#also about the implications of ‘content’ itself | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ironunderstands · 3 months

Text

All of Aventio’s implications that I can remember because someone has to compile them

Massive disclaimer: the purpose of this slideshow is not to prove that Aventio is canon (even if I personally think it is), but rather to demonstrate the relationship these two have in canon, as well as disprove the misconception that they hate one another, because no, they absolutely do not. This list is also in no particular order so expect a lot of jumping around in the story. I hope you enjoy reading!

Dr. Ratio added gambling to his update for the Simulated universe, and said a certain gambler would enjoy it, despite Ratio’s known dislike of gambling.

He put his all into carrying out Aventurine’s betrayal plan, and Aventurine trusted him to execute it correctly, despite the plan/going to Penacony having no obvious gain on Ratio’s end.

Dr. Ratio gave Aventurine this note urging him to keep on living despite the pains of his past and the agony of the present, wishing a man who is already known for his luck the best of it, something which helps Aventurine survive the manifestation of IX. I am insane about this note and could yap on and on about it, but I will spare you the delusions for now haha.

Dr. Ratio wears his headpiece around those he finds to be unintelligent and not worth his time, but he has never once on screen worn it around Aventurine, signaling that he finds the man to be both intelligent and worthy of his attention.

Aventurine doubts his own intelligence and worth in his voiceline about Dr. Ratio, believing that the scholar doesn’t care for him. However, in Ratio’s voiceline about Aventurine, he commends Aventurine for his competence and skill, pointing out that his success is not in-fact just due to his luck, and if he keeps doubting himself he will meet the fate of those praying on his downfall.

Aventurine is also the only person to actually have voicelines about Dr. Ratio so far, despite Ratio having interacted with many others, meaning he’s the closest in canon to Aventurine, seeing that he’s the only one who talks about him. (Hopefully Screwllum has a line on Ratio when he comes out bc I am starving for Ratio content lmao).

Aventurine’s first eidolon name is Prisoner’s Dilemma, which refers to a game theory in which two people can only achieve the best outcome of their situation if they put their faith one another while being unable to communicate/physically separated, and it mirrors the dynamic Ratio and Aventurine had on Penacony while acting out the betrayal plan. Which could mean nothing.

His 6th eidolon name is Stag Hunt Game, which refers to another game theory based on trust, and is again, reminiscent of Ratio and Aventurine’s plan. Basically, they trust each other a hell of a lot, to the point where his eidolons are named after similar games of trust, which is no accident, as well, there’s countless game theories, and hoyo went with the ones specifically centered around trust between two people. For example his E4 is another one of those theories, but has nothing to do with trust, so they specifically selected his first and last eidolon to be about it, interesting.

The name of the 2.1 quest that just involves Ratio and Aventurine is Double Indemnity, which not only refers to the legal matter but also a famous romance and thriller movie in the 1950s by the same name. Notably, it shares a lot of plot points with that of the 2.1 quest as a whole, and the fmc is always portrayed as blond, just like Aventurine.

There is also a scene within Double Indemnity that shares a lot of parallels between itself and the Final Victor lightcone. However in the movie scene she is holding the gun, whereas in the lightcone Ratio is, even if Aventurine is holding it to his chest.

Also if you want a more in depth analysis on how this movie relates to them, this person made a great one on tumblr :@anominous-user. (without the period, also it’s long as hell though be warned).

You receive the track “Spellbound” after completing the Double Indemnity mission.

It is also the name of a 1945 film by Alfred Hitchcock, which is a Thriller, Noir and you guessed it, features romance as a major part of the plot. Its story also seems to have parallels to Aventio’s, but I’m not gonna get into that for now.

Notably, spellbound also means to hold the complete attention of someone, which is more often than not romantic, as only people you love/admire can captivate you like that.

The bathtub couch Aventurine gets Ratio during his demo (and is the only time the seating ever changes in demos) is reminiscent of the bathtub couch from Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and you guessed it, its another romance.

He constantly flirts with Ratio in the pinball section of the Double Indemnity trailer, even going so far as to a) have the “Doctor you’re huge” line become a massive meme in the community b) he literally says the view is breathtaking when the only view is the giant Ratio he’s staring at. Honestly this entire section is so chock full of romance tropes (seriously what writer let their size difference kink into the story) that I have no idea how it passed censorship.

Aventurine also flirts with Ratio in the 2.0 scene by asking where his alabaster head is, which means he’s seen him wear it before. However, even when Dr. Ratio is acting, supposedly yelling at Aventurine for being a useless fool, he doesn’t wear the mask meaning he doesn’t truly feel that way.

They also have designated nicknames for one another, that are exclusive to them only. Dr. Ratio only ever calls Aventurine “gambler” while in his presence, and although Aventurine calls him Ratio sometimes, he often refers to Ratio as Doc/Doctor (Professor too in the CN) when talking to him. What’s interesting is that nobody else seems to refer to either of them with these names, meaning they made them for one another.

Despite the fact that throughout Penacony, Dr. Ratio’s job is to sell the betrayal plan, he still apologizes to Aventurine in the 2.0 argument scene, and looks away during Aventurine’s sentencing presumably out of guilt/to not break his poker face when the other looks at him. He also not so kindly tells Sunday to visit a shrink (therapist), which should tell you how much his actions concern and upset Ratio.

He also breaks his act again to check in on Aventurine. Hmm.

Anyways time for the Aventurine keeping up with starrail speedrun because OH LORD, I’m gonna number these by image so I don’t exceed the count LMAOO. The first few are numbered by image, and the next are numbered by the columns of images, and I can clarify in the comments if you’re confused!

1) Owlbert calling them good friends (which Mr. Tsundere denies, although he says Aven isn’t awful to work with)

2) PRAISE OWLBERT

3) This line is very significant because only 3% of Dr. Ratio’s students ever pass his classes, in which they become experts in their fields. So, if Aventurine earns a passing grade in Dr. Ratio’s book, that means he’s exceptional to him as almost nobody does.

1) Ratio says his flashy outfits just make his job harder which ??? What do you mean by that sir do you not like seeing other people lay eyes on Aventurine serving cvnt? Why are you so worried about how his jobs go? Hmmm? Throughout the whole video he also keeps saying Aventurine shouldn’t take up fights in the first place, and the more logical thing to do would be to run away. Worried about our dear gambler Ratio?

2) How well do you know this man that you know his personal motto 😭 look genuinely idc if you leave this shipping them or not, how the hell are you gonna deny their friendship after this at the very least.

Ok homoverse/j Anyways basically what’s going on here is that the little showcase of Aventurine’s kit ended and Ratio gave him a compliment. Owlbert says it seems like there is some mutual respect between them. Interesting, instead of denying it, Ratio asks, “What did he say about me?” implying that Ratio respects Aventurine, but he did not realize the other respected him back.

1) Which causes Owlbert to spill this, which speaks for itself, Aventurine believes Ratio is the person who knows him best, so he invited him to be on the show.

2) Which results in perhaps the greatest display of Ratio’s tsundereness to this day, also Owlberts face I can’t

1) It seems Ratio didn’t think Aventurine knew him so well, but oh boy it gets better (worse for Ratio though LMAOO)

2) Caught your ass in 4k, also please just go and listen to this demo again I don’t think Ratio could sound more flustered if he tried.

Apologies for the fuckass title card getting in the way no I don’t know how to remove it, but if you look closely in the first one, you can see a little sweat drop by Ratio’s face, which is again, another common trope with Tsundere’s when they get called out on their bs. “I really can’t tell what the deal is between you two,” me too Owlbert, me too.

Aventurine knows Ratio is in the council of Mundanites, information that is only a rumor to the rest of the galaxy, and Ratio trusts him with this information.

Acheron calls them friends, thank you Queen louder for the dumbasses in the back! Apparently there’s also a note somewhere in Penacony that talks about her, Argenti and of course Ratio being the ones to save Aventurine, so if I can find it, I’ll include it in the next part.

Oh and don’t you think I’m done w this ridiculous lightcone for one second. I’m well aware it’s a display of Aventurine’s su1c1dal tendencies, hell I was and still am the biggest supporter of that, however I also have eyes and yeah this fucking thing is really h0rny oh my god. “He provocatively looks at the man before him,” ok, could have picked any other wording but you picked that one 😭.

Also, a key detail of this lightcone that people miss is that it’s, well, a lightcone. A lightcone we get in 2.0 as soon as it drops, and since lightcones are canonically condensed memories, this happened way before the events of 2.0, and is likely how Aventurine convinced Ratio to join him jn the betrayal plan.

Moreover, Aventurine says “remain amicable,” meaning this isn’t their first meeting, and him and Ratio had at least been talking to one another for some time before this, which could mean their friendship/partnership/whatever the hell this is has dated back to perhaps even prior to 1.6 when we meet Ratio for the first time, but ultimately that’s just speculation.

Lastly, for this mini lightcone rant: the animated version of it. Oh lord. 1) Camden and Jordan put their all into it istg 😭 2) Ratio pulls the gun back but Aventurine stops him, meaning that a) Ratio didn’t want him to get hurt, but he b) accepted Aventurine’s provocation, 3) Aventurine LEANS CLOSER to him while teasing him with his whole “why not doctor~,” sh1t and 4) if you look closely at both the animated and still versions of it, there’s a tiny spark of light in Aventurine’s normally dead eyes, which is just, yeah.

Ratios party voiceline for Aventurine. This is a complicated one because it is meant to be b1tchy in both languages (this is a tumblr post on it by @devxoid which goes over the nuance surrounding it. The TLDR is: directly translated, it means “take care of yourself, gambler, I need not your worry/concern,” but its actual meaning is far closer to the “fuck off” vibes in the CN. However, two this complicate this, 1) he sounds far calmer/neutral in the CN and 2) Ratio is the biggest goddamn tsundere on this planet, so even if he sounds mean, he does genuinely want Aventurine to take care of himself, as Ratio’s tried and true method of getting people to better themselves is by being rude to them, so it’s actually fairly in character, it’s just I think the way the line was directed in EN was a bit too harsh and threw some people off

Finally, here’s some more silly ones that don’t really mean anything on their own until you put them into the context of everything else:

Their status as package deal do not seperate in both the data bank and the profile pictures is extremely funny because they have no reason to be next to each other like that, they just are.

Their kits are also designed to synergize perfectly with one another, and in the livestream Ratio was put in the team to demonstrate Aventurine’s kit because well, they are made to work together. Aventurine is by far Dr. Ratio’s best sustain unit due to the debuffs he provides (alongside everything else) which only gets better with eidolons + his signature lightcone, and if you have ever played Ratio you know how much he likes debuffs. As for Aventurine, his arguably best team is the FUA one with Robin, Topaz and well, Ratio, who is the main dps of the team. Honestly besides trying to zero cycle MOC there is no reason as to why you would run Ratio with any other support unit if you have Aventurine.

I hope you enjoyed reading! Also, this is absolutely not everything, just all the stuff that’s easy to point out, and I’m not even getting into an actual analysis of the plot and how that demonstrates their relationship. Moreover, I don’t expect you to leave this shipping them if you don’t already like them, but I at least want to demonstrate that they are without a doubt close friends in canon, and there’s no denying it. I definitely missed some so feel free to point out more, as I might make a part two, as these are just all the ones off the top of my head. Continually, for the people who like Aventio, hopefully this serves as some sort of guidebook/reference to their implications/interactions, and if you have any moots who love this ship, I’d recommend tagging them in this bc I think they would love it! Have a good day :D

#This was sm fun to make oml #honkai star rail #hsr #aventurine #aventio #dr ratio #ratiorine #dropped the Aventio Bible y’all /hj #Perhaps I’ll make a part two with stuff like the “Heaven is a Place on Earth” among other miscellaneous things #golden ratio

541 notes · View notes

arecaceae175 · 4 months

Note

Hello! I noticed that some of your fics on Ao3 are tagged "Screen Reader Friendly," and I wondered what makes a fic screen reader friendly. Is it just about formatting, or does content matter too?

Hi, thank you so much for asking this question!!! Disclaimer I am not visually impaired so all of this information I have learned by seeing blind or visually impaired people talk about this issue.

It’s primarily formatting! I’ll list everything I do to try to make my fics accessible here.

Line breaks!!! Use the ao3 line break code instead of adding a bunch of symbols. This is the biggest thing I had to change once I realized my fics were not screen reader friendly.

HOWEVER some screen readers won’t pick up on the horizontal line, either. Another good option is to use a short series of symbols, for example: “~~” or “- - -“

Basically, just don’t use more than three symbols in a row. I used to use “~~~/\~~~” with a delta symbol in the middle to look like the triforce, but a screen reader would see that and say “asterisk asterisk asterisk delta asterisk asterisk asterisk” which is pretty annoying lol

Most screen readers don’t differentiate between regular text and bold/italics. It’s fine to have those in your story, but if the bold/italics significantly changes the plot or the implications of a sentence then it is not screen reader friendly

Screen readers can’t describe a line break that is just an empty space. For example, in one of my fics I have a character reading a note, and I have an extra ‘return button’ space before and after the note to make the note distinct from the rest of the text. To make that fic more screen reader friendly, instead of just an empty space, I wrote “[Line Break]”. That way, a screen reader can say “line break”, and readers still recognize it as a line break

If you have any sort of chat fic (AND this goes for hashtags on tumblr too!) with screen names, be sure to distinguish the separate words in the screen name. You can do this with by capitalizing the first letter of each word like this “ScreenNameHere” or with dashes in between each word “screen-name-here”. That helps screen readers and also people with things like dyslexia who have trouble distinguishing words if they aren’t capitalized or separated in some way.

Screen readers can read image emojis like this smiley face 😁 because they have embedded alt text, but they can’t read text emojis as an emoji, like this one “:D”. If you use any of those in your fic, add a description like this: “ :D [Image description: text emoji of a smiley face with a big, open mouthed smile. End description].”

Also, this one doesn’t have to do with a screen reader, but if you have an image embedded in your story, keep these things in mind:

Be sure to describe the image so anyone who is blind or visually impaired can still experience the image. I don’t think it’s possible to add alt text to the actual image, so I usually put this below the image: “[Image ID: description of the image. Note the important details, but be as concise as you can. /End ID]”. Including the image description instead of some sort of alt text is good for DeafBlind people who can’t see the image well enough but don’t use a screen reader.

Some blind or visually impaired people don’t use a screen reader and instead zoom in on the text. If an image is embedded in the story, be sure it is sized correctly. If it isn’t, it can make scrolling sideways to read zoomed in text more difficult because it makes the webpage much wider than the text itself.

Not all my fics have the screen reader friendly tag because 1. There might be a few I haven’t updated yet, and 2. I didn’t include the tag on fics that have weird formatting or are accent heavy. For example, in Kinship I wrote Twilight’s dialogue to represent his strong accent, and those kinds of things with apostrophes and half-words don’t come through well with a screen reader.

I personally don’t think it’s good practice to include a ton of apostrophes or shortened words to distinguish an accent. Even for people not using screen readers, it’s hard to read. For me, if I see a fic with things like that, I won’t read it. Maybe try having a few words that the character’s accent comes through on, or write something about their heavy accent outside of the dialogue.

The “Screen Reader Friendly” tag isn’t an officially recognized AO3 tag yet, but the more people who use it, the sooner it will be!

Those are all the things I can think of right now. If anyone has any other tips to add, please do so!!

#:D #WOOHOO ACCESSIBILITY #fic writing #ao3 fanfic #ao3 #writing #fanfic #accessibility #screen reader

680 notes · View notes

cinnamonest · 8 months

Text

Uhtceare

Yandere Ayato x Reader - "Failed escape attempt" series

(I still cannot publish posts that have people tagged. I don't know why, it just gives me an error popup saying it couldn't be processed. Apologies to those in my taglist.)

Warning: DARK CONTENT, noncon/dubcon, implications of forced/coerced marriage, masturbation voyeurism that’s also kinda forced, manipulative use of mental health and problematic way of addressing it, gaslighting and psychological manipulation, implied future forced drugging, there’s just a lot of my man being awful here

------------

“Ah, there you are.”

Of course. He would be right there at the entrance waiting, wouldn’t he.

You were hoping to get a few more seconds to put off the inevitable, but the reality of your situation was not so kind as to grant you that. It was all far too fast — the full events of the night before, the journey of being dragged back here — flanked on all sides by doushin all the while — all went by in a blur, leading up to this very dreaded moment.

You kept your gaze turned to the ground, unable to bring yourself to make eye contact. Your fingers curled, digging into the fabric around your thighs.

Nonetheless, without even hesitating nor willing it, you found your feet moving on their own. Perhaps it was instinct, to get away from the unfamiliar men that made you so uncomfortable and uneasy, and into the arms that, despite everything, were at least familiar, and thereby a comfort at the end of your long trial of distress and misery. Maybe you knew it was expected, and feared some consequence for not acting as you knew you should. Or maybe some of both.

Regardless, your feet shuffled forward, any thoughts muted in favor of instinct as you bounded over towards your husband — as much as you hated to acknowledge it, your one source of comfort. As you grew close, he reached an arm out, hand firmly planting itself on your back and pulling you in. Perhaps out of that same sense of fear at the thought of disobeying expectations, perhaps out of pure exhaustion, you allowed it without struggle coming to stand directly by his side, grasping at his clothes, burying your head against him and squeezing your eyes shut as if it would obscure the others’ view of you.

“I can’t thank you enough. You have no idea how worried I was about her,” he spoke to the arrangement of men now standing a ways away, moving his hand on to rest atop your head. “I apologize for the inconvenience. The poor thing gets a bit irrational from time to time. You know how it is.”

The other men only gave a brief, curt sound of acknowledgement. One, the own standing closest to the two of you based on how close the voice sounded, seemed to deem it appropriate to give at least some response. “Of course, sir.”

Not that that actually made any sense, that such a bizarre thing to say could ever warrant an ‘of course’ as a reply. But they weren’t there to be sensible, to assess the situation and act according to any supposed principles. To help. They were there only to follow through with an assigned task, one that they had not even tried to conceal in their expressions and tones towards you was an unwanted inconvenience, and to turn a blind eye to any conclusions they might draw.

Maybe that too was intentional — the estate lord could have easily sent his private forces to be the ones to escort you back to the estate, yet he chose to allow the public law enforcement to return you. Perhaps he knew you’d grown to resent the family’s private forces, and thereby had no issue inconveniencing them, whereas he knew you’d feel more embarrassment and guilt having strangers be forced to bring you all the way back… yes, the more you thought about it, that certainly seemed like that was his intent.

“I hope she didn’t give you too much trouble?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“Ah, I see, that’s good to hear.”

Your hands balled into fists.

The whole show made of it all was utterly humiliating — that too no doubt the intention — but you had no choice but to stand there. Doing something rash like running off to hide yourself from the embarrassment would only meet a worse consequence later.

The burning, bitter anger only made said embarrassment that much worse. It was consuming, maddening. Everything — this place, these people, their words and their attitudes, their dismissal of you as if you were a child or an animal — it made you so damn mad, and yet, you could do nothing but endure.

Your eyes burned. You blinked a few times in rapid succession. You couldn’t forgive yourself if you actually cried in front of these strangers. The back-and-forth between the two parties continued, but you did your best to tune out the words, knowing that listening would only hurt you further.

It wasn’t until there was movement that you returned your attention to them, pulling your head away from him to look — now they were turning, walking away.

