in anybody's way, washing the dishes peacefully in the middle of a warzone. Get there early, leave late. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he's sure they noticed how skittish he was at first, the sight of a man bordering on two meters acting like a mouse must have stuck. 

Otherwise, he doesn’t understand why they indulge him with the cups of coffee he always asks for, when they’re barely firing up the stoves.

It’s nice, getting the first fresh cups instead of the coffee that tastes like dirt everyone else drinks. Warm, black more often than not. The head chef-if Simon can call him that- always shoves a few of the little packs of sugar inside his pants, not even sparing him a glance before he's already insulting someone's mother for screwing up Jesus knows what. A little piece of Heaven at the price of waking up an hour before.

It’s still not the reason, though. 

“Aye, L.t., that for me? Or for th’gorgeous thing back at barracks?”

The fucker always asks the same shit, with the same smug grin and the sleepiness he hasn’t managed to shake off despite having been awake, too, since four hundred sharp. 

Simon shoves one of the cups at Johnny and rolls his eyes, urging the scalding liquid to subdue the smile he doesn’t want to show. 

He never touches a single pack of sugar. He doubts anyone but you knows it, but he prefers both coffee and tea so sweet it even smells different. He spares himself bitterness when he can. Mornings are not the case. 

“Should just get the one for her, if you’ll be so fuckin’ annoying.”

Johnny tears open three packs and pours them all in one go inside his cup, leaving another three untouched inside his other pocket. You like sweet things too.

Johnny laughs, doesn’t dare say anything else. Both soak in the peace of being awake before anyone else, afraid of tearing apart the little pocket in time that both have made for themselves.  

Simon stands up with your cup and doesn’t look back when he feels a pair of blue eyes following his every step. 

-

Johnny looks at Simon like he saw him make the galaxy itself. Like, with his own eyes, he witnessed satellites and stars and the entire universe come from Simon's hands. It feels overwhelming to look at, somewhat asphyxiating. His eyes shine, deep blue with waves crashing against his pupils. He doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t do it consciously. Otherwise, he’d stop- or try to, at least. 

But Johnny always acts as if he's paying back. 

He gives Simon his brightest smiles, his best jokes, the best version of himself. He follows him around wherever they are, treasures every bit that Simon allows him to have of his person. You don’t think you have ever seen Johnny shine as bright as when he’s next to Simon. Were Johnny a different man and not the wicked fucking genius he is, you'd swear he does it blindly. 

It's not the case though. He genuinely thinks that Simon is one of the best things on Earth despite-or even with-his defects. 

Again, if it were any other person, or even any other context, you’d probably think he’s borderline pathetic. But the truth is, you’re not much better than him, and neither is Simon.

While Johnny looks at him like the galaxy is his own work, Simon looks at Johnny like he made it all for him. Even though most of the time when they’re together you can’t see his full face, his eyes shine so much it blinds you. It’s like he can’t look away, like Johnny is burning right in front of him with the energy of the Sun and Simon is trying to take in as much of it as he can. He’s not as harsh, not as closed off. The little creases by his eyes deepened in a hurry ever since he's had him in his life. If Johnny were the Sun, Simon would be a sunflower.

Neither of them seem to realize it though. Simon doesn’t realize he looks at Johnny like he looks at you, and Johnny looks at him like you do. Neither catch it, or if they do, they seem content to let things be as they are.

It's hard to be mad at something so intense, so… pure and selfless. What you see in their eyes resembles adoration more than anything else, lust rarely turning things red when most of the time it shines gold. When Simon told you for the first time that he’d die for Johnny, after he had a close call right in front of his eyes, you realized that there was just no way those feelings would go away. 

It was easy to make peace with. Easy to look at Simon walk lighter, easy to laugh at Johnny's jokes when he tries to make him laugh, easy to see their bodies gravitate towards each other. It even came easy, when Simon's nightmares startled you awake with Johnny's name slipping from his lips almost as often as yours.

Simon though, he sometimes looks like he’s playing a choosing game that doesn’t need to exist. Loving Johnny certainly isn’t hard, you think.

-

Johnny hates training the new recruits, which surprised Simon at first. 

