#cw child abuse (question mark)

[burritello3000]

The Fifth Turtle

Chapter 3: Long Road to Recovery

When she was done, Mikey inched forward, a curious expression on his face. “What’s your name?”

She picked up the pen, fumbling with it for a few seconds before getting it uncapped. 49, she wrote, putting down the first name that came to mind.

She hissed, shrinking backwards as Bishop entered her cage, pulling out something from his pocket. “Now, now, 49,” he said with a smile, moving closer. “No need to be scared. All I want is a saliva sample from you.”

He pulled out a q-tip and a vial from his pocket, but they looked like knives to the scared box turtle. “Maybe I’ll even give you some water,” he purred. “In fact I’ll give even it to you before, to make sure I get a good sample.”

She licked her dry beak, hesitating. She was really, really thirsty. The last bit of her resolve vanished as Bishop left and returned with a bowl full of water. He put it on the ground in front of him, a gleam in his eye. 49 couldn’t help herself. She darted towards the bowl, dipping her mouth in because she couldn’t use her hands. 

The water tasted like clear sunshine to her. Her head cleared a little as it drove back her pounding headache banging at her temple. 

“Now,” Bishop said, as she licked the metal bowl dry. “How about that sample?”

Before she could do anything, he grabbed her head and opened her mouth harshly, making her jaw ache. His hand quickly entered. She acted on instinct, slamming her beak shut just as he pulled back. 

Bishop grunted with pain as her teeth sank into his hand. 49 released immediately, fear clouding her thoughts. He yanked his hand back, fury twisting his face. 

He kicked her in the nose.

49 fell backwards with a startled yelp. Bishop backed up, examining the bite, a disappointed look on his face. “Now, I thought you were better than that, 49,” he said, his eyes glinting coldly. “You know what happens to dangerous beasts…”

He pulled something out from behind his back. Everything seemed to get dark as he revealed the muzzle in his hands. 49 couldn’t move, terror spreading through her veins.

“They need to be caged!” His voice echoed as he slipped the muzzle over head. She tried to open her mouth, but the muzzle tightened, making movement impossible. It turned into a muzzle made of fire. It burned into 49’s face, melting her scales. Bishop’s evil laughter rang in her tympanum. She couldn’t even make a noise as everything went black.

———————————————————————

Bishop stepped forward, a sadistic look in his eyes as she struggled against her restraints. Tears pricked at her eyes as the thick, black tendrils holding her down seemed to suck out her strength, leaving her limbs cold and lifeless.

Gotta hide! She squirmed, her heart beating faster as he showed her the giant knife held in his hand.

“Time to see what’s really going on in there,” Bishop said with a smirk, lowering the sharpened scalpel. 

“B-but, Mr. Bishop,” a hazy voice said. “Shouldn’t we sedate her before?”

49 recognized this person. It was the only scientist that had not treated her like a monster. The box turtle missed her. The scientist had gotten fired a few days later, specifically the day after this. Probably because she’d argued too much and had shown too much compassion for 49.

“No,” Bishop said coldly, turning his attention back to 49. “It doesn’t deserve them. After all, it’s only an animal.” 

The nice scientist fell silent.

He leaned forward, bringing the knife down on her plastron.

A scream escaped 49’s lips as he started carving. She watched, her vision blurry with tears and pain, as he removed a piece of her plastron. He then reached inside, and 49 blacked out, embracing the comforting void…

———————————————————————

49 woke up, her heart beating rapidly. She hated these memories, especially when they came as dreams. She relaxed, nestling back into the soft bed and closing her eyes to block out the soft lights shining overhead. 

… Wait. Lights? Soft?!

Her eyes snapped open, flicking around wildly. Her headache was still throbbing, but she felt a bit stronger. Something was at her feet. As she twitched, the orange-masked turtle woke up, his sleepy face turning into a smile. 

“You’re awake!” He yelped, jumping to his feet. Fear clouded her senses. A loud beeping came from her left side, causing her heart to pound faster. The beeping got even louder. The turtle was staring at her. “How are you feeling?” He asked worriedly. 

Without warning, she bolted. 49 jumped out of the bed, letting out a cry of pain as one of her legs buckled out from under her. Something was pulled off her plastron, the beeping stopping immediately. The turtle was shouting now, his voice drowned out by the blood rushing in tympanum. She darted towards the door, but only took a few steps before falling to her knees. Her stomach heaved. 49 threw up, clutching her sides. 

The only thing that came up was a yellow liquid. It dribbled from her mouth, forming a small puddle on the floor. She retched again, more bile coming from her mouth. 

Something grabbed her, wrapping their arms around her. 49 squirmed around, terror blinding her. After a few moments of struggling, she chirped in distress, going limp. The person’s grip loosened and, without thinking, the desperate box turtle twisted around and bit the person.

Their skin was really tough and kind of spiky, but she kept gnawing anyway. She whimpered as it pricked at her mouth, but still hung on. 49 snarled, keeping her teeth clamped down. 

After a few seconds ticked by, a low purr rumbled from the person holding her. She fell still. Another turtle?

The turtle kept purring, a deep sound vibrating in their chest. It soothed her. She released her hold, letting out an answering click. The purring grew louder, new voices adding to the low one.

49 chirped, snuggling closer to the noise. Slowly, she calmed down, her heart returning to its normal pace. She lifted her head once the fear faded away, and found herself staring into warm blue eyes. The turtle took a step back, and 49 recognized him as the blue-masked turtle.

Brother!

“Are we all good now?” He asked, holding up his hands. 49 hesitated. Should she talk? Could she trust them? She decided not to speak for now. She responded  with a nod. The turtle’s face furrowed and he opened mouth, about to say something, but the turtle holding her beat him to it.

“Raph’s sorry for grabbing you,” he said gently. “Can I put you down now?”

Oh, right. Leo, Raph, Donnie, and Mikey.

She nodded again, looking up at his face. He carried her back to the soft bed and set her down. The room was quiet for a bit as they all stared at each other. 

Donnie broke the awkward silence. “Okay, so first things first. What’s your name?”

He was talking to her. Her mind drifted. How will I answer? Can’t talk to them. Maybe talk? They are brothers. My throat hurts. Well, at least my head doesn’t hurt anymore. Maybe I should—

Donnie cleared his throat. 49 realized that she’d been staring off into space for a few minutes. Mikey shot up, causing her to flinch. “I know! You must be thirsty. I’ll be right back.”

“Good idea, Mike,” Leo said, a small smile on his face. “Can also grab some ice chips and something light for her to eat, like crackers.”

The box turtle nodded, doing a small salute, before running off. They waited some more. 

“... So,” Leo said, raising an eye ridge. “What’s your name?”

49 shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. She simply pointed to her throat. The message seemed to get across.

“Can you not speak?” Donnie asked bluntly, earning a smack over the head from Raph. 49 recoiled at the sight, fear rushing through her. “Ow, It was just a question!” Donnie hissed, rubbing his head. 

Raph froze, eyes flicking quilty at 49, obviously because of her reaction. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking at the ground. She just tipped her head to the side and nodded, clicking reassuringly.

Leo’s eyes narrowed. “She can talk, I heard her.”

Donnie raised an eyebrow at the blue-masked turtle, doubt written all over his face. “... Sure. Anyways, it doesn’t seem like she can talk now, so she can use this.” He handed her a pen and pad of paper. 

She fiddled with the pen as Leo glared at Donnie. “Can you write?” Donnie asked, ignoring his brother. In response, she used the pen to write a wobbly Yes on the paper.

Mikey returned, balancing several things in his arms. He handed something to Leo, who then held it out to 49. “Here’s some ice chips,” he explained as she took the cup from him and inspected it. “They’ll help your stomach. Suck on them one at a time slowly.”

She did what he told her to do, wincing at the sudden cold. It felt nice, though. It eventually melted on her tongue, turning into water. 49 ate them all, her throat and stomach feeling a tiny bit better. 

Leo took the empty cup back and gave her a glass of water. “Try not to drink too fast,” he warned, carefully handing it over. “Your stomach might still be a bit upset.”

She tried to go slow, really, but when she sipped the water, all caution flew out the window. Leo let out a startled yelp as she drank it all, her stomach gurgling happily. She chirped pleadingly, holding out the cup for more. His shocked expression turned into a smile. “You heard her, Mikey. Get the girl some water!” 

The box turtle left, then quickly came back with more water. 49 practically inhaled that glass too. After several more trips, her thirst was finally quenched. She then ate the crackers, unable to eat slowly. Her stomach felt satisfied for now as she finished, wiping crumbs off her beak.

When she was done, Mikey inched forward, a curious expression on his face. “What’s your name?”

She picked up the pen, fumbling with it for a few seconds before getting it uncapped. 49, she wrote, putting down the first name that came to mind. 

“Scoff,” Donnie said, peering down at the paper. “That’s not a name. What’s your real name?”

49 hesitated. Not a real name?

“That’s just the number that Bishop gave you,” Leo explained, a concerned look in eyes. Oh.

Little Kappa, she tried again.

“That’s not a name either,” Donnie told her flatly. “That just looks like a nickname or a title.”

49 thought for a few moments, before shrugging. Then I don’t have a name, she wrote, completely oblivious to the shocked and pitiful looks on her brothers’ face.

“... I guess we can just call you 49 then,” Raph said, after a few minutes of shocked silence. 

“Okay,” Leo, Mikey, and Donnie chorused. 

“Anyways, I’m Michelangelo!” Mikey chirped. “But I go by Mikey.”

Raph shuffled forward. “And I’m Rapheal, but call me Raph.”

“My name is Leonardo, or Leo,” the blue-masked turtle told her.

Donnie was last. “Donatello, but I prefer Donnie.”

A smile tugged at her lips as she nodded. 49 pushed down the slight twinge of jealousy that rose in her chest. 

“Now with all that out of the way, I have some exciting news to share,” Donnie announced, pulling out a clip board. “I took a blood sample from… 49 while she was aslee—”

“Donnie!” Leo hissed, interrupting him. “You can’t just take blood samples from people while they’re sleeping!”

“I had a good reason,” the purple-masked turtle retorted. “I needed to see if she was related to us or not.”

I am, 49 quickly wrote down without thinking. Mikey leaned over to see what she had written as Leo and Raph scolded Donnie. A smile spread across his face as he saw what was on the paper. 

“You are?!” He squealed, jumping up and down happily. His commotion caught the attention of the arguing turtles. They all looked at the paper, Donnie was the first to speak.

“Aw man, you ruined my announcement,” he whined.

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 23

Part 1 [...] 20 21 22 23 24

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, smut (rough/angry sex to yummy love making, soft dom!dae, oral m&f receiving, spitting, dacryphilia, praise & degradation, piv), emotional constipation, pregnancy, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: I just realized Otto was replaced by lyonel strong as hand at some point and... Yeah I don't remember why so I can't be bothered to write that in. Also I invented a Tyrell character ok? This is probably going to be my last smut piece for this, so it's LONG so long that I HAD TO CUT THIS PART UP 😭🤬😅 it's fine derailed plans slay 3 parts left ig 😭 | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching

Viserys sits at the head of his council table, staring at his gloved hands. Lord Lyonel Strong drones about something, something about crops and drought and famine and public unrest, something about how crimes have spiked.

"Just last night, the Gold Cloaks reported to have apprehended 3 men who've broken in and stolen a great amount of flour and meat from three different establishments."

"Three criminals," Otto corrects, nonchalant.

Lyonel turns to him, but the Hand does not even spare him a glance. He clenches his jaw, "men, Lord Hand," he corrects, "who'vee been forced to resort to theft to feed their families."

Otto, who was checking his nails in uninterest, finally looks up. His face is blank, "criminality is criminality and should be met with justice."

Viserys takes one last look at his hand, wondering if what was happening to the kingdom was his fault, thus why his finger was decaying. He sighs, shaking his head, "what measures have we taken to fix this?"

"Thus far, we have banned the export of goods and opened one of the royal storehouses," Lyonel turns to the king, "additionally, the Houses of the Riverlands, mine included, have pledged a portion of their yield to the crown."

"Good, good," nods Viserys, "will it be enough?"

A beat of silence passes.

In truth, it answered the question, but still, Lord Lyonel says, "no, your majesty."

Viserys pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs, slumping on his chair. He turns to the vacant one parallel to him, the seat of his brother.

Otto presses hi palm on the table, "Highgarden has been relatively unaffected by the drought. I've reports of how they're thriving from the profits of their heavily marked-up exports."

"Where is Daemon?" Viserys looks around the council.

Otto purses his lips, looking around the table before turning back to the king.

"I heard that it was he who made the arrests last night," says one of the council members.

Viserys furrows his brows, "has he not returned since then?"

"Unlikely," Lord Hand blurts, "when he is not razing the city, he is joined to my daughter's hip. I can confirm that he was not here last night, as I was then able to speak to my daughter about the Tyrell's conditions."

"Conditions?"

"I've sent a raven to Highgarden on behalf of the Crown, asking for two months worth of food."

The king narrows his eyes, "but?"

"But Lord Olivier said he will only see food delivered to King's Landing if a true representative of the Crown comes to Highgarden with the request."

Viserys stills.

Tension thickens in the room the king laughs. He leans back into his chair, muttering, "qogralbar jaosītsos." Fucking puppy.

Otto watches Viserys lean into the table. It was clear, though he did not understand what he said High Valyrian, that he was displeased— offended, just as he knew he'd be.

"Am I a dog you beck and call with a mere whistle?" Viserys asks no one in particular.

The council does not respond as the king laughs dryly; the vein popping on the side of his neck gives away his anger.

A moment passes, and the grandmaester speaks up, "my king. Lord Olivier is wrong to insist upon a show of power during a time of crisis, but the cost of pride is the lives of many common folk."

"I am well-aware, grandmaester," Viserys snaps.

Otto takes the opportunity to speak, "gracing Highgarden with your presence is an honor not befitting such insolence. I would not even recommend sending your lady-wife, Queen Alicent, or even Princess Rhaenyra."

Viserys turn to Otto, brows furrowing in disbelief as he thinks of who's left, "so you mean that I should send Daemon?"

The Lord Hand nearly chokes on his saliva, "I would not send the Rogue Prince for any treaty, your grace."

"Then who?!"

"My other daughter," Otto says, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. After all, he had already mentioned how he's talked to you.

His forehead curls, "your sick daughter?"

Otto does not appreciate that, no matter how true it may be, "the princess has been recovering greatly," he turns to his lap, raising his brows, "she has been well enough to care for your sons and daughter whenever the Queen is performing her duties to the kingdom."

"Daemon talks to me of her conditions," Viserys nods knowingly, "whether you care to admit it or not, your daughter thrives under his care."

He does not.

"That said, I do not think it wise to have her part from him, especially considering how he's keen on keeping her close until they have their own sons and daughters."

"Yes," the Hand snaps, then catches himself. He forces a smile, "I would be overjoyed to welcome another grandchild, especially as I've witnessed the agony of my girl when she was once expecting."

Viserys stiffens at the all-too-vivid recollection of the miscarriage he witnessed first-hand.

"That said," he links his fingers together, "whether I've cared to admit or not, my daughter thrives when she is allowed to roam. She has long wished to smell the flowers of Oldtown, and now that your son, Daeron, will be sent to ward with his uncle Gwayne, this is a perfect opportunity for all parties to be happy. She can make for Highgarden and send the boy to Oldtown. I don't doubt Olivier will see her home personally, as they were childhood friends, and believed once he would wed her."

The king's brow quirks.

"That was before she got sick, of course," Otto shook his head, "the innocent musings of a child. I digress. With the Tyrell's partiality to the princess, I do not doubt the reunion would inspire generosity towards the Crown."

"Well," Viserys raises a hand, "I admit I'm rather persuaded."

Otto purses his lips into a victorious smile.

"You mentioned you've spoken to your daughter of this already?"

"Indeed."

"And what does she say?"

"She is your loyal servant. Her gentle heart is easily moved and she wishes to help in any way sh-"

The doors slam open and close with a loud creak and thud. Hasty footsteps follow and a hushed mutter of the word, "brother."

Viserys watches as Daemon comes to his side, nodding to him in regard before taking the vacant seat parallel to him.

"I hope all the dull talk is over with," Daemon sits down, looking for a cup of wine, then a cupbearer. He raises a brow, "no Rhaenyra?"

Viserys raises a brow, "she is too old to be a cupbearer."

"Ah," Daemon grins at his brother, "I'd nearly forgotten when just two days ago, she complained to me about her dresses being the wrong color."

Viserys chuckles, albeit begrudgingly; his brother sniggers, wholly pleased with himself and his jest.

If he could, Otto would stick pins in his eyes.

"You've come at the perfect time, actually," Viserys exhales the remaining chuckle out of him, "we were just speaking of the plans to get more food for King's Landing. The Crown will send a royal emissary to Highgarden."

"Oh," Daemon raises his brows and leans into his chair, "me."

Viserys mimics his brother, leaning back and tilting his head, "not you, child."

The prince laughs, "course not," he looks across the table, "you're all so damn serious," he props his elbows on the table, "so, when is my niece leaving?"

Viserys shakes his head, "not Rhaenyra either, no."

Daemon raises a brow and thinks for a moment. He leans towards his brother, "surely, you cannot mean to send the boy, Aegon, to negotiate?" He raises a hand, "I agree he can do with diplomacy, but you will see your city sooner starve than the boy to learn from the trip."

Viserys is taken aback, as he did not think of Aegon once during this entire meeting, "no, Daemon. I am not sending Aegon off to learn at the expense of my people."

"Well," Daemon looks around the council, "hail Viserys the Wise," then back to him, "do tell me who else is left. I worry if you send Helaena, I would have to join her."

"I am not sending Helaena," Viserys raises a hand.

"Well, good. She would never fly again if you do."

Viserys sighs, "I'm not sending any of my children."

He watches his brother in expectation.

"I am sending your wife."

It does not register with Daemon for a moment. When it does, he laughs. He leans back and motions, "alright, so you are sending me?"

"No," Viserys speaks firmly, "I am sending your wife."

"What?" Daemon laughs, but less amused. The lightness that he had brought into the council meeting morphs into tension.

"Lord Olivier demands the Crown meet him in Highgarden or starve. I will not grace him with an audience of any of my—"

"But you would gladly offer up my wife!" Daemon snaps, "she is not yours to of-"

"She is. I am her king! And yours."

"And I have done much for my king lately," Daemon rises, "I keep his streets clean and discipline his sons—"

"This isn't about you, Daemon," Viserys decisively interrupts. He sighs at the look of his anger, his betrayal. He raises a hand and speaks softer, hoping to placate him, "this is for the good of the realm."

"Then send your heir!" Daemon snaps, "my wife has nothing to do with the realm."

"Daemon," Viserys slowly tries to stand. He finds he does not have the strength to, thus why he remains seated, "won't you listen to me first?"

"And won't you listen to me?!"

The brothers stare at each other for a prolonged moment. Viserys huffs and motions a hand that he may speak.

Daemon immediately blurts, "she is not fit to travel."

"Olivier Tyrell is a childhood friend of hers. If it is she he meets, he might inclined to give more generosly."

Daemon scoffs out a chuckle, "oh, and you conveniently remember her speaking to you of Olivier fucking Tyrell in passing, have you?"

Viserys points, "her father has spoken of it in-"

"SE PELDIO?!" THE SNAKE?! Daemon snaps, turning to Otto, nearly lunging across the table to choke him. He instead leans on the table, "you toil so tirelessly to steal her from m-"

"Why need I steal mine own daughter?" Otto cuts him off, raising his voice, though his tone is low.

Daemon draws Dark Sister.

"DAEMON!" Viserys screams.

The looming kingsguards draw their swords as well, slowly pressing towards the prince, watching his every move.

"YOUR KING COMMANDS YOU TO HEEL!"

Otto glares at his daughter's husband with all the contempt he'd set aside, "had you been less ill-tempered, perhaps the king would have confidence to send you to Highgarden instead."

"Otto!" Viserys chastises, "silence!"

Daemon laughs. He wants nothing more than to sever his head from his shoulders but he doesn't. He can't, not when you've explicitly begged him not to. Otto knows this, as no semblance of fear is behind his eyes. Daemon thinks he might push him down the stairs when no one is looking.

Viserys watches his brother, calling the guards off before they attempt to apprehend him. He speaks to him in High Valyrian, attempting to again explain the logic in his decision. Daemon does not listen. He sheathes his blade and storms off before he does something irreversible.

Daemon rushes down the halls, fearing as though if he did not find you, he never would. With his jaw hard and hands clenched, all the souls he passed knew not to stand in his way, lest they be trampled.

A gasp leaves you when your chamber doors break open. You stand from your desk, eyes wide as you watch Daemon bolt the locks and march over to you. Your mouth falls open and your pulse races as you half-expect him to pounce on you.

He doesn't. Daemon comes to an abrupt halt, his breath and fists trembling. You watch his Adam's apple bob and you cautiously step forward, hands coming to his cheeks. You press firmly into his skin, brushing your fingers back into his scalp, "speak to me."

Daemon's lips quiver and you gasp when he squeezes your hips. You swear you can feel his nails through your skirt.

You shudder, "Dae-"

"Have you spoken to your cunt father lately?" he quips under his breath, knowing if he didn't, it'd come out as a scream.

You knit your brows, thinking for a moment. "Ah..." your expression relaxes, "Highgarden?"

Daemon grits his teeth so hard, it's a wonder they don't break, "so you agreed?!"

Before you could reply, Daemon pulls away and paces around. He reaches the wall, leans on it for a moment, then marches back to you. You flinch in surprise when he takes your hands and places them back on his cheeks. You squeak when he yanks you by the hips and presses himself against your chest.

"You fucking agreed to go to Highgarden?!" he quips again, less of a whisper, more of a groan.

Your expression softens as he heaves. The struggle to keep his peace is evident. You firmly clutch his cheeks and raise your brows, "I told him it is in my intention to help the Crown as much as I can—"

You feel him shake beneath your palm.

"— and I would go only if my husband allow it."

"Well, he fucking does not!" Daemon snarls, pulling at your skirts in anger. He chuckles dryly, "he doesn't."

You squeak when he begins to rock you back and forth erratically.

"Let the fucking peasants starve," he speaks, almost like a threat, "no one else can have you."

You put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, "Daemon."

"I mean it!" he snaps, holding you still in your place, "speak their complaints to my fucking dragon."

"Daemon," you take his chin.

Daemon stares at you, all of his anger now melted and reduced to what it really was. His breath shakes, "I love you."

You tuck his silver hair behind his ear, "I love y-"

"Would you stop loving me if I killed him?" Daemon's eyes water as his emotions strangle him, "do you not tire?"

Your chest begins to tighten. You can feel him tremble in anger. You rub his cheeks, "killing him won't solve anything."

"It will solve everything," he hisses, voice uneven.

You sigh and rub his shoulders, simultaneously finding the knots in his muscles and the continuous quivering of his form. You shake your head and lower your gaze, "I would rather count the lives you spared in my name than the ones you took."

Daemon shivers, anger still stoking flames in his blood.