Leaving you alone with him.

You then dared not avert your eyes from the ground, watching the men from your peripheral vision as they made their way down the path, growing smaller and smaller and they moved further away, until their footsteps were no longer audible.

All that remained was a heavy, palpable tension.

Avoidance was the easiest path — a foolish choice, of course, which you knew full well. It wasn't as if you could avoid the present reality forever, but nonetheless, you found yourself clinging to each precious second that ticked by, body growing stiffer as you braced yourself for the inevitable. Perhaps you could trick yourself into believing that if you just kept your gaze turned to the ground, nothing would happen.

But sure enough, you clenched your jaw as his hand moved upwards, and came to rest on your shoulder.

“Come on now. You're certainly tired. Let’s get you to rest for a while.”

His voice only made your stomach twist further. It was calm and gentle, not explosive or infuriated. It would have felt more assuring that way, if your fear could just be easily confirmed, rather than a calculated calm that felt far more dreadful and foreboding than any rage.

His hand moved from your shoulder, coming down to grasp your wrist. It wasn’t a sudden, harsh motion, nor was the grip itself strong enough as to be painful — but it was noticeably firm.

And then, he pulled. A soft tug, pulling you in the direction of the doors.

Your resistance was not a conscious choice, not something you thought about nor had any time to do so; it was only a reflex. Instinctively, your body stiffened, your feet dug into the ground, and thus his pull was met not with the meek obedience that was expected of you, with footsteps that followed where you were guided, but instead a firm resistance.

Your own realization of that resistance, what you’d just done, sent a sharp rush of fear through your veins.

And thus, for the first time since arriving, your gaze tilted upward, and your wide, frightened eyes met his.

His expression shifted. The amiable, pleasant smile half-faded, still present, but only barely.

“…Don't be difficult. Come on.”

Likewise, his voice dropped far lower, a dark and foreboding tone far removed from the one he’d spoken with just moments ago to the other men.

Your mouth opened, instinctively wanting to reply, but you couldn't summon a coherent thought. You were afraid, you were angry, you were so, so embittered and ashamed and wanted nothing more than to run to your room, close your eyes and burrow into the bed.

And for a moment, you considered the compliant option. If you just lowered your head and followed along, apologized and insisted you were just being petty or immature or whatever he would call it this time, and took whatever consequence was handed out, then you could do just that, confine yourself to your bed and try to forget it all.

But the shame only fueled the fury, like gasoline to a fire. It was his fault. As scared of punishment as you were, your pride could not stand for simply bowing your head, and as your mind raced, the sheer fury you’d been stewing in all throughout the night before, all the angry words you’d monologued in your head and vowed to spew at him when you saw him again, all came rushing back.

You swallowed, fingers curling even harder around the fabric around your thighs. Now that it was just the two of you, although you still fought it as best as you could, you couldn’t help that your eyes watered, burning as your vision blurred out of pure frustration and misery.

“I… I know you did all of this on purpose! I only got all the way out there because you let me, a-and…”

The words came out in a trembling, wavering voice, far weaker than intended.

He exhaled a heavy sigh, closing his eyes in frustration. His voice was still characteristically gentle, but you could hear his patience waning. “We can discuss this inside.”

“But I—”

“Inside.”

You stiffened, freezing in place. That was not a tone you heard often in your married life, more firm than normal.

You swallowed, gaze darting to the ground again, unable to summon a reply and not wanting to make eye contact again. With another heavy exhale, he pulled at your arm with a gentle tug, and this time, you followed, feet quickly shuffling behind his.

You didn’t say a word, though, through the full minute or so of walking across the courtyard, through the front doors, down the hall, only dimly lit today due to curtains hanging over the windows lining the walls. It occurred to you with a sinking feeling in your stomach that you were headed straight for your shared bedroom, rather than one of the estate’s many drawing rooms and lounges, which meant the anticipated conversation to come would be one you’d both want kept in privacy. Your stomach felt as if it were turning in knots, your chest compressed by an unseen force, each breath feeling strenuous and weighted.

And then, finally, you both came to a halt as you reached the last room at the end of the hall. You felt helpless, unable to do anything as you watched the handle of the door turn, stumbling in as you were guided forward by the hand that came to gently press on your lower back.

Likewise, equally pitifully, you could do nothing but stand there and wait as you listened for the door to close behind you, clenching your jaw at the trepidation in your chest from the footsteps on the floor behind you, but made sure to not let your fear swallow your fury.

“Now,” he began slowly as he moved around you to the other side of the room, voice now back to its usual tone, but still firm nonetheless, “I can tell you have a great deal you want to get off your chest, but you’ll have to forgive me for a moment… your well-being is my primary concern.” He looked you up and down, and his voice took on a note of concern that admittedly sounded sincere. “You aren’t hurt in any way, are you, dear?”

You bit your lip at the affectionate term, and more importantly, at how unbothered he came across. Granted, you now knew just how much of the past twelve hours or so had been entirely within his control, so it made sense that he was never genuinely distressed, but admittedly, it was also disappointing. Part of you wanted him to have been panicked and worried, to get the satisfaction of knowing you’d successfully gotten under his skin.

Still, you shook your head, keeping your gaze to the ground as you gave a curt, frustrated reply. “No.”

“Good,” his eyes closed for a moment, taking a heavy breath of pause. “Well, in that case…” He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms. “I believe this would be the best time to give you a moment to explain yourself.”

You couldn’t miss the obvious foreboding in his voice, nor the way it made your body stiffen.

But you had already prepared for that — you knew it would be intimidating, that it would be awkward and shameful, but you had spent the previous few hours trying to preemptively harden your resolve against that. Besides, after it was interrupted earlier, you now had the chance to get back to what was essentially the pre-written script you’d memorized in your head of exactly every little thing you wanted to say to him.

Unfortunately, as it turned out, the you that was standing there in front of him was significantly less brave than the ‘you’ in the scenes you’d played out in your head on the journey home.

Still, you clenched your hands into fists, thinking you had to at least force him to acknowledge the one point you’d deemed most important.

“You let me leave.”

In your mind, you’d spoken with a bold voice and looked him directly in the eye… and while the same words came out of your mouth, they were instead said with a weak, shrill attempt at an accusatory tone, pathetically looking to the wall as you found yourself unable to summon the gall to look up, once more lacking the firm accusation and self-assuredness your imaginative self had had.

He tilted his head. “That’s not a very accurate way to put it. I never granted you any such permission… I was simply aware of your intent to run off, and didn’t stop you.”

For a moment, you contemplated asking how he knew — but you had a feeling the answer would only make you more upset. His voice was laden with a faux sincerity, a sort of disingenuousness that made your blood boil, enough to embolden you further as you continued.

“And you… you had people following me the whole time, I know you did!” Your voice began to get louder as you grew bolder, bitter anger strengthening you against any trepidation. “They didn't even do a good job! I started noticing them towards the end of it!”

"Well, that would be because they were specifically told that concealment was not necessary.” He kept up the dry manner of speech, seemingly unbothered by your fury. “They deserve a break from high effort jobs every now and then, surely you understand. Besides, they didn’t directly interfere with your little outing, yes?”

He was so calm in contrast to your visible irritation, no doubt at least in part deliberate. It only served to make you even more mad.

“They told the local doushin to — no, you told them to tell them! There’s no other way that could have happened! I-I, I got," in sheer frustration, you jerked your fists in a sharp downward motion, "arrested!"

“I’m very well aware.”

“They put me in jail!”

“I do believe that is the standard process for an arrest, yes.”

“I was all by myself for hours!”

“Naturally. I couldn’t allow you to be placed with any dangerous persons, that’s why you were put in a solitary space.”

You clenched your fists so hard they trembled. “You, y-you let me get that far in the first place, and, and…” A lump formed in your throat again, which you did your best to suppress. “…Just to make me go through all that… I was there for hours before they came for me…” Your face scrunched up as you fought the urge to cry.

You hung your head, shoulders falling as you let your body relax, the fuse of anger burning out as it turned to a quiet bitterness swelling in your stomach. What was even the point? You knew better than to think your emotions would be given any weight, treated as anything beyond trivial.

A few moments of quiet passed, perhaps to see if you would say anything more, or perhaps just to force you to wait in uncomfortable uncertainty. After a moment, he shifted his posture slightly before unfolding one arm, holding out his hand in a standard gesture of speech.

“And what have we learned?”

You never would have thought one question could send such a spark of fury through your body in a single moment. Everything, from the wording to the timing to his tone, felt utterly mocking, infantilizing in a way that made you seethe.

You swallowed, practically trembling. “That you’ll go to any lengths to humiliate me?”

He returned the extended arm to its former position, exhaling heavily, straightening his stance. “It's rather unfair to assume I had such malicious intent. Stopping you early on in the past has clearly not worked in the long term, so further measures were necessary.” He tilted his head to meet your averted gaze, reflexively turning your attention back to him, eyes connecting with yours. “My only intention was that you would have some time to reflect on your series of decisions… and hopefully return with a change of heart. These episodes of yours are worrisome.” He gave a brief pause before finishing, “claiming I had cruel intent when you know in your heart that I only arranged this because I care for you… that's rather harsh, isn't it?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to acknowledge the notion that the words were genuine. Admittedly having fallen for the words die a moment, you mentally shook off the momentary feeling of guilt.

These situations always went the same way, you'd be driven to apologize and feel bad about your choices. You had never met anyone else in your life with such a mastery of speech-craft as to be able to control your emotions and actions with words as easily as if it were pushing buttons on a machine. The first few times, you'd actually fallen for it, found yourself completely malleable, psyche bending and shifting to another's whims. At least with time, you'd become more resilient, had learned to notice and recognize the attempts… so you believed.

You opted to avoid answering the quesiton. Instead of acknowledging his own words, you turned to another matter that had come to mind during your escapade.

“Aren’t you abusing your authority? How are you even allowed to do this to begin with?!”

He took another deep breath, as if it were a trivial matter, or one that shouldn’t necessitate explanation.

“It’s… complicated, but the law does fully permit estates to employ local forces to locate any missing property belonging to the estate… people employed or bound to it are a sort of grey area in that regard.” After a moment of pause, he added, “besides, I also made it very clear that you were not in your right mind at the time, so your wellbeing was of immediate concern, and they were happy to help.”

“What?” The anger in your tone only rose. “I was perfectly in my right mind, you, you… a-and I’m not…”

A few moments passed as you trailed off, having to pause to collect yourself, blink away frustrated tears.

He opened his mouth as if to respond, but seemed to decide against whatever he'd considered saying, closing his eyes and taking a breath before finally replying in a more exasperated tone.

“You're making yourself upset needlessly. I can only do so much… in the end, I only wanted to keep you safe. You have to be the one to accept the grace you're given. Wouldn't that be easier for you?”

There was still unease to his tone, but the way he said it was nonetheless indicative of a sort of tiredness, as if not wanting to carry on about the matter anymore. It almost sounded like he was saying that you “accepting” his “grace” was all that was required to bury the matter entirely.

You spoke slowly, cautiously.

“You’re not… mad?”

“…I never said that.” He shifted away from leaning against the wall, standing upright. ”Of course, I can’t allow this to go entirely unacknowledged.”

He took a few steps towards you, and you fought the urge to step back, keeping your arms rigidly straight at your side as he continued.

“Normally, a proper form of consequence would be in order… however, after consideration, I realized that this was in large part my own fault, and I owe it to you to take responsibility for that.”

The words took you by surprise. The idea that he was in any way acknowledging that he had any responsibility for what you did was baffling, all things considered. He had never once even acknowledged that refusing to let you leave the estate was essentially holding you prisoner, and usually insisted that everything he did was what was best for you, even if, as he seemed to believe was the case, you did not understand that.

You hesitated before replying. “What… what do you mean?”

He flashed you an amiable smile. “A lesser person would only act on their momentary frustrations, but I’m not the sort of person who acts without understanding the situation. Luckily, I do understand you.” He looked off to the side, holding a hand up to his chin in a pensive pose, before adding in a quieter voice, “I made the mistake of getting too caught up in my work recently. Acting out over feelings of neglect is entirely different from misbehavior out of sheer petulance.”

He turned his head back towards you again before finishing,

“It would be cruel to respond to a cry for attention as if it were ordinary disobedience.”

The words took you aback, and you hesitated in your response, but as it fully registered in your mind, the momentary surprise was replaced with shameful fury. You held your arms firmly at your side, hands balled into fists as you replied.

“What?! I didn't— I didn’t do it for attention!”

You felt foolish for thinking for even a second that he might actually empathize with you, might finally come to enough humility to realize that much of your perceived disobedience was due to the sheer degree of meticulous, total control he held over everything you did. But no, instead, your attempt to run away was being treated as attention-seeking. It felt belittling, degrading.

He took a short breath, as if about to say something, but as his gaze fell upon you again, he simply exhaled, an amused smile forming on his face, replacing the former exasperation — and only infuriating you further, realizing even your anger wouldn't be taken seriously.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He made no effort to hide the dismissive amusement in his voice, either, but cleared his throat before returning to a more neutral tone before you could give any retort. “Regardless, you've been through a lot already. If you can be mature and calm down, make some acknowledgement of the trouble you’ve caused and show some remorse, then, I'm willing to somewhat overlook this.” Making direct contact between your eyes and his, he finished, “Won’t that be easier on us both?”

The obvious dismissal of your statement and implications of what he thought made your face feel hot. The embarrassment that had already been weighing down on you now became suffocating, and the utter arrogance of the presumption of your willingness to comply made you so upset it felt nauseating.

“What does ‘somewhat’ mean?” You tried to suppress the irritation in your voice.

He gave another heavy sigh. “Should you really be asking for specifics? It’s your best course of action regardless.”

You opened your mouth and inhaled as if to speak, holding your closed fists up to your chest, ready to spew every ounce of vitriol you’d been building up, and then, you fell silent as your eyes met.

His expression grew dark, eyes half-lidded and features blank — not contorted with anger nor curiosity, but merely waiting, watching, warning. Anticipating your defiance, prepared to react accordingly.

You looked down, hesitating.

Was it really worth it…? A few moments of lashing out, at what cost? ‘Consequences’ hurt, in one sense or another, they always did, no matter what form that word took.

You swallowed. He was right — one path before you was wiser.

You hung your head.

“…I’m sorry…”

Even with your gaze turned downward, you could see his eyes widen just a bit in your peripheral vision, not having expected such quick compliance — understandably so, based on your past incidents. But after a moment, his expression softened. He took another step, closing the gap between you, cupping your face in his hands and forcing you to lift your head back up.

“Mm. I’m glad you understand. You know, you've matured quite a bit recently.”

You almost, almost found yourself feeling happy at the praise, but then pushed that feeling away. It was part of the way he did things, part of the process, so you'd slowly come to recognize, putting the pieces together over and over until you became aware of how he managed to bring you down to submission each time. You refused to be swayed by that. You were only giving it up and apologizing because it was the was the easier, less painful choice… so you reminded yourself. Now, at least, you'd be done with this, could move on and quietly begin plotting again.

But then, as you felt his hand move down to your shoulder, then to your waist, you remembered the ‘somewhat.’

Yes, of course it couldn’t be left at that, wouldn’t be so simple as forcing you into humility just once.

You knew that full well. These checks of obedience after an act of disobedience never came solitary, and the desire for that subservience to be affirmed was not easily satiated. It would only grow deeper, an increasing hunger for your subservience. Pushing your pride further and further down, carving into your personhood and whittling away anything deemed unfitting. It would only go further, debasing you in increasingly violating ways.

You felt a gnawing in your stomach. You hadn’t thought of that part, in the moment, but the realization now made your heartrate begin to accelerate once more.

His eyes drifted downward.

“…Ah, right. The clothes you’re wearing, we need to have a servant wash them for you. Just set them by the door for now.”

You looked down. You hadn’t even bothered to think about it until now, having been so preoccupied with other thoughts, but indeed, the oh-so-nice and expensive clothing you’d been so lovingly lavished with, was now fully coated in grime and dirt.

At the same time, your immediate instinct was to protest the idea, knowing the intent. He wasn’t going to get you a replacement — which he himself would need to do, seeing as all of your clothing was, no doubt deliberately, kept outside the bedroom itself, and it had been established early on that you were to rely on him or servants to fetch whatever he would have you wear that day for you. Was the command too, then, intentional?

The very moment you even asked yourself the question, though, came the immediate answer, making you feel foolish for even questioning it. Of course it was intentional, planned — what wasn’t, anymore, in your life? You remembered looking back, on the day you were brought here, thinking over the past with borderline horror at the realization of how intricately detailed and precise every detail had been in his effort — what you now were certain was a premeditated plan — to get your family to call off the years-long betrothal you’d already been in, and marry you off to him instead. That realization of it all had kept you rightfully afraid of him, knowing he was always one step ahead of whatever you might attempt.

The corners of your mouth pulled taut with embarrassment, and you pulled your hands in towards your chest again, elbows pressed firmly to your sides. “That’s…”

He caught a glimpse of your face, and in turn smiled, an amused sort of expression. “Come on now,” he took a step towards you, reaching out and grasping at your hands, pulling them out of their defensive position, “even now, you’re still so shy over this?”

“I— no, I’m not—” you cut off, teeth clacking together as you snapped your mouth shut when his hands released yours, instead moving around to the binding ties of your outfit, pulling the knot apart.

You held your hands up to the level of your shoulders, bent at the elbow, fingers curled as if preparing to reach forward, to grasp at his hands, to do something.

But you didn’t.

The exchange was itself a means of conversation, communicating something not fully articulable by word alone. Violating your comfort and dignity, baring you to him, those things themselves were an assertion, a statement. To interrupt would be to challenge that assertion, to deny him. And perhaps it was, in part, also a test, a question of whether or not you would dare to deny the unspoken statement.

As the silk strands came undone, the first layer gave way to the second, and pulling apart that knot caused the fabric bound by it to slide apart, exposing your bare skin to the cool air.

An unspoken reminder that your body was not your own, that any right to autonomy and privacy you might have beyond this room, no longer existed within it. Access to you was not a privilege granted by your permission, but an inherent right, provided by the very contract that legally bound you to him.

The casual, unhesitating manner with which you were stripped down only emphasized that that very reality itself was not something to be regarded as of any great significance, but a fact accepted as readily as any other. Exposing you, touching you, exercising that unconditional access to your body was given no greater thought than utilizing any of one’s possessions.

There was nothing he could ever say to you, nor adequate words to even exist, to fully encapsulate the degree to which you were owned — but with that gesture, you understood all the same.

And even though the humiliation of the reminder made your eyes burn, made you bite your lip, you lowered your hands to your side. An admission of defeat, surrender.

It did not go unnoticed. He smiled.

“Very good. You’re behaving much better today than I anticipated.”

Another moment of praise. He was genuinely pleased. You could see it and hear it through his face and voice.

Were it on any other matter, you might have felt proud to be praised in such a sweet, charming voice. If the praise were on something you actually wanted to achieve.

And then, his eyes trailed downward, running over your body, taking in each detail. His eyebrows furrowed as his gaze settled on one particular spot.

“You really shouldn't lie to me,” he spoke in a quiet, low voice.