He’s so bubbly and social that one would think he’s amazing with new people, which he technically is as long as he’s not the one that has to give them orders and tolerate the disrespect that hasn’t been beaten out of them. He doesn’t want to be the person to do it, afraid of seeing himself in one of their eyes. He can barely look at himself in the mirror some days.

Simon is burning with shame when he asks you to help with the new recruits just to spare Johnny. He expects you to glare at him and tell him to go fuck himself, because he thinks he deserves it, but you just smile and nod. He doesn’t tell you that it’s for Johnny’s benefit, wouldn’t ever dare throw something like that in your face, but you still smile at him in a way that twists his guts up and down. He doesn’t think about what else you might know. 

“Are they brand new, or SAS new?”

Simon grins at you without meaning to. He’s always pleased when you ask things out of nowhere that most people wouldn’t bother to think about. “Who Dares Wins, love.”

You roll your eyes at him, but he can see the smile that threatens to split your face. You haven’t helped him with recruits since the marines visited the headquarters a few months ago, and it hadn’t been pretty. Marines always tend to think they’re better than anyone, but Simon doesn’t think he has the right to criticize.

Standing next to you feels like coming home from walking through snow. Simon used to think that there was no coming back from dying along with Roach, and then dying again with his family. He was no better than a corpse, no better than a man buried deep underground. 

You smile at him, and he’d believe you dug him out of his grave with your bare hands.

"You can handle it, love?"

You shrug. "I can handle you just fine."

He laughs as he watches you walk away, smug grin decorating your pretty face.

-

Johnny doesn’t feel guilty, exactly.

Guilt comes when you do something wrong, when your actions equal damage in one way or another. He knows guilt because he's a common visitor at night, when the screams of innocent people keep him awake for hours on end and nothing he does quiets them down. But how could he feel guilty for the way he feels when he looks at Simon, when it so often feels like the only thing keeping him alive?

But he does think that it’s unfair to you. It’s not like he plans acting on it, he never would and he’s made his peace with that. But he sees the way Simon worships the ground you walk on, and chokes up just thinking about taking it away from you. So he won’t, simply because you don’t deserve that kind of thing and he’s not that kind of man. 

(Or maybe, maybe he is. Maybe he lays awake at night thinking about pale skin and blond hair, about scarred hands and a deep voice saying stupid jokes to pass the time. Maybe he is, but he won’t be just this once. Just to spare you the pain.)

“What’s the plan for today, Johnny boy?”

He laughs. Coming from any other person, the nickname would earn at least an insult to them and their mother. Coming from you? It earns you a hug.

“Don’t know yet, bonnie. Weapons, maybe.”

(Do you know?)

“Sounds like fun.”

He’s not sure if you’re being sarcastic or not. You have that kind of bite, not quite like Simon but more like Price. Simon does it to hurt, to keep people away. You though, it’s more a reflex than anything else. He likes it.

“At least it’s not recruits.”

You give him a soft, understanding smile that he doesn’t fully process before you walk away.

-

Simon does feel guilty.

Despite everything, he thinks you’re the best thing that has ever happened to him. He’s not a man of faith, but it's easy to believe when he's looking at your eyes. Whenever you’re near, it’s like he got a pair of lungs brand new, and he’s breathing properly for the first time. You’re not a magic pill that fixes everything, but carrying a cross would be a daily simple task if you were the one giving him sips of water. 

Feeling something so close to love for someone that isn’t you resembles treason too much for him. 

It's wasted on him, he knows. Wasted when you beam at him, when you touch his face and kiss his nose, when you hug him and grin and he feels so full . You're wasted on him, and he's known that from the moment you caught his eye, standing next to the captain. It's just gotten worse since Johnny got in the picture. 

But he’s selfish. He’s never been shy about that, doesn’t deny it or try to get better. He’s selfish, his hands have scars that show just how hard he holds on. 

He can recognize it’s a matter of choosing, though.

He dated a girl, for a short while. He was seventeen, already torn up inside and bruised. She was sweet, kind. She'd giggle at his dark humour and grab a wet cloth to clean up his split lip, the bloody knuckles. Always shrug it off when she asked, always smiling when she kept quiet and accepted it.