You lift your gaze, your own eyes now watery as you look at him. His brows are furrowed, his forehead curled, and his lips pulled into a frown. You clutch his jaw, muttering his name softly.

He looks away.

You push his cheek, urging him to face you, "hold me like a grudge."

He groans and leans into you, head dropping to your shoulder as his arms constrict greedily around you. He forces you back into your desk and sits you down there, uncaring of the objects that fall out of place. He hikes your skirt up and slots himself between your legs, nuzzling his face between your breasts, inhaling the scent of you. He relaxes slightly, "you hold me to impossible standards."

You look down at him, brushing his hair before kissing it. You rub his back until his tension wholly melts away.

After a long moment, you shift, trying to get Daemon to look at you. "My love."

He reluctantly lifts his gaze.

You take his cheeks and he raises to his height. You pout at him and trace the bridge of his nose before leaning in to kiss him.

Daemon looks away, taking a step back from you.

You freeze, frowning as he takes a deep breath.

"I will not be gentle if I return your kiss."

Your belly drops. You stare at him for a moment as he slowly turns to you. When your eyes lock, he anticipates your reaction. He squeezes your hips.

You gulp and think about his words a moment longer, hands brushing across his chest.

He begins to shift restlessly in his spot as the silence becomes an unspoken rejection. He's about to say something but then he hears your deep inhale.

You tilt your head back and slowly pull him back in, "kiss me then."

Daemon would be damned not to, but he knows you are too kind to him. The last time he had his way with you, your heart nearly gave out. So long ago it may have been, it was still fresh in his memory. He whimpers and nips your neck, "I am serious, sweetness."

You whimper when you feel him begin to undo your dress.

"I want to see you smothered beneath me."

Your breath hitches, hands finding the band of his trousers. You slowly unfurl his ties, humming softly as you do, "you can smother me," you lick his earlobe and nip it.

Daemon, ignoring his better judgment in lieu of his lust, soon has your dress thrown on the floor, leaving you in your shift. He lets you remove his top and his dress shirt, feeling all the heat of anger in his body boil down to desire as you reverently trace his scars with your fingertips. He grabs your wrists before you can kiss his chest.

You look up at him, searching his face.

Finally, Daemon kisses you, mouth hungry, tongue searching yours. He releases your hands to clutch your jaw and continues to kiss you until both your lips are swollen. When he pulls away, he brings you to your feet, "on your knees."

Daemon hastily rips away from you to grab a pillow from the bed. He drops it on the floor in front of him and you lift your shift up your knees, immediately sinking down before him.

Your prince groans and undoes the make of your hair until it is spilling freely down your back. He gathers your brown locks, twisting it around his palm, "my pretty girl."

You gasp when he tugs your head back, forcing you to look up at him. He brushes his thumb across your lower lip, "open."

You oblige, sticking your tongue out while you're at it.

Daemon sighs heavily, pleased with how well he's trained you. He presses his thumb on your tongue, wetting it with your saliva, "your father doesn't know how easily you submit to my whims."

Your brows furrow at the mention of him. It pulls you out of the moment. You suck on his thumb, hoping to distract him of his thoughts.

It does. He tugs your hair back, making you cease your sucking. Daemon stares at you, "I said open."

You open your mouth again.

He presses on your tongue with more force as he builds spit up in his mouth. He spits on your tongue, and it splutters everywhere, causing you to flinch. You can feel heat sliding down into your throat.

Daemon pulls his thumb out of your mouth, "swallow."

And so you do.

He grabs your jaw, firm but not painful. He gives you a look, "you will obey, won't you?"

You lick your lips and nod, "yes, my love."

"Good girl," he gently brushes the spit off your cheeks with his thumb, "now, be a good slut and suck me off."

Your gaze lands on his trousers, or, to be exact, his visible erection. You tug his pants down and pull his cock free; the heat and scent of him radiates onto you. He hisses when you claw him forward. It takes great effort for him not to just fuck your face.

He enjoys the apprehension, or even fear, that clouds your expression when he has you like this. He enjoys the uncertainty that hides behind your determination to please him. He heaves through an open mouth, "such an exquisite bitch from a cunt so vile."

You look up at him as you take his cock and lick his tip.

Daemon huffs, fist tightening around your hair, "your father hurt you so bad, you'd take anything I give you, wouldn't you?"

You gag when he pushes his entire length into your hot mouth. Your hands grip his thighs, nails clawing into his skin. The sharp sensation only intensifies his pleasure.

He slowly begins to buck into you, "even if it makes you cry?"

You whimper, and on cue, your eyes water at the size of him. You gag again when he tugs your hair. The feeling of your constricting throat drives him wild. His thrusts grow faster and faster at a rate you wished was more gradual.

Your nose knocks into his pelvis, his coarse pubic hair uncomfortably tickling your nose, making you want to sneeze. You momentarily scratch your nose, then you recall a lesson he had taught you once before. You do your best to relax your throat and cup his stones, massaging them.

"Fuck," he pulls your head back, ghosting his other hand by the side of your head, "such a good whore."

You choke on your yelp as he speeds up to the tempo that pleases him most. Unfortunately for your throat, it was fast as a galloping horse, or at least it felt like it. More than his pleasure, your main focus becomes breathing. You're glad he no longer knocks into you all the way. You've thoroughly slobbered all over him at this point, feeling heavy droplets of spit dribble down your chin and his pubic hair.

Daemon's breathing grows ragged as he concentrates on his peak. His heart thunders as you squeeze your eyes shut, watching tears stream down your stuffed cheeks. He huffs, "such a perfect mouth."

He slows down but replaces speed with depth. You gag far too many times for your liking.

"Jurnegon rȳ nyke, ñuha prūmia," Daemon encourages, slowing even more. Your beady eyes lock with his predatory gaze and he instantly begins to speed up again, "ao sagon gaomagon sīr sȳz syt nyke." Look at me, my heart. You're doing so good for me.

You whimper, pushing back at his thighs as he continues to take your mouth. Your jaw begins to hurt.

"Shh, shh," he heaves as he watches you, "you can take it."

You moan in protest, eyes widening and watering further.

Daemon could care less about your weepy face... but he does, he does care. His toes curl as he slows despite himself. You try to push him off you, but he doesn't let up. He wipes your tears with his free hand, "you said you would obey."

You weep at the reminder, helplessly moaning against his cock.

The sensation nearly makes him finish in your mouth. Daemon hushes you and rubs your cheeks, "just a bit more. My wife doesn't want to disappoint, does she?"

You sob and slobber. You close your eyes and slightly shake your head.

"Good girl."

You take a deep breath and slowly suck on him, bobbing your head back and forth on his hard cock.

Daemon groans and lets you take the lead, though he does not deny himself the flick of his hips, "that's it," he groans, "taking me so well. Better than any painted whore."

You continue like this until Daemon can no longer help himself and takes the reins again. He thrusts into your mouth roughly, but thankfully, it doesn't last very long. He soon spurts in you, hot and salty, and you involuntarily swallow some of his seed.

"Issi ao jāre naejot mōzugon ziry mirre bē syt nyke, litse riña?" Are you going to drink it all up for me, pretty girl?

Tears rush down your cheeks as you shake your head. Daemon, still chasing the last bit of his climax, continues to thrust into you until his reason makes him soft, both in his heart and his cock. He huffs, wiping sweat off his forehead before slowly pulling out. With the same gentleness, he releases your hair. He squats down, bunching your shift out in front of you, "spit."

You spit, watching his thick spend plop on your clothes as you cough and slightly gag. You roll your jaw around as you catch your breath, nearly toppling in exhaustion.

"Shh, shh," Daemon reassures, "arms up for me."

You gulp, sinking to your bum as you raise arms.

"Good girl," he praises, pulling your shift off, leaving you in your small clothes. He wipes your mouth and quickly stands, chucking your clothes with the rest, "water or wine?"

You sigh, watching Daemon go to the nightstand, the muscles on his bum tight as he leans on a leg. He grabs a cup as you mumble, "wine."

He chuckles, pouring some for you, "too salty?"

You groan as he walks back then gratefully take your wine from him. You sigh as he sits in front of you, grabbing your hips before unfolding your legs over him. His filled with mirth; a smile now graces his lips. You watch him as you have your drink.

He kisses your neck, rubbing his hands to your waist before he licks a stripe up your breast.

You pull your cup away, placing a hand at the back of his head.

"You did so beautifully for me," Daemon leans in, violet eyes sparkling in adoration.

You sniffle and pout at him, "it hurt."

He sinks into your neck, "mmm... but not too much..." he frowns, "n-not too much, right?"

You torment him by finishing your wine before replying. His nerves get the best of him and he anxiously peppers kisses on your throat, as if it makes up for the abuse it just went through. You whimper and drop your cup when he begins to suck on your pulse.

"Daemon."

He pulls away, guiltily gazing at you, "just slightly much?"

You chuckle, kissing his lips.

Daemon tries to deepen the kiss, eager to taste himself on you, but you do not let him. You push him back with a sigh. His chest grows uneasy.

You notice and shake your head, "I'm accustomed to pain."

Oh, how he despises it when you say this. He grits his teeth, "but I-"

"It was not very bad though," you press a hand on his chest, "if you feel so bad about it, perhaps you'll bring the ewer of wine over here."

Daemon freezes then furrows his brows through a nod, "of course."

He stands and gets the ewer. You take your cup, raising it to him and he immediately fills your cup to the brim. He props the ewer down then resumes his spot in front of you. He stares at your smallclothes, gulping at the wet stain between your legs. He attempts to pull them off, "you should be naked too."

You squeak when he forces your remaining articles of clothing off, causing some of your wine to splash into your chest.

Daemon throws your clothes off, humming at the red liquid that drips down your navel, "I love wine."

He slides on his chest, but instead of licking the wine, he licks your dripping cunt, forcing you to lean back and release your cup of alcohol.

"Da-Daemon, I'm-" you pull at the roots of his hair, "- I'm still thirsty."

He hums, rubbing his nose against your clit, maddened by the wet squelch it produces. He greedily laps and sucks at your weeping entrance, squeezing your thighs around his head, wanting nothing more than to be smothered by your arousal.

"Daemon," you yank at his roots to gain his attention.

"Mmm," he does opposite, pressing his face deeper into you, "dmrinmk umpm, lomvem," as if you could understand his words in his current position.

You had meant to say something, but the feel of his hot mouth evaporated all your thoughts. You fall back on your elbows, knocking down the cup of wine on your side. Your legs twitch behind his ears and your heel digs into his back.

Daemon hums in approval, gripping your thighs tighter as he feasts more eagerly upon the nectar drawn out with his tongue. He pulls his mouth away, sucking roughly on your clit, before nipping your inner thigh, "such a messy girl."

You gasp as he lifts your lower body, pulling you closer into him until the curve of your arse was resting on his shoulders. He pushes your upper body down on the floor, hands clutching and kneading against your tender breasts as he kisses your cunt.

You writhe beneath him, unable to stay still from the pleasure coursing through your veins. Your back arches, pelvis rutting into him. You encourage him further into you, fingers tangling into his hair.

"Such a needy thing," Daemon pulls his mouth away, hands brushing down your hips, "so pretty when she's about to come."

You hold on him falterd when he begins to rapidly rub your clit. You feel your belly begin to tighten.

"Do you want to come on my fingers or on my tongue?"

You mewl, raking your fingers up the side of your scalp, "darling... I..." you tighten your thighs around him, "I want both."

"Fuck," he sighs, fixing the pillow beneath you, propping your bum atop it, "what a greedy whore you are."

You whimper when Daemon shifts and pushes your thighs up to your belly.

"Are you a greedy whore, Lady Hightower?" your husband raises a brow, parting your hot, weeping cunt to lick a stripe there.

Your spine twists and your belly trembles, "y-yes."

"Mmm," his tongue licks you up. His mouth and chin is soon shining under the lights of the room. He lifts his head, "what was that? I didn't hear."

You watch him hover over you until he aligned and eye level. Some of the slick on his mouth drips onto you. You heave through your mouth, "I'm a greedy whore, my prince."

Daemon squeezes your jaw open and spits on your tongue again. You swallow without a word. He can feel himself grow hard, "I had no idea you were raised to be such a desperate slut."

You hum, "not raised," you rub his chest, "trained."

He gulps, cock twitching in excitement, "seven fucking hells," he grinds on you, "gaomagon jaelā naejot ossēnagon nyke?" Do you want to kill me?

You pout and meet his hips with the same motion, "jaelagon naejot mazverdagon ao iā kepa." Want to make you a father.

Daemon curses before kissing you. You whine as you kiss him back, legs wrapping around his hips, hands clutching his sticky face. You whine again when he pulls away and sinks down on you, "nooo."

He kisses your breast, "just going to make you peak on my tongue and and fingers."

"No, please, I want you."

He gives a boyish grin, "and what do you want?"

"I want your cock," you try to pull him up, "want you to fill me with your seed."

"Qogralbar, litse riña," he swipes your lips, "gaomagon daor buragon, nyke'll tepagon bona naejot ao hae sȳrī." Fuck, pretty girl. Don't worry, I'll give that to you as well.

You were so worked up at this point, it didn't take very much for him to push you over the edge, not when your words fueled him so. Even if you weren't on the precipice, with the way he sank two fingers knuckle deep into you and flicked his tongue over your clit, you'd end up a mess either way.

The next thing you knew, you were breathlessly shaking and spilling over his face. You whine his name out and grind against him. He moans in approval and makes sure to pull every bit of pleasure out of you.

Once your high had thoroughly washed over, Daemon rises back up and kisses your face, "did so well for me."

You hum, your womanhood throbbing from its recent peak. Still, there was a want inside you as you heaved. You catch him by the mouth, pulling him into you. He is taken off-guard by your heated kiss.

He does his best not to crush you beneath him. Even with his revived hard on, he still had reason and knew to let your breathing even out, lest your heart give in.

You make it incredibly hard for him to listen to reason though. "Need you inside me."

Daemon chuckles incredulously, "my love, there is no rush."

"There is," you shake your head, "I need you now," you kiss him, "will you make me beg? Please."

He laughs again as you pepper him with kisses, muttering the same word over and over again. He gulps when you whisper it against his ear in High Valyrian.

"I don't think I will last long if I fuck you like this."

Before you can speak, Daemon flips you over and rubs your hips.

"Ride your dragon, princess."

And so you do.

He knew you had terrible stamina, so he could prolong the session enough to work you up again that you might reach your climax together. You a vision as you mount his cock and lean into his chest. The wet and heavy slap of your hips drive him maddddd.

As expected, it didn't take long for your thighs to ache and your bucking to slow. You whine out his name.

He hums and clutches your neck, "you can do it, my ferocious dragon." He lifts his head and kisses your arm, "don't you want to feel me spill in you? Don't you want to be heavy with my babe?"

You whimper coming to a halt, "yes, but—"

He cuts you off with a thrust. Your flesh spills between his fingers as he squeezes your thighs, "take it. Take what you need from me."

Your face contorts as he bucks into you, his cock poking the delicous tenderness in you that makes your lungs tighten and your toes curl.

Soon, your husband sits up and wraps his arms around you. He brushes the hair sticking on your skin and licks the sweat off your neck, marking you just behind your jaw.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and soon find yourself moving along with him.

"That's it," he hums in approval.

You yelp at the sudden slap of your arse.

"Take it like the slut you are."

You bite your lip and furrow your brows in concentration.

Daemon groans, feeling his peak draw near. He rubs furious circles on your clit, making you groan into his shoulder and bite him. He sighs, wrapping an arm around you, "don't stop, my queen. You're going to ride me until I come inside your tight cunny."

You whine and throw your head back, gasping as you grip his shoulders, maneuvering up and down on him harder.

Yet again, your legs begin to give in and he can feel you tremble in exertion. He kisses the frustrated tear that begins to roll down your cheek as you call out his name. "Shhh. Is it too much for you, sweetheart?"

You sniffle and nod.

"Alright," he holds you still by your hips, making you come to a halt.

You whine defeatedly, cunt throbbing in need as you lean into him, "my love, please."

"I'm here," he kisses your head, slowly pushing you back on the floor, pillow finding your bum again. He pushes your legs into your chest and hooks your feet behind his ear, "did such a good job for me."

You helplessly moan as he begins to thrust sharply into you, each movement creating an obscene wet noise that makes your belly tighten and the rest of you melt. Your back arches in anticipation.

"I'm going to take good care of you," he mutters kissing your ankle, "make your belly swell," he kneads your breasts, "your tits heavy with milk."

You gulp, "please."

"You're gonna take it, aren't you?"

You nod frantically.

"Take it, lover, take it like a dirty slut."

"I'm so close."

"Yeah," he grits his teeth, "can feel you squeezing me so tight."

Daemon leans into you, pressing your legs down with his weight. The moment his lips take yours for a kiss, you break into a mind fogging peak and an unholy sound rips out your throat.

To your husband, it was the holiest of holies. He pushes his hands into the back of your knees and goes wild, slapping roughly into you as he chases the high that had been building up his loins the moment your molten heat wrapped around him.

As your climax reach its highest intensity, your husband finally reaches his, and you feel him throb inside you as his frenzied thrusts grow fast and irregular.

You feel winded, but not at all in the usual suffocating way. Your body melts into him as he fucks out the last of his orgasm into you, milking his cock for all its worth, making sure every drop was pushed deep inside you.

You brush his sweaty hair back, mouth finding his textured shoulder, suckling on it as he slowly relaxes atop you. You bite him once then whisper against his ear, "I love you so much."

Daemon sighs on your head, "avy jorrāelan," he kisses your temple, "tolī than mirros eman mirre jorrāelatan." I love you more than anything I have ever loved.

[gyuvibe]

altar boy!gyuvin x fem!reader [18+]

kim gyuvin x fem!reader cw: sexual content, blasphemous imagery, dubious morality, power imbalance, dirty talk, implied oral sex (f!receiving), implied marking (lmk if i missed something!) note: i don't know if this is cohesive but im having gyuvin brainrot right now so you guys just bear with this one pls

gyuvin is that guy. student council secretary. altar boy. campus ministry golden child. the kind of boy your mom says, “why can’t you be more like him?” with a sigh that stings a little too deep. he’s always 20 minutes early, his pens branded, and somehow makes volunteering look cool. everyone in your class admires him but the moment school ends and report cards come out? that admiration curdles into something bitter… because suddenly, he’s the go-to topic in every home, his name ringing louder than your grades ever could.

but if you’re being honest? they’d probably lose their minds if they knew half the shit he whispers into your ear every 2 am. 

the one who shows up at your dorm, still dressed like a saint, yet his orbs are dark and his voice low–hands already inside your shirt before you could even lock your door. 

they don’t even know how he sounds when he’s panting your name like he’s reading a prayer. heck, they don’t see the way he kneels, not in front of the altar, but between your thighs, lips dragging over your skin like a benediction. 

“mmh, look at you, my y/n.” he murmurs, his lips so close to your trembling womanhood yet he takes his time to remove your ruined underwear. “and here i thought that you hated me.” gyuvin knows it’s a lie and you know it too–but he knows exactly what his teasing does to you.

“g-gyuvin, ahh! please…” you beg, your hips bucking forward, urging the man to eat you out quickly. his name coming out of your pretty lips like worship–and god, he revels in it.

they don’t even know the way he fucks you as if he’s making up for every sin that he has committed ever since he met you. it was slow, teasing, and a bit desperate. his thrusts would always abuse your sweet little spot, making your head spin so much you don’t know how to respond to his questions. every roll of his hips drives you insane and every kiss he leaves makes your skin burn.

“god, the sounds that you make.” he groans, head buried on the crook of your neck. “don’t do that later…” he adds before pulling his cock out of your hole then pounding it in harshly again, “or else, i might not behave, y/n-ah~” he playfully says. 

and you lose it. 

everyone knows that he has his way with words. but they didn’t warn you about how he’d use them. how just a simple call of your name from his voice can make your knees weak. how sinful his groans are when he’s buried inside you. 

your fingers become tangled with his hair and you swear you could feel his lip turning upwards. “you like that, princess?” he teases you again, “bet you think about me fucking you while i’m still in my altar boy robe, hm?” and he’s right. 

when it’s over, when your limbs are already soft and trembling and your chest is heaving, he presses soft kisses on the bruises he left behind. 

he buttons his shirt up again and runs his hand through his hair like he didn’t just rearranged your guts. 

he looks down at you with his big and doe eyes–the one you fell for the moment you had eye contact with him–he leans down to your level and kisses your cheek tenderly. 

“see you at church, y/n?” his voice was syrupy sweet like he didn’t just use your body like a confessional. like he didn’t just worship you almost the same way he does every morning at mass. 

and yeah, maybe he’s the kind of boy every mom wants their kid to be. always early. always proper. pressed shirt, ironed pants, hands folded in prayer.

just… just don’t look a little too close at his neck because you’ll see the bite marks blooming on his throat—a reminder that last night, he didn’t kneel at the altar. 

he knelt for you.

gyuvibe, 2025

[esmedelacroix]

05 - Recovery

synopsis ! he’s an American football player by day and a passionate mathematician by night. She’s a well-rounded historian and writer who couldn’t evaluate a derivative to save her life. They lived in two different worlds but shared the same study room.

previous chapter | series masterlist

cw ! no use of y/n, y/n is _____, fluff, slow burn, college au, ooc sukuna, f!reader, child abuse/neglect, alcohol abuse,

fic radio ! Glitter by BENEE

The pounding in your head woke you up before the glare of the hot sun kissing your skin. Your eyes almost felt dry and painful as you forced them open. They adjusted to the light as you wondered why you kept your blinds open. Your sore joints and limbs barely worked when you rolled over to be met with a huge, broad tan-ish back.

I must still be dreaming, you thought. The back you were faced with was huge and oh so muscular. There were a few small beauty marks littered about. Your manicured nails lightly grazed the exposed skin, partially illuminated by the golden rays slipping through the open blinds.

The man began to shift and grumble. You saw his pink hair turn, and there you saw Sukuna's groggy face. "You look so real," you whispered.

The back of his large, warm hand landed on your forehead. He didn't speak. Just stared attentively.

"You're burning up. Did you take your medicine?" he asked, his deep, gravely morning voice vibrated through his chest and yours. It was only then that you realized this was no dream.

You looked down, realizing that you were wearing nothing but a huge band T-shirt (that was definitely not yours) and your panties.

I slept with Ryomen Sukuna?! You craned your head around in fear and shock. You looked at the ground to see your jeans, bra, top, and belt scattered on the ground from the night prior.

You sat up way too quickly still unable to process everything. Your hand flew to your pounding head. “Woah, slow down there champ. You might vomit on me again,” he sighed sitting up slowly with smirk ghosting his features.

“Vomit? … Again?”

“Oh, so you don’t remember anything. Don’t blame ya you were shit-faced,” he commented casually bringing the water and pills to your hands. You cautiously accepted them and drank.

“So did we fuck before or after I was too intoxicated to consent?” you questioned boldly. He wouldn’t right? He’s not like the other creepy frat brothers. You naturally scooted away putting things together realizing he could have possibly taken advantage of you.

“What? We didn’t have sex, _____,” he assured with a brow raised at you.