At first, you felt a momentary panic, not quite sure what he even meant, thinking you had somehow made a unintentional transgression. It wasn't until you looked down that you saw the scrape just below your collarbones from your, admittedly unsightly, vigorous resistance upon initial confrontation with the doushin the night prior, having essentially had to have been wrestled down to the concrete street. In hindsight, you were even surprised with yourself for putting up such a fight, but at the time it had just been the instinctive reflex, fueled by desperation.

It all felt distant now, as if further back in time than it was, the memory all blurring together. It was only a very small mark, and had now scabbed up as part of the natural healing process, but as his fingers brushed over the spot, you still tensed at the slight lingering sting.

“It doesn't really hurt,” you replied nonetheless. “It's fine…”

He only straightened back upright, closing his eyes momentarily.

“I suppose I shouldn't have expected common doushin to be able to follow instructions… just so you know, I did specifically say to ensure you weren't hurt in any way.” He turned his gaze downward, hand held to his chin as he added in a low mutter, “I'll be sure to only use private hands in the future, should I need something like this again.”

You shrugged, turning your eyes downward to the floor once more. Really, you wanted to not have to think about the incident any further, the mere memory stirring up embarrassment, which did not combine well with your already vulnerable state. “It's fine. It's not a big deal,” you grumbled. After a moment of hesitation, feeling another urge of spite, you added, “it wouldn't have happened if you didn't… do all that.”

He huffed in exasperation, but was quiet for the moment, seemingly composing his thoughts before replying.

“Don’t be disagreeable. We've discussed this. I care for you dearly, but that does not mean that you are exempt from expectations to behave.”

He always gave you that line — that a behavioral matter of yours had been previously ‘discussed,’ which merely meant he'd told you not to do something, or behave a certain way. That was the end-all-be-all — whatever you were told was set in stone the moment it left his mouth, and transgressing against the standard that was set was often treated as if you’d forgotten, as if it slipped your mind, the idea of intentional and deliberate disobedience being something unthinkable to such a degree that simply having done so by accident were more believable to him — and perhaps you ought be grateful for that.

You clamped your jaw shut, turning your head downward.

His gaze turned back to your body.

“…Your nerves are unsettled.” His hand slid it's way down your side, the feeling of touch lingering in a trail behind as his palm brushed over the curvature of your waist. “See, that's what causes these irrational episodes of yours. Stress, overexcitement. It just… builds naturally for you, over time.” After a moment, taking in your expression, he added, “it's nothing to feel bad about, dear. I don't mind helping you with it at all… I'm glad I can do so, really. I worry about how you'd manage without having me to help.”

You hesitated before giving a response. “What… what do you mean? I'm not… irrational…”

It was as if your words went in one ear and out the other, continuing on without responding to your objection. “But again, I failed to keep it in check this time, so this was ultimately my own fault… I'll have to make a note to be more thorough.”

His hand grasped at your waist, pulling you close. His other hand reached up, cupping your breast. He looked over towards your shared bed.

“Come on. Let's get you in bed.”

“Huh? But—”

His grip tightened. “Don't be difficult.”

Your stomach began to churn. You were still angry. The last thing you wanted was to go through what was essentially a humiliation ritual. There was something about the act itself — at least, between the two of you — that made you feel embarrassed and ashamed. The inherent vulnerability, for one, but moreover, because you knew the intent, you knew the way he viewed it in his mind, could practically feel the sentiment. An act of claiming, an exchange of power in which your loss of dignity became his gain of pride and control. Carving into your very personhood, marking you as something belonging to him.

Your opened your mouth, but whatever you intended to say was cut off by your small noise of surprise as you were pulled forward, in a manner that was somehow so gentle in touch, yet forceful enough to move your whole body towards his. His arm wrapped around your frame, the other positioning itself underneath your thighs before lifting you up and moving down to sit.

You fidgeted, tried to pull away — but his grip tightened, as much to secure you as it was a warning, telling you to hold still.

“It's for your sake. This will help you… you may not realize that yet, but you’ll thank me, I promise.”

His hands moved to your hips and turned you so that your back rested against his chest.

“As I was saying, you simply… build stress and neurosis, naturally. It's not your fault, really. You're just sensitive to changes, stressors... Every individual has at least some… defects in their nature.”

His hands retracted, and there was a brief rustling sound before they returned to your skin, now ungloved, flesh on flesh. The contact sent sparks through your nerves.

“That's why people pair with those they are compatible with. They fill each other's needs, compliment each other’s natures… I’m obligated to take those defects and resolve them.”

He gave you a smile — you couldn't see it, but could feel it as his lips pressed softly against your neck. Warm, full of sincerity and adoration.

“I wouldn’t do that if it weren’t out of care… and you in turn provide me with something that needs care and guidance. I enjoy having that.”

For all his attempts at soothing words and the gentleness of the touch, you knew in your heart that there was no doubt that that was part of the intent — to humble you, to tame you and make you docile, to make you submit. Forcing you to such a vulnerable state and inflicting reactions of pleasure was itself an act of exerting power and control.

It was, in a way, remarkable, that the human spirit could not only be broken by both brutal cruelty, but equally — or, perhaps even more effectively — eroded away with a gentle voice and touch, humiliation so deeply intertwined with affection that they became impossible to distinguish from each other, forming a unique sentiment that was both one and the other.

You were endearing to him, but that affection for you was like a venom that ran through your veins — an affection that diminished you, reduced you to some inhuman possession, a toy to be manipulated in any way he desired.

It made you feel sick. It made you feel angry, it tormented your psyche—

Your thoughts were turned to a haze as his fingers rolled your nipple between them. You inhaled a sharp gasp, back arching forward.

Processing your own reaction, embarrassment took place of the momentary pleasure, and your face felt hot. You reached an arm up instinctively to cover your breasts, pulling away from the touch.

“…We've had this conversation before, haven't we?” He reached up, grasping your jaw with a grip just firm enough to communicate a warning.

You swallowed and, albeit not without just a moment of hesitation, lowered your arm. You looked down, breasts now exposed fully. “I'm… sorry…”

He gave you a hum of approval, returning to the former fondling, fingers playing with the sensitive flesh. You bit your lip, breathing growing labored.

After a few minutes, his hands wandered downward, slowly, softly, down to your thighs, then back up over your hips, where they finally settled.

“Touch yourself.”

The command caught you off-guard. Your eyes widened. “…What?”

“Before I help you,” he murmured, “I want to see what you will do for me. That's only fair, don't you think?” He squeezed at your waist.

“Prove to me…” he leaned forward, breath hot against your ear, “that you know your place. Do as I say.”

You swallowed.

It was in your best interest to obey.

You reached down slowly, shivering as your fingers brushed over your clit. You pressed down, beginning to rub your outstretched fingers back and forth. With your other hand, you reached up, tweaking your nipple just enough to send pleasure through your nerves.

“There you go.” He pulled you a bit closer to him, so your bodies were firmly pressed together. He craned his neck, no doubt catching your abashed, embarrassed expression.

Not that he would give you any words of comfort on that matter, tell you not to feel embarrassed. He only smiled, grasping your hair and forcing your head to turn, pressing your mouth to his. It was only a short contact, parting with the softest of sounds.

His grip on your hip tightened, and you realized why he’d pulled back when he spoke.

“Don’t stop.”

You hadn’t realized you had, too focused on the slight surprise to being kissed. You took a shuddering breath, and resumed the motion. Your eyes closed, heightening your senses — the sensation of each touch and the shockwaves it sent through your core to every nerve in your body.

Your breathing quickly became labored. Even if you were inducing the sensation itself, it was good. You bit your lip as a soft, weak little sound came out of your throat, unable to refrain from vocalizing at the intensity of the feeling.

“Not just like that.” One of his hands reached down to your thigh, hand wrapping around the underside of it and pulling it to the side, spreading you open further. “Go on.”

“Mm…” You couldn’t summon any particular words, overwhelmed by the conflicting sensations — the heat to your face and knot in your stomach at the shameless way your body was so exposed, at the feeling of being watched as if the act were a performance, and the haze of arousal that rapidly began to cloud your judgement, obscuring the feeling of discomfiture, drowning your inhibition.

Even without the pleasure compromising your hesitation, you didn’t want to think about the alternatives if you refused to obey — this was thus far, comparatively, far from the worst consequences you’d ever received for acting out.

You reached down further, pushing two of your fingers past the slick coating your flesh and inside your body, curling them into the spot that made you tense, made your muscles spasm, over and over, each movement sparking a rush that surged throughout your body.

Each breath was a deep gasp. Your toes curled, your muscles went taut and your insides clenched around your own fingers.

But something was missing.

It was pleasurable, but there just wasn’t enough to push you over the edge. The sensations were too weak.

Your body had been conditioned something more, and this was not comparable.

Sweat began to accumulate on your skin as you kept curling your fingers, desperately chasing a high. His arm moved from your hip to wrap around your waist, pressing another kiss to your neck.

You tried. Frustration began to build. Your eyes watered as you curled your fingers as hard as you could, pressed as far in as they would go, down to the knuckle.

It wasn’t deep enough.

It wasn't what you were used to. Your fingers were too short, just short of reaching that one perfect spot that made you lose yourself in pleasure, melting to a mewling mess.

You shuddered. You couldn’t reach a climax, no matter how hard you tried to focus. Even without orgasm, though, your exertion reached a peak you couldn’t carry on further from, and your fingers stopped moving as you went limp, trying to catch your breath, frustration and desperation nearly enough to make you cry. Your head fell back, eyes closed as you panted.

You could feel the corners of his mouth upturn against the flesh of your neck.

“…Is something wrong?”

Your jaw clenched, and you swallowed the lump in your throat.

That was the other goal of it, besides proving yourself to him — it was also to prove something to you. Something you didn’t want to admit out loud, something that made your chest swell with bitterness just to admit to yourself, much more so to do so aloud.

“I can’t… I can't do it.”

“Mm.” He pulled you further back against him. “Then, what do you need?”

The tingling sensation, the desperate need, the remnant frustration of lost pleasure, was too much to bear. You swallowed your pride, closing your eyes as you forced the words out.

“…I need you to do it…”

You were expecting him to say something in return, but for a moment, he was only quiet. He began to drum his fingers back and forth against your waist.

“Is that so?”

You nodded again, which seemed to be to his displeasure—

“Use your words.”

“Yes…” You swallowed.

You waited, but no touch came.

“Hm. How odd.” His voice was low and quiet, but unmistakably derisive. “You seemed to think you were perfectly capable of caring for yourself, running off like you did.”

Your eyes welled with tears. You shook your head back and forth, unable to bring yourself to speak.

“No?” His hand trailed downward until it ghosted over your sex, the lightest of touches, borderline torment. “Then, you can't do this for yourself?”

“…No…”

He moved his face even closer, speaking directly into your ear.

“Then what do you say? Tell me exactly what you need. Show me.”

You swallowed. The burning of humiliation in your chest was almost too much to bear. Had your insides not still been alight with the wavering, tight feeling of need, your pride would have outweighed your desire. But in that moment, it did not.

You spread your still-quivering legs wide apart.

“…Please touch me.”

“Mm. And what do you want from that? For how long?”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I want to cum.”

Finally — finally — his fingers pressed down against your clit, enough pressure to send waves of pleasure up your spine.

“There, see…” He pressed another kiss to your face. “Aren't things so much easier when you just choose to be honest?”

You nodded. “Yes. I… I’m sorry…”

He gave a low hum of acknowledgement. “This stubbornness is just your nature.” His fingers slid back and forth, gracing the bundle of nerves with friction. “But that can be fixed.”

You bit your lip. “I… I’m not— ah—”

One motion of his hand was particularly firm, the sensation it sent through your nerves so intense it was almost painful. Your hands shot forward, grasping at his wrist.

It was only when the motion stopped that you realized you’d erred — it was a habit of reflexively grabbing at his hands when a sensation was too intense, trying to pry them off — something he very much did not like you doing.

Sure enough, he sighed, frustration blatantly evident. You jerked your hands away, but it was already too late to take back the first offense.

“…Now,” he started, “Can you refrain from doing that again, or do I need to bind them?”

“I…” you paused, realizing you genuinely needed to think it through. You weren’t certain if you could abstain.

You felt him shift back, leaning away from your body.

“Well, that’s enough of an answer itself.”

You heard the rustling of clothes, felt movement behind you, and you turned your head over your shoulder just in time to see as he pulled off first the top layer, then the undershirt over his head and off his body. You made a soft sound as he then pushed down on your back with a firm touch, forcing you to lean forward, grasping at your hands and pulling them behind your back — firmly, enough to be a clear message to not try to dissuade him, but your pride, weak as it was, still couldn't let it happen with no objection at all.

“Wait, wait, I can do it, I don't need—”

“This is for your sake. Hold still.”

“But I—”

“Be still.” He spoke firmly, but softened his voice as he continued, “It’s not your fault for having that reflex… but you have to train yourself against it. You want to be good, don't you?”

You shut your mouth, nodding as you sounded an answer. “Mm-hm…”

Cloth wrapped tightly around your wrists, using one sleeve to bind them together. Not enough of a bind that you couldn’t break out with some effort, but just enough to keep you from reflexively trying to interfere.

“Now where were we…”

You were pulled back once more, perhaps even closer. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back.

And his hand quickly moved back down, and the bliss of shockwaves of pleasures overcame you once more. You whimpered, biting your lip.

His fingers pressed more firmly, rubbing circles into the nub, and for a moment, your wrists jerked against the bind as the reflex kicked in. It was too much at once, but now, you were prevented from doing anything about it. As he began to rub in circular motions, your body shuddered, and an involuntary moan came out of your throat — a wanton, shameful sound, laced with pleasure and lust.

“There you go.” You could feel him speak, shuddering at the vibration of his chest against your back and the warm breath against your ear. His other hand rolled your nipple between a finger and thumb. “Give into it.”

Your body trembled against his touch, and jolted as his own fingers pressed inside of you. His were longer, and the touches firmer, and the result was a degree of pleasure you were simply incapable of replicating on your own.

As much as you hated it — hated to think it, hated to acknowledge it, hated to try and not acknowledge it as the reality prodded at the back of your mind — he made you feel better than anything you had ever experienced, better than anything you could ever make yourself feel.

You whimpered, toes and fingers curling. Your hips moved, a rolling motion to meet each pressing movement.

A singular motion, and singular sound, both of which you near-immediately caught yourself doing, having been too lost in the feeling to think clearly. You cut off your voice and went still, but it didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t.” He didn’t stop moving his fingers as he spoke, instead pressing down with harsh force, essentially pulling you back closer to him with the hand partially inside you. “Holding yourself back like that is another form of dishonesty.”

You bit your lip, squeezing your eyes shut, but unable to form a response before he continued.

“And you wouldn’t want,” the fingers that had been gently tweaking at your breast pinched down hard, a momentary spark of pain and the lowering of his voice making you go tense, “to make this unpleasant because you couldn’t be good for me, would you?”

You shook your head back and forth with vigor. There were many punishments in your domestic repertoire that were unpleasant, and the thought of any of them made your heart skip a beat. “No, no, I don’t… want that…”

“Then you’re going to be honest, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, I promise…”

“Mm.”

He kept rubbing his thumb against your clit, even in perfectly synched timing to each motion his fingers curled inward inside of you.

It was so pleasurable, so intense, it made you angry. Mad that he was capable of it, mad that his control over your body was greater than your own, and most of all, mad that he did it with such ease, effortless, that making you come undone entirely was something he mastered without ever being taught.

That pleasure began to build and build. You squirmed and whimpered, muscles throughout your body tensing and relaxing over and over. Your hips rolled into his hand. Each movement built the pressure in your body higher and higher, rapidly reaching a peak.

The edge that climax made you quiver, body and legs trembling.

“There it is…” his voice was so soft and gentle, soothing in a way it had no right to be.

The noise that came out of your mouth was nearly animal-like, a whimpering cry as you threw your head back, quivering and spasming. The waves of sensation pulsated throughout your body, reaching a peak and then beginning to ebb away.

You went limp, bodyweight falling back against his chest, heaving with heavy breaths. Your head felt as if it were spinning, and you stared forward in a dull stupor, body trembling with aftershock.

You twitched at the feeling of his fingers sliding out of you, with a wet squelching sound that made you shiver.

“Look at that…”

He spread his fingers apart, clear fluid forming a trail between them. You bit your lip, tilting your head downward in a futile attempt of avoidance of what you knew well came next — but that effort was quickly negated as he grabbed your jaw, turning your head back up and squeezing your face.

“Open.”

The force of the grip as he squeezed down more or less forced your jaw apart anyway. You didn't even get to take a breath before he pushed his fingers into your mouth, salty taste spreading over your tongue.

“Clean them off.”

Maybe it was a way of forcing you to acknowledge your own bodily reaction, even if you tried to deny it to yourself. Maybe it was much simpler than that — just another way to degrade you, or something simply arousing for him because it just was.

You complied nonetheless. Your tongue swirled around each finger, sucking and swallowing the taste of yourself. Even as he pulled his fingers back out, a string of saliva connected them to your tongue.

And then, after wiping his fingers off on the fabric around his thigh, he returned the arm to your waist, pulling you close, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“See… so much more at ease now, aren't you?”

That was one way to put it. You couldn't even bring words to your mind. Even processing what he said felt like a significant effort. Everything felt far away, your mind like a blank slate, numb and empty. Your body was even more exhausted, totally lax aside from involuntary twitches.

You made a soft sound as he turned your body to the side, just enough to look you face-to-face. Looking down at your watery eyes as they met his, the stupor in your expression, even as your brain began to clear, as if a machine turning back on after a few moments of darkness.

And he smiled. It was soft, full of endearment. And belittling. It was not made any better by the small chuckle he gave, patting the top of your head.

It burned in your chest, down into your stomach.

Your eyebrows furrowed and your lower lip quivered, an admittedly petulant pout. Shame formed a knot in your stomach. Disappointment in yourself, ending up like this again after swearing so many times over that this one would be the last, the last time you'd come apart so easily, the last time you'd find yourself spent and susceptible to the touch that seemed as if it were designed for your body.

And he laughed. An amused chuckle, patting your head.

“Mm. I had a feeling that wouldn't be quite enough.”

He leaned in, firmly grasping at your arms as you tried to squirm, bringing his mouth so close to yours, forehead resting against yours.

“But, that does admittedly work out for my sake.”

You grunted in surprise as he hooked his arm under your legs again, this time only lifting you just enough to set you down onto the padding of your bed, gently pushing on your shoulders until you were flat on your back, arched over your hands bound behind you.

“A-ah, I…” You swallowed, grasping at the sheets to the best of your ability. It was nothing you weren't anticipating, but the vulnerability made you tense.

It didn't help that he paused any motion, eyes trailing over your body, before reaching down and running his hands over your flesh, one moving to grip at your waist, the other your opposite hip. You couldn’t reach to cover yourself, forced to lay bare and vulnerable. Instinctively, you pressed your thighs together, but firm hands grabbed at the undersides, pushing them apart and positioning himself between them so you couldn’t close them again.

The former act was not enough. Putting you through the ordeal of being made to wait in jail like a child in time-out was not enough, exposing your body was not enough, toying with your body and forcing an acknowledgement of his own control was not enough.

Your lip trembled.

But anger still pervaded through your negative emotions. It compelled your courage, you felt defiance surging up. You had to look him in the eye, tell him exactly what you felt, tell him you knew what he was doing and push him off, then, maybe then you'd have the satisfaction of some sense of control.

You could do it. You had to.