‘You're so calm’ , she'd say, pressed against his side. ‘So peaceful .’

She was also naive. 

He was thankful about it, at first. He'd pray she didn’t realize how wrong she was, how he wasn't anything but chaos. 

Being loved gently was nice. He liked her smile and her touch, how soft spoken she got after a certain hour, how her eyes reflected things he wasn’t sure were real. 

They were both confused, he thinks. She believed him peaceful and he lied to himself about it being a good thing.

But he's never been something remotely close to peace, doesn’t know what it is. Born screaming, grown up fighting, earning a living by killing. 

She loved a part of him that didn’t exist, he would accept later. The rage brewing inside of him kept him quiet because otherwise he'd fear spitting venom. She didn’t see him, and he didn’t love her. 

He thinks often about the artificial lungs from before, the metal bins that didn’t let people have an actual life. He thinks about oxygen tanks and insulin and Ozampic and Epi Pens, and realizes that he won’t ever be able to live without you now that he has a diagnosis. He can’t .

But Johnny? Johnny might just be the thing that throws him into anaphylactic shock. 

–

“What’s your favorite color, Johnny boy?”

He hums, thinking about it for a second. It used to be green before the army, turned into purple when his sister dyed her hair that color when Johnny was fifteen and the youngest had five. She chopped it a few months later and Johnny isn’t a fan of it now. 

“Maybe yellow?”

You snort. “Maybe? So you don’t know your favorite color?” You take a deep breath. “Hey, pick up the pace! This isn’t fuckin’ summer camp!”

Johnny can’t really help it: he laughs. He clutches at his belly, squeezes his eyes shut and laughs his ass off at the horrified looks of the recruits before they start running for their lives. You don’t stop frowning until you turn your gaze back to him and his cackles turn into soft giggles.

“I like it in the sky. Fuckin’ hate mustard yellow, though.”

You nod like he’s spitting the truth about the universe. It may as well be, sitting in the middle of the back camp with a cup of coffee between your hands. The sunrise suits you, he notices. It makes him feel warm inside.

“What’s yours, bonnie?”

You tilt your head. “All of them.”

He doesn’t have it in him to make jokes. It chokes him up, the way your eyes look at him full of trust and something softer he doesn’t deserve. 

“Why should I choose, Johnny? What purpose does it serve? I can see them all, have them all.”

He shakes his head, pulling you close until you rest your head against his and the slight shake of your hands dissipates.

“Jus’ admit ya dinnae what t’ say, bonnie.”

He wishes everything was as simple as not choosing.  

-

“Do you know if Johnny has a girl?”

Simon sits straighter without meaning to.

“I-I don’t- I'm not sure, no?” 

He'd like to think he'd know if he did. God, he fucking hopes so, otherwise his brain might end up splattered inside the-

“I figured. Can’t understand why, he's fucking gorgeous.”

Johnny's eyes are his favorite shade of blue. 

“He's fucking annoying, is what he is.”

He doubts his lack of denial flies over your head. Even objectively, no one could deny Johnny's a fucking dream come true. The big blue eyes and the charming smile make a killer blow, but Simon has watched him sleep and nothing else quite compares. 

“It just adds to his charm, Si.”

He doesn’t like the teasing edge to your words. He's not your friend , you're not supposed to be teasing him about someone else. It makes him squirm on his chair, avoiding your eyes from the other side of the table. 

“To each their own, love.”

It startles a laugh out of you, bordering on cynical. Simon doesn’t understand what the fuck is happening. 

-

“I could very well break your damn arm if I wanted to, McTavish.”

Threats stopped working a long, long time ago, just a few seconds after meeting each other. Johnny has been able to see through him from the get go. 

“And I couldn't?” Simon tilts his head, conceding the point. “But ya wouldn't hurt me.”

God, Simon sure fucking hopes so.

“You're a valuable asset to my team, of course I wouldn't.”

(I can’t live without you. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can't .)

Johnny's hand is pressed to his chest, and Simon forgets for a few seconds that there are other men standing inside the same room, thinking he doesn’t notice them staring as soon as he got inside.

“Ya love me, jackass.”

Simon gulps. “I'd love for you to shut up .”