“Then why are my clothes off and why am I wearing yours?” you interrogated.

“Well you vomitted all over your clothes, and you also strip in your sleep which is … interesting,” he explained rubbing a hand down his face.

“Wha-” you started.

“Ryo! Breakfast!” Gojo called outside of his door.

“You heard the man,” he said, motioning towards the door.

“I don’t want to impose. I can’t I-” you sputtered.

“Don’t try to make an excuse, it’s Sunday morning. You’re not touching a single book until you eat,” he scolded.

“But it’s peak studying time the libraries are so empty!” you retorted. He gave you one single look that could kill and pushed himself off the bed. For some reason, instead of fighting back, you felt like you should obey. Besides, he seemed like he had your best interests in mind.

“You need help getting up?”

“I’m fine … are you sure we didn’t do anything?”

“Look, contrary to what you’ve heard about me, I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t just meet girls and sleep with them. I’m not complete scum yet so you don’t need to worry about anything.”

You stayed silent and just got up slowly trudging to the door. “Where do you think you’re going?” he questioned.

“Breakfast! Goddamn, you just made me skip studying for this!”

“Dressed like that?” he asked motioning to your clothes or lack thereof.

It was only then that you remembered you were only wearing panties and a huge t shirt. The heat rose to your ears and cheeks but you didn’t need him knowing that. “Okay then give me pair shorts or something weirdo,” you snapped.

“Sure, just try to keep ‘em on this time,” he smirked while digging through his dresser. He through a pair of shorts in your direction and you threw them on, tugging at the drawstring for dear life to tie them. You and Ryomen headed down the stairs with him in just a pair of sweats, and you looked like Adam Sandler.

“Woah, someone had a good night,” Gojo teased.

“We didn’t do anything,” he corrected immediately. You didn't know why, but something in you didn't like that. You wished he would have just let his frat brothers wonder.

“Good, I still have a chance,” Todo joked, eating his cereal like an animal.

Ew, you thought while taking a seat next to Ryomen. He scooped waffles and fruit onto your plate, and you watched quietly. He saw you staring at the war of arms diving for food, and decided to plate yours for you. You could see a softness in his visage. For a second, his eyes met yours. Your faces were closer than you thought. Though that second felt like an hour, even that was too fleeting to memorize his face. His sharp features, the tattoos, the scared slit in his eyebrow, all those little details brought you so much comfort. And that wasn't even all of it.

When you looked away, Gojo was already staring, raising a brow at you. You rolled your eyes and ate your food. The boys discussed various topics, including planning their next party, last night's hookups, and their game formation.

In between the conversation that Sukuna was uncharacteristically not involved in, he stole glances at you. Just digging in, allowing yourself to be at ease and enjoy the moment. He noticed the way your leg stopped bouncing, and instead of fidgeting with your fork and moving food around on your plate, you were eating. As well as occasionally laughing at the frat brothers.

"So, _____, I never see you at our parties," Yuji commented.

"Yeah, parties aren't really my scene," you replied.

"What brought you to ours? Was our Ryo over there?" Gojo teased.

"Satoru, you literally invite me to every single one of these."

"Satoru? Woah, didn't know you guys were that close," Todo chuckled.

"It's not like they're dating or anything," Sukuna gruffly commented.

"Hey, you don't know that. _____ and I are a lot more similar than you think," Gojo teased.

Right, Sukuna almost allowed himself to forget his place in society. You and Gojo were untouchable. Born in the perfect rich families, treated like royalty by anyone who was relevant and societally educated enough to know that your parents are the wealthy people running the country behind the "rich" celebrities that are force-fed to the brain-dead general public.

People didn't know what rich meant until they saw the way the Gojo clan lived or the lifestyle of your elite family. To put the cherry on the cake, the two of you had both parents in your lives. If you got married, you could have a big happy family. You wouldn't have to worry about dysfunctional, barely present in-laws. You had everything Ryomen thirsted for all his life. Parents who believe in you and financial stability.

"You're right, you could be dating. But at the end of the day, we all know whose room she slept in," he retorted smugly.

That earned him a couple of wolf whistles. Yuji got up and put a tally next to Sukuna's name on a whiteboard on display on their kitchen counter like it was some kind of generic Rae Dunn kitchen decor from HomeGoods that simply read: "Eat." For some reason, they had a "Burn Board," for everytime someone had a good comback, they would explain to you later.

"If all of you would quit talking about me like I'm some girl you're planning on passing around, I need to go. Thanks for breakfast, Toru,” you started, putting your hand over his. Sukuna’s eyes followed your hand. He stared at the union of your skin, unaware that his temperature was rising again. There was no explanation for why he imagined it was your hand on his. He, too, could be the emotionally stable rich boy you felt comfortable enough to touch if the odds were better at birth.

“Wow, now it’s Toru? Should I start calling him that?”Todo joked.

“Don’t even think about it,” Gojo smiled with no sweetness in his voice.

“The books are calling my name,” you sighed as you got up and put your plate in the sink.

“I’ll walk you out,” Sukuna said towering over you putting his plate in the sink as well and washing hands.

The two of you walked out of the kitchen into the living-room(that was in rough shape) to Toji sneaking out a girl who was most-likely his ex out. “Leaving so early?” he asked, turning to you, trying to act casual.

“We saw her,” you deadpanned.

“Shit. Don’t tel-”

“TOJI WAS SNEAKING OUT DELILAH!” Sukuna called out before leaving with you. A symphony of wows and ohhhhs erupted from the kitchen. He knew that Toji was flipping him off behind his back. He laughed to himself as he heard the laughter and ruckus coming from the kitchen that he had caused. You noticed. The curl of his lips. The subtle smoke that came from his mouth when he chuckled showing that the weather was getting colder.

As you walked down the street side by side, you caught sight of the parties that started last night and were turning into darties. Do these people ever sleep? “How is Jackson Wang’s party still active? I heard like three cop cars come by last night,” Sukuna commented.

“That guy does throw the craziest parties. I heard something really weird about you at a Jackson Wang party,” you revealed.

“What’s that?” he smirked.

“An Eiffel Tower … with Toji.”

He laughed. Out loud. “The things people come up with always surprises me,” he chuckled.

“You don’t have to walk me to my dorm, by the way,” you said, noticing some people���s eyes on the two of you.

“Letting you walk alone on party weekend morning is just as bad as making you walk alone at night.”

The two of you talked some more, and in your conversation, you learned that most of the things you heard about him weren’t true. He left your dorm, telling you to rest some more before going straight to hitting the books. Two months ago, you would’ve just studied anyway, but you listened.

You took a whole nap. At night, you went to the perfectly empty library. After getting talked to by the librarians about marking exactly who would be in your study room, you wrote down your name in the time slot. And under it, you scribbled, “possibly Ryomen.”

. . .

-> next part

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[peachdues]

Phantasmagoria (Part I)

Tell Me to Stop (Sanemi’s Version)

Sanemi x F!Reader, Modern AU

A/N: it's time. This one is very personal to me, and I've drawn a lot upon my own life/experiences to write this. I hope it lives up to expectations, but in case it doesn't, remember there is still a part two and a part three (so more smut/angst/feelings).

Massive TW: grief, loss of parent to cancer, canon character death (in non-canon way), drug and alcohol abuse, anger, unhealthy coping mechanisms galore.

CW: 10.5k words; explicit sexual content. Unprotected sex/oral (F!receiving), mildly dubious consent (Reader doesn't tell Sanemi it's her first time, and there's a question whether he would've done it); both Sanemi and Reader are under the influence. Creampie, lots of cursing, angst.

For the playlist, listen here.

Without further ado!

Speak in tongues / I don't even recognize your face / mirror on the wall / tell me all the ways to stay away

phan·tas·ma·go·ri·a – an exhibition of optical effects and illusions; a constantly shifting complex succession of things seen or imagined.

Once upon a time, as a little girl, she’d believed love was pretty; she imagined it would be soft, pink, and shiny and make her feel warm and pretty in return.

As an adult, she’d come to realize that love wasn’t pretty at all; it was cold, lonely, and painful.

Love was dull and harsh and all-consuming.

Love was black.

For Y/N, loving Sanemi Shinazugawa was like falling into one of the black holes she’d learned about in science class as a child. It was infinite and empty and there was no space for anything but the all-consuming void that promised to rip her apart and condemn her to oblivion.

This love had taken her naïve, romantic heart to chew up and spit back out, leaving her only with a misshapen lump held together by the leftover sinew of her hopes and dreams.

Y/N believed her love for Sanemi would be the death of her. It was a poison that had seeped into her veins and was slowly rotting her from the inside out. She knew it was stupid to love someone who would not and could not love her back, but she hadn’t yet figured out a way to stop.

And since she could not stop loving him, she could only resign herself to its toxicity until it killed her for good.

—————————————————————————

Summer had ended, and Y/N was dreading having to return to Ubayashiki University. Dreading it because she’d spent the entirety of the summer back in her – their – hometown, caring for her ailing mother, and that isolation had meant she didn’t have to wake up every day with a pit in her stomach at the thought of running into him. But then her mother had finally succumbed to her illness a week prior, and Y/N was now forced to carry on in the world as though hers had not just been blown apart.

Looking back, Genya’s death had marked the end for a lot of things, including the once-irreverent trio that had been Y/N, Kyojuro, and Sanemi.

They had been friends – the best of friends, really, since pre-school, in large part because of their parents. Kyojuro, as warm and as vibrant as the sun, had been their grounding force, always wise beyond his years but quick to laugh. Then there was Sanemi, and though he could be prone to his episodes of anger, he was a staunch, loyal defender of his friends and would do anything if it meant making them smile. Last, there had been Y/N, and she’d been so happy to just love her boys and be loved by them. She’d always felt invincible with them by her side, ready to take on the world, together.

And for a while, they did.

Their friendship withstood even the toughest of trials. It lasted through the death of Kyojuro’s mother and the subsequent decline of his father, so unable to cope that he could not function without the bitter sting of alcohol to soothe the pain of Rukka’s absence. Their friendship had even endured the deaths of both Sanemi’s and Genya’s parents at the hands of a drunk driver, the shrapnel from the crash permanently scarring both of the boys’ faces, though Sanemi had born the worst of it.

But because they’d had one another, they’d made it through. Y/N’s own mother, though a single parent, took in both Shinazugawa boys until the state placed them in a home, though that rarely stopped Sanemi from frequenting Y/N’s house after school. Even Kyojuro grew to be a constant fixture around her house, drawn to the warmth and love her mother showed both boys as if they were her own.

And then they all grew up, and they were set to begin their first year of university at Ubaya-U come the fall. The three of them had been eager to set out into the world, to grab at any and all opportunities that arose, and for each of them to become great in their own right.

But not two weeks into the fall semester, Sanemi received the phone call that had brought his world crashing down around him. Genya, his beloved, cherished younger brother, had been shot dead outside of their foster home, killed by some kid in retaliation for some fight Genya hadn’t picked.

Y/N hadn’t been with him when he received the news, instead only getting a text from Kyojuro to getthefuckoverhereNOW. She’d bolted from her class and ran to the boys’ dorm across campus. She’d found Sanemi, curled into a ball on the floor beneath a hole he’d punched into the drywall, sobbing, and she hadn’t known what else to do but hold him along with Kyojuro while her own tears threatened to blind her.

Hours later, when Sanemi realized he would have to return to their hometown to make final arrangements, he’d asked Y/N to accompany him to the train station. Kyojuro would have gone as well, but he’d been unable to call off from work, and so the three had planned for Y/N to return with him the next day, as she was the only one between the three of them with a car on campus.

Of course, Y/N agreed to drive Sanemi to the train station, because she couldn’t possibly imagine leaving him alone. He’d looked so lost, so broken, and she would’ve done anything, anything at all, to lessen the weight on his shoulders.

Because she loved him, and she’d loved him for years, and love meant giving everything you had, everything you were to the other, especially in times of need. So she agreed, and though he’d been unable to speak, Sanemi had rested his head on her shoulder in silent gratitude.

She’d not known that, in her efforts to love and support him at his lowest, she would doom their group’s entire dynamic.

In retrospect, she shouldn’t have said anything. It was the wrong time, the wrong way to tell him what was in her heart, and she’d known that; but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. She’d been unable to stop the way her heart clenched as she walked him towards the platform at Amane Station, his head hung low and his eyes rimmed red from hours of crying. It hurt her to see him in such pain, hurt so badly that she’d been desperate to alleviate it in any way she could. She’d thought it would have been enough to hug him, to give him a reassuring squeeze and a promise that she and Kyo would be back home the following morning and that he wouldn’t be alone.

But then, before she could stop them, those cursed words had fallen from her lips and ruined her, ruined everything.

I love you, Sanemi. With all my heart.

As soon as she’d heard herself say it, she’d known she’d fucked up. She knew, as Sanemi stiffened in her embrace and pulled away from her, that she’d indelibly altered things between them, and that she could never take those words back. And she’d known, the moment she saw the cold, bewildered look in his eyes, so angry it made her stomach drop, that he neither returned nor wanted her love.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?” He snapped, stepping back from her, creating a chasm between them that could not be bridged.

His train had finally arrived, and he’d stormed away from her, turned his back to her, and refused to look back as he boarded the car. She’d stayed behind, standing there amidst a throng of travelers and their families, for a long while, tears slipping hot and fast down her cheeks until the salt burned permanent tracks into her skin.

It hadn’t mattered that Kyojuro had called her later, Sanemi having filled him in on what happened, what she’d done, to tell her not to worry; that Sanemi had just been frustrated and overwhelmed, and that all would be well between them after the funeral.

Kyojuro lied. Sanemi hadn’t so much as looked her way the entire time she and Kyo were with him during his brother’s funeral and had refused to even acknowledge her small greeting. Y/N understood he was going through the worst pain imaginable, and she’d known he was angry because she’d dumped her feelings on him when he’d been in no place to receive them, but his rejection still fucking hurt.

Worse than his rejection had been his total ignorance of her, his obstinate refusal to so much as acknowledge her existence. Y/N hadn’t been able to understand how he could be so angry with her to not even treat her like a person, to pretend as though they hadn’t been friends – best friends – since they were in diapers.

Y/N had wanted to give him space, however, and wanted herself to stop loving him so things could one day go back to how they’d been, so she started to distance herself from Sanemi, believing she would still have Kyojuro, her sun, to lean on if she needed it.

But she’d been wrong, so very wrong. Because Kyojuro had defended Sanemi with a not-so-gentle reminder that ‘he’s dealing with a lot right now,’ which only fractured her heart even more because Kyojuro had taken a side and it hadn’t been hers.

Thus, Y/N was left to love them both at a distance, and she was forced to watch them carry on their friendship without her, even though they’d all come to Ubaya-U together and even though her exile from the group meant that Y/N had no friends at all.

So, her first semester at university, the semester she’d dreamed would be life-changing and exciting, became a cacophony of sobs smothered into her pillow at night so her roommate wouldn’t hear her winking out like a dying star. And she had no friends, because her best friend didn’t think she was his, and she couldn’t stop loving a boy who didn’t want to love her back.

—————————————————————————

Her mom got sick in the spring of her first year. Initially, it had been a good prognosis. Y/N somehow managed to balance her busy, pre-law class load with her mother’s care, fluidly alternating between office hours and hospital appointments. But no friends meant she’d had no one to talk to, no one to lean on in those moments when her legs gave out and sobs wracked her body because she’d been so fucking scared of losing her mom. But she’d been kept busy enough to be able to squash that loneliness down and ignore it like her boys had ignored her, and so, she’d pushed through.

By the time summer had come, however, things had grown exponentially worse. Several nights ended in Y/N having to call an ambulance to rush to her home, because her mom had fallen and Y/N wasn’t strong enough to lift her by herself, and there hadn’t been anyone else she could call.

There had been a few times – maybe two or three – when she’d passed Kyojuro on the street, home briefly to check on his little brother, and the fiery blonde would make a face like he wanted to say something like he wanted to talk to her or care about her, but Y/N would turn and run before he had the chance.

She never saw Sanemi, though that hadn’t surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to be able to stomach being back home so soon after Genya.

Her mother’s condition yo-yoed throughout the summer and into the early fall of her second year of university. Just when it finally seemed as though things were looking up for her mother, when she was just days from her last treatment, she died.

No one had been there to hold her – to comfort her – when Y/N began wailing as her mother’s chest rose for the last time and did not go back down.

Her mother had died, and Y/N had been left utterly and completely alone.

Her mother’s funeral had taken place on a sunny October day, the autumn air cool and crisp as an apple. She’d stood beside her mother’s casket as stranger after stranger passed, offering their condolences and personal anecdotes of her mother’s kindness.

Not once had she seen a familiar face. Not once had either of her boys made an appearance, not even for the woman who had loved them as her own.

She’d returned to campus a few days later, and because the universe had decided she’d not suffered nearly enough for some unknown crime, she ran into him. By the cruelest twist of fate, Sanemi decided to cross the street opposite her at the same time, and what was left of her heart skipped several beats.

For all her efforts to put distance between them, she still loved him, and it was a realization so bitter she thought she would start dry heaving right there on the pavement. She tried to duck her head, to avoid catching his attention, but the crosswalk light changed, and he was suddenly walking towards her, and she couldn’t help but chance a glance up.

Lilac eyes collided with her own, and Y/N thought the world was about to open beneath her and swallow her whole.

His gaze lingered for a touch longer than normal for a stranger, and Y/N feared he’d be able to see the scars from her tears on her face or see how her heart still bore the tattoo of his name. But then he blinked, and she took the chance to vanish among the throng of students, dashing back to her dorm before the tears could spill down her cheeks once more.

She barely made it to her room before her legs gave out from under her, her sobs choking from her throat.

She wished her mother had taken her with her.

—————————————————————————

It was fitting that Y/N met the personification of spring at the start of the spring semester.

Her name was Mitsuri, and Y/N sat next to her in her 8:00 AM class. The girl was so bubbly and bright that it was difficult, even for the drab Y/N to resist striking up a conversation with her. Mitsuri was a streak of color that bloomed across Y/N’s eternal gray sky, with her exotic pink and green hair and permanent blush. It took only a few weeks, but Mitsuri and Y/N became the best of friends, and Y/N could not get over how good it felt to have one of those again.

Mitsuri and Y/N began to do everything together, and bit by bit, Y/N felt herself smiling more, laughing as her friend flirted with every him, her, and them who crossed their path. They figured out they shared nearly every class together, and when they weren’t furiously taking notes during their lectures, they were studying together in small corners around campus, dreaming of what was to come after exams and graduation in a year and a half.

Her pink-haired friend helped Y/N feel confident again, like a person. Mitsuri helped bring Y/N back out of the shell she’d so carefully crafted in the wake of her abandonment, and she began to feel a little lighter, a little more buoyant thanks to the happy, beautiful girl at her side.

That wasn’t to say Mitsuri didn’t have her own demons – she very much did. At night, Mitsuri and Y/N push their beds together in the latter’s dorm (Y/N’s first roommate had long since moved out). There, huddled together under the mess of blankets and pillows, they would whisper the names of their heartache with one another – Sanemi and Obanai – and they comforted each other, wiping their tears away with soft promises that as long as they had one another, they would be okay.

By March, Mitsuri convinced Y/N to go clubbing with her. Y/N was hesitant until she looked in the mirror after her friend had spent the evening primping her and turning her into a woman Y/N scarcely recognized in the mirror. Her friend had dressed her in a short, emerald green dress that hugged every curve just right, a teasing slit going high up on her left thigh. Y/N’s hair had been slicked back into a high ponytail that swung tantalizingly between her shoulder blades. Her cleavage was a bit more exposed in the pinkette’s dress than Y/N was accustomed to, but damn if she didn’t look downright sumptuous.

Y/N was determined to let loose, to not think about the black stain on her heart that was him, and so she greedily accepted Mitsuri’s hand as the two braved the chilly, early spring air. Mitsuri pulled her through the doors of the club -- the Kizuki Moon Lounge -- and for the first time in a year and a half, she felt alive.

Beneath the strobe of multi-colored lights, amidst the pulsing bass of the techno-music threatening to rupture her eardrums, Y/N had found herself anew; no longer was she the sad, morose girl who barely existed. Under Mitsuri’s care, Y/N transformed into a raving princess, who owned the sticky floor of the Kizuki’s club each time she and her friend traipsed onto it in their too-high heels, wearing too-short dresses and clutching too-strong drinks in their greedy hands.

In April, Mitsuri introduced her to Shinobu, a wisp of a pharmacology student who was every bit as beautiful as she was terrifying, though Y/N could not exactly place why the petite girl could scare off any ill-intentioned man that tried to swagger over to them, given her ever-present, sugary-sweet smile.

She also met three girls – Hinatsuru, Makio, and Suma – who were beautiful and fun-loving and rounded out the newly-formed friend group with their fire-and-ice personalities.

First, there was Hinatsuru – quieter, but still capable of throwing it back and having a grand old time, especially once her drink of choice (rum and Coke) had the opportunity to work its way through her blood. A pretty blush was always the telltale sign that Hina was ready to jump up on a table and captivate anyone who had the pleasure of watching her dance.

Next, there was Makio, brash and bold, but fiercely loyal. Some asshole had made the mistake of snapping the thong-like top of Mitsuri’s skirt once and found his head shoved down on the table, his arm pulled back in a self-defense maneuver as the dark-haired beauty threatened to wrench the man’s offending arm from its socket.

Finally, there was Suma, who often clung to the other two like a lost child, but once she gained her confidence, would flirt with absolutely anything and everything that moved, with a sultry giggle and a bat of her pretty eyes. Within only twenty minutes of knowing her, Suma had convinced Y/N to make out with her, the beautiful girl tasting like cotton candy and summertime as their tongues lazily danced together beneath the throb of the club lights.

With her new group of girlfriends, Y/N began to lose herself to the alluring beck and call of Ubayashiki’s local rave scene, her nights quickly becoming defined by sticky drinks and jeweled makeup, and the skimpy outfits Mitsuri always shoved her into. But she could not find it in her heart to care, because for once, her mind was on something else that didn’t involve the smell of pine, or lavender eyes, or the feeling of a home that no longer existed.

But even though the sour drinks made her feel so warm and vibrant while she danced, there were still moments when clarity hit and she missed them.

She missed the way Kyojuro’s strong arm would drape around her shoulders, heavy and warm, and how his embrace always felt like home, his deep laugh infectious.

She missed the way Sanemi would pretend to hug her unwillingly but would leave his hands lingering on her back or her waist once she moved to pull away, a small smirk tugging on the corners of his tantalizing mouth. She missed the smell of his cologne, woodsy and clean, as he would lean in close to her face to tease her until she blushed.

She missed them so much that the sharp sting of alcohol eventually stopped dulling the pulsing ache in the cavity where her heart once beat. No matter how many shots, no matter how many sticky acid drinks she tossed back, that gnawing in her chest would not cease.

Then, one night, Shinobu pressed a small, lilac pill into her hand, and everything changed.