“You… you're just doing the same thing as before!” Your eyebrows furrowed. “You’re trying to, to—”

“Again with this?” He tilted his head. “I really wish you wouldn’t assume such ill intent. This is how people love each other… you know that.”

You bit your lip. You almost, for just a second, fell for it, almost felt guilty. You shook your head forcefully, clearing your mind of the thought.

“No, I won't let you—”

And with that, there was a rapid shift in expression. His eyes narrowed in a piercing, foreboding look. You went silent.

Your shoulders stiffened. The words came out on impulse, resolve of defiance broken as quickly as it had formed. “I'm— I'm sorry—”

Dammit.

For once, the dark expression did not shift back to pleasant as soon as you apologized — an indicator of having gone too far. His hand slowly reached up, this time not in a loving caress or gentle-but-firm grip, but outright harsh grip on your jaw.

“You…”

He tilted his head forward to more directly look you in the eye. His voice was low and cold, making your heart race further.

“Do not ‘let’ anyone do anything.”

His fingertips pressed into your flesh, squeezing your face between them.

“I know you understand your place. Don’t behave as if you don’t.” Finally, his voice softened as he finished, “I can’t help you if you keep fighting me every step of the way. So… you’ll control yourself, won’t you?”

You swallowed, nodding your head, twitching as the motion made his fingernails dig into your cheeks.

“You know I don’t like being so harsh with you, don’t you?”

You nodded again.

“Good.” He leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. Only for a short, chaste moment, but a slow, sensual motion nonetheless. You closed your eyes, tuning out the rustling clothes, heavily breathing with anticipation.

“You’ll have to forgive me for this. This whole ordeal has been stressful for me as well.”

You didn’t get time to ask what he meant — he rammed himself into you all at once, completely stuffing your body in one rough, forceful motion.

You cried out, back arching and body stiffening. You felt your insides clamp down, pulsating against the intrusion.

His hands tightened their grip on your waist, holding you still as the momentary sting ebbed away.

“There you go… calm down.”

You felt him slide out, then push back in, the latter movement sending sparks of sensation running up your spine, causing you to go tense all over again.

Your breathing became ragged, legs twitching and spasming at the sensation. You tried, without thinking, to snap them shut, but it only resulted in effectively squeezing his waist with you thighs.

The intensity of the sensation naturally induced a reflex of strain and exertion to your muscles, a need to channel the feeling through your body, causing your toes to curl, your thighs clamping down harder, quivering at the bare touch of flesh to flesh. You closed your eyes, but couldn't drown out the sound of skin making contact to yours, the sound itself increasingly accompanied by a wet squelching as skin met fluid with each passing second, leaking out of your body.

“You're so much more honest like this.” You could hear just the slightest strain in his voice, otherwise so very composed to perfection. “So meek… it's lovely. Once that resistance in you is fixed… you'll be perfect.”

You could see the corners of his mouth upturn into a look of amusement.

“You should see yourself.”

Your body stiffened, but all you could do was whimper. The words felt like a cold knife to the stomach — and you knew he knew that. Knew that that moment was you at your must vulnerable, the peak of awareness of your own helplessness, the moment you felt the most degraded, and yet, it still wasn't enough.

He leaned in close, speaking directly into your ear, so close you could feel the warmth as he spoke, never ceasing to move all the while.

“Whimpering and drooling like that,” he murmured. “You're trembling… and that expression on your face is so adorable. Like you can't even think straight.” He leaned back up, enough to look you in the eye — now welling with tears.

And again, he only smiled.

“How precious.”

His hands ran down your body, grabbed at your hips, and began to pull you, jerking your body back and forth to meet his own movements.

It was too much. Even with the knot of emotion in your stomach, you felt a hot, tingling pressure build in your body. Your legs quivered, the wanton little sounds from your throat higher and higher.

You didn't want that. It was the final part of this ritual that so demeaned you, one more confirmation of his control of you. You pressed your hands into the mat, trying to push yourself back — but it was only met with a harsh pull, forcing your body back until you practically slammed against his hips.

“Don't fight.”

It was the last thing you heard. You threw your head back as the sensation became overwhelming, back arching and eyes rolling back as the feeling reached a peak. You could only faintly register the high-pitched sound that sounded as if it couldn't be you, a voice you didn't recognize.

And then it began to ebb away. A hazy stupor filled the void as the pleasure dissipated, a feeling of exhaustion. Your weight went limp.

You made a soft sound as he grasped your jaw again, turning your head just enough to place another kiss to your lips.

“There you go. Look at you now… all that stress and in you, totally gone. You can see it in your eyes, even.”

He paused before adding,

“Well, gone for now. I'll have to start monitoring for it more closely.”

You shuddered at the sensation as he slid out of you, fluid spilling out onto the sheets.

You felt him reach behind you, untying your wrists — you brought your arms to the front of your body, but the forearms only laid useless, having fallen asleep from your weight.

He came to rest beside you, upper body slightly propped up on his elbow, head resting in his hand, looking down at you with adoration and endearment.

And you were so, so weak. So much weaker than you wished you were, body, mind and spirit alike. So weak that, in the rush of emotions that followed, you found yourself slowly crawling forward, burying your face against his chest with a pathetic little noise.

“Poor thing. Maybe that was a bit too much for you…”

His arm reached behind your back and pulled you close, and the comfort you felt seemed to melt your mind into nothingness.

“You should rest for a while,” he continued, “then we'll get you cleaned off. We have a few hours before you'll need to be ready.”

After a moment to process the words, you tilted your head up with the softest of inquisitive noises. The cold, creeping dread began to spread through your stomach once more.

He seemed to realize, then, that you didn’t understand.

“Ah, right, you wouldn't have known.” He reached out with the hand he wasn’t leaning on, brushing his fingers over your scalp. “While you were gone, I sent someone to arrange a house visit with a psychiatrist… a private one that works for families such as ours.”

His words certainly didn’t help soothe your nerves. Your mouth felt dry. Your voice came out weak, hesitant, part of you not wanting to ask, lest you learn an unpleasant answer.

“…Why?”

He tilted his head in just the slightest, loose strands of hair shifting and waving with the motion. “Well, keeping your needs in check does help with your condition, but I’ve realized it would do you good to have a secondary means to treat your hysteric tendencies as well.”

“My…” You swallowed. “My what?” The words slowly pieced together in your mind, hitting you with a sense of dread and confusion. You squirmed backwards, shifting just a bit away from him. “There's… nothing wrong with me…”

“Of course, of course, there’s nothing wrong, that’s…” He spoke in a reassuring sort of tone, as if to comfort you. “…A harsh choice of phrasing. You just need some help, is all.” After a moment of pause, he added, “don't worry, it's perfectly normal that you aren't self-aware of it. That's usually how these illnesses work.”

His arm reached out further, pulling you back towards him, pressing your bodies together before he continued.

“He’s just required to see you in-person for a little while before giving you anything. Regulations and all. We’re just going to get you something to make you a little more… docile.”

His arm wrapped around your body, and he pulled his head back just a bit to look you in the eye, smiling with endearment.

“Ah, I can tell by your face that you’re nervous. Don’t worry, I'll be there throughout the whole thing… I'll answer any questions, you just sit there quietly, alright?” He pulled you a bit closer, planting an affectionate, short kiss to the top of your head. “I know that sort of thing is a lot on your nerves.”

If your trembling could be felt, he didn’t say anything about it, only carrying on with his gently-spoken words.

“We won’t have to worry about you having these… irrational escapades anymore. And you’ll be so much happier, too.”

You felt his hand on your back, firmly in place — you were pressed so close together that there was no need to pull you any closer, but perhaps he wanted to be sure you couldn’t pull away.

“So… rest for now, alright?”

Mind and heart alike racing, in your stupor, you let the pause linger for too long. The hand on your back began to close in on itself, fingernails brushing against your skin just enough to send the faintest of pains up your spine.

You had no strength left in you to give anything other than the correct answer.

“Okay...”

He only gave you a hum of acknowledgement, and began to stroke your back up and down, a pattern that should have been comforting and soothing, yet was anything but. Exhaustion wore on your body, but even as you forced yourself to close your eyes, true rest was nowhere to be found.

#awful men portraying themselves as selfless/benevolent >>>>>#genshin smut #.ay

595 notes · View notes

gojhoes · 8 months

Text

“come one, come all”

summary: It’s the eighth annual haunted house held by your boyfriend’s university theatre program. You decide to pay it a visit in support of Gojo, but what happens when you get lost and find yourself alone with him in the Blue Room?

- contents: NSFW, MDNI. fem!reader x gojo, all characters in their early 20s, college student au, gojo is a theatre major, established relationship, dom gojo, sub reader, sex in a public place, smut, dirty talk (sacrilege, tbh), gojo speaks in quotes, p-in-v (why not), praise kink, unprotected sex, masque of the red death theme - wc: ~4k

Having been in the same year in high school, you knew very well of Gojo's affinity for pulling pranks. You also knew, however, that sometimes he could take it just a little too far.

It wasn't unusual to come home after a grueling day of exams to get jump-scared by Gojo before getting into the shower. More than once, he'd claimed to have stood behind doors for up to 30 minutes just so he could leap out and scare you as you walked by. Not to mention the time he'd camped out in the backseat of your car after overhearing that you were about to leave to meet Shoko somewhere. You'd come pretty close to accidentally stabbing him over that, and you made him promise not to do it again. But still, every time you got in the car, you peeked over your shoulder just to make sure there were no surprises.

October, the second month of autumn in the Northern Hemisphere and arguably your favorite of them all, had come at last. The changing of the leaves, the merciful drop in temperature, and new scents in the air were all pleasant. But the main reason you loved it so was Halloween.

It wasn't until you were well into your new relationship with Satoru that you discovered your love for the holiday was something he reciprocated. His university's theatre program held a haunted house annually, which he'd participated in religiously since his freshman year. So, being the supportive girlfriend you were, of course, you agreed to pay him a visit with all your friends.

The morning before your ticket for the haunted house was valid, Gojo waltzed up behind you as you stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror. He slithered his arms around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder, leaving sweet kisses all over your bare skin. Being that it was opening night, his day was starting early with back-to-back dress rehearsals. This meant he wouldn't be joining in the shower, as was usual, and that you would be alone until it was time to meet with Nanami and Shoko later. He was already dressed in his costume- a burned, destroyed, fake-bloodied ensemble that represented nothing in particular. It didn't matter to you, though. He could've been wearing rags and he'd still be the prettiest man you'd ever had the pleasure of looking at.

"Wear something cute tonight," he'd murmured into your ear before giving you a teasingly chaste kiss and heading out the door. For Satoru, 'cute' meant slutty, or something with easy access like a skirt with no panties. The implication sent your heart aflutter and resultantly, you were left distracted the entire day.

In the car, you tried desperately to pull down the skirt as it relentlessly rode up and threatened to expose your bare ass. Shoko had been able to convince Nanami to drive you, much to your surprise. Getting him to do anything outside of school hours was about as pleasant as pulling teeth, but with Shoko's promise to buy him a couple of beers, he'd eventually agreed without much grumbling.

Gojo had warned you that it would be packed for opening night, so the best course of action was to come early. Turns out, this one was one of the rare times when his advice had been useful, as the ticket line damn near wrapped around the block as you approached the haunted house itself. There were no phones allowed in the house per university rules, so Nanami offered to take yours before you took off inside.

"Aren't you coming?" you asked, a last-ditch effort to try and convince him to join.

"Absolutely not," Nanami replied stubbornly. "I'm here as the designated driver only."

Your face fell in disappointment, but you knew better than to try to argue with Kento Nanami.

You, Shoko, and 50 of your closest friends filed into a room much too small to house such an amount. The walls were painted to look like blood-spattered wood, and you could just make out the motifs of several different doors. Any trace of sunlight seemed to be sucked away the moment you entered, truly adding to the effect. You were impressed with the design thus far, feeling inclined to agree with Satoru's claims of his theatre program being The Best.

"I'm bugging out," Shoko said to your left.

"You claustrophobic?"

She gave you a look as if to say, "are you stupid?", and you raised your hands defensively. More and more people kept spilling into the room, squeezing you impossibly closer to the wall. There had to be at least 100 or more patrons occupying the space now, but there was no sign that the outer doors were going to close anytime soon.

A random frat boy tripped and crashed into Shoko, which not only pissed you off but also happened to be her last straw. She ignored the boy's attempt at an apology, all the color draining from her face in an instant. Her brown eyes were wide with fear as she sputtered out,

"Fuck this. I'm getting the fuck out of here."

Before you could get the chance to call after her, she turned quickly and hurried toward the way you'd come in. The crowd was impossibly thick, and she moved so fast in her panic that you were unable to catch up. Just as you made it to the edge of the crowd, the loud sound of a gong rang throughout the room at an ear-splitting volume.

Right before your eyes, the large doors swung inward with a melodramatic creaking, bathing the overly crowded room in complete darkness. At least Shoko had made it out safely. For a moment, nothing happened aside from the illumination of several dim lamps overhead. You thought that maybe someone had missed their cue, but then a sound sweeter than singing angels filled the room: Satoru's voice.

“Quiet, brats!” he boomed. The room fell silent in an instant- even you had to admit that the command sent a slight chill down your spine. You concluded that his voice was being carried over a set of speakers, as your boyfriend's familiar tall frame was nowhere to be seen.

“Our university’s theatre department would like to welcome you to its eighth annual haunted house.”

There was an awkward pause, and you heard someone cough.

“APPLAUSE, brats!”

You joined the others in a series of claps and forced cheers, smiling to yourself. No wonder Satoru enjoyed this so much; he was perfect for it. In your mind’s eye, you could see his lit-up face as he bellowed into a microphone in some nearby room.

He knew your time slot already, but you'd shot him a quick text to let him know you'd arrived before leaving your phone with Nanami to go in. You wondered if he’d spotted you yet, thinking maybe you should wave or something. Surely there had to be cameras in the room.

"'One thing I do dislike, are cowards'," Satoru went on. “However, because of your precious laws, emergency exits are marked in every section. As you proceed through the house, follow the WHITE ARROWS. Does everybody get that? WHITE. ARROWS. Everyone, repeat it so we get your verbal acknowledgment.”

In unison, the crowd obediently droned out ‘white arrows’, and you fought back a giggle at the absolute kick he must’ve been getting out of this.

“Wonderful!” Gojo cried, pretending to make his voice break emotionally. “Doing so well already, brats, makin’ me proud.”

He cleared his throat as murmurs of laughter floated through the room.

"NOW!" he shouted abruptly. "After I stop talking, the doors will open. There are seven of them, so choose carefully because God knows what might lie beyond the wrong one.

"And remember," he crooned. "'Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.'"

A dramatized rendition of his signature snicker warped into deep, evil laughter as several doors opened on the room’s other three walls. The house-goers around you burst into nervous laughter and excited chatter as groups decided which way they would go. You trailed behind a group of high school girls on the premise that they'd likely be safer to follow than the frat boys you'd seen earlier.

It was a tight fit, to say the least. You found yourself at the back of the line as the holding room emptied and patrons passed over the various thresholds. The door you'd chosen to enter led into a long, dark hallway with, as promised, an arrow slathered on the floor in white paint. The same dim lanterns hung from the ceiling in intervals, though they did little in terms of providing much brightness.

The group of girls you'd chosen to follow turned abruptly into the first room off the side of the hall. It was a room painted completely in the dimmest of blue light, casting an eerie glow over your skin. It was a grand chamber, with impossibly tall ceilings and a chandelier hanging in the middle. You were unsure if it was the hued lightbulbs and lack of other illumination, but every prop in the room seemed to match in shade. You traipsed around the edges of the room, peeking at every object from the cerulean breakaway chairs to royal books and faux food.

When you glanced up in search of a guiding arrow, you found that you were completely alone. The girls you'd been dead set on trailing had disappeared. How was that even possible? You'd stopped only for a minute to look. Just moments ago, you’d been surrounded by people, trapped in a suffocating cloud of body heat and bad breath. It was so cold now in comparison, so dark, and so quiet. There wasn’t a shred of decent light in the room and having left your phone with Nanami, you had nothing in the way of a flashlight. You started feeling your way toward the wall to guide yourself when a familiar voice spoke, and your blood ran cold.

"I was hoping you'd go with that one."

You gasped at the sudden tickle of Satoru's breath on the back of your neck. Where had he even come from? The disappearance of your fellow patrons suddenly made sense as you dawned on the thrilling realization that you two were completely alone.

"You told me to dress cute," you replied, fighting to keep your voice steady.

Satoru chuckled, low and breathy, and you felt the fine hairs on your neck stand up straight. "And that you did, didn't you? Always so good for me."

His praising words sent a wave of heat straight to the space between your legs. He wasn't yet touching you, though you could feel the warmth of his body from behind. You didn't dare move, having all but frozen under the weight of his proximity. Blood roared in your ears as your arousal burned low in your abdomen. Just his presence was enough to make you forget where you were in only the minute he'd gotten you alone.

"Always," you affirmed shakily.

You felt him move forward and close the space separating your bodies, his hips pressing against your ass. You willed your hands to remain at your sides and the air felt thick and hot, not unlike how the holding room had been just a few minutes ago. Something hard between his legs poked at your flesh and if you'd had any, your panties would've been soaked from that occurrence alone.

"'If you love me,'" Satoru murmured, his wet lips brushing against your neck. "'Then you will keep my commandments.'"

There were so many things about Satoru that were hot. His body, the charm, and his pretty face. But the way he’d sometimes speak in quotes and passages was by far his most attractive virtue. Perhaps some found it cringe-worthy, but the words slipped off Satoru’s tongue like honey and you hung off the end of each one.

“I love you,” you said, surer of that statement than of any other you’d uttered in your life.

His tongue and teeth took turns connecting with the soft skin of your neck. His pretty mouth latched on, sucking gently on your most sensitive spot as a hand landed on your side. You leaned into his touch, long fingers toying with the fabric of your skirt as they crept up your thigh. He trailed teasingly over every inch of skin you had to offer, and goosebumps erupted over the entirety of your leg. You heard him let out a sigh when his hand reached your bare hip under the skirt.

"Such a good girl," he said in a low voice. "Always doing exactly as I tell you to do."

"Satoru," you whined as his fingers flitted over your clit, which throbbed persistently in protest of the lack of stimulation.

"Shhh, keep it down," Gojo chastised in a whisper, circling his free arm around your waist. He pulled you into him roughly and you let out a small squeak. "Think of all those people who might hear. Don't want to scare them, do you?"

You opened your mouth to reply, only to slap your hand over it to stifle a moan when he slipped two fingers into you without warning. Your other hand grasped at the wall, searching for something, anything to grab to help cope with the sudden intensity of your pleasure.

"So wet," Satoru said softly, approval dripping from his tone. "All for me."

The hand crushing you against him slid down from your abdomen to your hip, creeping over agonizingly slow to rub circles on your achy clit. You relaxed into him instantly, the relief sending tingles through your whole being as he took his time fucking you on his fingers. His cock was painfully hard through the thin layers of clothing that separated him from you. You trusted him to hold you upright, retracting your steadying hand from the wall to reach down and palm at him behind you. As if rewarding you, the tips of his fingers curled against that sweet spot that made you dizzy, and you whimpered pathetically.