Johnny pushes him up and to the side. Simon will sustain for the rest of his life that he let him, that he put his guard down on purpose. It's easier than admitting he got lost in complicated living, that things got too real there, that a few words threw him off his balance.

He grabs Johnny's forearm and pulls , sending him tumbling towards the mat with a sneer. He doesn’t waste a second, turning back around and kicking at Simon's feet. He barely dodges it when Johnny manages to grab his shirt to pull him down with him again, and he loses against gravity. 

His arms are big and hard, Simon knows. Sometimes he can see the creases of muscle on his back, when laundry has fallen behind and Johnny has to wear clothes from his rookie days. A few pounds lighter, in every way possible. 

“Y'gonna hurt me, L.t.?”

Simon is on top of him, hot and huge and shaking like a fucking leaf. He can feel the dampness seeping from Johnny's clothes to his, memorizing how he feels pressed against him. 

Simon can’t breathe. 

“I can't.”

And Simon sees it reflected in Johnny's eyes. Something shatters, peeling away the film that separated their skin. He feels the sweat and the pounding inside Johnny's chest, can hear his own drown any noise outside, the tension snapping in the middle of a spar, and Simon doesn’t understand where he went wrong. 

You're looking at them from the door. 

A supernatural wife never stays…

I’m always extra fascinated by folklore tropes that show up in a wide variety of cultures, so let’s look at another one: the supernatural/inhuman wife. These are usually stories about a man winning himself a wife that is decidedly not human, either through trickery or courtship. But it never lasts, because these stories all seem to have the same ending, the wife leaves:

Almost all selkie stories, both from Celtic and Nordic tradition, are an example of this. A man steals a selkie’s pelt and thereby binds him to her or leaves her stranded on land and in her desperation persuades her to come back with him and become his wife. After many years and many children she always finds her pelt, however, and as soon as she does she runs off to the sea. In most cases it turns out she has a husband and children in the sea too. In most she keeps leaving presents for her children and in some she still feels affection for her human husband, but she never goes back ashore. There are similar tales about swan-maidens.

An Aboriginal story from the Guugu Yimithirr-speaking people called “The forest spirit and his ten beautiful daughters” tells how the great hunter and warrior Gabul, the Carpet Snake, goes to the mountaintop where the powerful Forest Spirit, lives. He bests him in an unarmed fight, demanding to marry one of his daughters as reward before he will let him go. He takes the most beautiful of the ten daughters home to be his wife but starts worrying when she does not eat or drink. Eventually he takes her to the river and there she promptly turns into a fish and swims upstream back to her father’s mountain, leaving Gabul ashamed and broken-hearted.

There are also stories about fairy wives, most notably two from Wales. One, collected as “The Shepherd of Myddvai”, has a shepherd courts a beautiful maiden that dwells in a lake by bringing her bread. She agrees to go with him if he promises not to strike her three times without cause. Of course he promises this, but he taps her once for dallying to spur her into action, once in confusion when she weeps at a happy wedding, and once in disapproval when she laughs at a sober funeral. She declares their marriage ended and flees back to her lake, only returning once her sons are grown to give them gifts of healing. In the similar tale “Touched by Iron” a farmer’s son falls in love with a fairy maiden and the promise he must make her father is to never touch her with iron. One day as he helps his wife off her horse, she is touched on the knee by the stirrup of the saddle and vanishes. But with her mother’s help she does get to visit him sometimes afterwards, by standing on a large floating turf on a lake, so it could not be said she had set foot on human earth.

In a Chinese story called “The Painter”, from the 9th century bundle Wenqi lu, a learned man buys a screen with a painting of an inhumanly beautiful woman on it. The painter tells him of a ritual that might bring the woman to life and the man manages to call her to him. She steps out of the painting and consents to stay with him, they even have a son together. When the child is two years old, however, the man speaks with a friend of his, who immediately suspects the woman of being a dangerous creature and gives him a celestial weapon to kill her. As soon as he arrives home, his companion sobs that she is a mountain spirit who never asked to be painted by the painter and never asked to be called by him. She steps back into the painting, taking her child with her, leaving the man alone with a beautifully painted screen that now shows both her and the little boy.