Initially, Y/N was apprehensive, because the pill perfectly matched the hue of the eyes of the person she wanted to forget most. But Shinobu promised her that this pill she’d created in a lab for school – Wisteria – will have her feeling like a kid on Christmas, and that promise, coupled with a flutter of Shinobu’s pretty eyelashes made Y/N cave.

At first, she felt nothing, no impact beyond the slight buzz provided by the round of shots she’d done upon first arriving at the Kizuki. But then, as Mitsuri twirled her beneath the flashing lights of pink and yellow, Y/N’s world exploded with a vibrance she’d neither seen nor felt in nearly two years. Everything, all at once, became magical; effervescent; infinite.

The Wisteria seeped into her veins and made her feel like Christmas lights had been implanted under her skin. Y/N felt shiny and beautiful and sparkly under the combined effect of Shinobu’s magical concoction and the balancing burn of her tequila, and with her new group of girlfriends flanking her side as they bumped to and ground against one another to the beat of the music, Y/N felt almost like she did when it was just her and her boys. Only now, Y/N felt even better, because, with her girls, she could ignore the way the black in her heart was slowly beginning to fester, even if that meant Y/N was beginning to feel more and more numb with each passing rendezvous at the club.

Because that numbness meant that at least she couldn’t feel the acrid bite of her unrequited love for him, and that was what she wanted all along, right?

—————————————————————————

(May)

Of course, Y/N should’ve known she couldn’t stay light and resplendent and numb in her neon and black light paradise forever. Because unfortunately, despite the large student body at Ubaya-U, her new friend group just has to intermingle with them.

Really, it was all Shinobu’s fault. Towards the end of the semester, Shinobu began dating a quiet, withdrawn boy named Giyuu, who happened to be good friends with the man that Hinatsuru, Makio, and Suma all have a thing for – Tengen.

Tengen was a recent graduate of Ubaya-U, and an even more recent hire at the local police department, his imposing size and discerning ears a coveted asset amongst the group of detectives who’d scouted him out. Having someone affiliated with the local police be part of their group ended up being a huge advantage to them, however, given the general inclination for people to look the other way whenever Shinobu began dealing her Wisteria in the secluded corners of the Kizuki’s lounge.

What was not an advantage, however, were Tengen’s friends, because Tengen, apparently, had become best fucking friends with Kyojuro, and by default, him.

Y/N stood awkwardly between Mitsuri and Shinobu as the latter presented her group of girlfriends to the new, rag-tag medley of boys that now included the very two Y/N had gone to great lengths to avoid. She tried to ignore the burning weight of both boys’ stares as Y/N finally introduced herself to Shinobu’s new boy toy. Only when she could not possibly avoid them any longer, not without raising questions, did Y/N finally allow herself to turn to them.

“Y/N!” Kyojuro looked so surprised to see her and yet, so overjoyed that it didn’t feel fair.

Y/N could tell by the jerky way the blonde’s arms twitched towards her that he’d been about to envelop her in one of his signature bear hugs, but he’d hesitated, apparently uncertain whether he was still permitted to do so.

Ultimately, Kyojuro’s elation at seeing her once again won over his doubt, and he pulled her in tightly against his chest, his arms squeezing her with a security she hadn’t realized she’d been missing. For the briefest moment, Y/N’s eyes fluttered shut as she allowed herself to thaw, ever so slightly, in the fierce warmth of her friend’s embrace.

It was a mistake; the moment she’d allowed herself to relax, she’d felt the damning prickle of tears behind her eyelids, and an uncomfortable lump had begun to take form in her throat. So with more reluctance than Y/N wanted to acknowledge she felt, she stepped away from Kyojuro, hoping that the dim lights of the club concealed the mist clouding her eyes.

Unfortunately, the end of Y/N’s reunion with her former, fiery friend meant there were no more obstacles, no more distractions, between her and the white-haired, scar-speckled man who gazed at her with an intensity that, to her annoyance, still made her want to squirm.

And as his eyes bore into her, she chanted over and over in her mind for him not to say it, to not let her name fall from his lips, because she could not bear to hear it. It would’ve been easier, so much easier, if he simply pretended like she didn’t exist, because then she could go on pretending like she wasn’t walking around without a heart; like he hadn’t been carrying it with him even all these months later.

His eyes did not match the smirk he had as he said her name, but it still took everything Y/N had not to fold right there.

But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t let him know that he still held any power over her, and so she merely raised an eyebrow at him and smirked back, challenging him.

“Sanemi.”

—————————————————————————

“’Sanemi’ is your name when I’m mad at you,” Y/N warned him, tapping his knuckles with the spoon she used to stir the cake batter. “Otherwise, you’re just ‘Nemi.’”

Sanemi smirked at her, sticking his finger back into the bowl to swipe another glob of cake batter as Y/N mixed Kyojuro’s birthday cake together. “And what about when I’m being annoying?”

Y/N flicked a bit of batter at him, nailing him perfectly on his nose with the chocolate mixture. “Asshole seems the most appropriate.” She squatted down to pull a baking pan out from below her mother’s stove. “Did you remember to get the candles?”

The grocery bag crinkled as her white-haired best friend shook it, the box of candles within jostling. “Sixty-one candles for the sixty-one-year-old man,” Sanemi said proudly.

“Haha,” Y/N mocked, though she swiped the bag from his hand to check to ensure he’d actually bought sixteen and not, as he claimed, sixty-one candles. “I’m impressed. It seems you are capable of following directions.”

Sanemi leaned across the counter and peered up into her face, that damn smirk of his widening as he saw the faint blush creep across her cheeks. “I always follow your directions, Y/N.” He said lowly, raising a finger to wipe a speck of cake batter from her cheek.

“Hardly,” Y/N scoffed, using the need to get Kyojuro’s cake in the oven as an excuse to turn away from him and hide her warming face. “I think you prefer malicious compliance.”

“You wound me!” Sanemi protested, splaying across her mother’s counter in mock-injury. “When have I ever not followed your instructions with a smile on my face?”

Y/N turned back to him with a teasing grin. “’Nemi, since when do you ever smile?”

—————————————————————————

Shinobu’s eyes flickered back and forth between them, a smile forming on her face even as Mitsuri tugged pleadingly at her hand. “Do you two know each other?”

Sanemi said “yes” at the same time Y/N said “no,” and the former’s head snapped to Y/N’s face, who fought to keep her features neutral and cool. “Not anymore, anyways.” She clarified though she refused to acknowledge the way Sanemi flinched in response.

Shinobu looked between them again, her smile fading to something more pensive. Kyojuro only continued to watch Y/N, his expression sad and so very out of place in this castle of infinite pleasure and fun, and Y/N found herself desperate to escape it – to escape them.

Suma, the gods’ gift to the universe, interrupted the tense moment with her arrival, and she produced a small baggie of those lilac pills that promised Y/N’s escape. Y/N could feel both Kyojuro and Sanemi gawking at her as Suma pulled her in close, the little lilac pill already dissolving on her tongue, and kissed her, as they’d done so many times before.

When the raven-haired girl pulled away with a giggle on her lips, Y/N looked back to her former friends and held her tongue out, Suma’s pill now almost completely dissolved in her mouth, and she winked at them. Let them realize that their Y/N was long-gone, buried alongside the mother whose death they refused to acknowledge.

Suma offered the newcomers a pill each, and Y/N was surprised that both accepted. Kyojuro hesitated more than the ivory-haired man next to him, who held Y/N’s eyes as he placed the little tablet on his own wicked tongue, an answer to her earlier challenge. Y/N grimaced at the idea that Sanemi was willing to play along in this little game, willing to impose upon her paradise if it meant torturing her a little more.

So Y/N tossed her hair over her shoulders and turned her back to him, letting Suma and then Makio, tug her back into the crush of people on the dance floor to twirl and grind to the music, as both boys stared after her and she let herself be lost to them once more.

—————————————————————————

He found her the following Friday, as she waited against the bar for her drink.

“And where have you been hidin’ all this time?” Y/N fought the shiver that threatened to lick up her spine at the sound of that cursed, gravelly voice that had always made her weak at the knees.

But Y/N hadn’t spent the last twenty months learning how to keep off of Sanemi Shinazugawa’s radar for nothing, hadn’t learned to keep her grief and rage and pain locked deep inside the empty cavern of her chest, just to crumble under the intensity of that lilac stare.

Y/N threw her head back to swallow the shot of tequila the bartender had placed in front of her before turning to face him. Sanemi looked every bit the simpering, cocky asshole she’d always known him to be, leaning up against the sticky wood of the bar, one fist resting idly under his cheek as he watched her.

She met his gaze evenly, shoulders loose with a relaxedness that she didn’t feel. “I’ve been right here,” she replied smoothly.

Sanemi shook his head, clicking his tongue disapprovingly at her. “Nah, you haven’t,” he downed his own shot of vodka before returning his eyes to her, looking her over in consideration. “Though, I guess it would’ve been hard to know it was you anyways.”

Y/N bristled at the comment but kept her voice light. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

Sanemi watched her carefully for a moment, though his eyebrows furrowed, as though he was struggling to choose his words. “I just wouldn’t have expected to see you in a place like this.” He decided, after a moment, a frown tugging at the corners of his sinful mouth.

It was Y/N’s turn to smirk. “That would assume you knew me at all to begin with,” she challenged, motioning to the bartender for another shot.

Something tightened in Sanemi’s eyes as he held her gaze, and it clenched the knot of unease that had balled in her stomach. “I did, once.”

Y/N kept her face impassive. “Maybe, as a girl.” She accepted her second shot from the bartender and brought it to her lips, biting down on a wince as the sharp burn of the cheap liquid slid down her throat. “But not as a woman.”

Though she did not show it, his words struck a wound deep within her that she’d not realized still festered; because, as hard as she tried to pretend that the man beside her was a mere stranger, his words reminded her of the harsh truth.

She was still in love with him; had been, ever since she’d learned what love meant.

A shadow flashed across his face before disappearing, that insufferable smirk sliding onto his face once more. “I guess you’re right; a girl doesn’t wear a dress like that.” Sanemi purred.

Y/N fluttered her eyelashes at him, a foreign boldness taking over her mind even as the echo of her heart begged her to flee. “Do you like what you see, Sanemi?”

Her former friend’s answering grin was wolfish. “I’ve always liked what I’ve seen of you, Y/N,” he grabbed her last shot from her hand, ignoring the protest in her eyes as he tipped the tequila back easily down his throat. “You just always seem to disappear before I have a chance to properly appreciate you.”

Y/N knew she should run away from him, and fast, but her hand betrayed her as it reached up to brush a bit of confetti from his hair that lingered from earlier. She nearly hummed in satisfaction at the way Sanemi’s breath hitched in his throat as she drew close, her fingers just barely grazing the skin of his forehead.

“Guess you’ll have to catch me.” Was her only response, before Y/N departed for the dance floor and her friends once more.

Sanemi’s eyes remained locked on her the entire night.

————————————————————————

The days blurred into weeks, as Y/N and Sanemi’s new relationship took form.

The convergence of their friend groups was inevitable, though Y/N resented it; but now, they all went out as a unit, rather than as two separate groups which just so happened to run into one another, and it annoyed Y/N to no end.

More annoying was the fact that Sanemi seemed as willing to partake in the sacred ritual of taking Shinobu’s precious Wisteria with them, though he seemed to do it less out of a desire to feel like the flashing strobe lights of the club and more so because he wanted to get on Y/N’s nerves.

“Drugs are bad for your health, y’know,” that damnable gravelly voice snapped her attention away from the Wisteria that sat in Shinobu’s palm.

Sanemi’s shoulder bumped into hers as he came to stand beside her in a darkened corner of the Kizuki’s seating lounge, out of sight from prying eyes as Shinobu dispersed her latest batch of tiny purple pills, a smirk on his lips and a challenge in his eyes.

Y/N scoffed, reaching to take the small offering from her friend’s hand. “And so is that vodka you keep slugging back.” Y/N’s fingers were about to close around the Wisteria when Sanemi plucked it from the dark-haired girl’s hand, a cry of indignation squeaking past Y/N’s lips.

Sanemi held the pill teasingly in front of her mouth as Y/N glowered up at him. “Open up,” he ordered, pinching her key to paradise between his thumb and index finger.

Eyes locked with his, Y/N slowly let her lips part and held out her tongue. Sanemi leaned forward, taking her jaw in his free hand as he placed the small tablet on her tongue with the other.

 “Good girl,” he murmured, eyes lowering to her mouth as he watched her, hungrily.

As she accepted the Wisteria from him, Y/N let her tongue flick out and graze against his skin, dragging it lightly up the calloused edge of his index finger before she closed her mouth, letting the tablet dissolve on her tongue. Sanemi exhaled harshly through his nose, his hand gripping her chin possessively as he stared down at her mouth, and Y/N thought for a moment that he was about to give in right there and kiss her.

At the last moment, Kyojuro clapped him on the shoulder as he returned from the bar, and the spell was broken. Y/N blushed slightly as she turned back to Shinobu who made no secret of her raised eyebrow at the exchange between the two former friends.

Later, as she broke away from her friends dancing on the floor, she’d noticed Sanemi for once, was not looking at her, but at the hand he’d used to slip her the Wisteria, an unreadable heat in his eyes.

————————————————————————-

Sanemi liked to watch her while she danced.

At first, it had been unsettling to feel a pair of eyes boring into her back as she bumped and ground against Mitsuri or Suma, head tossed back as she let Shinobu’s pills work their magic, but she’d grown accustomed to it. Now, she craved the knowledge that he was thoroughly transfixed by her, because that meant at the very least, she was filling his thoughts while they were out almost as much as he filled hers every moment of the day, despite her efforts to numb him out of her life.

She’d confided her secret joy in Mitsuri, who’d conspiratorially promised her they would do anything and everything to drive the lilac-eyed man wild with desperation so that he might feel an ounce of the pining he’d shackled Y/N to feeling every time he so much as looked her way.

One night, a gaggle of them had gathered over in one of the Kizuki’s seated lounge areas as Shinobu pressed her Wisteria into their greedy, waiting palms. Sanemi’s eyes were locked on Y/N, as they usually were, as she’d exchanged a knowing glance with her pink-haired best friend and placed her pill beneath the heavy glass of her discarded drink and ground the violet pill into magic dust.

Eyes on Sanemi, Y/N delicately cupped the powder in one hand and brought her free fingers to the low bodice of her corseted top, tugging lightly on the strings to loosen it, inching it down lower to reveal the tops of the twin swells of her breasts, though stopping before she could be accused of exposing herself in public. She then turned her attention back to Mitsuri, her pink-and-green friend watching her with a sugary deviousness that made her stomach bubble with excitement.

Wordlessly, Y/N leaned back on the table, to the cheers and cat-calls of her friends, and she sprinkled some of the violet dust along the exposed top of her cleavage. Mitsuri leaned over her body, all vanilla perfume and pink hair tickling Y/N’s delicate skin as her friend held one nostril closed and inhaled every speck of the amethyst powder with the other. Y/N’s eyes rolled back into her head, and she let out a wanton moan beneath the black lights of the Kizuki, as her best friend kissed her collarbone in thanks.

Sanemi had gruffly excused himself for the bathroom and did not return for another five minutes. In his absence, Mitsuri had slyly let Y/N know that his eyes hadn’t once left her face throughout the entire vulgar exchange, much to her secret delight.

Y/N knew she was dancing closer and closer to the fire.

She knew that Sanemi wasn’t far from snapping, from losing whatever restraint he thought he had when it came to her, as she deliberately pressed each one of his buttons every time their group ventured out.

The next time he came close to breaking was when he saw another put his hands on her.

A hand gripped her ass, and Y/N turned and saw a man with long white hair and odd-colored eyes give her a wink. He was attractive, that was certain, but there was something predatory in his eyes that made her feel gross, so she moved closer to her circle of friends, keeping an eye over her shoulder.

Eventually, the strange man wandered off, and Y/N felt as though she could relax once more as she swung her hips to the beat thumping over the stereo strongly enough to make the dance floor vibrate. Shinobu held out a hand that Y/N eagerly grabbed, her friend twirling her as she laughed, carefree and alive beneath the resplendent rainbow of lights.

The song slowed to something more sensual, and Y/N was about to take her cue and move toward the bar when a hand grazed her upper arm.

Though it had been nearly two years since she’d last felt his touch, Y/N knew only one person capable of bestowing such a warm and gentle caress, even in spite of his hardened appearance.

Sanemi, to her eternal surprise, had made an appearance on the dance floor – his first if she remembered correctly.

His eyebrow was raised in question at her, and Y/N couldn’t help but appreciate he was asking permission to dance with her, rather than just sidling up and grinding on her like any other man would.

Sanemi looked so god damn handsome in that printed short-sleeve shirt. His sleeves had been cuffed to further show off his considerable biceps, and he’d left the top three buttons open, revealing his scarred but downright divinely toned chest. As he leaned in slightly, waiting for her permission, Y/N caught a whiff of his cologne, and it smelled like home.

Fuck it, she thought, her lips curving up into a siren’s smile as he stepped closer to her, bringing one large hand up to hold her waist as they began rocking to the beat of the music. Their foreheads were nearly touching as their bodies pressed closer and closer together, Y/N’s hips completely flush against his as they danced. Their noses brushed, and Y/N realized how dangerously close their lips had come.

Sanemi brought his other hand up to press against the small of her back, the one on her waist tightening slightly. Y/N looped one arm around his neck, her other hand coming to rest against his chest as they ground, Sanemi setting the pace perfectly in time with the beat.

Through her eyelashes, Y/N could see Sanemi’s amethyst gaze drop to her lips.

She knew she should pull away; she knew if she let him close the distance between their lips, she would also be closing the distance she’d spent so much time carefully crafting between her, and him, and even Kyojuro.

But Y/N also knew she couldn’t pull away, either; she’d waited, for so damn long, to know what his lips would feel like, and she was drunk and a little high, so the inhibitions that would normally have sent her running had long since been overshadowed by her unbounded want for him.

She felt his breath against her lips, and she closed her eyes.

Before she could finally achieve her lifelong dream of kissing Sanemi Shinazugawa, the music changed from the slow, sensual beat that they had been grinding to, to something louder, faster, and more exciting.

A scream grew louder as Mitsuri returned from heaving her guts up in the bathroom, and grabbed Y/N’s wrist, wrenching her from Sanemi’s grip and hauling her deeper into the dance floor to rave alongside her.

By the time Y/N was able to emerge from the surging crush of people dancing and raving, Sanemi was already back at the bar, leaning against it with his beer in hand, watching her.

She’d half expected him to look angry, but he only raised his drink at her, in toast.

The smirk that tugged on the corners of his mouth was full of promise.

—————————————————————————

Y/N supposed it was inevitable that this game of cat-and-mouse they’d been playing would end, and end like this.

She’d known where the night was heading the moment she showed up at the club in Mitsuri’s emerald green dress – the one she’d worn her very first time there in that strobe light palace – and saw his eyes darken from lilac to eggplant. Y/N felt the blazing heat of his stare in her bones even as she danced with her girls, could feel his magnetic pull as he watched her like a predator eyeing its next meal.

The more sober part of her was nervous, knew that she was about to cross a line she couldn’t walk back from. She knew that what was about to happen – giving her first time to Sanemi – would do nothing but exacerbate the poisonous love in her heart, but that part of her was so small, so feeble against the fire she felt in her blood as she approached the bar where he stood.

She pretended not to notice that he watched every move she made as she leaned over the ledge to order another shot. Only after the bartender placed the little glass in front of her, only after she tipped her head back and let the acid liquid slide down her throat, did she turn to meet his punishing gaze.

“You really should try joining in on the fun, Sanemi,” she kept her voice at a normal volume, forcing him to lean in slightly to hear her over the pulsing beat of the club music. She resisted the urge to close her eyes as the familiar whiff of his cologne hit her nose, the smell of a home and of a time before he ripped her heart out and stomped it to dust.

Sanemi smirked, and her stomach dipped at just how beautiful he looked, standing there below the pulsing glow of the lights. “I’m havin’ fun watching from here.” His lips were close enough to her ear that she shivered, gooseflesh erupting over her bare arms.

She wouldn’t let him know how much he still got to her, but she also couldn’t resist teasing him a little further, curious to see how far she could push him until he broke. She lifted her hand to pat the part of his chest he’d left exposed, his skin burning under her touch, as she made to pass him.

Sanemi snapped.

He grabbed her hand before she could pull it away and tugged her closer to him, knocking Y/N’s breath from her as he whirled her around and pressed her up against the dirty club wall to kiss her like she’d never been kissed before. He pinned the hand she’d had on his chest against the wall, over her head, while the other burned its imprint onto her waist. His kiss was demanding and hard, but Y/N was addicted to him. She brought her free hand to his neck, digging her nails in slightly to the sensitive skin to elicit a growl from him as he nipped her bottom lip.

Sanemi released the arm he’d pinned to the greasy club wall to hold the side of her face, tilting her head to he could deepen their kiss, his tongue sliding into her mouth to dance with her own. Y/N couldn’t control her body as she pressed into him, desperate to feel him against her, to feel him fill every empty part of her until she felt whole again. She knew she was dooming herself further, knew she was only setting herself up to fall harder than she already had, but she couldn’t stop because it was Sanemi, and she loved him.

She felt his growing hardness against her thigh, and she couldn’t stop her hips from grinding against him, heat pooling in her belly. Sanemi moaned into her mouth as her hips undulated against his, and Y/N felt herself go molten at the sound. She wanted to make him do it again and again, but Sanemi tore his mouth from hers before she could.

His chest was heaving, and his eyes were wild and dark as he looked at her. His eyes fell on her reddened, kiss-swollen mouth, and even in the dim light of the club, Y/N could see his pupils explode. He grabbed her hand, and suddenly he was tugging her through the crowded dance floor, through the groups of people near the exit, until they were outside, the night air cool on their overheated skin.

Together, they stumbled down dark, empty streets, though Y/N could not find it in herself to feel afraid, because Sanemi was there, and while he may not have cared about her enough to love her, he was still a gentleman who wouldn’t let her be hurt by anyone but him. They walked as she laughed because he kept stopping and pulling on her hand to kiss her again and again, as though he too, could not get enough of her.

Y/N didn’t know where they were going, but eventually, they arrived at an apartment complex, and it dawned on her that he’d brought her to his home. His lips were on hers the whole walk to his door, never breaking even as he fumbled for his keys. Sanemi finally unlocked the door and pushed her inside his dark apartment, kicking the door shut behind him.

Sanemi’s hands shot for her waist as he crushed her against him, his tongue licking the roof of her mouth. Y/N was sweaty and slightly sticky from the club, but the way Sanemi held her to him made her feel so god damn pretty like he’d been set adrift in a starless sea and she was his only lifeline. Sanemi’s hands moved from her waist to cup her ass, kneading her flesh as he moaned into her mouth again. His hands slid lower, grabbing her thighs to lift her up so her legs could wrap around his waist.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmurs, her head tilted back as Sanemi’s lips laid claim to her neck, his hips pressing her harshly against the entryway wall of his apartment.

The snow-haired man groaned, his hands fondling the soft curve of her ass beneath her dress. “Then tell me to stop,” he whispered, his breath hot as his tongue teasingly traced across her collarbone.