Your back still pressed to his chest, you fumbled over the waistband of his costume pants as you blindly slipped your hand inside. His cock strained against the fabric of his briefs so hard that you almost pitied him, already wishing to relieve him of the clothes and have him buried inside of you. You pulled his underwear down enough that you could feel the curve of him, running a single finger over what you could touch of the shaft. He laughed breathily into your ear, praising you for touching him even in such a difficult position.

That familiar twinge in your cunt drew a deep, unwarranted moan out of you. The sound rang throughout the room loudly enough that it distracted you from your pleasure. Were you really about to fuck in this very public haunted house? The door was wide open and while it was very dark, there was nothing stopping anyone from entering. You turned your head and pawed at Satoru's chest pathetically to get his attention.

"What if someone comes in?" you babbled in a fleeting moment of clarity, searching his face for any sign of fear.

Satoru rolled his icy blue eyes affectionately, though his tone was deliciously condescending when he replied,

"Then I guess someone will see me fucking you in the Blue Room. Isn't it ironic that we're doing such an act in the one that's supposed to represent birth?"

After one final curl of his fingers, he retracted them in an instant, leaving you understimulated and clenching around nothing. He nudged you in encouragement to face him, to look upon his lust-clouded eyes and flushed cheeks. You held his gaze, knowing that if you didn’t, you'd be punished, as Satoru guided your mouth open with the fingers he'd just fucked you with. He loved to see you taste yourself, half-devoted to getting you addicted to it. And you, always aiming to please him, licked them clean in earnest.

"Good," he praised, wiping the appendages dry on his pants leg. "Now lay down for me."

You whirled around and let him guide you downward so that your chest was flush against the tabletop and your ass faced the ceiling. You heard the telltale brushing of fabric as he freed himself from his pants and let them bunch around his ankles. He teased his hardened cock against your clit, knowing how much it drove you crazy when you were already so frustrated.

You whined impatiently. "Satoru, please-"

A gasp escaped your lips and interrupted your plea as large hands latched onto either of your hips and jerked you backward suddenly. His chest brushed your back as he leaned over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke.

"Quiet, baby," he cooed. "I'd hate for us to get interrupted."

Just the idea of having to stop right now was enough to send you to your wit’s end. You dedicated what was left of your focus to keeping your lips pressed tightly together to trap any sounds that might escape through them. With how wet you were, you could only imagine how unhinged Satoru had become. With the knowledge of what was to come, you gripped the edge of the table with both hands to steady yourself.

The risk of getting caught was imminent, and even if he acted like he didn't care, Gojo wasted no time in sliding into you. You took all of him at once, swallowing hard to keep an instinctive moan at bay. He was struggling too, it seemed, as you heard air expressed sharply through his nose the moment he bottomed out. His pleasure always amplified your own and you felt yourself clench at the sound. It was a sick satisfaction, knowing that he was feeling as good as you did because of you.

He fucked you slow at first, pulling out till only his cockhead remained, and sliding back in at a teasingly hesitant pace. You knew he would have to make it quick, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to have his fun with you. Impatient little whines replaced the noisy complaints you normally gave him when he teased you. Gojo loved to make you beg, but the thrill of taking you in such a public setting would fill the need for now.

Satoru settled into a pace that had you melting into the table, especially when two of his fingers found themselves rubbing your clit just as consistently. He knew exactly what to do to get you off, his tempo never stuttering even when his own pleasure clouded any rationality he might've held. You kept your back arched low, following his lead as he pounded into you roughly.

"You feel good, baby?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper.

You nodded quickly, distrusting of your ability to remain quiet. It was always good, even when you didn't get to take your time and work each other up to the breaking point. Despite his unrelenting nature, the way in which he held you was gentle, and he knew how to read your body even better than you did.

It was too much, the length of him, the speed of his fingers on your clit, not being able to express yourself vocally. You felt stunted like you were unable to get the stimulation you needed to achieve your release. Too much, yet not enough, but you told yourself to trust Satoru. He always promised he would take care of you.

"Look at me."

He didn't give you much of a choice. Gojo's hand cupped your chin and guided it backward so that your eyes were staring directly into his. The telltale pink flush on his cheeks was visible through the many layers of white stage makeup. The horribly painted-on clown eyes were smudged around his pale lashes, but the wild lust in his expression was all you cared to notice as you fluttered around him in a way that signaled you were close.

"I want to see your pretty face when I make you cum right next to all these people."

You shoved a hand in your mouth to muffle the involuntary moans as you came. The roiling waves of pleasure rushed over your body as your cunt clenched rhythmically around Satoru's cock. He grinned at you widely as he fucked you through your orgasm, reveling in the way your body went rigid under his own. His own washed over him without much difficulty; a few moments later his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he grunted with the effort it took not to moan himself. His pace picked up rapidly as he gasped.

"Ahh- 'm gonna cum," he said breathlessly.

You relished in the feeling as he emptied himself inside of you, hot and twitching as he painted your walls with his seed. The grip on your hips was near bruising as if the shape of your bones beneath his hands was the only thing tethering him to this earth. You remained in that position, both of you panting as you came down from your high. Even with him still sheathed inside of you, you could feel the astronomical amount of cum pooling there. Just how pent-up had he been?

He slid out of you slowly, the lack of his bodily warmth adding to the heartbreakingly empty feeling as he did so. Before you could even think of moving to get to your feet, Satoru aggressively slid two of his fingers back into you. He didn't like to waste a single drop of his cum, shoving what little had begun to trickle out back inside.

"There," he said retracting them once more, satisfied now that you were properly filled. "'ll help you up."

He smoothed your skirt down over the tops of your thighs and reached for your arms to guide you into a standing position. His hands found your waist as he pulled you into him, nuzzling your hair and breathing deeply. Your head grew fuzzy at the feeling of his cum beginning to seep out of your cunt once again. You let him hold you in a hug that encapsulated both your body and soul.

Satoru drew you away from him, smiling when he glimpsed your face.

"Aw, baby," he said softly. "You're such a mess."

You brought a hand to your face to feel something sticky beneath your eyes, likely mascara that you'd smudged. Your cheeks were already flushed from his incessant fucking, not to mention the sticky warmth trailing down your inner thighs. You could only imagine the state of your lipstick.

"Not my fault," you protested, attempting to smooth out your disheveled hair.

"It is your fault," Gojo corrected, tapping your nose with his index finger. "For wearing that skirt and letting me catch you."

Your face drew up in a pout, to which he grinned devilishly. He pulled you into him once more, peppering kisses all over your face and squeezing you tight. You tried to fight him off in lieu of your already tousled hair, but even your stubbornness was no match for his strength.

His breath tickled your ear as he whispered, "What are our friends going to think?"

Somehow, your face burned hotter at his words. When you finally forced yourself to break away from him, he let you out through one of the emergency exits to find Nanami and Shoko. They looked appalled at your appearance, and you silently cursed Satoru for using you so roughly. They demanded to know what happened, and you couldn't very well tell them the truth.

"I just got really scared," you lied. "They made me cry. Fucking jerks."

Even though he wasn't there, you could hear Gojo's laughter in your ears at such a stupid response.

#my aot obsession is still very much active #jjk #jjk smut #gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you #jjk x reader smut #inspired by another fic #modern au #college au #jjk modern au #jjk college au #gojo smut #gojo x reader smut

496 notes · View notes

nomazee · 1 year

Note

Silly little thing I thought of

Like like imagine dazai and the reader have been friends for years like the reader knew him since his 15 goofer era... and they got used to eachother sm they usually sleep in eachothers beds n stuff :3

LIKE SOMETHING IS GOING ON BUT THEY STILL HAVE THE FRIENDSHIP LABEL.. 🐺🤞

this concept stuck itself in my head like a tapeworm and it has not escaped me for days IM ACTUALLY OBSESSED i wrote SO MUCH for this omfg i had so much fun writing this thank u for this wonderful idea pairing: dazai x gn reader word count: 2.5k content: fluff, vignette-style writing, friends-to-lovers unspoken label type of thing, soft dazai, domestic fluff without the marriage bit, banter, idiots in love im taking requests!

===

Dazai’s toes are still as frigid at night as they were seven years ago. You, of all people, would be the best person to measure this—not in a weird way, but you two have shared a bed at least once a week since your teenage years. You know all of Dazai’s annoying sleeping habits, including his ones of sleeping without socks and digging his feet into your shins for warmth.

Annoying fucker. You sigh, batting his arm away from its loose hold around your waist. “Get your toes off of me,” you croak out, half-conscious and mind still addled with the remains of your once-deep sleep.

“What toes,” Dazai mutters back, smacking your intervening hand away and returning his arm to its rightful place around you. “I don’t have toes. I got rid of them after puberty, ‘member?”

“I’m gonna kill you.” You won’t, not really, and the threats have lost their edge after all these years, but it’s fun to throw at him when he annoys you like this. “I know all your weaknesses, Osamu. One wrong move and you’ll be missing more than just your toes.”

“I’m cold, dear. Would you really let me freeze like this? So mean.”

You try not to choke up at the nickname. He’s been a fan of those recently, at least in the last year. You think it has something to do with your new places at the Agency. New workplace, new life, and new nicknames, apparently. If you overthink it you might puke on him and fall back asleep.

“Not cruel. We have money now, you know. Go buy yourself socks. Wool, or something. Stupid ass cold ass toes.”

He goes quiet. Even in all these years of knowing him, half-living with him, you can’t tell if it’s a normal lull in the conversation or a calculated pause. It doesn’t unnerve you as much as it used to, but there’s still a cold chill at the nape of your neck that springs up at times like these.

“Why would I do that when I have you?”

Dazai has also been a fan of this recently—strange uncharacteristic moments of tenderness. He peels himself back for you and bares himself raw. The implications make you nauseous. Swathed in the darkness of the night, he can’t see your fingers twitch from where they lay next to your head, away from his sight; or the conflicted expression that crosses your face.

Easing your breath out into a steady, deep rhythm, you pretend to be asleep. It’s not like he can’t tell, but the message is there. Let’s not talk about this until the morning. Let’s just sleep for the night. Let’s keep what we have and not change it for the worse.

At age eighteen, shaken with the death of his friend and haunted by blood stains on his fingers, Dazai defects from the mafia.

He doesn’t take you with him—at least, he doesn’t mean to. He expects to leave quietly, or as quietly as blowing up Chuuya’s car can be. He doesn’t expect you to drag yourself along kicking and screaming.

Dazai doesn’t remember much about specifics, but he knows that one day he was alone in his underground apartment and the next day you were there. The kitchen smelled like melted marshmallows and rice krispies and his dingy counter was covered in sprinkles.

“Hi, Dazai,” you’d greeted conversationally. “I’m making your favorite.”

He doesn’t even like rice krispie treats. Hates them, actually.

In truth, your presence is less the result of you “kicking and screaming” and more like an after-effect of your own quiet stubbornness. Your kicking-and-screaming was done in the passive aggressive way that you cleaned his dishes and made his bed and left big trays of rice krispie treats in his fridge for the next week.

Neither of you talked about Chuuya. It was better for you that way.

On the first night, Dazai remembers you holding him from behind, forehead pressed into the stretch of skin between his neck and shoulder. He’s sensitive there despite being wrapped in his stupid scratchy bandaids. His memories for the rest of the night are overrun by a feeling of want, an itch to feel your fingers on his bare skin, a craving for your hand on his stomach to slide beneath the hem of his shirt and press into the tender skin of his abdomen and keep him warm.

===

“Leave me alone,” you grumble from behind the sleeve of your jacket. “I’m napping.”

“It’s not napping if you’re still awake.”

“I wouldn’t be awake if it wasn’t for your annoying ass.” Rotating your body to face the ceiling from your place on the Agency’s couch, you sigh when your view is blocked by Dazai’s ugly stupid face. He’s smiling in that conniving way that he does when he’s about to do something super annoying. Another sigh escapes you when he leans down close enough for the overgrown ends of his hair to brush against your nose. The puff of air from your verbal discontent makes the strands sway slightly. You try not to think about how mesmerizing he looks when he’s this close, with the light from the window casting a golden sheen on the crown of his head.

Since when did you get this sappy? Must be Dazai rubbing off on you, obviously.

“So tired already! It’s barely noon.”

“You came into work an hour ago. I’ve been here since eight. Try being responsible for a change, might exhaust you just as much.”

“Hmm.” He tilts his head, big stupid shiny brown eyes blinking down at you like he’s observing a specimen. “I think I’m more than responsible enough.”

“Sure,” you relent, turning back around to shove your face into the corner of the couch and block out the incoming light. It’s the truth—you’re exhausted. A persistent weariness permeates your bones from how much you’ve been working these last few weeks. It’s not like it’s anyone’s fault in particular, not even Dazai’s despite how much he slacks on paperwork. But looming threats from enemy organizations hang over everyone’s heads and there’s no shortage of uncertainty in the Agency. It’s been mission after mission for you, and you’re taking every break you can get.

Rustling sounds from above you, but you pay it no mind, busying yourself with nestling all of your body into the crevices of the couch and hopefully turning into a piece of furniture yourself. It might be a more peaceful life, really. The calm is short-lived when you feel fingers tap along your cheek—not in a rousing gesture, but something along the lines of placating.

Dazai squeezes a hand beneath your head and cups the side of your face pressed against the couch, tilting it closer to him before you feel a warm press of lips against your cheek. He lingers. He always does. You can feel the gentle inhales and exhales breeze against your face before he breaks his kiss away. Your cheek is warm for more reasons than one.

“Take care of yourself,” and oh, god, you’ll never get used to this, never get used to how tender and soft he’s become with you, never get used to how this Agency has fostered something like kindness in both of you. Your stomach stirs with something unnamed and if you were braver, you’d blink your eyes open and reach up and grab the sides of his face and pull him down to you.

But you’re not brave, and there’s people still behind you in the office, and you wonder what led Dazai to be soft enough to kiss your face like that in front of everyone. You’re sure they’re watching you both. The Agency is full of gossips, whether they admit it or not.

===

“Dazai,” Ango Sakaguchi grits out from behind the crackling reception of a burner phone. “They were not a part of the plan.”

“You think I don’t know that, Ango?” Dazai replies, tone more playful than aggressive. “I know they’re not a part of the plan. They knew they weren’t part of the plan, too. But it’s too late to do anything about it. It’s just a minor change.”

“A minor change?” Ango’s voice is strained with stress, no doubt pulling out strands of his hair as they speak. “I have to deal with not one, but now two members of the mafia defecting. Do you know how much work this was to begin with?”

The thing is—of course Dazai knows. He knows everything. The minute he found you in his kitchen, his stomach dropped with the uncertainty of the future. Going underground with another person was nothing short of a burden, at least on paper. But, he couldn't find it in himself to think of you like that. Like a burden.

“We’ll figure it out, Ango. If you don’t, then we will.”

A gritty sigh sounds from the other side of the phone call. “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Dazai. Don’t screw this up.”

===

“Made you lunch. Since, obviously, you’re not gonna do that for yourself any time soon.”

A closed plastic container is thrown on the counter in front of Dazai. He looks at it, then up at you, eyebrow raised as if he doesn’t have a clue what this could be about. He’s not that stupid, though. You of all people would know that.

“How nice of you! Too bad I’m not hungry.” His lip juts out in a poor imitation of a pout, and he looks ugly with it. So ugly. Ugly enough to make you feel the need to kiss him all over and then slap him. An incredulous huff escapes you.

“I don’t care if you’re hungry. Eat. It has crab in it, see, your favorite.”

“I thought my favorite was rice krispies?”

You freeze. It hadn’t occurred to you that he might remember that, after all this time. You don’t dwell, because that’s the worst thing to do with Osamu Dazai—dwell.

“Don’t act stupid. Just eat it. Even if it’s not the whole thing, at least some of it. It would do you some good.” Getting serious with Dazai is one of the most awkward, unbearable things you could ever do. He has a way of making you feel stupid for worrying about him, with all his roundabout jokes and skills of evasion built up over years. You’ve found that being straightforward is the best way to avoid all those blank moments of silence.

His fingers curl around the plastic lid and pop it open. The container is still warm, having cooked all its contents just half an hour before showing up at Dazai’s apartment with conviction in your eyes. “Sure,” he says. “I’ll have some.”

You bring out a duplicate container with a serving for you, and treat yourself to a juice box from his fridge. You try not to launch into a lecture at the sight of his barren pantry—that’s best done by Kunikida. The both of you eat in silence, sitting across from each other at Dazai’s dusty kitchen island.

He only gets through a few bites before pushing the container away and complaining about how full he is. You know it’s not the truth, but it’s the mixed-up signals that his body sends him. It’s not that he’s full, but his persistent lack of appetite has caused a lot of troubles for him in the past and you don’t doubt that it’ll keep causing troubles in the future, too.

“Let’s get you to bed, then,” you tell him, dragging him up from his chair despite his whining protests. “I won’t make you shower, but you should probably do that tomorrow, ‘cause your hair’s about to get all greasy and disgusting.”

“So crude.”

“I do my best.”

You let him change on his own, but not before picking out a nice soft set of matching pajamas from deep inside his closet. You grumble a little in annoyance. The set was a birthday gift you got for him a year ago and that asshole pushed it to the back of his wardrobe and never touched it again. What a brat. You throw a pair of fuzzy socks at him to boot.

Once he’s changed into proper sleep clothes, you can tell that the exhaustion is starting to hit him. He sways a little on his feet and his blinks last for a little too long, as if he’s chasing sleep every time his eyes shut. With another begrudging sigh, you set him down on the floor of the bathroom and dollop his toothbrush with fruity kid’s toothpaste—because of course that’s the only toothpaste he owns—and brush his teeth for him.

Dazai dozes off in the middle of it, and you can’t bring yourself to wake him up in the most annoying way possible. You try really, really hard to not think about how soft you’ve gotten. You’re an ex-mafia member, past coated with dark stains and entrails and death, all of those dark things. Your blood is just as black as Dazai’s, if not more. And yet, being a part of this stupid Detective Agency with this stupid man has melted you down into something parallel to good.

Don’t dwell. It’ll do you no good.

You use a gentle grip with the toothbrush, ensuring that his delicate gums don’t tear with the force of the bristles. A warm feeling stirs in your chest. It feels like you’ve proven something, like you’ve proven to the world that your coal-stained hands can be gentle, too. You can kill and you can nurture. You tap Dazai awake with a little more care, now.

“Rinse your mouth,” you tell him in a whisper. “Then you can sleep.” And after a pause, you add, “I promise,” because now you’re in the business of making promises to people.

Dazai rinses his mouth, and you wipe off the remaining droplets of water from his face with a paper towel that you leave on the counter for your future self to throw out. You lace your fingers with his as you walk to his bed. Not that he needs any guiding. Of course he doesn’t. It’s just a little extra insurance, you think.

“Stay with me,” he mumbles out the minute you lay him down on the bed. It’s a sentence, and not a question, because he’d rather die than ask you something so vulnerable. He’s doing it again—peeling himself back and baring himself raw for you. Your head swims and your vision blurs with either a migraine or with tears, you can’t tell. But your lips quirk up into a stupid smile and he sees it despite his half-lidded eyes, and he smiles back like the stupid dope that he is.

“Yeah, of course. I’m right here, Osamu. Go to sleep.”

And he does. Of course, not before he feels you cup the opposite side of his face and plant a warm, lingering kiss on the swell of his cheek just as he did for you weeks before. The faint laugh that he lets out before he falls asleep is enough to tell you that he’ll be making fun of you for it in the morning. For now, though, he’s soft and pliant and warm between your hands, and you sleep.