Y/N whimpered as she tightened her legs around his hips, locking him closer to her. If he stopped then, she thought she would fall completely apart.

“Tch, just as I thought,” his teeth nipped harshly against her throat as Sanemi pulled back to look into her eyes. “You can’t.”

Sanemi set her down, but he did not pull away, instead kneeling before her to run his large, warm hands up the length of her calves before bringing them around to the back of her knees. He tapped each leg one at a time, signaling her to lift it slightly. With a jolt, Y/N was completely suspended in the air with both legs over his shoulders, as he buried his face into her cunt.

He did not even bother removing the flimsy, lacy thong she’d worn under her dress, choosing instead to bypass it entirely as his tongue dragged right up her slit. Y/N’s head smacked into the wall behind her as she moaned, and she couldn’t tell whether it was the Wisteria or Sanemi that had her seeing fractals of light behind her eyes. She found that she didn’t much care either way, however, because what Sanemi was doing to her felt fucking incredible.

Her fingers fisted in his hair as Sanemi fucked her with his tongue, his teeth grazing across her clit in time with his thrusts into her. He was groaning lewdly as he feasted upon her, eyes lifting every so often to meet hers, to ensure she was enjoying it as much as he was.

“I knew you’d taste fucking sweet,” he muttered as he broke for air, fingers digging firmly into her ass as he hauled her back onto his mouth. His tongue darted in and out of her folds, lapping up every drop of her essence that he coaxed out of her, before he dove right back into her entrance, forcing her to ride his tongue as she writhed above him. Y/N desperately sought to grab onto anything for purchase, so that she could grind harder against his face, but Sanemi had her pinned in the middle of the wall, rendering her helpless to let him tear her first orgasm from her, followed by another, and then another, never once lifting his mouth off her tender core.

Eventually, Sanemi decided he’d had enough, and he moved to carry her to his bedroom. Just after he tossed her onto his plush mattress, there was a moment before he pounced on her when Y/N could really look at him. The only source of light was from the full moon outside, casting everything in Sanemi’s bedroom in its silvery glow. The moonlight illuminated the soft platinum of his hair, made his lavender irises melt into precious gems of amethyst as he raked his eyes over her panting, blushing form. His gaze darkened at the sight of her dress strap, hanging off her shoulder, before dropping to the hem that has ridden up her legs.

Y/N barely had time to take another breath before he was on her again, almost ripping the fabric from her in his haste to get it off, to expose her.

“This fucking dress,” he growled in her ear, finally tugging the zipper all the way down and shoving it down her legs, chucking the flimsy material behind him.

She was almost bare to him, but he was still clothed, far too clothed. Y/N sat up and ripped his shirt, the buttons popping all over the bed while he smirked down at her. She couldn’t find it in herself to be embarrassed, however, because then his skin was touching hers, and it felt like heaven even if Y/N knew she was only descending deeper into hell.

Sanemi graced her lips with one more bruising kiss before beginning his descent down her body, and Y/N felt electrified under his touch.

His hot mouth first came to her bare breasts. “Fuck,” he whispered as he let his tongue trace the first of her mounds, swirling around her hardened nipple before letting his teeth nip gently at her. Y/N squirmed under his ministrations, the sensation foreign to her and yet somehow, it felt wholly right, that the first person to explore her body this way would be him.

Not that she would tell him, of course; she didn’t want him to hold back, she needed him to fuck her as though there was no tomorrow. If he knew it was her first time, he would slow, or perhaps insist on stopping altogether, given that they were both high, and she couldn’t have that.

Sanemi pressed his hips down against hers, pinning her against the mattress and stilling her movements as he took his time lavishing her breasts, covering her in small marks that he soothes with sweet kisses that were enough to get her utterly drunk on him. Y/N let out a high-pitched whine as she felt Sanemi grind against the mattress as he sucked on her other breast, his abdomen pressing deliciously against her aching cunt still covered by the lace of her thong, as she desperately swiveled her hips, eager for him to relieve her once more.  

Her desperation spurred his movement, as he detached himself from her breast with a low groan, resuming his descent down her body, pausing only to suck and nip at her stomach, before settling between her legs once more. Sanemi’s lips met the band of her thong and he growled, deep and guttural as he pressed his nose against her, inhaling deeply and letting his tongue flick out once more to lap at her wetness over the rough lace obscuring her from view.

Y/N was nearly sobbing from overstimulation, Sanemi having already ensured she’d finished on his tongue three times in the hallway. Now, she needed him to fill her, and quick, or else she thought she would combust.

“Sanemi,” she whined, and his eyes flicked back up to hers, dark with want. “Please, I need you.”

Her words had an instantaneous effect on the heaving man between her legs, because suddenly his body was covering her own, his weight pressing down on her, and his pants were gone, and he was slamming into her with a force that left her screaming and writhing against his soft sheets.

“Shit!” Sanemi snarled in her ear as his cock plunged into her dripping heat, so tight and so unaccustomed to the thick length now bullying in and out of her with abandon. “You’re so – ah – fuckin’ perfect.”

Y/N was sobbing on his mattress, but not from any discomfort. The combination of Sanemi’s body mixing with the Wisteria had utterly blurred out any pain or unease she felt at the intrusion of his rigid length into her core, and instead, Y/N felt herself shatter into a million pieces, only to be fucked back together again by Sanemi, who kept one bruising hand on her hip while the other ensnared itself in her hair as he thrust wildly in and out of her.

But she was not close enough for him. The silver-haired god above her pulled her legs over his forearms and braced his hands on her inner thighs to spread her wide as he pounded into her, leaning down into her face to make her blush, just like he used to do. Only now, instead of teasing her, he was whispering filth that had her turning scarlet and begging for more.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he grunted, his hips snapping in and out of her with a ferocity that left her breathless. "You've no idea –”

The speed with which he drilled into her propelled them up his bed, but Sanemi moved an arm to come between her head and the wrought iron of his bedframe, protecting her.

“You’re a fucking dream,” he snarled, sitting back on his knees as he began to bounce her against his groin, her breasts jolting with every forceful snap of his hips.

“Sanemi,” Y/N moaned, her back arching off his luxurious sheets as her legs tightened around his hips. Under his breath, Sanemi swore.

“Again,” he croaked, the sticky pap pap of his hips slapping against hers filling his room with the sweet music of their dance. “Say it again.”

Y/N could hardly process his demand over the sensual drag of his cock in and out of her needy walls, Sanemi’s movements chasing every breath from her and replacing it with him, as though there were some parts of her that remained untainted by him.

“Again,” Sanemi insisted, his groin pressing against hers as he ground against her, his rough base swirling over her aching clit demandingly, causing her legs to spasm around his hips.

“S-Sanemi!” Y/N howled as he lifted himself from the mattress by his knees, taking her hips with him as he suspended her half in mid-air and pounded relentlessly into her, rendering her incapable of making any other sound that wasn’t a devotional to him.

Through bleary eyes, Y/N looked to see Sanemi’s own gaze fixed on the way her mouth was frozen in a perfect “o” as he pulled moan after sigh from her throat with his hips, his fingers digging into the plush of her ass as he bounced her up and down his aching member again and again. Y/N arched her back even more, allowing him to hit deeper within her and she felt an unfamiliar pressure begin to build in her stomach.

It was similar to what she felt out in Sanemi’s hallway, beneath his tongue, but this time was different. Every push and drag of his cock into her syrupy wetness had her feeling electric like the lights of the Kizuki club were being strung beneath her skin and plugged in, and she was slowly becoming a beacon of light for the man chasing his own release above her. Her eyes rolled back into her head as that coil wound tightly, Sanemi’s name falling from her mouth like a plea as she begged him to let her fall apart in his arms.

Above her, Sanemi fared no better, as his hips began to jerk and press into her without the steady rhythym he’d so carefully built, a cacophony of snarls and moans pouring from his mouth along with the filth he muttered against her skin as he sucked harshly at her neck.

Sanemi readjusted his stance above her, his thighs pressing hers down into the mattress, and Y/N lost control.

“N-Nemi!” Y/N gasped as the unfamiliar coil in her belly suddenly unwound. She was far too overcome by her pleasure to recognize she’d accidentally used her old, affectionate nickname for him as she reached her peak.

But the slip did not go unnoticed by the snow-haired man rutting into her from above, as the moment the nickname fell from her lips in her haze, Sanemi’s own release followed, his seed barreling into her hot and fast as a pleasured cry of her name tore from his throat.

Sanemi’s hips rolled into hers for what felt like hours as he poured every ounce of himself into her greedy, demanding core, Y/N taking every drip of his cum. It felt exquisite, to have the man she’d so desperately loved for so long be reduced to such a mess by her body, and Y/N savored the way his warmth filled her, as though it were possible of bestowing life back upon her even though it was he who’d chased it away to begin with.

He collapsed atop her, finally spent and satisfied, an arm winding around her waist as he sleepily pressed a kiss into the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Sanemi rolled to his back, pulling her with him, and locking her against his chest as though they were lovers. But the combination of the night’s activities with the dwindling effects of the Wisteria had exhausted him, and it was not long before his chest began rising and falling in a steady pattern of sleep.

Y/N giggled quietly to herself, marveling over the fact that her tolerance for Shinobu’s Wisteria was apparently much higher than his. Under the moonlight, she found her dress puddled in a corner of his room and shrugged it back on, gathering her heels in one hand and locating her bag with the other. She turned back and looked at the sleeping face of the man who still held her heart and smiled slightly, before closing his bedroom door gently and taking off into the summer night.

There was a new ache between her legs, no doubt the product of having her virginity taken in such an enthusiastic way by the man she’d left sleeping in his apartment, though he was none the wiser. Y/N felt oddly satisfied, as though she’d achieved some lifelong goal, as the summer air caressed her face. As she stumbled down the night-warmed pavement back to her apartment, Y/N laughed, her chest feeling light and empty for the first time in a long while.

Want more angst? Smut? Pain? Stick around for part two and see shit literally hit the fan.

Likes, reblogs, tags, and comments are always appreciated!!

[not-too-many-eyes]

A Study on Mesmer Jr.

(Also Known As: Nott is obsessed with the bigot autistic girl from the time travel gacha game and its her birthday tommorow so lets talk about her.)

(CWs: Ableism, racism, child abuse) I Love Mesmer Jr. Which isn't a secret to any of my friends who have had to listen to me talk about her at length. I cannot get her out of my head. I think she's fantastically written, fun to read about, and just an all around interesting character.

As such, I want to take a moment to pull apart Mesmer Jr, and consider her place in this story. To contemplate why she acts the way she does, and to connect to the themes relating to her character. I hope you enjoy reading this.

A Curious Impression

Mesmer Jr makes an interesting impression when you first meet her. For one, she immediately causes alarm bells to rings when she talks to Sonneto, one of her earliest conversations, who she says she enjoys talking to because of their "shared values" she feels the need to say that she would have liked talking to her more if she were a "full-blooded human."

Which is something that you see a lot whenever she's complimenting an arcanist, or considering arcanists in any positive light. Even if it's inappropriate in the context, she feels the need to assert her beliefs, to say that:

Mesmer Jr, Praise: As an arcanist, your performance really amazes me. Wish you were a pure-blood human.

Of course, as we know, Mesmer Jr is an arcanist. She's a full-blooded arcanist. Being noted to be from a very Important family, and even being implied to be more talented than most of her family in their line of work: (The Fallacy of Idealism)

Nobody is more talented in this than Mesmer Jr. Her bloodline gives her outstanding ability and keen senses, which makes everything clear and intelligible to her.

She's also startlingly obedient. She has no noticeable outward negativity towards what Constantine has ordered her to do to Vertin, despite it seeming to cause pain or stress. Insisting that this is the normal treatment given to patients despite Madam Z's opinion, and we learn Much Later that her boss had an ulterior motive to all this.

She's even noted before we meet her to seem like a:

(Open Sandwich)

???: It is the other one- the one with indifferent outlines that makes her look like a refined machine.

Evoking images of perfectly programmed robots and droids that do what they are ordered to perfectly without question.

Of course, in the same part this line is from, the game is already nudging us to be open-minded when it comes to interacting with her. As the first thing we learn about her isn't her personality, isn't her appearance, isn't even her Voice.

It's her abuse.

Dirtied Hands

Open Sandwich is one of my favorite bits of writing in this game. It creates this incredible tension where you just waiting for the bad thing to happen, the line about how the child labor laws were turned into paper to wrap the sandwich is wonderful, and I love it.

But it's also the first time we ever actually hear about her. It depicts her having a Sensory Meltdown. Caused by her family's uh- blatant disregard for children's rights, and exposing her to a patient at age 12 because her skill was useful for the treatment. The trauma of the event marking the start of her "nightmare."

Of course this isn't the Only Thing she has gone through at the age of 12. The entire events of Nouvelles et Textes pour Rien happened during when she was 12. She might of had even more traumatic experience before that, considering she went to SPDM, a school that we know Very Well for their child abuse, and she Certainly had traumatic experiences afterwards.

She Is a 16 year old therapist taking care of The Foundation's most "unstable" patients, after all:

Mesmer Jr, Suitcase Climate: Those insane people screamed and rushed out of the guardroom. They kept meaninglessly and repeatedly roaring. Then, their blood shed on the snowy ground. I've seen that a lot.

The Rights of Children Don't Matter when there is Scarcity. Her needs are secondary to The Company's. Her welfare simply isn't important for the Foundation's Beautiful Future. Only the skills and infromation she can provide.

Constantine even manipulated Mesmer Jr into telling her the plan. Purposefully traumatizing her so that she would become scared and anxious. She Asked her to help them, trusting that Constantine, an adult she trusted, would be able to help. Constantine just lied, and made her continue to treat these people even when the experience mind numbingly traumatic for even fully-grown adults.

As a result, Mesmer Jr has developed multiple mental illnesses. Most notable OCD, but she seems to hallucinate in her Monologue.

She's not exactly a healthy person, which really compounds how much you Don't want her to be a therapist.

Of course, it's not like she would ever seek actual proper treatment for it.

For many reasons.

For one, Reverse 1999 is not exactly a kind world to the mentally ill, and she herself is a good example as to why.

Proper Treatment

Let's go back to the first thing I mentioned about Mesmer Jr. She's a bigot, she's a certified racist to every arcanist she ever talks to. She thinks humans are the superior race that will overtake arcanists.

She's also ableist. Just horrible ableist. These two bigotries are intertwined in Very important ways. Her hatred of arcanists is informed by her hatred of the mentally ill, and is further informed by what she has been taught about arcanists.

Reverse has established that the way arcanists and humans are generally viewed is that arcanists are the more emotional, unstable, immature ones and humans are the more logical, stable, and mature ones.

Now, this is a stereotype, one that has been proven wrong time and time again. There is nothing logical, stable, or mature about being so upset at a 12 year old you think killing her friends is a good idea.

And similarly, there is nothing actually inherently wrong about being a weirdo, or mentally ill. For one, uh, everyone is a bit of a freak sometimes, and two, Mesmer Jr treats it as if for the world to get better arcanists need to fully disappear and be replaced with human rationality, but Madam Hoffman says it best:

(Chapter 6 Part 15: With Hope Rekindled)

Hofmann: We have all heard it, humans are more rational and arcanists are more emotional. Hofmann: Their sensitive to the darkness of the world, so they can easily become absorbed in their own emotions and ignore reality Hofmann: But, if we put a human child in the position of an arcanist, who always takes on the world because of his uniqueness, who is never understood for his talents... Hoffmann: Maybe he too will become impulsive, sensitive immature and unstable Hoffmann: And that's why it sometimes dawns on me that if we put an arcanist child in the position of a human being who receives enough love, education, and positive feedback... Hoffmann: These 'instabilities' might be controllable. At least enough to keep them from hurting themselves or others.

But Mesmer Jr really does believe wholeheartedly that being a "freak" is bad, and that being an arcanist is to blame for why she is one.

Mesmer Jr, Hat and Hair: Thanks to it, we are all freaks now. Haven't you ever blamed your brain? Haven't you for once vomited due to the sound or whisper in your brain? How naive and ignorant.

That being an arcanist is something inherently wrong, and as a result of that inherent wrongness, that inherent "insanity," they need to be controlled by humanity.

Mesmer Jr, Chitchat II: I can only stand those arcanists from the Foundation and the Laplace. After all, their insanity is contained by humans.

She believes that humans are destined to overtake arcanists like it's natural selection. That it's only inevitable that arcanists will be overtaken by a species that in her eyes, is logical and understandable.

Mesmer Jr, To the Future: Just like Homo sapiens wiped out Neanderthals, arcanists will be eliminated as well. This is not a prediction, but a predestined fate.

This is, of course, due to the systemic part of Reverse's world constantly pushing this idea that arcanists are Inherently more immature and chaotic.

Constantine and her family deeply traumatized Mesmer Jr and then told her it wasn't actually their fault but this Other Group that She is also apart of but Don't Worry it can Be Controlled.

Mesmer Jr: It's not just about age. It was never going to be suitable for me. Mesmer Jr: Unless one day all the arcanists are gone. Pandora Wilson: Then you and I will be gone, too. Mesmer Jr: Exactly, along with the source of my pain

However, Mesmer Jr's own mental illnesses and susceptibility towards being overwhelmed by others emotions does really mean that she finds being around highly emotional people Taxing. She also finds that the unpredictable of life and other people Tiresome.

She was friends with Vertin in the rest when she was younger sure, but even then she did find arcanists overwhelming and "scary," even when she wasn't in the full thick of it, she saw them being treated and found it unpleasant and painful.

(Nouvelles et Textes pour Rien)

Mesmer Jr: But I'm not interested in arcanists. They are all mad people, and we had to treat them after all...They looked scary.

Now, usually, you grow out of this. She's not Born To Be Racist Forever.

In a better world she very much could have, I dunno-

Be able to actually internalize that arcanists aren't actually inherently a harmful thing, but that her needs sometimes conflict with the needs of others and grew up with the tools necessary to understand that this is a fixable problem that doesn't actually need a whole group of people including herself to die to be solved.

Or, something like that.

However, this isn't that world, this world thinks Mesmer Jr is a good therapist, and that her treatment is humane.

So she's seeks to create stability in the world as a result of that lack of support.

Mesmer Jr, Hobby: What you see is the alignment and tidiness. What I adore is this orderly state.

As much as she understands that it's a sign of her own "franticness" that she does this, it gives her comfort knowing that she has things that she Can Control. That her life isn't actually dictated fully by things out of her understanding. That she has the ability to direct her life in a small, maybe even insignificant way.

Cause, she really just doesn't have much control over her life.

Press the Button

Mesmer Jr, Clothing and Torso: ...Achieve the function.

A lot of Mesmer Jr's idolization of humanity comes from this idea of efficiency and simplicity. She talks so much about rationality and "tidiness," but as I've already established Reverse is full of so many instances of "human insanity" so it's plain ignorant to ascribe this trait to humans.

Which, well one she is ignorant, and also racism isn't rational and Mesmer Jr was taught human supremacy of course it's not going to be aligned with actual reality.

Which is true.

However, I do think it's interesting these traits that she idolizes are not from humans but from:

Mesmer Jr, Clothing and Torso: Humans are like machinery, simple and efficient. Arcanists are quite the opposite.

That's who she's actually idolizing here, isn't it? She's not really idolizing humans, that's just the framework she was given. She's idolizing machines and going "Wow humans are so cool."

Her Udimo is a machine.

Not just any machine, but a machine invented in part By Her Workplace, and even when she was 12 the narrator describes her as a "refined machine." Indifferent and rigid.

This is the beautiful controlled being that she is seeking! The beautiful tidy, orderly, calm being that just proceeds with whatever order is given to it. One that has...completely no control over it's life, and what to do with it.

Because, traditionally speaking, Machines do not have the ability to self-determine. They don't exist as people with conscious thought and emotion, but as Things and Tools that can Achieve Functions.

I noted way back in the start that Mesmer Jr is startlingly obedient. She does what she is told, and encourages others to do the same.

She's glad that Vertin:

Mesmer Jr, 100% Bond Conversation: ...Anyway, I'm glad you gave up on those insane plans.

Before saying that she doesn't want to be forced to Lobotomize Her, and that she doesn't actually want anyone to end up in Artificial Somnambulism.

But she doesn't say she won't do it. Just that she's happy Vertin did "give up" because it means that she probably won't have to. This seems to be her general approach. Even if she's not happy, she'll do it, her wants don't matter.

She assumes that she has no other option and that her only path forward is following orders from her boss. That the only path forward is the one set for her. There's no point in fighting it so she's just gonna continue on that path, and others should do the same or else they'll get Hurt. Learned Helplessness.

Sonetto is similar to her in this sense (Mesmer Jr says so herself,) and Sonetto is shown to hold quite a lot of repressed emotions, and to deviate from the rules or what is logical when she feels something is at stake.

After all: (Is ABA Really “Dog Training for Children”? A Professional Dog Trainer Weighs In.)

We all know that we can feel angry without expressing anger. That we can smile when inside we are crying. You can stop someone from expressing an emotion, but that doesn’t make the emotion go away. A dog who has been trained not to growl is considered by trainers to be a “time bomb dog.” When you read about a dog attack that came “out of nowhere” and “without warning,” it is because this sort of method was used to handle “problem behaviours.” Studies show that dogs trained with these sorts of methods actually have an increased rate of aggression, because punishing aggressive behaviour doesn’t deal with the underlying fear and anxiety that caused the aggression in the first place.

But Mesmer Jr, in contrast to Sonetto, who has an interest in poetry and curiosity in the outside world and has the aforementioned repressed emotions. Has no real distinct personal identity. She does not own anything that shows her interests, unlike her other coworkers who usually have at least Something on them. All of her items are stuff made by Laplace and exist unaltered. Even her cute little headband is a EM amplifier is part of the uniform.

She holds no control, no identity, no agency. She exists as a machine that someone can press the buttons of and achieve whatever function she needs to achieve at the given moment.

This is her current state of existence, and it's not something that's exactly sustainable. The cracks in this machine-living have been showing since she was 12. How many more do you think have been created now that she's 16?

The Foundation

Now, this is really depressing, but that's because Mesmer Jr is just a bit of a depressing character. She can't really get away from her job. For one, her parents are horrible, two The Storm means that the world is always on the verge of ending. Where else will she go?

But, as said previously:

A dog who has been trained not to growl is considered by trainers to be a “time bomb dog.”

Similarly, a girl trained to not develop any sort of identity will crack Someday.

I have no knowledge of what could happen next in her story, nor am I interested in theorizing about it. But I do find it interesting to think about.

[ashestoashes7]

8. “Who did this to you?” with neil and aaron? 💜

who did this to you? - ao3 version

Aaron had a hand-shaped bruise wrapped around his wrist. Neil shouldn't be the one asking hard questions.

cw: implied/referenced child abuse

Aaron Minyard was no stranger to bruises. Being a backliner on a Class 1 Exy team known for their willingness to fight opponents and each other meant an errant elbow was never a surprise, but this particular circumstance hadn’t happened in a while.

The purple wrapping around his wrist wasn���t the result of a particularly unruly stick check or a pair of handcuffs, but he wished it was. If either was the case, the probability of Andrew seeking an early morning murder charge would be lower. Probably.

Aaron tilted his arm to catch the bright area of the broken streetlight and made out the shape of the warped handprint encircling his wrist. Familiar, he thought. And then, Andrew can never know.

It wasn’t that big of a deal. The other student-athletes at Palmetto had never been their biggest fans and this wasn’t the first time Aaron had a less-than-pleasant interaction with one of them. This was just the first time they got physical. First didn’t mean last, but Aaron could hope.

The knuckles on his other hand were swollen from his retaliation, but that wouldn’t be enough for Andrew. Whatever ‘some number of strikes and you’re out’ policy PSU was operating on wouldn’t be good forever. Aaron had yet to get ahold of the most recently revised version, but he doubted Andrew’s response would be by the book.

Andrew didn’t take kindly to hands being laid on Aaron and had never been known for his subtlety. His warnings were broken bones or a blade spilling rivulets of red onto his adversary’s shirt. While effective, the source of the wounds could easily be pointed out and punished which was the very circumstance Aaron was trying to avoid. Andrew didn’t do subtle things and Aaron wasn’t willing to lose him over something like this. Not again.

Besides, he had it handled. Matt had been more than willing to show him a few self-defense moves when he expressed interest, and Aaron was a quick study. Darius’s broken nose would be evidence of Matt’s successful stint as a teacher once he gathered up the courage and the excuses to get it checked out.

Though upon first glance the mark was similar, the imprint wrapped around the skin of his wrist was nothing like his mother’s. Her hand was smaller.

He pressed down lightly and winced at the dull ache that arose. It wouldn’t be enjoyable to deal with, but no one would ever have to know. Despite what most of the Foxes would say if asked, Aaron was a good secret keeper when he wanted to be. Aaron had cared about Katelyn too much to do her the disservice of pushing her aside harshly enough that there was no chance Andrew would know of her. But Andrew found out and eventually their deal snapped like the broken ends of a pencil Andrew tossed at his head while studying.

Sometimes, he wondered if in a world where Aaron had not broken it first Andrew's shadow would have been the final piece to shatter their deal. After a longer than usual period of watching the natural light of Betsy’s room rather than catch physical proof of his twin’s ephemeral dissatisfaction, he had almost asked Andrew that very question—Aaron or Neil—but he didn’t want to know the answer.

Andrew might not hate Josten the way his tone around such words would imply, but Aaron could do it for him. Mutual loathing was their preferred and silently agreed upon situation which was why when Josten trailed out in full running gear Aaron didn’t spare him more than a glance.

What a shame Josten couldn’t say the same.

Josten didn’t speak at first, but his worn-in shoes came to a halt only a few feet from the piece of pavement Aaron was directing his gaze at. The cracks and scuff marks could only hold his attention for so long before Josten’s lack of movement edged him even closer to intolerable than usual.

“Go away,” Aaron said, too exhausted to come up with something more poignant.

A shadow fell over his sitting form. When Aaron moved to place his hands behind his back to force himself up, Josten caught his wrist gently. His thumb traced over the marks distinctly shaped like fingers and something dangerous lay beneath his tone. “Who did this to you?”

“Wrong twin,” Aaron critiqued, pulling his arm free with more force than necessary.

“Aaron,” Josten stated, unimpressed. “What happened?”

Aaron stood up and met Josten’s emotionless blue eyes with an entirely warranted mound of surprise. “Like you care.”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.” Josten tapped his foot on the ground as if he had the right to be impatient. By all means Josten could continue ahead and never speak to him again. Aaron would be immensely grateful, had even suggested the option many times to his face and whatever messenger pigeon came bearing Josten’s words. Aaron wasn’t blocking his path or magically removing his ability to run but upon hearing that Josten just frowned. “Give me a name.”

Aaron rolled his eyes and laughed humorlessly. “What? So you can kill him?”

“Him,” Josten repeated, eyes still locked in a one-sided staring battle with Aaron’s wrist.

A Palmetto Fox midnight conversation was never predictable, but Aaron had somehow managed to forget that when dealing with Neil ‘son of a mobster’ Josten murder was very firmly not off the table. “You can’t just kill people!”

Josten looked at him like he was stupid and asked, with genuine intrigue, “What does it matter if I don’t get caught?”

Aaron considered him for a long moment, a thousand words shuffling across his tongue, but couldn’t find anything to appropriately convey his incredulity. It was almost sweet in a morbid sort of way. The presence of such a despicable thought told Aaron the past week spent surviving off almost only energy drinks and whatever protein-filled monstrosity Kevin shoved in his hands once his taste buds had fucked off was truly screwing with him. He could deal with that later. Josten was a much more present and bloodthirsty issue.

“I have it handled,” Aaron said. To his immense dissatisfaction, Josten still didn’t leave. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Andrew you pretended to care if he ever finds out. I’m sure your lies will be appreciated elsewhere. Very far from here. You’ll need some practice if you think that’s fooling anyone.”

Josten’s eyebrows scrunched up making him look almost confused. “You think I’m pretending to care out of some sort of supposed obligation?”

“I can play Exy with a few bruises, no need to have a little freakout. I’m fine—see, that’s what those words actually mean. Andrew currently tolerates you for reasons beyond my comprehension, but he isn’t about to buy you a cheap plastic ring for feigned concern. I’m calling it as I see it, and I don’t want to look at your face any more than I already have to. Fuck off!”

“I’m not pretending.” Josten tilted his head slightly, not rising to Aaron’s attempts at driving him off. “If you let me take care of it, it won’t happen again.”

“What do you mean by again? And cut the movie villain shit it just sounds weird. Wait I thought you were stalking Kevin and he hasn’t bothered—”

“So I’m right.” Josten snapped his fingers and nodded to himself. “Darius Smith. Baseball—” Josten’s face contorted like he had encountered a bad smell “—pitcher. Six feet even. Brown hair. Green eyes.”

“That’s creepy,” Aaron said, but he didn’t deny it.

Josten started walking off, calculations swirling behind his eyes when Aaron realized the gravity of what Josten was planning out. What he had just inadvertently sent Josten out to do. Could he be charged for conspiracy to commit murder over this? Was this coercion? Josten would probably find some way to talk at least one of them out of chains for the sake of Exy, but would it be Aaron?

This was the moment when he was supposed to call Wymack or campus security or someone who would be inclined and able to stop Andrew’s menace from committing what at the very least would be a minor felony. But Josten already knew who it was and Aaron didn’t really feel like chasing after him.

If Aaron got Josten in containment—knowing the FBI they’d pull some shit like that—Kevin would be a mess and Andrew would be insufferable. Again.

Aaron was the first person Darius had taken a swing at, there was no guarantee he would be the last. He watched Josten walk away and felt the weight of his silence like handcuffs covering up the remains of blood spatter he would never really be able to regret. Next could be Nicky or Andrew or, as the man had threatened before Aaron broke his nose, Katelyn. Josten might just prove himself useful after all.

“No killing!” Aaron called out before the man steadily vanishing into darkness could go out of hearing range.

“Maiming?” Josten shot back, voice loud enough Aaron winced. He couldn’t tell because of a conglomeration of factors that could be summed up to lighting and distance, but the fucker was probably smiling.

“What? Are you planning to give him a stern talking to?” Aaron wasn’t sure which option would be preferable.

Whenever he was given cause for anger—a strange thing to think of in Aaron's favor rather than wielded against him—Josten was vicious. Removing his filter created a different beast entirely. Josten always went for the throat, words or a borrowed blade would strive for the same typically disastrous outcome.

Aaron should be horrified; he didn't know what to think about all the ways in which he wasn't. Violence wasn't endearing, it was a fact.

Josten shrugged emphatically enough that Aaron could see it. Then, he held up his hand in the air. It took a few moments for Aaron to realize his fingers were crossed. “No promises!”

“Asshole,” Aaron murmured under his breath.

He was thankful there was no one around to make the egregious and mistaken claim that he sounded almost fond. Aaron said Josten’s name again, drenched it in as much loathing as he could muster, and then let it vanish into the night air.

It wouldn’t be the first time Josten proved himself a liar.

The next morning, Darius Smith was not in his Hal seat or mingling around about the edges of the room. He wasn’t in the hallway or lurking within a doorway. Darius Smith was abruptly gone, and Aaron knew why.

It seemed the most prolific of liars could dabble in honesty once in a while for unpredictability’s sake. That was the only reason Aaron dared to consider.

When the professor landed on ‘Darius Smith’ in the attendance record Aaron didn’t say a word. The clock ticked on closer to the start time, and no familiar flower awaited him through the small windowpane placed in the entrance. His suspicions were confirmed when moments before the bell the empty seat in his physical chemistry class was filled by a redhead who had vehemently sworn off any iteration of the subject.

Neil met Aaron’s eyes immediately and with an intensity that wouldn’t be out of place speckled in blood. He drew a finger across his neck slowly and took enjoyment in Aaron’s brief hesitancy to return his enthusiasm

Andrew didn’t have taste by any means, but perhaps Neil wasn’t the worst person he could have chosen. Second worst, perhaps.

No, that was too generous. Definitely the worst. Andrew would probably agree with that, and might have even said it in their weird pseudo-flirting that sounded more like threats than foreplay. In Aaron’s voice. Oh f—

Aaron was not going to head down that particular train of thought. That momentary lapse in judgment would never leave the secrecy of his head.

“I hate you,” Aaron reminded them both.

Neil’s eyes lit up like it was the greatest compliment Aaron could have ever offered him. “We should do this more often.”

“No. If I wanted a terminal annoyance, I’d ask Nicky about how Erik finds all of his games. Or Kevin about the Greco-Roman wars.”

“I did that once,” Neil said, mouth downturned in remembrance.

“I know.”

Neil peered at him curiously. “You know, you’re not so bad.”

“Wrong twin,” Aaron reminded him.

Neil’s face turned into a mockup of a glare and he pushed out of his seat sharply, interrupting the lecturer’s chalk etchings with a high-pitched squeal. “Numbers shouldn’t work like that.”

Aaron stuck his foot out so Neil tripped as he moved to shuffle by him. Neil caught himself on the edge of Aaron’s desk and not-so-incidentally tipped over his pencil case.

Neil flipped him off once he reached the doorway in plain view of the rest of the class. Aaron stared pointedly forward until Neil gave up and the wave of whispers commenced.

Aaron would rather jump out of a moving car than call them anything close to friends.

[auspicioustidings]

The Wild Prince

Blue Blood Part 1

Summary: You are the Duchess of a small Kingdom and your father trades you away for military aid.

@chai-isms made the mistake of saying they liked a royalty AU and this... sort of didn't turn out anything like I had actually planned 😂 So sort of royalty AU ish? Maybe? IDK it's basically just shameless smut.

Word Count: 2.6k

CW: Mention of abuse, smut

Part 2

At least they hadn't put you in a dungeon you had thought at first, but after a month this room was driving you mad. The servant that delivered you food would not talk with you, would not answer any of your questions about what was going to happen to you.

The war had been raging for two years, but it had been a far away thing at the start. It was something so totally removed from your life in your father's castle that you weren't even fully aware that your side had been losing. It was only when he had returned six months ago and the way he looked at you had changed that alarm bells sounded in the back of your mind. While you may have not had a mother to tell you of such things, you knew enough from the gossiping of the servants when they thought you were not listening that you were of age to marry and as you were on only child, your father should try and make a match.

It made you bristle a little to think of. You managed the household well, was it so important that it must have a man at the head when he was gone? 

And then the war had come to linger in your home, blanketing your days with the unease of something being kept from you. When your father had them pack you up into a carriage you raged at him, only earning a backhand straight across your cheek that left an angry mark, a thin line in the middle of the bruise from his ring having split the flesh. He had growled that this marriage was how you could finally be good for something, informing you then that he had remarried and his new wife was expecting a child. It had put you in a state of numb shock that lasted for the whole week of travel.

You had tried your whole life to be worthy of your family name, to be a good daughter. It had been for nothing. Your father was sending you off as some sort of bargaining chip to give him an edge in this war and there was not one thing that you could do about it. 

Now you could only pass your days gazing out of the window and wondering where on earth you were. If only you hadn't been in such a daze, had actually taken some study of your surroundings when you had arrived. You had been taken to the room in this tower immediately on your arrival, hardly able to discern what was happening through your hazy misery. There had been people around you knew, you remembered somewhat foggily a thumb dragged across the fading mark on your cheek. A low growl, a bitten off curse. 

As the night fell you sighed at the sound of the bath being drawn for you in the other room. This was the routine, every second night a bath was drawn for you, candle light dancing across the water when you sunk down into that wet heat. The servant would be gone and you would bathe alone. After a lifetime of having maids scrub at you it was strange at first, but peaceful in a way. 

Tonight was much the same, your muscles relaxing as you let your head roll back and closed your eyes. The sound of someone entering startled you, opening your eyes slowly to look over. You had been prepared to see the meek servant, not a young man dressed regally who did not seem the least bit concerned that he had walked in on you in such a vulnerable and improper state. 

You didn't yelp, the noise caught in your throat. Instead you curled in on yourself, trying to hide any view of the delicacies of your body from his gaze. He walked closer, kneeling by the bath so he was so close that you could smell the orange oil from his fingers. 

"Do you know who I am?" he asked with a gallant smile. It was as if he was some potential suitor at a revelry instead of a stranger in your bathing chambers.

You shook your head, feeling like the water had turned to freezing and locked up all of your muscles. He was handsome in a way that bordered on overwhelming, the brown of his skin and eyes catching the light from the candles to make him almost seem holy in the way he glowed. 

"My name is Kyle Garrick" he said and you felt the panic you had been holding down burst out of you.

Kyle Garrick, the 3rd Prince of the largest Kingdom on the continent, the one that bordered your tiny Kingdom to the East. People called him the Wild Prince, the one who should never have been legitimised. Prince Garrick was not the Queen's son, his mother was a Princess of a conquered kingdom who the King had grown fond of, his favourite concubine. They said that the war hero and King's right hand, Duke John Price, had trained the Wild Price himself. The Duke had won countless battles that changed the fortunes of the Kingdom with Prince Garrick by his side. They said the Duke's men were all monsters of some sort or other. The Wild Prince. The Ghost. The Blood Druid. The men were practically fairy stories to someone like you, not living and breathing people that you might one day meet. 

"Y-your royal highness! Please forgive my rudeness" you cried, head snapping down in supplication. You were a nobody to a Prince, some minor Duchess in a tiny bordering Kingdom. To be naked in front of him was wrong on so many levels. 

He laughed and the warmth of it sent shivers down your spine and tears to your eyes. Your eyes were fixed on the water as his fingers started to dip into it, moving back and forth and coming dangerously close to your legs still pinned to your chest.

"Look at me Duchess" he said and you found yourself giving a quick shake of your head. How could you look at him? You were shaking, naked, completely unworthy to be in his presence. 

"I said look at me" he ordered, your chin roughly pulled up with the hand not playing with the water near your legs. Gone was the gallant smile, his eyes now dancing with the amusement of a predator playing with their prey, your own eyes widening when you felt the brush of his fingers on your bare shin. The hand on your chin moved your head to the side.

"Good, your cheek has healed up. Couldn't have you getting married with a marked up face now could we?"

You didn't know what he wanted you to say. You were desperate to be anywhere but here, his presence was oppressive, bearing down on you and making your insides feel like they were fizzing. You had never felt so vulnerable. He didn't seem to mind your silence, only smirking and running his fingers up your shin more deliberately, taking delight in the way your pupils dilated and your breathing hitched. 

"That little bitch on the throne is blocking me from granting Ghost a proper title, I can imagine her face when she realises he's married the sole noble of the Western territory."

You could barely concentrate and he ran his hand up and down your leg, cresting over your knee occasionally causing the brush of his pinky against the swell of your breasts. That fizzing heightened and you involuntarily shifted, feeling a jolt between your legs from the friction of squeezing them together. You tried to focus, to keep your eyes on him and actually find out what was going on. If the whole situation wasn't already wildly improper you were sure you would have reacted with more horror at him addressing the Queen of this nation as a little bitch.

"I don't... Western territory? I am sorry your Royal Highness, I'm only a Duchess of the Kingdom to the West. I'm not a noble of any of the territories here," you said, not able to keep your voice even and instead hearing the breathlessness of it floating through the steam. 

"There is no Kingdom to the West Duchess, not after the Duke dared to mark what wasn't his to touch," the Prince cooed, as if it wasn't something world shattering to have said. Your Kingdom had been fighting a war with another small Kingdom for years only to be conquered in the space of a month. For you. They had conquered a whole Kingdom because of a mark on your cheek. 

You were overwhelmed, heart beating violently fast and frozen muscles going pliant. Plaint enough for him to apply pressure and shift your legs a little so they weren't completely pinned against your chest, allowing his exploration to continue past your knee and to your thigh. You heard a desperate whimper on the air, confused when you realised a second after it must have come from you. 

The Prince chuckled, shifting his body so that he could guide your head to his shoulder, holding a hand to your hair to keep you there. Your hands came to cling to his shirt, soaking it. You didn't know what was happening to you and it was grounding to be able to bury your face into him, cutting off your sight so you could try and get a handle of your other senses.

"That's it Duchess, just relax yeah? Ghost doesn't want to break you on your wedding night, so we're going to work on getting you nice and ready for him until then" he whispered right behind your ear. 

You didn't know what he meant. Nobody had ever prepared you for what happened on the wedding night, until a month ago you hadn't even known you were to be married so soon. When his hand finally dipped between your legs to cup at you there you cried out, tears spilling over at the new sensation. 

"Gods you've never-" he growled lightly, only stopping himself when he felt you tense to pause and readjust his voice to be gentler as he carefully ran a finger up your slit. "Bet they told you it was a sin, that you couldn't touch yourself here" he groaned when he felt the change in texture from water to arousal. 

They had their work cut out for them getting you ready for the Hunt. MacTavish would oversee the ritual of it obviously, would massage the divine oils into your flesh and dress you properly to be released into the woods after the wedding ceremony. When Ghost hunted you down and took what was rightfully his it would seal the marriage in the eyes of the old Gods, but he would be in a frenzy from the incense, incapable of preparing you properly in his pursuit of sinking into your heat and marking you his from the inside. So they would have to do what they could for you beforehand, spend the next week before the ceremony doing everything to keep you wet and wanting.

Kyle, clear headed and not under the influence of any of Johnny's bloody Druid smokes or potions, already found it hard to keep calm. The noises you were making, it was like a challenge being presented to him to get you to make more. Get you boneless and begging for it. When he started to make firm circles on your clit he got unbearably hard at the broken moan spilling from your lips as your hips started to move.

You felt like you were standing on the top of a tower looking over the edge, your stomach in knots. You had been told it was sinful to touch yourself in this way and in your efforts to be only the best daughter you could be you had taken heed and never tried. But this? Gods it was setting you ablaze. You could feel your insides clenching on nothing, feel your hips lifting to push against his fingers. He was speaking absolute sin into your ear and it made every sensation more intense, sending pulses of pleasure straight down to your core.

"Doing so well Duchess, pretty little clit taking it so well. Doesn't it feel good?"

You whined incoherently. You were desperate for something you couldn't name, feeling incomplete.

"I know Duchess, I know. Beautiful cunt wants something to clench on, greedy little thing" he said, fingers leaving your clit to trace down and circle your entrance, teasing with just the tip of his finger pushing against you before he growled and returned to your clit with renewed vigour. "You're going to cum for me. You're going to cum just like this tonight and tomorrow I'll make sure you get a finger inside to squeeze yeah? Fuck love going to get you to beg for my tongue, get Price to teach you how to ask real nice for it."

You couldn't really focus on the words anymore, too lost in the approaching crest of this wave. Kyle was mostly saying them for himself now anyway, hips rutting away against the side of the tub to try and get some relief. 

The orgasm was the most intense thing you recalled ever feeling, body going taught like a bowstring as the Prince brought you through it with his fingers. Your whole body felt like it had been flooded with sensation and then all at once you were boneless, limbs dead weights.

"Good girl Duchess."

You were shivering now, the water having cooled. When his hand left the water you went to move your head, but his other hand kept it there. You could hear the sound of skin on skin, his hot breath at your ear getting heavier and more strained before the sound stopped after a loud groan from him. You weren't sure what was going on, but it made you tingle a little again between your legs. 

His hand returned to the water, dipping in and out a few times before he finally let your head out from his shoulder. The dim light hurt your eyes after so long in darkness and before you could try and ask him what had just happened he scooped you out of the tub, not caring that he was getting his clothing completely soaked in the process.

The next 10 minutes were confusing and blurry in your mind, him drying you off and dressing you for bed like he was a servant rather than the Prince of a Kingdom that had just conquered yours. He tucked you in, bade you goodnight and made his way to the door. 

You thought that was it until he paused, tensed. Was he going to reveal that this had been a test and you had failed? Were you about to be thrown out? You had never felt so thoroughly ruined and anxious before. What did he want from you?

Kyle knew he shouldn't, but fuck it, what was the use in being a Prince if he couldn't indulge in the small things every once in a while. He whirled around, marched back to you in the bed and pressed a hard kiss to your lips before leaving again, making sure to lock the door behind him. Price was leaning on the wall in the hallway waiting for him, raising an eyebrow when taking in the absolute state Kyle was in.

"Fine" Kyle sighed, "I admit that this was a good idea, you were right and I should never have doubted you and your magnanimity. Happy?"

"Cheeky today Gaz?"

"Nah, just taking the piss. It was a good call Sir, she'll be good for Ghost."

He licked his lips on his way to his chambers and felt a rush of heat at the taste of you lingering there. Not just Ghost he thought.

[2demondogs]

Can I request headcanons of Arthur in his teen years? I was looking at that photo of him and Mary and just, wow,,, he is a whole baby.

YES I love the little guy... Hate to be the buzzkill (no I don't, that's my hobby) but I can think of exactly zero happy things to write. This kid was going the fuck through it. My hands are tied.

Also only tangentially related: The wiki makes it sound like Mary came before Eliza which doesn't make any sense to me, I always thought Eliza was first. I was like "teen? Mary? what is anon on about that grown ass man had a 401k" lol. I know R* was lazy and used the in-game models for the "younger" photos of everyone but IDGAF I will happily live my lie.

CW for past child abuse, implied CPTSD, malnutrition, questionable parenting decisions, canonical parent death.

Everyone is emotionally fucked up between the ages of fifteen and seventeen, but Arthur is truly everywhere. All emotional triggers make him angry or scared, which in turn makes him angry. He was in the streets for a couple years between his father's hanging and going with Dutch and Hosea, and there's little probability of surviving that without being a mean bastard.

Arthur is already fairly scarred from petty fights and other trouble, plus Lyle. The scar on his chin is from his father, same as Lyle's was from his father. Once he's been with Dutch and Hosea for a while, he's also formed many stretch marks from being fed regularly and well; even if they fed him too well at first, and he spent most of those initial months sick to his stomach. The lankiness was stubborn to shake until he was healthy enough to put to work hauling things around camp and ransacking places.