#dazai osamu x reader #dazai x reader #osamu x reader #bsd x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #osamu dazai x reader #dazai x you #dazai osamu x you #dazai osamu fic #bungo stray dogs fic #bsd x you #bungou stray dogs x you #dazai osamu #i forgof how to tag hejkp me #openeing up comissions soon... maybne....#this was so fun to write like it lived in my brain for a week and i wrote a little bit every day #i had DAYDREAMS ABOUT THIS CONCEPT BRO LIKE

823 notes · View notes

inthisuproar · 2 years

Text

Was going to write this as a reply to something but realized it needed its own post.

The tl;dr is that, from the looks of it, Automattic absolutely has every intention of turning Tumblr into a marketing media platform.

I work for a marketing company. I build websites.

Specifically, I build websites on Wordpress.org, which is operated by the Wordpress Foundation.

The Wordpress Foundation is the non-profit counterpart to the for-profit company Automattic.

Automattic, as we know, is the company that currently owns Tumblr.

Now, the thing about Wordpress.org (not to be confused with Wordpress.com) is that it's very, VERY popular amongst small businesses. Not only can you build a fully-customizable website with relative ease, you can also add an online shop using another Automattic product: Woocommerce.

Not too long ago, I noticed a new feature was added to Woocommerce: A button next to each Woocommerce product which allows you to Blaze them to Tumblr right from the comfort of your dashboard:

This is what I get when I click that little "Blaze" button...

As someone who understands these tools, I understand the potential implications of these features:

The Blaze feature is basically an up-and-coming ad campaign system that's directly integrated with Woocommerce websites, which I think is the first ad marketing system of its kind. You don't have to log into a social media account to advertise your products, use a second-party integration, or even pay another service to manage your social media ads. It's all baked right into your business's website.

THIS is their planned money-maker, folks, not the rainbow checkmarks or crab armies. And the reason why Automattic would do this kind of thing is simple: Businesses are wealthier than individuals. By implementing a B2B service, Automattic can make more money off of Tumblr than user subscriptions and shoelaces will ever provide.

It's all the same song and dance. Businesses can now shove more ads into your face in a new, convenient fashion. It'll be ads that don't look like ads disguised amongst ads that do look like ads, just like it is with Facebook, TikTok, Instagram, and literally every other marketing media service that calls itself a "social" media.

(Tumblr's new video feature? My guess is that it's there to prepare for video-format Blaze campaigns. Influencer-style videos are the only kind of ad format Gen-Z is receptive to, which is why you're suddenly seeing videos on every platform.)

All they really gotta do now is make Tumblr look appealing to the normies so they can draw in a userbase that isn't trying to escape the onslaught of commercialism that plagues other sites.

Tumblr is one of the last true social medias we have; a place where content is made purely for the sake of talking about it. But given the writing on the wall...I doubt it'll stay that way.

#yells

2K notes · View notes

kokoch4n3l · 1 month

Text

'•.¸♡BUY ME THE MOON࿐ྂ SANO "MIKEY" MANJIRO x f!READER

FOUR — i fall to pieces

chapter summary: You begin to unravel the truth behind your father's election victory, uncovering the extent of Manjiro's influence over not just the underworld, but the country itself. Kakucho does damage control.

chapter warnings: dark content 18+, inaccurate depiction of politics and political climate, corruption, bribery, objectification, suggestive themes, kissing, making out, cheating, infidelity, daddy issues, allusions to sex, non-descriptive panic attacks, alcohol use, intoxicated sex, grinding, MAJOR DUBCON, noncon elements, consensual-to-dubcon, cunnilingus, oral(f), spanking(once), squirting, virginity loss, fingering, noncon(?) somnophilia, multiple orgasms, no aftercare, self loathing

word count: 9439

masterlist | previous | chapter 5

You had always been aware your father wasn't a good man. It was just you never truly cared because it didn't affect you. He loved you and you knew it. Sure he couldn't interact with you in public but behind closed doors in the safety of the mansion, he was the best dad anyone could ask for.

You know your dad is involved in some shady shit, you know how much corruption has been done by him and you know how cruel and heartless he was.

Your father was one of the worst men alive and he loved you the most in the world.

"I messed up," Your father says, shifting so he's laying against your pillows next to you "Not really but... Kind of"

It was a bit odd hearing your father admit he messed up but you weren't complaining. "I got a little too greedy and somehow got wound up with Bonten" Shinichi recalls

You nod, processing his words. You always knew your father was involved in shady dealings, but hearing him admit to getting entangled with Bonten felt like a different level of danger. You lie down beside him, the intimacy of the moment contrasting sharply with the gravity of his confession. "What happened?" you ask softly, your curiosity piqued.

Shinichi sighs deeply, staring up at the ceiling as if replaying the events in his mind. "It started with a business deal," he begins. "I saw an opportunity to expand my influence, to solidify my power. Bonten was already a significant player in the underground world, and aligning with them seemed like a smart move."

You listen intently, your heart pounding as he continues. "At first, it was just about money and power," Shinichi explains, his voice tinged with regret. "But things quickly escalated. Bonten doesn't operate by the same rules as everyone else. Their methods are... ruthless. And once you're in, there's no easy way out."

You shiver at the thought, understanding the implications. "So, they found out about me because of your involvement with them?" you ask, seeking clarity.

Shinichi nods. "Yes. I tried to keep you hidden, to protect you from that world. But somehow, they found out. I underestimated their reach, and their ability to dig up secrets... They showed me a picture of you at your high school graduation and I freaked out and gave in."

A silence falls between you, the weight of his confession settling in. Despite everything, you can't help but feel a deep sense of love and protectiveness from your father. He had made mistakes, but his intentions were always to keep you safe. "Dad," you say softly, breaking the silence. "What do we do now?"

Shinichi turns to look at you, his eyes filled with determination. "We stay cautious," he replies firmly. "We keep a low profile and try to maintain the facade of normalcy. And most importantly, we stay together. I'll protect you, no matter what."

You nod, feeling a sense of resolve settle over you. Despite the danger and uncertainty, you trust your father. He may be flawed, but his love for you is unwavering. "Okay," you say, your voice steady. "But you're also the literal president now so... Are they holding me against you? Like are they saying they will reveal my existence to the public if you do something they don't like or don't play by their rules?"

Shinichi's face darkens slightly at your question, his eyes narrowing as he considers his response. "It's more complicated than that," he says slowly, his voice tinged with frustration. "They haven't directly threatened to reveal your existence or well... Kill you... but their influence is pervasive. They're like a shadow that hangs over everything I do, a constant reminder of the cost of my ambition."

You feel a chill run down your spine at his words. The realization that Bonten's reach extends even into the highest echelons of power is both terrifying and sobering. "So, what do we do?" you ask again, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to stay composed.

Shinichi sighs deeply, his expression softening as he looks at you. "We play their game," he says quietly. "But we do it on our terms. I need to keep up appearances and maintain the facade of cooperation while finding ways to undermine their influence."

You gaze at him for a moment. You think about Manjiro when you first met him then the second time in the noodle shop and the whole 'incident' in his backseat then the 'thing' that happened in your room earlier when he was here. You can't help but wonder if Manjiro is using you to gain the upper hand over your father. To purposely make you feel things for him so he can dangle your heart over your father's head. It was a little sick to think about and even made you feel stupid for fantasizing about him for a whole month then let him right back in your room and between your legs. You try to shake off the unsettling thoughts, focusing instead on the immediate conversation with your father. "How can I help?" you ask, determined to be part of the solution rather than a passive victim.

Shinichi looks at you with a mix of pride and concern. "Just be yourself," he says gently. "Continue living your life as normally as possible. Your innocence is your greatest asset right now. If they think you're unaware of their games, they'll underestimate you, and that gives us an advantage."

You nod, understanding the strategy but feeling a twinge of guilt at the idea of pretending ignorance. "And what about Manjiro?" you ask cautiously, your voice betraying the conflicted emotions you feel toward him. "Is he...using me?"

Shinichi's eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of anger crossing his face. "Manjiro Sano is a complicated man," he admits. "He's ruthless and ambitious, but he's also capable of loyalty and genuine emotions. It's hard to say where his true intentions lie."

You bite your lip, feeling a knot of anxiety in your stomach. "Dad... What were they burning in the backyard the night of the election?"

Shinichi sucks in a breath and says "Ballots"

You stare at your father, your mind racing as you process his words. "Ballots?" you repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.

The implications of his confession weigh heavily on you. Shinichi nods, his expression grim. "Yes, ballots," he confirms. "There were irregularities, and we couldn't afford for them to be discovered. The stakes were too high."

The room feels colder, the air thick with the gravity of his admission. You realize now just how deeply your father's corruption runs, how far he's willing to go to maintain his power. The image of the loving father who always protected you clashes violently with the ruthless politician willing to destroy evidence to secure his position. To make things even worse he hadn't even actually won. Saimori Shinichi cheated and it wasn't just an everyday game. It was the fucking presidential election. "But... Dad," you stammer, trying to reconcile the man before you with the actions he's confessed to. "What if someone finds out? What if they use this against you?"

Shinichi sighs deeply, rubbing his temples as if trying to ward off a headache. "That's why we need to be even more careful," he says. "We can't afford any mistakes. We need to keep up appearances, and we need to make sure Bonten doesn't have any more leverage over us than they already do."

You nod slowly, the weight of your father's world settling on your shoulders. "I understand," you say quietly, though the words feel hollow. "I'll do my best."

Shinichi reaches out and takes your hand, his grip firm but comforting. "I know you will," he says softly. "And I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe. No matter what happens, remember that."

You nod again, squeezing his hand in return. "I will, Dad."

It's right that moment you decide that if Sano Manjiro is playing you, you'll play him as well.

It takes 2 weeks for you to become somewhat close to the top members of Bonten. Honestly speaking though, you don't see Manjiro as much as you see Kokonoi Hajime, the group's financial adviser. He's in charge of all the money and is one of the main reasons Bonten is so rich. The other executives call him Koko and because you're a brat and could care less about formalities, you call him that too. He doesn't really care about it.

Koko comes over to the mansion a lot, usually with his laptop in tow. He sits in your room at your desk while you idly lay back on your bed and work on your embroidery work which was due soon. Moments with Koko are pretty quiet and it's actually quite nice. You don't feel lonely anymore that was for sure. He doesn't talk much about his past, rather about Bonten itself but all of what he says you have already read about online. One evening, as the sun dips below the horizon, painting your room in shades of orange and pink, Koko looks up from his laptop, breaking the comfortable silence. "You're getting better at that," he remarks, nodding toward your embroidery.

You glance at your work, a delicate pattern of flowers taking shape beneath your fingers. "Thanks," you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips. "It's relaxing."

Koko leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. "I can see why. Sometimes I wish my job was that peaceful."

You chuckle softly, setting your embroidery aside for a moment. "I doubt you would last long in a quiet life, Koko. You seem to thrive on the chaos."

He smirks, conceding your point. "True enough. But still, it's nice to have moments like these. Away from all the noise and the... complications."

You nod in agreement, feeling a pang of longing for simpler times. You saw Koko the most because he mostly worked on his computer. He didn't do 'fieldwork' like the rest of the executives or whatever that meant. Mikey as boss had a bunch of meetings so of course you didn't get to see him as often. It was annoying though. It's kind of like waiting for an item you want to come back in stock. But you don't wait for things. Sano Manjiro is like a pretty design you've reserved for yourself. Or at least, you're attempting to. "Yeah, it's nice. Thanks for keeping me company, Koko."

He waves off your gratitude with a dismissive hand. "Don't mention it. Besides, you're a good distraction from the numbers. And..." he pauses, his expression becoming more serious. "It's good to keep an eye on you."

You raise an eyebrow, curious about the shift in his tone. "Is that really why you're here? To keep an eye on me?"

Koko meets your gaze, his eyes revealing a flicker of something unspoken. "Partly," he admits. "But also because I enjoy our conversations. You're... different from the rest of your... family."

Before you can respond or even internalize his words, the door to your room swings open, and Manjiro steps inside, his presence immediately commanding attention. He looks between you and Koko, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Interrupting something?" he asks his tone light but with an edge of curiosity and something else a little darker

Koko stands, closing his laptop and gathering his things. "Just wrapping up," he replies smoothly. "I'll see you later, princess."

You nod, watching as Koko exits the room, leaving you alone with Manjiro. The air feels charged with unspoken tension, and you can't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and wariness. Manjiro steps closer, his gaze locking onto yours. "You've been busy," he remarks, his voice low and intense. "Making friends with my associates."

You sit up on your bed, the pillows and fluffy white and pink sheets shifting. "'m makin' friends 'Jiro," you reply, the nickname rolling off your tongue smoothly "Is that a problem?"

He chuckles softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Not at all," he says. "In fact, I think it's quite impressive. But remember, [Y/N]... in this world, everyone has an agenda."

You smile sweetly, masking the turmoil within. You so badly want to ask what he really wants from you but you keep those thoughts to yourself. "I know," you say, remembering your father's words about Manjiro and the rest of Bonten "And I have my own too."

Manjiro's eyes narrow slightly, a glimmer of intrigue dancing in their depths. "Is that so?" he murmurs, stepping even closer until he's mere inches from you. "Then perhaps we should find out just how well our agendas align."

The tension between you crackles like a live wire, and you realize that the game you're playing with Manjiro is far from over—

Before you know it, the fabric you were working the needle into is set aside on your bedside table and you're lowered into your pillows. Manjiro's lips meet yours and you sigh into his mouth, head going fuzzy from just the slightest touch of his lips against yours.

—In fact, it might just be beginning.

You've never actually been to Bonten Headquarters.

You've searched the building up online and found other articles directing you to other businesses they owned and all the shady rumours about them too. The building itself was an imposing structure, a stark contrast to the sleek, modern skyscrapers that surrounded it. It was a fortress of sorts, heavily guarded and shrouded in an air of mystery and danger.

Bonten— led by Sano Manjiro who was rumoured to have led two biker gangs in his youth during the early 2000s. One of the two biker gangs is what turned into what Bonten is today. There is no information available online about any family history except for a younger sister who was murdered in February 2006. Online forums have very differing opinions about Sano. Some say he murdered a bunch of people, others claim he's your typical businessman with a little bit of corruption and tax evasion on the side like any other. There was one thing everyone agreed on though.

Sano Manjiro has never been photographed and even if the press or anyone somehow snaps a picture and uploads it, the picture is gone in seconds. Only a few have even seen Sano's face but everyone can agree that man is handsome. The allure of Sano Manjiro's enigmatic presence only intensifies your determination to unravel his secrets. With every whispered rumour and shadowy detail, you find yourself more entangled in the web of mystery that surrounds him.

It's a brisk afternoon when you finally get your chance to visit Bonten Headquarters. You're driven in a sleek black car, the tinted windows shielding you from prying eyes. As you approach the building, its imposing structure looms over you, a testament to the power and influence of Bonten. You had decided to skip your afternoon classes immediately after Manjiro offered for you to come visit him and he sent you a car after you texted your driver not to come get you from school.

You arrive at the headquarters early in the evening, the building looming over you like a sentinel. It's a stark reminder of the power Bonten holds and the delicate balance you're trying to maintain. The entrance is guarded by several intimidating men in dark suits, their expressions unreadable. Inside, the atmosphere is a blend of modern luxury and old-world opulence. Polished marble floors, sleek metal accents, and expensive artwork line the halls. The air is filled with a sense of purpose, the sound of hushed conversations and the occasional clink of glassware creating a symphony of controlled chaos. The lobby is vast and luxurious, every detail meticulously designed to project wealth and influence. You approach the reception desk, where a stern-looking woman eyes you with suspicion. "I'm here to see Sano Manjiro" you say, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach.

You're so clearly out of place in your little two-piece outfit you actually made yourself. It was a cream-coloured satin wrap-around skirt and cropped loose-ish satin blouse in the same cream colour with three buttons in the center and bell sleeves you were very proud of making and a ribbon tying your hair back. Unlike the other ladies working here with their sleek black heels, you were wearing off white platform heels with bows on the front and white socks. Needless to say, you were kind of out of place in the professional environment. You fiddle with the necklace Manjiro gifted you as the receptionist looks at you up and down. Part of you wants to snap at her but you also don't blame her. You look like a damn teenager despite being 20 years old. "Mr. Sano doesn't take walk-in appointments." She says in a professional tone

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, maintaining your composure. "I'm not a walk-in," you reply calmly, meeting her gaze. "He invited me."

The receptionist raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. "And you are?"

Before you could respond someone behind you speaks up and the receptionist straightens her shoulders before bowing. "Hey Kid"

You turn around to see Mochizuki Kanji and a few bodyguards. Mochizuki Kanji, called Mochi by the other executives, is one of the other top eight executives of Bonten. "whatcha' doin' down here? Do you not have a keycard to go up?" He asks

You smile weakly as the attention of the other employees is turned to you. "u-uh no..."

Mochi was an odd person in your opinion. He was super tall, bulky, kind of had anger issues but he was pretty nice to you. He reminded you of this one guard you had at the mansion when you were younger. His intense presence is softened by a kind demeanour when it comes to you, making him one of the few Bonten members you feel relatively at ease with. Mochi looks at the receptionist, who immediately understands the gravity of the situation. "Miss, my apologies," the receptionist says, her tone now deferential. "I'll escort you upstairs immediately."

Mochi shakes his head, waving off her offer. "I'll take her up myself." He gestures for you to follow, and you fall into step beside him, grateful for the intervention.

As you make your way to the elevator, you can't help but notice the curious glances from the other employees. They all have no idea who you are. Online forums say Manjiro does occasionally have women comes to his office or there are women spotted coming to his office but you did not match the description of them. You were an anomaly. Once inside the elevator, Mochi presses the button for the top floor, the penthouse where Manjiro's office is located. "You know," Mochi says, breaking the silence, "it's not every day we get visitors like you. You're special."

You glance up at him, trying to gauge his expression. "Special how?"

Mochi chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound. "Let's just say you're the first girl to get this much attention from Mikey in a long time."

Your heart practically sings at Mochi's revelation. The first girl in a long time? Oh, how you hope Manjiro isn't actually using you. This was all kind of cute and makes you feel like a schoolgirl with a crush. You haven't felt this way since well... Ever. The elevator doors open, and you step out into a lavish hallway. The floors are a rich, dark wood, and the walls are adorned with elegant artwork. It's a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal feel of the lobby. Mochi leads you to a set of double doors at the end of the hall and knocks once before pushing them open. The room you enter is spacious and bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the city skyline. Manjiro is seated behind a massive mahogany desk, his attention fixed on some documents spread out before him. He looks up and you can't help but let your mind wander. "Mochi" Manjiro greets his colleague with no smile, no expression whatsoever

Mochi just grunts before he leaves you alone with Manjiro in his office. Manjiro's black suit jacket is on one of the couches in his office as well as his tie. His silk black dress shirt highlights the muscles you can see ripping beneath his skin and the top few buttons are undone exposing some of his chest. He looks... hot. His white hair is in its usual middle part style, sweeping against his brows and you resist the urge to walk over and brush a strand behind his ear. You internally sigh. He's so pretty. You stand there for a moment, taking in the sight of Manjiro, his intense gaze fixed on you. The office, with its lavish décor and breathtaking view, fades into the background as you focus on the man before you. Manjiro's expression softens slightly as he watches you, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "whatcha' standing over there for, sweet girl?" He says then pats his lap "C'mere"

Your heart skips a beat at his invitation, and you hesitate for only a moment before walking towards him. The butterflies in your stomach intensify with each step, the anticipation building as you walk around his large desk. When you reach him, Manjiro's hands rest gently on your waist, guiding you to sit on his lap. His touch is firm yet tender, sending a shiver down your spine. You settle into his lap, your legs draped over one arm of the chair. His hands remain on your waist, holding you securely. The intimacy of the moment is overwhelming, and you find yourself momentarily lost in his dark, enigmatic eyes. Oh gosh, he's so pretty. Manjiro's gaze roams over your face as if memorizing every detail. "You're quite a sight, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

You blush, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "Thank you," you reply softly, your fingers lightly tracing the contours of his chest through his shirt.