Patterns formed in childhood can end up persuasive life-long issues. When Lyle taught Arthur anything, he taught him how to steal and stick people up, how to look bigger than he really was, how to win an argument. His mother wasn't alive long enough to teach him much at all. Arthur could care for himself at a young age — partially because he was taught to, rest because he had to — but anything past keeping himself alive was for him to figure out solo. Now, he's emotionally stunted in a lot of ways on top of the baseline disconnect he feels with other people.

Arthur goes through an extremely stubborn phase. In comparison, John's bullshit at age sixteen is going to be relaxing for Dutch and Hosea. You can't even tell this boy the sky is blue without a rebuttal. John mostly insults and spits, but Arthur actually makes arguments, which is a hundred times more annoying and likely to get him shot if he starts it with a stranger. Dutch started it but Arthur is lowkey the reason Hosea went full gray.

His memory from before Lyle's death is pretty much darkness. There are places, pet dogs, single summer days from each year after he began remembering anything at all. It only comes to him with concentration, though. The rest is gone.

He has little idea who Lyle was, less of an idea who his mother was, and no idea who he is himself. All he has left is his father's hat and photos he had the foresight to take from the house before the bank claimed it. It leads to him to a life-long habit of keeping things from people he cares about in case they die, too, or other immortalizing them. It frustrates him, because Dutch and Hosea can recall so much of their childhoods and yet they are much older. He's not mature enough to understand that sometimes men lie to avoid questions, even ones from friends.

Arthur never takes to hunting, at least when he's young. In truth, he feels bonds build themselves much easier with animals. Out loud, he lies and says he doesn't like all the guts. Hosea teases him for being soft, while Dutch projects and teases him for being easy to squick out. They can both say what they want. Arthur knows how nice it feels to not have to talk to his horse, or to Copper, or to the stray cat outside the general store; to be judged on whatever it is that only animals pick up, which is apparently much more flattering than whatever it is that's made other people dislike him so much all his life.

[phoebepheebsphibs]

And the story goes on…

Spoiler warning for Until I Found You Lore.... CW: Mentions of torture, abuse, and experimentation.

@boots-with-the-fur-club @daboyau

Prev || Next || Reference image for Mikey’s scars || illustration

Mikey couldn't stop sobbing.

The other Donnie was writhing on the floor, screaming in pain as he gripped his head tightly. Something was wrong, something was very very VERY wrong...

But Michael could only watch and cry and shout at his brother to "Open the thing, open the thing up, Donnie! OPEN THE ORB!!"

"I'm trying!" his brother yelled back. "It's a different design from my tech, I'm doing the best I can considering I don't have my tools with me and I'm using my bare hands--"

The alternate Donnie started shrieking in agony, his cries ringing through the halls and echoing mercilessly in Mikey's head. He falls to his knees, the glowing marks on his arms and legs turning that evil shade of blue.

"PLEASE, DONNIE, HE'S HURTING! I CAN'T DO ANYTHING FROM IN HERE, PLEASE--"

"WELL EITHER GET APRIL TO POOF YOU OUT OR -- GOT IT, I GOT IT, I GOT THE THING TO OPEN!" UIFY Donnie yelled back, finally hacking into the sphere and causing the shields to dissipate. Immediately the three fall forwards, with Mikey regaining his footing at once and pouncing at the quivering Donatello on the floor.

Mikey wrapped his arms around Donnie, sobbing into his shoulder as he pressed his hands against his shell and the back of his head. A soft, warm amber glow began to spread over the shaking softshell, his eyes slowly refocusing as he turned and stared down at the copy of his brother. Apparently this Mikey was also in-tune with his mystic powers. Amazing, considering the age gap between him and the other Mikey, and the fact that they'd not even known about mystic abilities until they'd met Draxum and taken his magic weapons for themselves. This one must've been practicing magic for a while... Donnie's headache ceased. He watched as the tiny, trembling version of his brave baby brother kept pressing his small and delicate hands against his shell and neck, quietly mumbling to himself - praying possibly, or perhaps reciting a magic spell. Whatever he did, it helped tons. But it seemed to exhaust the poor kid as he slumped over, his head rolling into the crook of Donnie's neck and shoulder. Michael's soft, slow breaths tickled uncomfortably against his sensitive skin, and he flinched.

"Michael, get off of him!" the other Donnie said, coming forward and pulling the kid away. "If this Donnie's anything like me, he doesn't like to be touched. Especially after... whatever the heck happened to him."

"I-it's fine, he helped, he... What exactly did he do?" Donnie asked, slowly getting to his feet.

Donatello Von Draxum picked the child up and held him close to his chest. Mikey had fainted, it seemed, though his eyes fluttered open and shut several times. His head lolled from side to side, rolling around as if he was trying to force himself to stay awake but failing utterly. He mumbled softly, muttering whispers to no one specifically before finally succumbing to the exhaustion and resting his head against his brother.

"I'm... not exactly sure," Donatello Von Draxum mumbled, slowly pulling the bandages from Mikey's arms and checking for any mystic injuries. "Best guess is... he leant you some of his strength."

"His strength?" Dee questioned.

"Whatever you needed in the moment. Strength, presence of mind, life-force, that kind of stuff. It could explain why he's so sleepy now."

"Will he be alright?!" Donnie asked, hoping he didn't just cause a version of his brother to be in a vegetative state for the rest of his life.

"He's okay. He just needs a nap. It's nothing too extreme." Donatello Von Draxum looked over Donnie with concern. "YOU on the other hand..."

"Yeah. That was not fun."

"No fun in fungus, huh?"

"Roll credits," April interjected, having gone to retrieve Donnie's tech-bō for him.

"Very clever. I suppose... we should go look for Raphael now," Dee decided as he took the staff from the Mayhem-ified April.

"Are you sure you don't want to rest?" she asked, eyeing him nervously. "Those things have a way of draining you. Physically, just as much as emotionally."

"I am fine," Donnie insisted. "But you've got some... something on your arm."

"What?" April asked, looking down at said appendage, which had a black and blue smear across it. "Oh, ew, gross. It's the goo from that hand.PNG. Yuck! I didn't even notice that..."

Mutant April wiped the sludge off onto her jacket.

"No worries, I think I'm all good."

"What about Michael?" Donnie asked, pointing to the still out-of-it box turtle in DvD's arms.

"I can carry him," he insisted. "He weighs practically nothing. We'll be coming along."

"Good, the more help we can get the better. I don't think it's safe for anyone to split up anymore. Let's go find my Raph and your brothers," Donnie said, taking the lead.

The four walked on through the hallways, Mikey mumbling or muttering and even humming in his dazy sleep as they searched for the others. Donnie kept glancing over at him to make sure he really was okay. He seemed fine. It reminded him of the time his April had gotten her wisdom teeth removed, she'd sent them a video her mom had taken of her after she'd woken up from the surgery. They guys all had a big laugh over it, how loopy and looney she'd been, constantly gibbering about nothing and then falling back asleep. The memory made him smile a little. It helped to alleviate the stress, to simply pretend that was what had happened to this Mikey. And not that he'd sacrificed some part of himself for Donnie's sake. And not even for his Donnie's sake, for a complete stranger.

It was so unbelievably awkward.

The two Donnies barely said a word to each other. Donnie kept giving glances at Mikey and DvD would catch him, and Donnie's head would snap in the opposite direction. Poor April was stuck in the middle of their silence, doing her best to lighten the mood but eventually giving up and straying ahead of them.

Donatello glanced over at Mikey again. Michael had made some small squeaking sound - a yawn maybe - and curled up into his brother's hold. The bandages on his arm were loose... That's right, DvD had checked his arms earlier for cracks -- had that meant that there might actually be some danger to whatever spell he'd used to help Donnie?! He could see the cracks right there! DvD said he was fine, but Donnie could clearly see the holes and thin lines made from --

Holes?

Mikey's overuse of ninpo didn't make holes, they made cracks like broken glass that webbed across his arms! So, where had...

"Did you... want to hold him or something?" DvD asked.

Donatello was startled from his train of thought and realized he'd been staring at Mikey for too long.

"Oh! Um, no I didn't -- unless that is, you would like a break?"

"Like I said, he's not that heavy," Donatello Von Draxum repeated flatly.

"I recall. I was just worried for him, is all, and I--"

"You were staring at him."

"Oh, was I?"

"Quite obviously so."

"Ah. I apologize for the social faux pas of staring rudely at your brother."

Silence again.

"But do you want to hold him?"

"You are... offering?"

"Your brother is gone, for the moment," DvD stated. "And I saw how you looked at my Mikey. For you, there is precious little to distinguish the two. Correct?"

"Well... I suppose they are very similar," Donnie ceded.

"And he undoubtedly considers you family as well."

"That is evident, considering what he did for me."

"That's your fault, you know."

"Excuse me?" Donnie sputtered, stopping in his tracks. "How is it my fault for saving you three from getting spored?"

"Apologies, I misspoke. I merely meant that you did something that reminded him of... of something bad that happened to us."

"Then am I to assume that's why he reacted the way he did?"

"Precisely."

"I see."

Donnie looked down at the alt. Mikey, still fast asleep. He was so much smaller than his brother. So... petite. No, Miniscule. Maybe Runty. Donnie kept searching for the right word. Not weak, or tiny, he was so...

Frail. That was the word. Thin limbs connected to a slip of a body, a tiny round face with baby cheeks so slim and slender. He was just too small.

"...I think I will carry him. If only to relieve you of duty for a short while."

"Very well," DvD relented, carefully exchanging his brother into Donnie's arms. Donnie had carried his Mikey before, and even his Leo. Heck, he'd carried all three of his brothers on more than one occasion. He'd let them grab onto his legs or arms while he flew above the city with his hover-shell. It was quite a feat, all of them clinging together like the barrel of monkeys toys from their childhood. And he'd gotten his leg dislocated from its socket for the trouble, but that was nothing too bad really, and Leo had helped fix him up. He desperately missed his brothers... All this to say he knew what to expect, to carry a slightly smaller version of his baby bro.

The alt. Mikey was placed into his hold.

Ooooooh pizza supreme in the sky this kid literally weighed nothing.

Donnie's eyes widened. He'd expected some kind of difficulty, some weight, but no -- it was like carrying air. The only weight he could feel was from the clothes, it seemed. He'd estimated this Mikey to weigh somewhere in the vicinity of 70 pounds, maybe even 65. It felt like he weighed no more than 10.

"He's... he's so light..." Donnie's voice trembled.

"I did say he weighs almost nothing," DvD smirked.

"I thought you were using hyperbole!" Donnie snapped. "When was the last time this Mikey was weighed? He should have more tone in his muscles than this!"

"Well, years of near-starvation will result in major weight loss."

"Mikey -- my Mikey -- said he told him a bit about his life... but I never imagined..."

He never imagined this kind of troubled life for him. He knew the kid had a hypoglycemic condition, too. He couldn't imagine how difficult that had to have been for him. No wonder he was so skinny, his clothes baggy and nearly falling off of him, the bandages... Donnie's attention was brought back to the little boy's arms.

"...How did he get these...?" he asked softly, pulling the bandages off and showing the other Donnie the scars and marks on his arms.

Donatello Von Draxum went pale. He almost looked sick to his stomach, as he slowly re-wrapped the bandages for Mikey.

"...Those were my fault."

"Your fault?" Donnie was astonished. His voice came out as barely a whisper.

"Partly. Some of them were from me, some were from my father-- ahem. From Draxum."

"Draxum did this?" Donnie's blood began to boil. "But... why? And why did you--"

"The story is that I had left the Baron to try and start a new family with Mikey, Leonardo, and Raphael. I'd been... planning to trick our brothers into returning to Draxum so that they could join his army of mutants against the humans, but eventually I realized I couldn't go through with it. So I left without saying a word. Draxum got wind that his other experiments survived, and started searching for them. He found Mikey first, kidnapped him, and left a calling card for me so that I would know where he was. I confronted him, only to end up in a trap. He... he wanted me to return home and help him experiment on Michael."

"Did you?" Donnie asked, drawing the small child closer to him, holding him tightly to his chest.

"I had to. He threatened to torture Mikey, to intentionally sabotage his experiments on him and hurt him if I didn't assist. I had no choice. To ensure Michael's safety... I had to do whatever Draxum ordered me to. Day after day, it was nothing but surgery after surgery after blood test after--"

"I thought you said experiments," Donnie growled. Mikey whimpered in his hold; Donnie readjusted him slightly so he could rub his head to soothe him.

"That's what he told me, initially..." DvD continued. "But on the first day... he revealed his experiments were more medically-based than he'd lead me to believe. But I couldn't say no. He was going to inspect his spine, I had to stay and make sure he didn't--!"

Donatello Von Draxum covered his mouth as he gagged at the memory. His hands trembled.

"...It... It was inhumane. Unethical. Horrible. Even Huginn and Muninn - whom I don't typically get along with well but tolerated more than Draxum - agreed that his tests were unreasonable and not meant so much to inspect Michael's state but more so to punish me for having left Draxum and kept my brothers a secret from him. And Draxum kept it up for seven whole days. Most experiments and examinations were him cutting into Mikey with a scalpel and studying his skeletal structure and veins and nervous system first-hand. The rest were to see how his body reacted to certain potions and formulas and magic spells, to test his mystic endurance. He wanted to see if he could be a strong warrior... and if not, he wanted to see if he had any mystic talent."

"All that... just to know whether or not Mikey had mystic abilities?"

"I don't have any magic ability myself," DvD explained. "I know all the spells and potion recipes, I understand how to do it, and I know how it all works but... I'm disconnected from it. Draxum was always disappointed with me over that. He hoped that Mikey would show some promise."

"What happened?"

"He took it too far. On the sixth day, Draxum told me that Michelangelo possessed the greatest capacity for mystic power and ability to date."

"He what?!" Donnie yelled, forgetting the sleeping figure in his hands. "I mean, I know my Mikey became the greatest mystic warrior in the future, but... to have surpassed everything?"

"It came as a shock to me, as well. And Draxum said... He said he was going to take Mikey's powers away from him and then set him free. But it was all a lie. He was going to kill him... I fought with Draxum. I won. I took Mikey home."

Donatello could tell he was intentionally leaving out some big parts of the story. But based off of everything, he figure it was best to leave it unsaid.

"So that's why... Mikey leapt at the chance to help me," Donnie whispered. "Why he was so upset when he saw me hurting... it reminded him of you?"

"Yes. And it is also why he wears those bandages, though the wounds have long since healed."

"Why is that?"

"Because he knows that I feel responsible for that hurt. I did that to him. I helped to cut him open and chisel into his shell. I hurt him. But I'll never let anything hurt him ever again."

Donnie nodded, understanding that protective drive. He felt the same way about his brothers.

"In that case... maybe you'll want to carry him again?" Dee offered.

Donatello Von Draxum didn't even try to politely decline. He immediately reached over and took the boy away, who at this point was slowly coming out of his sleepy stupor. DvD held Mikey on his hip, letting him rest his head against his shoulder. Mikey groggily wrapped his arms around his brother's neck in a hug, yawning once more before going back to sleep. The son of Draxum felt the deep inhale and exhale from his little brother against his chest, proof that he was alive and well and trusted him above all else. DvD smiled, the first time Donnie had seen him smile -- really smile, not just an evil grin at the mention of humanity's destruction -- since he'd first met him.

"Do you think... my Mikey is okay?" Dee asked after the silence began to return.

"I am sure he is. He has you to look out for him. You'll rescue him, and all will be well again."

Donnie smiled.

"I hope so..."

"Hey, you lazy-bones!" April shouted. She'd gained a lot more ground than them during this bonding episode. "Hurry it up! I think I found one of the guys!"

…I have failed you, master. My injuries… they impede me.

They are inconsequential, my dear disciple. Rest easy, for you are still needed. You've done well thus far. But there is still much to be done if I am to take over this realm. So many tragedies to intercede, so many traumas to feed off of, so many toys to play with and BREAK.

But what of the others? Without my work—

I shall finish my collection soon enough. You did your part, and now we have a new player. Our new deliverer of destruction. They shall lead the others to their doom.

A new...? Do you mean you have infected one of the children? They serve our cause now?

Indeed, thanks to you.

How intriguing... but who...?

Rest for now, and regain your strength. Your services are yet to be utilized.

Very well... whom shall we be expecting to join us next, my master?

...I want the big one.

[edupunkn00b]

Guardian ad Liber, Ch. 5: Masking

Photo by Matt Tulos, CC 4.0. Edited by author. n.b. Liber can mean book or child.

Prev - Masking - Final - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

WC: 3100 - Rated: G - CW: Angst, minor injuries, comfort - Written for @loceit-week a continuation of last year's story -

Breath caught in his throat and with Remus and Janus’ hands clutched to his chest, Logan looked between them, searching their eyes for any hint of their reaction. They were both quiet, looking back at him with varied expressions of shock. 

They’d never discussed anything like this before. Beyond Remus’ childcare and preschool work, and his and Janus’ work in family law, children simply weren’t a part of their lives. None of them had come from healthy homes and, with the exception of Remus, none of them had living siblings who could give them a glimpse of another kind of parenting.

And Roman? Roman and his husband had never expressed the tiniest of interest in adopting children.

For that matter, though, neither had Logan. And now? Now he found himself called to something he’d never before considered, reaching for something he’d never even thought he might want.

Logan didn’t know—he didn’t even want to have to think about—what he might do if Janus and Remus didn’t want this, too.

Janus recovered first. “You’re serious,” he murmured, eyes dancing in the low light. “I thought… I thought you didn’t like children. I mean…” He brushed back the hair that had fallen into Logan's eyes, his morning gel long since lost its efficacy. “I’ve watched you fight for children of all ages. Watched you defend them from crooked cops and lousy parents and… horrific abuse. But… " He shook his head, tightening his grip on both Logan’s and Remus’ hands, eyes wet and bright. “I never thought you hated children, just…”

“I…” Fear gripped Logan’s throat. Unable to read the emotions flitting across Janus’ face and just barely grappling with his own realization, he struggled to find his words. Remus sat quietly next to them, his unusual calm both a welcome balm and another question mark in Logan’s mind. They’d been together for nearly a decade and Logan had genuinely been convinced they’d already figured each other—and themselves—out. This was… This was new. 

He took another slow breath, holding their hands tight, an anchor in the uncertain storm in which he'd sailed them. But even in his sleep, Patton’s tenacious grip on his sleeve propelled him forward.

Honesty. Honesty was all he had, All they had. This, too, they would figure out. Together.

“I didn’t realize this… desire myself,” he said. “It just…” He looked over his shoulder, Patton’s face smooth and peaceful in sleep. “I… I feel it here,” he whispered, pressing their hands to his chest.

“I… I believe you,” Janus nodded then fell quiet, a faraway look in his eyes as he seemed to consider Logan’s words. His silence was unnerving, even as his steady grip and Logan’s own logic reminded him that it was hardly realistic that Janus would instantaneously leap up in complete agreement. Yes, of course, let's become parents right now!

Remus broke the silence, the twitch in his mustache their only clue he barely contained a stronger reaction. “Well, what about you, Jannie?”

“I’d never considered it,” he began slowly, slipping one hand from their shared grip to gently raise Logan’s chin. “And I don’t simply mean because we haven’t discussed the possibility of parenthood. Haven’t had cause to discuss it. I…” 

He stared down at their hands for a long moment, the glint of his and Remus’ rings a beacon. “None of us grew up with any sort of model for what a good father should be. Wha—” His voice cracked and Remus reached for him, nearly pulling him onto Logan’s lap. “What if I do something wrong again? Like I did with your coat?”

It had been a long time since Logan had heard Janus sound so small.

“Oh, Jan,” Logan whispered into his hair, relieved tears pricking his eyes. This was what gave Janus pause? Not a lack of desire to be parent. A fear of doing it wrong?

Moving carefully so as not to dislodge Patton’s hand from his arm, he helped Remus pull Janus between them and pivoted. All three could now see Patton sleep, hugging the stuffie Remus had bought him, Janus' yellow scarf twisted in his little hand. “I suppose you will need to invest in more scarves, then,” he said. 

Someone must have filled Remus in while he was brushing Patton’s teeth because he chuckled. “Don’t worry Jannie, we’re all gonna fuck up,” he said, pulling a wet laugh from him. “We’ll just fuck up in much better ways than our loser fathers did.”

“That can’t be where the bar is,” Janus shook his head, still smiling.

Soaking in the warmth of Janus and Remus close in his arms and the tiny hand still holding on to him, Logan smiled. “You of all people know it’s not.”

Remus dried one side of Janus’ face and Logan the other and they sat quietly tangled together on the floor for a long while before Logan suddenly looked up and caught Remus’ eyes. “Wait, you didn’t say what you thought about any of this. If… We all know it doesn’t really matter whose name is on the paperwork,” he held them both close. “We do this together or we don’t—”

“Are you kidding?” He grinned. “I thought I’d hafta wait another decade for you two to figure out you’d be great with kids.”

“What?” Logan looked up, eyes wide. Shaking his head, Janus chuckled as though he knew precisely what made Remus so certain of his assessment. Logan was unconvinced. “Re, we're not like you. While you have demonstrated a profound proclivity for caring for children, there is nothing in either of Janus’ nor my histories that would indicate a predilection for child rearing.”

“Aw come on, Lo Lo…” Grinning, he swept one arm over their office. The wall closest to them was covered with embossed certificates of appreciation for QLaw’s pro bono work with Seattle Children’s Society and the Juvenile Rights Defense League. Framed newspaper clippings about the marriage equality petition they’d so carefully crafted to pass judicial scrutiny along with dozens of pictures of smiling new adoptees lined the other. “You really can’t see it?” he whispered.

Logan looked around the office before nodding slowly. His whole world lay in this room. He smiled when a soft sleepy sigh from Patton added one more bit to his metaphorical pile of good things.

“Yes, I suppose you have made your case, Meus.”

~

As the evening wore on, the three of them—the four of them—remained close. Logan, Janus, and Remus talked through formal living arrangements and how they would finally have a use for the decadently empty half of their duplex. “Our procrastination on renovating appears to have become an asset for our future selves,” Logan murmured, one hand curled through Remus’ hair as Janus lounged over both their laps. “As a society we’ve made strides but—”

“But too many judges would look unfavorably on our true family composition,” Janus murmured, fatigue fuzzing his voice. “We’ll need to be careful.”  

Logan nodded, smiling as Remus sleepily stroked Janus’ hair. “I shall endeavor to reinforce my independent status in court.”

Janus’ brow crinkled as he reached for Logan’s other hand and pressed it to his lips. “Only for the show,” he whispered. “Only for the show.”

Humming his agreement, Remus drew Logan closer and tucked his head in the crook of his neck. He mumbled something, his full exhaustion finally slipping past his energetic mask as his eyes closed. 

Head heavy on Logan’s shoulder, it wasn't long before Remus drifted off to sleep. Though this has been his day off, he'd been up before dawn, glazing his latest piece in the basement studio. The morning would bring an early shift at the childcare center and Logan did not begrudge him his easy sleep.