"How was your day?" he asks, his voice a low murmur in your ear.

The intimacy of the moment makes your pulse quicken, and you have to remind yourself to breathe. "It was... good," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Manjiro is looking at you in a way that makes heat pool in your lower belly. When he looks away he straightens out your clothes, tugging your satin skirt down your thighs. "I hope you didn't have anything planned for the evening. I know it was very sudden that I asked you to come here" Manjiro says

You feel a rush of warmth at his touch, his hands smoothing down your skirt with care. The sensation sends a tingling thrill through you, and you find yourself leaning slightly into his touch. His proximity, his scent—everything about him envelops you in a heady mix of desire and curiosity. "No, I didn't have any plans," you reply softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wanted to see you."

Manjiro's lips curl into a knowing smile, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. "I'm glad you're here," he murmurs, his voice husky. "I've been thinking about you."

Your heart skips a beat at his words, the intensity in his eyes igniting a fire within you. "What have you been thinking about?" you ask, your voice breathless.

He leans closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. "About how much I want to kiss you," he confesses, his voice a seductive murmur.

Before you can respond, he closes the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that steals your breath away. His kiss is both gentle and firm, a tantalizing dance of passion and restraint. You melt into him, your hands finding their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The kiss deepens, becoming a shared moment of longing and desire. When he finally pulls back, you're left breathless, your heart racing. His forehead rests against yours, his hands still gently holding you. "You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmurs, his voice a low, reverent whisper.

A mix of emotions swirls within you—desire, uncertainty, and a growing sense of attachment. "You... you have that effect on me too," you admit, your voice barely audible.

Manjiro smiles with genuine warmth in his eyes. Something tells you it's been a long time since he's smiled like that. "Good," he says softly, brushing his thumb across your cheek. "I want you to stay."

You nod, unable to resist the pull of his gaze. "I want to stay," you reply, your voice filled with unspoken promises.

He kisses you again, more deeply this time as if sealing an unspoken pact between you. The kiss lingers, a testament to the growing connection between you and Manjiro. In that moment, amidst the opulence of his office and the city lights twinkling outside, you realize that you're no longer just a pawn in a game. You're a player, willingly entangled in a web of desire and ambition. Perhaps beyond helping out your dad, you really did like Manjiro. He's not like how girls online who claim to have met him describe him to be but rather he's a lot better. "let's get these off, hm" Manjiro says and with ease, reaches over to your ankles and undos the buckles of your heels, letting them drop to the floor with a thud.

You feel the cool air against your now bare feet, the sensation grounding you in the reality of the moment. Manjiro's hands linger on your ankles, his touch sending shivers up your spine. His gaze shifts back to your face, and you can see the hunger in his eyes. "You look so much more comfortable now," he murmurs, his hands sliding up your legs to rest on your thighs.

His touch is electrifying, and you feel a surge of desire wash over you. As he pulls you closer, your bodies pressed together, you let out a soft sigh, leaning into his warmth, head on his shoulder. His fingers trace patterns on your thighs, the sensation both soothing and intoxicating. You can feel the tension building between you, a potent mix of anticipation and longing. "I have a meeting soon," he says, his voice tinged with reluctance as he begins to tug the cream-coloured ribbon out of your hair, letting it down. "But I want you to wait for me here. We'll have dinner together afterward."

You smile, feeling a rush of warmth at his words. "I'd like that."

Manjiro ties the ribbon he pulled out of your hair around his wrist. You're about to get off his lap but that's when there is a knock on his door. "Boss" It's Sanzu with the businessmen Bonten was doing a deal with

Manjiro narrows his eyes for a moment then says "Oh wait, the meeting is happening in my office"

That was how you ended up on the floor, sitting by Mikey's legs hiding from the businessmen he was meeting with in his office. The large wooden desk hides you from view. The sound of footsteps and hushed conversations fills the room as the businessmen enter, and you huddle closer to Manjiro's legs, your heart racing. Manjiro's hand rests reassuringly on your head for a brief moment, a silent promise of protection. From your hidden vantage point, you can only catch glimpses of the men's polished shoes as they take their seats in front of Manjiro on the other side of his desk. Their voices are low, carrying an air of authority and urgency. Manjiro's tone shifts, becoming more formal and commanding. "Gentlemen," he begins, "thank you for coming. Let's get down to business."

The meeting unfolds with a meticulous discussion of figures, strategies, and agreements. You can't follow all the specifics, but you can sense the gravity of the topics being discussed. Occasionally, Manjiro's leg brushes against you, a subtle reminder of your presence and his control over the situation. Despite the seriousness of the meeting, you find a strange sense of calm in the small space beneath the desk. It's intimate, almost as if Manjiro is shielding you from the harsh realities of his world. You listen intently, trying to piece together the puzzle of his empire.

Eventually though, very quickly actually, you get bored. Manjiro's fingers are tangled in your hair as you rest your head against his knee. You're doing your best to stay quiet and still, but the boredom begins to weigh on you. The conversation above drones on, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses or the shuffle of papers. Manjiro's steady presence is your only anchor in the otherwise mundane environment.

As the meeting continues, you start to tune out the specifics, instead focusing on the rhythm of Manjiro's fingers in your hair. The gentle, repetitive motion is soothing, a stark contrast to the intense, business-like atmosphere surrounding you. You glance up occasionally, catching glimpses of Manjiro's serious expression, his eyes sharp and focused. You shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position without drawing attention to yourself. Manjiro's hand tightens briefly in your hair, a silent reminder to stay still. You suppress a sigh, resigning yourself to your current situation. So, you pull out your phone instead.

You keep scrolling through your phone, trying to distract yourself from the prolonged meeting. The more you browse, the more you find yourself adding items to your online shopping cart—clothes, accessories, and other small luxuries you've been wanting. Each addition brings a fleeting moment of excitement, though it is quickly overshadowed by the realization that your wallet is out of reach. Lost in the world of online shopping, you momentarily forget your surroundings. The quiet murmur of voices and the occasional clinking of glass continue to provide a background hum to your activity. You feel Manjiro's fingers give your hair a gentle tug, snapping you back to the present. You look up, and although his expression remains composed, there's a hint of amusement in his eyes.

You kind of feel like a little puppy sitting by his legs like this while he pets your head. It feels odd. Despite the oddness, there's a comfort in the moment, a strange blend of intimacy and authority that defines your relationship with Manjiro. You don't really understand exactly what your relationship with him is, but you sure as hell figured out how he wants you to be for him.

Innocent.

Manjiro's fingers continue to weave through your hair, the soft, repetitive motion almost lulling you into a trance. But beneath the gentle caress, there's a tension—a feeling that something more is expected of you. The way he holds you close, the way his eyes darken with every passing second you remain in this submissive position, it all points to a desire for something pure, untouched—innocent.

You shift slightly, trying to ease the growing discomfort in your legs from sitting on the cold floor for so long. His grip tightens in response, not painful, but enough to remind you of his control. You don't need to look up to know he's watching you, waiting for you to make any small move that might betray your thoughts.

Manjiro wants someone innocent. Someone who can be molded, shaped to fit the vision he has in his mind. And you're all too aware that, in his eyes, you're exactly that—his innocent little toy, hidden away from the harsh realities of his world. But beneath his seemingly protective actions, you sense something darker, more possessive. It's as if he's carefully crafted this image of innocence for you to embody, a role you're expected to play to perfection.

You're not naïve. You know that this innocence he craves isn't for your protection—it's for his own twisted satisfaction. The way he watches you, the way he treats you like something delicate, it all hints at his deeper, more sinister intentions. He wants to keep you untainted, not out of care, but because it gives him a certain power, a control that feeds into his darker desires. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but you don't dare show it. Instead, you play the part, allowing him to see what he wants—a docile, compliant girl who needs his guidance and protection. But deep down, you're wary, cautious of where this path might lead. You've seen glimpses of his world, the ruthless decisions, the calculated moves, and you can't ignore the growing unease in your gut.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, pulling you back into the present. You glance up at him, and for a moment, your eyes meet. There's a flicker of something in his gaze—possessiveness, a hint of something darker that you can't quite place. You force a small smile, pretending not to notice, but your heart beats faster, a silent warning that you're treading dangerous waters.

As the meeting continues, you lean into his touch, playing along with the innocence he so desperately wants from you. But in the back of your mind, you're already planning your next move, wondering how long you can keep up this charade before he sees through it—or worse, before you lose yourself in the role he's cast you in.

The ride back to his penthouse is a blur. Hazy streetlights of orange and red, then bright white lights of the lobby as you make way to the elevator, arm linked with his. You floats through it your heels seemingly not on the tiled floors. You feel kind of... Drunk? Maybe. After the dumb meeting Manjiro coaxed you to drink Whiskey or whatever was in his glass. You had never been able to hold your drink very well. But then again, you never drank much in the first place. You always looked ugly as hell in the morning so why do something that make you look undesireable?

There's something wet on your neck other than the beads of sweat rolling down on your flesh. You try to move your head, but can't move away when something is pulling your hair, baring more skin to the onslaught of bites, marking you. Breaking flesh. Bruising in the indent of teeth that are soothed by open-mouthed kisses and a brush of warm air. You struggle out of the hold, trying to release yourself from Manjiro, an unfamiliar weight that suffocates you. You can't even grasp at who or how, your body lifted like a ragdoll from the ground, your thigh slinging on the Manjiro's arm, the other hoisted up around the man's waist, cupping your ass.

You hitches a breath, whiny and begging please's, when the man grinds the bulge of his cock against you clothed cunt, pushing the smoothness of your silk skirt and the zipper of his tailored trousers digging on your clit, cotton fabric of underwear pushed deeply on your slicked slit, rubbing tight, raw— hears the squelches, of how wet you are as hips keep grinding on. You cry, the inside of your thighs shaking, toes curling inside your heels as your cunt throbs, belly clenching as you feel yourself come. "S-stop," you moan wetly

You find your hands working, clutching fistfuls of hair to tug it away from your wounded neck. Pushing again, you feel your heel-clad feet touch the carpet, the man steadying you with a grasp on your waist. "What's wrong, sweet girl? Did something hurt?" His voice makes you want to cry

It sounds so concerned, so familiarly deep, resonating in your chest and echoing in your ears. Fuck fuck, you're too hyper-aware of your own breathing, the way your chest moves up and down and the way your heart is hammering in your chest. "No—it's just—I... I don't—" you stutter, your next breath faltering to a half-broken sob

You close your eyes, tears prickling at bay, feeling despondent shame when you shouldn't really feel like this, the bubbling anxieties clouding your mind, your rationality. Why does... why do you feel... your emotions are all jumbled in a mess, puzzle pieces thrown out shaken. You didn't know you were sobbing, not until there was a hand gently brushing your hair, and thin yet lean arms wrapping around you. "Shh, it's okay." lean arms wind around you, tethering you in place.

You feel more grounded when a hand snakes around your neck, your thumb tracing the soft lines of your jaw, and the little tremble of your bottom lip. "Breathe for me, baby." Manjiro hushes your cries, the other hand rubbing back and forth on your spine.

You breathe and Manjiro smiles, "That's it, you're doing good."

You feel hot, nuzzling with the hand that cradles his face, tears still clinging to your eyelashes. It's the first time someone calls you good for just breathing properly. Fuck did that make you feel nice. "You okay now?"

You attempted to respond, but only a jumble of incoherent sounds escaped your lips. You flush when you nod, which makes the yakuza boss chuckle. Your lips meet in another kiss, one slower, more tender — a soft press, gentle in the way your lips mould together. You open your eyes when you finally part, the older man plants a quick peck on your forehead, asking, "Are you sure you're doing fine?"

You nod once more which earns you a coo from the man. "Let me hear you, sweet girl..."

"I'm..." You hiccup. "I'm okay now."

Manjiro smiles, you can't quite see it, but it's there. Then he kneels down, palming your thighs. "Can you still give me a taste?"

You didn't hesitate to nod, a soft yeah repeating on your lips as the older man strips you of your lace panties, sliding them down your legs. Leaning against the wall, half plastered and half being carried, your thighs are spread once more, Manjiro lifting one thigh over his shoulder. You try to remember just how you ended up at Manjiro's penthouse. You remember your father's words of being careful around him but you should have thought of that when you drank out of Manjiro's glass. Eventually, the older man lifts you up a bit so he can kneel properly. "You're so wet," he breathes out.

A palm massaging the underside of your thigh, fingers lining around the edges of your skirt, damp with your own slick and your come. Manjiro's slight stubble is rough against your skin, chafing your skin. He kisses your cunt like how he marks you. Hungered and wanton, swallowing you. When the man pulled back a bit, you bit the inside of you cheek, another strained moan bouncing on the walls. Manjiro's head disappears under your skirt. The noises are much filthier when thumbs spread your lips apart, and it didn't take another long second before Manjiro took another peck on your pelvis, underneath your belly button. A quick kiss like he did with your forehead. It did something to you, the tenderness before the dive before the man wolfs you with his mouth. "What a pretty cunt you have, sweet girl. Seen it so many times but still can't get enough"

Manjiro eats you as if you're an oasis, and he is dehydrated. He sucks on your clit, pressing hard, using his tongue in ways that you didn't know existed. You squeeze your thighs shut around his head, but Manjiro grunts, a slap on your ass as a warning, before it wraps around you, bruising on your waist as your feet lift from the ground and he pervades your insides, thrusting in and out of your hole, humming like you're a treat to be savoured. "P-Please, I can't, you need to..." Your hand clenching over Manjiro's hair the other somewhere beside you, trying to grasp the wall.

You didn't know how many minutes had passed by, the clock in front of you blurring. Pussy dripping over your thighs, to the line of your butt— you feel your belly tightening, that familiar edge that you lines over— until your body is pulled taut, back arching off the wall when you reach another peak, squirting all over the man's face. Manjiro's mouth stayed on your mound, overwhelming you with sensations that borderlines sharp and hurtful. Marking his way up on the insides of your thighs, trailing kisses before digging his teeth and that made you wail. "You okay?" Manjiro asks as he pulls himself from your cunt, rubbing circles with his thumb on your thigh, slick shiny on his chin.

You can only hum in response, hugging Manjiro as he stands up. Manjiro moves again, your body was all boneless and heavy-limp as he carries you over. You bounce on the bed, another breath catching in your throat as Manjiro kisses you, tasting yourself— salty, musky and a tinged bit of sweet. You don't like the taste, but you like how it's being forced to linger on your tongue as Manjiro invades your mouth. Before you know it, your top is being pulled enough for the man to tug down your bra and latch onto your nipple, sinking his teeth around it. The other is being pulled and played with. Another assault on your torso, lines and patterns of marks, of mouth sucking in flesh, painting it red— and you moan through it all. "Look at you," Manjiro says. "You're made for this."

Then there's a finger sinking inside you, then another, rubbing over you, scissoring you open... something metal getting caught in your hole, smoother than the callouses— a ring. It kind of hurts and you want him to take it off but all the words are stuck in your throat. The simple ring makes you feel a little sick all of a sudden. It's on the left hand of his ring finger. What? "... so good for me." Another bite, another deep indent on skin

Manjiro sits up, palming himself. You hear the rustle of clothes and a zipper opening. Your thighs are pried open, hands smoothing on your sides, making you subdued.

Then there's something sliding on the line of your pussy, wet noises slicking. Then you're being broken in, a hole too small for something too big. You're too shocked to even let out anything, let alone scream as your mouth opens wide for just silence. You couldn't breathe, couldn't place yourself if this is real. If the pain is just a fever dream, a memory not true— You're a virgin, Manjiro isn't. This is your first — the stretch, the pain, the reassurance that you need as Manjiro brushes your hair away from your face. It's too much. "Breathe, sweet girl... you're clenching me so tight."

Manjiro works inside you slowly, achingly. The expanse of your hole, knees shaking with each slow push. You couldn't even flutter your hole for how stretched you are, how wide you must be gaping to accommodate something that huge, that thick. Your crop top clings around your neck, nipples still pebbled in the heated air. You find your voice again, gasping in between, "Ngh... g-gentle, please."

"Of course, sweet girl." A promise, a tell-tale sign that you could trust him, that you could let go — then you arch again when Manjiro buries himself entirely, a brutal thrust that makes you completely forget about the ring on his left ring finger

You feel like your insides are being rearranged as Manjiro penetrates you, then pulls himself into a rhythm you don't know. It's like something inside you is getting caught that it goes with the man's cock, pulling outside of your cunt—

Your nipple is getting abused, Manjiro's mouth biting again—

Thrusting in then out until you climaxed again and you don't want anything inside you anymore because it hurts, you can't keep going—

It keeps going... and you must have said stop a lot of times—

"You won't leave me, right, baby?" Then your body flips over, your stomach on the sheets— "You're mine to play with— mine to fuck—"

You can only cry in response.

(You wake up, face pressed flush on the pillow, with your body rocking back and forth. Eyelids fluttering open, drool cascading down your cheek and chin. The pillow is wet, not damp, soaking through the cotton along with the warm sweat. Sleep clings to your brain, head heady as your body steadily moves against the sheet by another body on top of you.

A familiar weight, heavy and too hot that Manjiro's sweat sticks against the friction. Rough breaths and grunts blow right above your head. You feel full, a pressure in your belly, something moving inside you too deep, too big. The painful stretch is back, sliding slowly in and out. Feels like minutes, hours, hooking in something that makes you jolt, a kiss on your cervix that makes you cry. That dread that pools inside your womb, the abuse of your cunt breaking into the shape of Manjiro's cock—

Manjiro shushes you, trying to calm the raging beats of your heart as you choke on your whimpers, sobbing as your cunt quivers. Your hands grip the sheets, toes pointing, and you're too tired to fight, too tired to say stop when pleasure brings you to orgasm again and again, until you hear a murmur, a vibration on your back, and a kiss on your temple—

Such a good girl — another grinding thrust, another pressure inside your cunt and you feel full again—

—a good girl only for me. )

You wake up, eyes blurring and your head feeling like it was splitting open. Blinking your eyes open, you watch the blur clear into an unfamiliar ceiling. Too plain, devoid of your white canopy and crown moulding around the perimeter and the chandelier you have up in your room. You close your eyes, not thinking about anything because of your headache but then you feel it— the pain all over your body, fragments of what you did the night before comes rushing back, causing your head to ache even more.