Janus looked close to sleep as well, the lips pressed to his hand growing slack with each soft exhalation. “Good night, Lo,” he murmured and grew still.

Though also more tired than he’d felt in a long time, Logan’s thoughts raced, a quick succession of logic trees and what-ifs fueling his mind even as his body rested in the comfort of his loves.

He had served as a GAL or prosecuting attorney in enough foster cases to know what came next. He would need to apply and be formally certified as an emergency placement, and then would need a full home study to be approved as a long term foster parent for Patton. 

Holding Remus and Janus close, he pushed away the prickle of worry he’d never quite been able to shake since he’d first come out. Well, since he’d first realized he… had something to come out about. It was gradually getting better and they lived in a progressive city. In even the six short years he’d practiced law, he’d watched most judges drift from a strict, heteronormative view of family into one that put the child’s needs above all other considerations, political or otherwise.

Wrapped in the quiet, steady breathing of his loves and his… charge? His ward? Logan would’ve laughed at his own thoughts if it wouldn’t risk waking them all. Was he Batman now in his fantasies?

After a long, long while, Patton’s sudden movement and a sharp gasp behind him pulled him from his mental strategizing. Logan looked over his shoulder to find Patton sitting up, stuffed owl and scarf held tight. Too-wide eyes darted around the room until they landed on the three of them and the little boy smiled.

“You’re safe, Patton,” he whispered. “There’s—” Logan squinted at his watch. Was it really nearly six? “Well, there’s a bit more time to sleep if you’re still tired,” he said. “Though Remus is likely to wake soon, as well.”

Chewing his lip, Patton looked longingly at the tangled pile on the floor. Logan sat mostly as he had to read the bedtime story, back leaning against the front of the sofa. Remus was tucked under Logan’s far arm, legs hooked over his. Janus had made a pillow of their thighs, laying perpendicularly across them and the plush carpet underneath.

A sudden grin blooming over his face, Patton wiggled out from under the covers and landing with a soft thud on Logan’s other side. Still holding his treasures, he sat on the floor next to Logan, looking up at him, eyes a question.

“That is quite alright,” he said, smiling as Patton snuggled close. “More than alright.”

A few short minutes later, Remus’ alarm sounded, just as Patton had begun to fidget. Janus woke with a low groan, pouting slightly when Remus slid away to turn off his phone. It wasn’t until Patton giggled at his still-sleepy expression that he opened his eyes.

“'Morning. Aren’t you up with the—” He frowned at the still-dark windows, his voice low and rough with sleep. “Well, with what passes for dawn this time of year.”

Patton grinned back at him, brow pinched. They all turned at Remus’ lion-like yawn. “Fun sleepover, but I need to grab a shower back home before I head in.” He made a show of sniffing under his own arm and gagged, eliciting a peal of laughter from Patton who immediately copied him. “See? He knows what I'm talkin' about,” he laughed, leaning over to kiss Janus’ temple.

“Are you off at three today?” Logan asked, eyes falling shut and leaning in when Remus briefly cupped his cheek.

“Yep.” A worried shadow passed over his eyes before he grinned again. “I’ll check in and see where you all are, yeah?”

Logan swallowed hard at the double meaning but nodded. “Have a good day at work,” he said, voice not as steady as he would have liked.

Janus silently squeezed his hand as Remus reached over to ruffle Patton’s hair. “I’ll see you later, Bud, alright?”

Lips drawn into a straight line, Patton blinked up at him with big eyes before nodding.

“I’ll let you out,” Janus said, pushing up to his feet with a pained grunt. “We’re getting too old to sleep on the floor.”

Remus just laughed, “Maybe you two are, old man.” With one more wave at Patton and Logan, he followed Janus down the hall and through reception.

Heart a little lighter, Logan smiled down at Patton. “Bathroom and teeth first, then let’s fold up your blanket, shall we?”

~

As the sun rose and the rest of the QLaw staff trickled in, those who’d seen Patton the day before expressed no surprise at his continued presence. Two attorneys, in fact, were pleased he was still there as one had brought a backpack and three new picture books; another carried a nephew’s newly outgrown winter coat. Not that it was all that unusual to see a foster child in the office, even that early in the day. 

What was unusual was Logan’s behavior. Gazes lingered on their ordinarily stoic and fastidious co-attorney-in-charge, unbothered by the marker scribbled on his arms, the heavy shadows under his eyes, or his rumpled tie and shirt. Instead, Logan read animatedly to the little boy in his office, silly voices and all. A glance from Janus was all it took for them to keep private counsel for now.

Shortly after a conference room breakfast of bagels and fruit, reception buzzed to tell them Patton’s social worker, Grace, had returned to the office.

Forcing a smile to remain on his face, Logan nodded and stayed with Patton as Janus left to brief her on Logan’s intentions. Janus would serve as Patton’s GAL in court and, as the need arose, they’d arranged for a colleague at the UW Law Clinic to represent Logan.

Only if needed.

Logan and Patton were on their second reading of A Color of His Own when Grace knocked on his open office door, Janus positioned in the hall behind her. He carried Patton’s new-to-him coat and backback, along with the boots Remus had picked up with the pajamas. He’d carved a small smile on his face, the same he’d wear on his worst days at court.

“Hello, Patton,” Grace said, addressing Logan more than the child. “It’s time to go now.”

Patton looked up at Logan and, when he closed the book and began to stand, wrapped tiny arms around his neck, moving with him off the sofa. Logan steadied him, retrieving his dropped owl and scarf. Keeping on arm circled over Logan’s shoulders, Patton gripped the stuffie and scarf close to his face. He peeked out at Grace from behind them, eyes wide.

“Mr. Sand—”

“Logan,” he corrected quietly.

“Mr. Logan’s not coming with us today, Patton,” she continued, stepping closer and opening her arms. “You have a check-up and then we’re going to talk to a—”

The little boy was already shaking his head, fingers digging into Logan’s shoulder. He locked his legs around Logan’s waist, a high whine pushing up from the back of his throat.

Logan breathed deeply and slowly nodded his head as moved closer so she could take him. “Ms Grace will take good care of you and I’ll see you—”

Openly crying now, Patton continued to shake his head, fighting to stay in Logan’s arms with as much vehemence as he’d fought his hold less than twenty-four hours ago in the courthouse. Fists flailing, he kicked his feet, striking both Logan and Grace.

“Patton, this is no way to behave!” she said, reaching for him with one hand and fending off his blows with the other.

“No no no no no no!” he screamed, whacking her with the stuffie. Logan’s cotton shirt was no match for his grip, threads popping as he push-pulled away from her.

“Patton,” Logan began, stopping when his voice shook. He closed his eyed for a long moment, Patton’s cries cutting through his chest. His arms trembled with the effort to not simply hold him closer until he was soothed.

They had to do this the right way.

“Patton, it is time to go with Ms. Grace now.” he said, looking back unflinchingly into big blue eyes, wide with terror. “You are safe, and I will see you soon,” he pledged, hesitating to make such a large promise, but unable to truly stop himself. Would he? Would he see him soon? 

As Patton clawed at his shoulder and his face in a desperate attempt to remain in his arms, Logan continued to nod. “This is just for a while,” he said, promising both the child and himself. “You’re safe,” he said again, to himself just as much as to Patton. "You're safe."

Patton kicked him again and Grace used that as her chance to scoop him up into arms and flee from the office. Patton howled as they left, his voice fading as she hurried down the hall past the small crowd of lawyers and other staff drawn by the commotion.

His screams cut out as the main door closed behind them.

Janus pressed Patton’s belongings into the closest paralegal’s hands. “Go with them and stay with her. Keep me notified if anything changes. I will join you at the courthouse shortly.”

“But—” she argued.

“Go now," he insisted. "Please.”

Casting a quick glance at Logan in the office, she nodded and raced to follow Grace and Patton out of the offices and into the elevator.

“No calls.” Janus said to the receptionist who’d stood watching from the other end of the hall. "Only for this case, understood?"

“Of course,” the receptionist nodded and returned to his post. Janus didn’t address the remaining onlookers and simply closed the door behind him.

Logan stood alone in the center of their office, shaking and staring at the floor. Tiny red streaks striped his skin and his shirt was torn, partially untucked. It took a moment for Janus to find his glasses under a side table where they'd been knocked off and kicked away—unbroken—in the struggle.

Tangled in a heap near Logan's feet lay Patton’s owl and borrowed scarf. Logan stooped to pick them up. “Patton will miss these,” he said, voice breaking. He started to stand but dropped to his knees instead. “I should…” He looked up at Janus, eyes burning.

“You can give them to him when we see him next,” Janus said, setting down his folded glasses on the table and kneeling with him.

Head bowed, Logan brought the little bundle close to his heart. His shoulders shook as the first tears fell, wetting the yellow silk. “Your scarf… “ he said, more sob than speech.

Janus pulled him close, his own voice thin and tremulous. “It’ll be okay, Lo,” he whispered near his ear. Janus rubbed his back as he cried against his shoulder. “We will make it okay.”

[voirs-fortunes]

Hello. My name is Voir, and I am a Psychic. As long as I can remember, I have been able to see into the future. Now, I am doing it on purpose. For pay.

Here are example rates for some of my services. Those marked with an asterisk (*) may be recieved online. All others must be performed in person. This is not an exhaustive list, but should allow you to gain a sense of my capabilities.

*Yes or no question: ₽1,000

*Luck assessment: ₽2,000

Weather forecast: ₽1,000 per day of distance from the date the service is provided

*Standard fortune telling: ₽3,000

*Love advice: ₽5,000

Prophecy: ₽30,000

Prophecy on a particular subject: ₽10,000

Lottery numbers: I cannot provide this. It is a felony. If you wish for help with lottery numbers, find a false psychic.

I am based in Coumarine City, Kalos. Further information and meetup agreements may be obtained via private message.

For in person services, my daughter, Sepia, will be present. This is not negotiable.

EDIT: By blood, Sepia is my sister. She's 11. I'm 19.

//Voir is a foreshadowing/brainstorming tool as well as a character. See this post for details.

//mun is an adult. my shipping boundaries are here.

//cws for this blog: past child abuse, past cults, parentification, dissociation/derealization/depersonalization

[shadows-aflame]

⭐️

<3

from this ask game

Ooo, can I yap about Miraak headcanons? I wanna yap about Miraak headcanons.

So in Chapter Four of Dragonsoul, Gislie witnesses a vision of a boy- who she doesn’t know but the audience can correctly guess as Miraak- interacting with a pair of Dragon Priests who speak at him, and to each other about him. I used this particular chapter to explore a little headcanon of mine, specifically in the segment below.

CW: child abuse, violence

Eyes void of any emotion or expression gaze into the masked visage, framed by matted hair and dark circles around deep eyelids. The youth says nothing, his only acknowledgment being the turn of his head when the Priest lowers to his level, and a slow, almost solemn blink is his only response. “Answer me.” The sound of a harsh, rapid strike echoes through the cells when the Dragon Priest smacks him across the face, and Gislie soundlessly cries out, her lips parting in an empty cry of protest. Desperately, she tries once more to rush forward from her spot, but she is paralyzed into her place as a bystander. Yet to her surprise, the youth doesn’t flinch or shy away even as the gloved palm makes contact with his face. Indeed, one might not even know he was injured if it wasn’t for the red mark forming across his left cheek, or the way his eyes were blinking just a little faster. What kind of child would ever respond like this, as though greeting pain with such familiarity? “Striking him like a disobedient whelp will not solve anything,” the second Dragon Priest remarks from the cell’s doorway, and Gislie can hear the utter exasperation in their low voice. “The last time we questioned him, it took fifteen lashes before he even began to flinch. This child is more resilient than most."

This passage was incredibly difficult to write, but I wanted to not only demonstrate the harshness of the Dragon Priests themselves (I truly don’t think that serving Draconic overlords was a life Miraak ever wanted in the first place), but also a headcanon of mine regarding his almost unnatural tolerance for pain.

I personally like to think that he doesn’t have any kind of special resistance or whatever, but rather, the fact that it takes enormous amounts of pain to even fully register for him. Even then, fully responding is in itself another matter entirely.

This also translates to how I perceive the fight against Valhok, and its outcome. Had Hermaeus Mora not intervened, I don’t think Miraak would have survived purely because he would’ve kept going until his body gave out around him. He’s relentless, and a tolerance for pain that borders on numbness would only exacerbate that fact.

[psalacanthea]

To Conquer Death

Dark Urge (female, tiefling) x Enver Gortash, 15,000 words. First time sex, Banite/Bhaalist dynamics&conflict (attempted domination vs attempted murder). Dark humor. Full fic found HERE ON AO3. Support appreciated <3

cw: non-consensual spite voyeurism, explicit sex, misogynistic language and attitude (durge being a hater), flippant mentions of slavery and rape (gort being a bastard), mentioned child abuse, and attempted cannibalism

...

“Not of it, my dearest Belladonna.  Of what it is.  That ring is worth more than this entire house!”  He sounded quite self-satisfied.  Gloating was one of Enver’s biggest vices, she’d learned.  It didn’t bother her to be his audience for a bit of smugness, as she was quite often when he was feeling self-important.

“I don’t see the point in jewelry or garish clothing.”

“I know.  It’s a pity, it makes you difficult to bribe.  How much longer will the spell last?”

“It wore off some time ago, she’s only sleeping now.  It seems she’s unused to…mild activity.”  Thoughtfully she tilted her head as he straightened up and turned to face her.  Hmmh. 

“You’re very rude tonight.”  His voice was utterly neutral, rather than offended.  With a small flourish, Enver gestured to his hair.  “Acceptable?”

Not particularly.

She still wanted to put her heel on his throat and forcibly shave his head.

“As acceptable as it ever is.  Do you– do ordinary people’s standards make the decoration of the form more important than the form itself?”

Enver paused halfway to her, glanced to his discarded clothes, and then sighed and moved for them, not answering her.  “Cast the spell again, please, to cover my departure.  How long will it last?”

“Perhaps ten minutes?”  

“It will have to do.  Please.”

She did as he asked, which took only a very brief casting, the divine magic of her blood singing in her veins.  It always felt so wasteful to perform small spells.  Why should the power of a god be used for things that could be done by hands?  But this was different.

Enver’s methods were not like hers, and she shouldn’t ruin his plans by murdering his mark.  Even if it wouldn’t be much of a loss.  Staring the woman in the face as she chanted softly, a faint purplish glow surrounded them, lighting up her face.  Definitely inferior.

Once Wisteria was in an induced slumber once more, she rose from her crouch next to the bed.

“Isn’t it rude for you to simply leave?”

“Will you leave if I don’t?” he asked, glancing at her.  Shaking his head, he went back to gathering up his clothing, bending over to pick something up…like a servant.  How undignified.  Didn’t he have a butler for such things?

Belladonna crossed back and set the ring down on the table next to her water.  “You never asked me to go.  I will depart, then.”

“Go down to the carriage, I’ll meet you there in a moment.”

Why would he do that?  “I said I would leave, there is no need for you to depart.  You should sleep.”

Enver stepped behind a panel to dress, which always confused her.  He even did it when he thought no one was in the room.  “I’m not being put-upon, dear Belladonna, I hadn’t planned to stay.  And no, on your earlier question of decoration being more important than appearance.  You can dress a pig in gold and silk, but that doesn’t mean you can take it to a dinner party.” He chuckled faintly to himself, relishing his own joke.

Belladonna was less amused.  “But you’ll fuck a pig.”

There was a pause, and then a very poorly stifled laugh.  “Well, my disturbingly blunt friend, that’s where the money and power comes into play.  You truly find her that ugly?”

“Find?  No.  I didn’t have to search at all– haven’t you seen her face?”

“Yes, and it didn’t offend me.  Perhaps your standards are too high.”

“Her features are asymmetrical and too large.  Her jaw is weak.  Her lips are too thin.  Those are not standards, those are observations.  Truths.”

“Gods you’re brutal.  And here I was beginning to come to terms with the fact that you decided to spy on me during sex.”

Belladonna wasn’t certain why he called her ‘brutal’, she hadn’t even mentioned the flat chest and utter lack of muscles.  “I was merely being truthful.”

“And I enjoy that about you.  Alas…” He appeared again, adjusting his coat.  “We need to be going.  Am I now allowed to be in your presence, or will you be disappearing?”

“Are you going to bathe?”

“Be careful, you’re beginning to sound jealous.”  

[virgobingo]

hey! love all your jjk metas :)

just wanted to throw thoughts at you if you are interested!

so the very sparse info Gege provides for Gojo and Geto has, imo, some fridge horror to it. They must remain head-canon but I'm curious if you think my thoughts are a stretch or not.

child abuse cw

I wondered if Suguru snapping after finding Nanako and Mimiko was meant as a subtle hint at Geto, a child from a non-sorceror family, having childhood abuse background. His rampage at the village seems cohesive character-wise, but I always thought killing his parents felt a bit jarring and OOC at that point in his "insanity spiral." The first crime comes from outrage & hatred, while the latter is over the top cold logic- his explanation "it would be hypocritical to spare them" seems underwhelming to me.

2. Gojo having a bounty on his head throughout his whole childhood. He might have infinity but on a practical level, loved ones are vulnerable to blackmail or hostage situations. Logically they are a weakness and the more you have, the weaker you are.

I think Gojo has so many things going on that contribute to his isolation and inability to connect- (obnoxious personality, immense power, trauma from Toji attack) that this crazy aspect of his life is brushed off. I feel like in any other character, the bounty would be seen as a major contributor to their psychology.

We see throughout the story that anytime Gojo loves or shows humanity towards another (Amanai, Suguru, Megumi (even Yuuji)) he is narratively punished for it.

Cheers!!

hello!

thank you for sharing your thoughts! i'll try my best to explain my own. my thoughts on gojo are especially jumbled since he's such a complicated character.

(1) gege has shown himself to be the type to of artist to ground his fiction in reality. i think the narrative overwhelmingly points to jujutsu sorcerers generally being perceived as "freaks" by non-sorcerers. miminana are extreme examples of this, whereas the old man geto beat up in the hidden inventory arc is a milder one.

"how would parents react if their child told them they could see/hear things they couldn't?" -> that's the question i imagine gege asked himself when he wrote this detail into jjk.

i think geto's abilities were a cause of concern for his parents, with the potential for it to have actually translated into fear. he does seem to have a special place in his heart for chosen families. i think that suggests a difficult home life. we can only speculate how bad it was though. enough for him to go through with him killing his parents nonchalantly, as far as we know. abuse wouldn't be a wildly off-base assumption.

(2) i think gojo's character is definitely marked by his station in society. the good and the bad that come with it. people really don't tend to talk about the bounty on his head, bc it's such an "oh, by the way" fact that gege fits into the story. gege probably mulled over it though (he's a serious overthinker). so i don't think it's something ppl should dismiss when thinking about gojo's psychology. some of his self-imposed isolation can be traced back to instances like it.

as an older kid and a tween, especially. i would guess gojo was probably asking himself stuff like who can he trust in this world? who can he open up to? when the world is out to kill him. the bounty on his head also probably accustomed him to solve problems with power/violence.

i think this mindset was disrupted by geto in high school, though. gojo grows to be quite generous with his trust after him. he has a lot of faith in others as an adult. so i think geto, on top of everything, inadvertently helped gojo heal and process some of his pain from childhood.

i say this bc the disconnect gojo seems to refer to in ch 236, seems different. more a result of the higher state of mind he acquires. he basically tells geto in the afterlife that it isn't rooted in loneliness, after all. which i also take to mean, not necessarily in childhood trauma by that point. but a sense that no one can possibly understand what it means to be strong— and still be powerless.

that's why i believe gojo wasn't being punished for his humanity so much as being taught a lesson on how power can only take him so far— time and time again.

this whole lesson sets up the world to be able to move on without him. life doesn't ultimately hinge on one person and i think gojo knows this to be true, which is why he's always so.. relaxed when he's taken out of the equation. while everyone else scrambles to put him back in. (funnily enough, even fans do this). 

ppl look at him and think he's above them. when inevitably, he'll die, just as all beings do. which i think is what the following sequence was about, too. and what gojo mostly meant when he said "he alone is the honored one [to come to knows this]"(in contrast to when gege used it for sukuna(x) who goes on to distinguish himself from gojo in the way he only pleases/satisfies himself). the saying has several connotations (x).

hope that makes sense!

[thistlecatfics]

Nymphadora, Nymphet (Bellatrix/Tonks, 20k, E)

cw: grooming, student/teacher, abuse, incest

“Nymphadora,

I hope your lessons are going well and that your potions work is improving. I know you can do better than last year’s marks. Horace’s retirement was unfortunate, but you are still my daughter, and the new subpar professor is little excuse. I’m always happy to give you specific tips if you have questions.

But I am delaying the real purpose of my letter, and I should not delay any longer.

I heard from Anne MacMillan that you have a temporary Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. As you have not mentioned her to me, I surmise that you may not know who she is – or you are attempting to avoid talking to me about her, both of which I completely understand. Talking about her is difficult for me too, but I need to ensure your safety, and her appointment has reduced much of my faith in Albus’s Hogwarts.

I have already written to Albus informing him of his error in not informing parents of the sudden naming of a new professor, and I have Anne raising the issue at the next board meeting.

Professor Lestrange was my sister. [Here, the parchment was thickened, as if more had been written and then crossed out, then magicked away.]

She is brilliant, charming, and deeply manipulative. She has never forgiven me for marrying your father. In addition to the blood supremacy she and the rest of my family support in private, she considered me hers, and I believe she took my marriage to your father as a personal affront. People are not people to her, but property and playthings. If she attempts to hurt you, please go to Albus or Sprout right away. I cannot imagine she’d be so bold as to act under Albus’s leadership but I worry.

We can discuss this more at the Christmas holiday – it may be time to discuss your maternal line.”

Here, Bellatrix’s tone turned cloying, as she concluded, “With love, Mother.”

Tonks had taken the letter to Bellatrix. After a month of lessons and kindness, she thought that Bellatrix deserved to know what her mother said, but Tonks now wondered if she had made the right choice.

“Your mother and Cissy both always shared a flair for the dramatic,” Bellatrix said in a normal tone as she lowered the parchment and slipped it into her pocket. “She doesn’t hold much faith in your abilities, does she? ‘Run straight to the headmaster if your mean teacher bullies you,’” she mocked.

Tonks picked at her nails, letting them grow and change colour, a childish habit she intended to stop.

Noticing her discomfort, Bellatrix softened her demeanour. “It must be hard for you to have your mother criticise you and treat you like a small child at your age.”

Tonks nodded. She wanted to defend her mother, because she wanted to be the type of daughter who did that, but what Bellatrix said was true.

“I’ve been watching you, you know. Not just in our lessons, where you’ve been improving so rapidly, but across the grounds, in the corridors. Perhaps it’s your blood or perhaps it’s your abilities, but you have a maturity that your classmates do not.”

“You’ve been watching me?” Perhaps she should have said it as if she were concerned because being watched had always meant being in trouble, but she could not help the thrill in her voice.

You consider me worth watching?

The spark of that thought burned away all of her previous guilt.

“Of course.” Bellatrix looked her up and down. “You fascinate me.”

Read on Ao3