Then, you look beside you and realize the space in the bed is empty and cold. You make attempts to move, curling upwards to sit— but fuck, it hurts. Everything really, really hurts. The pain radiates through your body, each movement reminding you of the events from the night before. The sheets feel rough against your skin, foreign, and you can't shake the feeling of wrongness that clings to you like a second skin. As you manage to sit up, you wince, every inch of you protesting the motion. The room spins slightly, your headache intensifying, but it's nothing compared to the heaviness in your chest.

Manjiro’s penthouse is silent, save for the distant hum of the city outside. The space beside you is cold, the imprint of his body long gone. Your heart sinks as you realize that you're alone. You glance around, the stark, minimalistic decor of his room adding to the emptiness you feel inside. It’s nothing like the romantic scenes you once imagined—soft sheets, warm bodies entwined in mutual affection. No, this is far from what you fantasized your first time would be like.

You wrap the sheet around your body, trying to cover yourself, as if that could shield you from the raw reality of what just happened. The events of the night flood your mind in disjointed flashes—Manjiro’s rough hands on your skin, the way he moved, the sensation of being overpowered. It wasn’t what you wanted, not really. You had hoped for something gentle, something meaningful. But what you got was far from it.

Self-loathing begins to settle in, heavy and suffocating. You can’t help but think that this is your fault. You let it happen. You let him take you in a moment of weakness, of misplaced trust. And now, the aftermath is like a stain you can’t wash away, a mark on your soul that you’re not sure you’ll ever be able to erase. The way he treated you, so rough, so careless—it makes you feel small, used, and insignificant.

Tears prick at your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You knew what you were getting into when you got involved with Manjiro, or at least you thought you did. But the reality is so much harsher than you could have ever imagined. You wanted to be close to him, to be someone he cherished, but now you’re not even sure what you are to him. A plaything? A distraction? The thought twists in your gut, making you feel even more hollow.

You glance down at yourself, at the bruises forming on your skin, evidence of the roughness you endured. It makes you sick to your stomach. You feel dirty and tainted as if his touch has left a permanent mark on you that you’ll never be able to scrub away. You wanted your first time to be special, to be with someone who loved you, but all you’re left with is this—an empty bed in an unfamiliar room and a deep, gnawing regret. You were a rich kid but you were also hidden away. You can have secret affairs like the ones in the movies. You thought this would be exactly that. A steamy but love filled passionate encounter and you'd wake up next to him giggling like a child while he smothers your face with kisses and asks if you're hungry.

But no.

Manjiro is not here.

The silence in the penthouse is deafening, amplifying the echo of your self-loathing. You feel like a stain, something ugly and unwanted. No matter how much you try to rationalize it, to tell yourself that this is what you chose, the reality is that you feel broken. You curl into yourself, hugging your knees to your chest, trying to find some comfort in the small space you occupy, but it does nothing to ease the pain, both physical and emotional.

The fantasy you once had of love, of intimacy, has been shattered, replaced by this cold, empty reality. There is a knock on the door and for a moment you hope it's Manjiro but why would he knock on his own bedroom door? In enters Kakucho instead. He's holding a bag and has a small smile on his face. "hey sweetheart" he enters cautiously, like you’re a hurt child

Kakucho closes the door behind him and sits down in front of you, cups your cheek and kisses your temple like a child too. He's treating you like a child and it's on purpose. Kakucho’s gentle touch feels like a stark contrast to everything you’ve just been through. His presence, so calm and tender, makes your chest ache even more. You can see it in his eyes—he knows. He knows what happened, and the way he’s treating you only deepens your sense of shame. It’s like he’s confirming what you already fear: that you’re broken, something to be pitied. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says again, his voice soft, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he speaks any louder.

His hand lingers on your cheek, warm and steady, a grounding touch that you desperately want to lean into but can't. The small smile he gives you is meant to be comforting, but it only makes you feel more fragile. Kakucho was here to be damage control probably. For what? For Manjiro leaving? Maybe. You don't know, you don't care. You just wanted Manjiro here in the morning with you. It wasn't like you were asking him to buy you the moon. You just wanted him to stay and you thought that would be given considering he took your virginity but apparently not. You had been at his office sitting at his feet like a puppy, then in his lap drinking out of a crystal cup then underneath him like a damn whore.

You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, strangled by the lump of emotions that refuses to let you breathe. Kakucho doesn’t push; he just waits, his presence a silent reassurance that he’s here for you. But it’s not what you want. You don’t want to be coddled, to be treated like a child who doesn’t understand what’s happening. You want to be strong, to brush off the pain and the disappointment, but you can’t. Not with the way he’s looking at you, not with the way he’s making it clear that he sees you as something that needs to be taken care of. Kakucho places the bag down beside him, but you barely notice. Your mind is too tangled in the mess of feelings swirling inside you. He shifts closer, pulling you into a soft embrace. The warmth of his body against yours should be comforting, but instead, it only serves as a reminder of what you didn’t get—what you thought you would have with Manjiro. “It's okay,” Kakucho whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “I’m here.”

His words should be a balm, but they only deepen the wound. You don’t want him to be here. You want Manjiro. You want the version of him you built up in your head, the one who would have held you afterward, who would have made you feel loved, wanted, and cherished. But that Manjiro doesn’t exist, and all you have is the cold reality of what happened. Kakucho pulls back slightly, searching your eyes with a look of concern. “I brought you some things,” he says, nodding toward the bag. “Clothes, some painkillers... whatever you need. It's a good thing I know all the products you use, hm? Woke up early to bring 'em all for you”

You glance at the bag, but it feels distant, and unimportant. Everything feels distant. The pain in your body, the bruises, the emptiness inside—they all blend together into a haze that you can’t quite shake off. Kakucho’s kindness, his attempt to care for you, only makes you feel more like a burden, like someone who needs to be fixed. You once again feel like the damn stain Kaya and her mother treat you like. You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, wrapped in Kakucho’s embrace. Time seems to lose meaning, each second stretching out into an eternity. All you can think about is how you ended up here, in this place, in this situation. The fantasy you had is gone, replaced by the harsh light of reality, and it’s so much worse than you ever imagined. Eventually, Kakucho pulls away, his eyes still filled with that same concern. “You should get cleaned up,” he suggests gently, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. “You’ll feel better. Then we'll get some food and I'll take you home”

You nod mechanically, though you don’t really believe him. You don’t think anything will make you feel better. But you force yourself to move, to stand up on shaky legs, to accept the clothes Kakucho offers you from the bag. As you do, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror across the room, and the sight makes you freeze.

You barely recognize the person staring back at you. Your hair is a mess, your eyes red and swollen, and the bruises on your skin stand out like dark, ugly marks against your pale flesh. You look like a ghost, haunted by the memories of the night before, and the sight makes you feel sick all over again. Never in your life have you ever let yourself look like that.

This ugly.

(never will you let yourself look like this again)

Kakucho follows your gaze, and you see the flicker of sadness in his eyes. He knows what you’re seeing, what you’re feeling. But he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gently guides you toward the bathroom, his hand steady on your back.

You hesitate at the threshold, the thought of being alone with your reflection unbearable. But Kakucho is there, his presence a steady reassurance that you’re not entirely alone, even if it feels that way. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, and step into the bathroom, closing the door behind you.

As you strip off the sheet and step under the hot spray of the shower, you try to wash away the stains of the night before—the bruises, the memories, the regret. But no matter how hard you scrub, the feeling lingers, a constant reminder that some stains can’t be washed away.

notes: chapter four has finally seen the light of day! I just want to say I accidently wrote the smut in third pov while imagining someone else as reader so if at any point you come across any terms that describe reader's body, skin, hair, etc. that is not inclusive, please let me know so I can change it :) I edited it the best I could but don't hesitate to lmk.

Also there was going to be a Kaya appearance in this chapter but I decided against it. My original intention with this series has changes btw but the ending will still be somewhat the same.

anyways,,, no aftercare on screen from Manjiro but kind of aftercare from kakucho??? you win some you lose some I guess 🤷‍♀️ I listened to Cherry by Lana Del Ray while writing the smut scene and the whole thing with Kakucho. I would apologize for the shitty pacing of this chapter but honestly, I could care less. I know most of it is pretty vague but then again, are you ever actually aware of your surroundings or what is going on when your heart is being torn apart?

I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)

likes, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

taglist: @m-ilkiee @reiners-milkbiddies @short-cxke @brisssaaa009 @tenjikusstuff4 @asirensrage @fushiquro @iwasei @kiwixpi @mysouleaten @luminouslaybyrinth @merrymerrykiss @maraya-007 @dolfiins-art @yuyu12mm @kodzubaby @zantetsuwu @hayatisyourlife @bachiraslvr @bontensbabygirl @intheafterall @otakugurl2099 @kawaiikoalagarden @killcxm @kannaaa015 @forestycore @waterfal-ling

173 notes · View notes

artficlly · 3 months

Text

smog & spirits: spirit-raiser (mini-series)

Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and you are the witch he has chosen to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fem reader, begging, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v, no aftercare, sex magic, blood magic, potion for arousal, curses and hexes, witchcraft, possession, mediums, if you squint theres some plot, smoking, mention of death/violence/torture, mention of police brutality, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 8k

A/N: hey. don't ask. this idea came to me a few days ago and i wrote it all out in like two sessions at 2am. i want to write more for this, i have so many ideas for some more one-shot style interactions. this just got so long so quickly so i had to cut some stuff. sorry for any typos - not proof read and edited while half asleep lol.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You did not remember leaving your door unlocked.

The fog that settled over the smokey, portside district of Sootstone was suffocating. Despite it being only midday, the entire neighbourhood was cast into a muggy gloom. The sun could not break through the thick smog that comfortably nestled itself along the windy streets of The Warrens. The stench of smoke and fish hung heavy in the air, with sweaty dockworkers and dirty children darting between alleys. In your short journey to and from the small Sunday market, you had nearly been bowled over thrice by oblivious residents.

The Warrens, or Sootstone Port, as it was formally known, was not a pleasant place. Home to the working class and the rotted underbelly of the city of Blackstone. The high society chatters liked to forget such a place existed, as it was simply not a charming place to think about. Most worked the ports, ferrying in the sea trade. Others worked in the Smokestack district, manufacturing metal in factories that pumped ash and soot into the air. There were also the select few who turned to other trades, such as pubs, hotels, brothels, or even those who were forced into a life of joblessness on the streets.

The Warrens weren’t so imaginatively named. It was a clever joke among high-society gossipers that the poor fucked like rabbits and lived in their elaborate winding burrows, from which they rarely emerged for air. The people of Sootstone had accepted the insult, finding the whole metaphor rather hilarious. That was because the Warreners could take a joke, unlike the condescending crowd of high society. It could also be argued that the residents of The Warrens could not come up with a better metaphor, as most were not educated in any sense.

Perhaps the mixture of smog and that lack of an education had finally made it to your head. You were left standing, perplexed, as your front door swung open without so much of a nudge. The lock was normally a sticky one, leaving you to jiggle the knob and slam your shoulder against the frame until it came unstuck. Never in your two years of living in the tiny flat had you ever witnessed such a sight.

You would’ve thought it a miracle if it weren’t for the implications.

It was true that The Warrens were notorious for crimes. Theft, assault, and murder. Even if coppers paraded the streets, they weren’t truly there to stop criminals. No, they were more interested in beating any poor innocents that got in their way. It was better to find protection from vigilante gangs who roamed Sootstone’s streets, scrapping like stray dogs over territories. As much as those uninvolved in such business were afraid of them, they also respected them. Their deeds weren’t always motivated by blood and destruction; the gangs stood to protect their communities as no one else would.

Even if you and your surrounding neighbours were under the protection of Barnes’ Smog Boys, it was definitely still alarming to see a group of them gathered in your small kitchen.

“Lookie who's home.” One of the men cooed at the sight of you. He stood closest to the door, one hand tucked in his jacket pocket while the other fiddled with a toothpick that hung from his lips. His blond hair was slicked back, tucked under a flatcap. Steve Rogers. The Smog Boys right hand man. Next to him was Sam Wilson, his stocky form leaning against your rickety cupboards. His gaze was fixed on a silver pocket watch he had tightly secured in his left palm, a short chain draping across his vest. He glanced up at Steve’s words, a wicked smirk crossing his lips at the sight of you.

“Sunday market?” Sam queried, and you drew your woven basket closer. There was an unsettling sneer in his voice.

The Smog Boys were one of seven gangs that roamed the underbelly of Blackstone. Their territories lay in the fog of Sootstone Port and the smokey streets of the Smokestack district and The Warrens. You could commonly see them stalking the streets, dressed in all black with their flatcaps and slicked back hair. They moved through the smog like ghosts, navigating the twisting streets with an unnatural ease. Some called them ghouls; others called them saviours from the fog.

The final man, the worst of them all, was Bucky Barnes. He sat across from you, half obscured by your small dining table. He had laid a box of cigarettes and matches on the marked wood. One was smoking between his lips, his head angled down and cocked to one side, as he assessed you with a look of boredom. There was a terrifying edge of calculation in his gaze as he evaluated you. He was just as large as the other two men, with muscles poorly hidden beneath his black, tailored suit. His hair, similarly to Steve's, was slicked back, and the sides buzzed. A 5’oclock shadow ghosted his jawline, but overall, his appearance was unsettlingly neat.

Not a speck of ash or soot. As if he had just appeared within your flat, blinking into existence rather than having walked The Warrens like any other mere mortal.

You had never seen the man in person. No. If the Smog Boys were ghosts, Bucky certainly lived up to the name. He was an enigma, a haunting story whispered between children. He had clawed his way up to a position of power from the gutters of The Warrens, bloodshed and all. He was a notorious skirt-chaser, his handsome appearance and strong build drawing in women from all classes. Looking at him now, despite the terror congealing in your blood, you could understand the appeal.

“Why’re you here?” You ask hesitantly. Unlike the gangsters before you, you were not pristine by any means. Falling ash had coated your shoulders, staining the tartan fabric of the mantle draped over your shoulders. Your hair was swept up under a head scarf, which was also covered in a layer of soot and dust from the smokestacks. Even your worn leather boots were not safe; mud and filth caked onto the heels and sides. The streets of The Warren had never known any type of cleanliness.

“Come to introduce ourselves. Don’t think we’ve ever met before, ‘least I think I would’ave remembered a pretty face like yours.” Steve speaks up, a gleam in his eye. His tone is playful yet somehow cruel. The chuckle he and Sam share rattles you. The two of them were also said to try their luck with the women who crowded around, searching for the thrill of a gangster lover.

“You might’ave mistaken me for someone else… I’ve lived here two years now.” You speak with a continued caution. With precise movements, as to not brush either of the hulking men crowding the kitchen entrance, you place your basket on a nearby surface. Even the cloth that you have thrown over the items is coated in a layer of ash.

“We know.” Sam says, twisting his body. He lifts up the cloth, inspecting the food beneath. You know it is nothing exciting—some bread, fish, and vegetables. As well as a handful of sweets you gave to the children of your neighbour. You keep your mouth shut as Sam dips into the white and red striped paper bag and pops one of the sweets into his mouth with a satisfied hum.

Steve pushes himself off the wall, his jacket brushing against you. He was far taller than you, tall enough that he had to crane his neck down in order to whisper in your ear. “A lil’ birdy told us you’re a spirit-raiser.”

“I—No.” You stumble over your words, eyes darting between the three men. Bucky is still silent, still like a cat hunting a mouse. The gaze he assessed you with was one of a predator, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. He doesn’t crack a smile as the two men beside you laugh between themselves.

To fend off some anxious energy, you make quick work of unknotting your headscarf. Ash and dust flutter to the ground as you shake out the fabric, a frown etched across your features. You could not help but let your mind wonder to the stories you had heard growing up. You were a lifelong resident of The Warrens, only moving to live on your own after sickness claimed your mother. You father had passed long before that, lost to drink.

“What do you call yourself then? Hm?” Steve asks, breath hot against your cheek. You flinch as he pulls a fleck of ash from your hair. In the stories, they would speak of men with their tongues cut out. Bodies that were filled with bricks, then stitched back up and sunk to the bottom of the Sootstone Port. Men were found hanged from street lights, severely beaten, with sections of skin along their thighs and chest peeled off with a blade. And those were only the bodies coppers found.

“I prefer witch.” You correct, brows furrowing. Your head turns to look at the gangster, wary of how close his fingers lingered. Teeth bared in a grin, he blows a soft breath across your hair, the last of the ash unsettled as it floats away. You can smell tobacco on his breath—a familiar scent to you.

“I need a favour.” Bucky finally speaks up, his voice low. Your gaze snaps to meet his.

You blink. “A favour?”

You jump as Bucky finally moves, his foot jerking as he kicks the seat opposite him. The chair scrapes across the hardwood floors, stopping centimetres before your boots.

“Sit.” He commands.

Sam’s hand finds the back of your neck, a soft push guiding you in the direction of the free space. You obey, your knee bouncing as you take a seat. You sit near the edge of the chair, leaving some distance between yourself and the table. As if sensing your desire to bolt, Steve sweeps up behind you, pushing the chair in until you are fully tucked in. Then, with mocking laughter, Sam and Steve take a seat on either side of you.

“No one told me there was any issue about magic—” You begin. Steve snickers beside you, returning to fiddling with the toothpick still poking from his mouth.

“A favour.” Bucky repeats, exhaling smoke from his nose. Sam leans back in his seat, legs spread so widely that his knee touches yours. You shrink back as far as possible. “I’m no copper. I don’t care what you practitioners get up to.”

You find yourself blinking in surprise once more. Magic was a subject that divided many, mostly due to it’s misunderstood nature. High society treated magic as another lavish hobby or skill, with some even going to private schools to turn their gifts into professions with the right licences. Of course, the people of the lower-class were banned from performing such tricks unless they were in possession of the right permits. Due to the nature of the slums being, well, impoverished, unlicensed magic ran rampant through the streets. It wasn’t uncommon knowledge that an entire blackmarket of forbidden arts ran in the backalleys and warehouses of The Warren. Places where those needing particular services could find them for a much more convenient price than in the higherclass areas of Blackstone.

You had kept your services rather secretive, never using your real identity with clients. It was a precaution to not have coppers knocking down your door in the middle of the night. It seemed, despite your best efforts, that nothing flew past Bucky Barnes. But then again, nothing seemed to fly past the gangster. He knew of every black market and every whisper of illegal activity in the slums. It would be foolish to believe he was unaware of you; however, why did he specifically sort you out? Now that was a mystery.

“I don’t understand—” You choke out, head whipping back and forth as you look between the men.

Bucky sighs loudly in annoyance, loud enough that you flinch back. He puts out the remains of his cigarette on your dining table, the smouldering dip leaving a black, circular mark on the wood. He digs into one of the pockets of his vest, revealing a large pendant necklace. The chain is silver, with an oval shaped jewel hanging from the centre. The silver that encrusts it in place is swirled, ensuring there are no gaps for it to escape. Sam and Steve fall quiet, any feeling of twisted amusement dropping from the room. Bucky slides the necklace across the table.

You recoil. This time not out of fear, but rather from the aura the necklace exudes.

Goosebumps rise across your skin, and bile rises in your throat. There was a wickedness in the air, as if all the light and sweetness in the world were sucked into an empty, yawning void. The world feels still, as if even the ash outside has failed to fall. The room is cast into a sickening silence, a silence so strong that even the surrounding world refuses to push through. You can no longer hear the people walking through the winding streets of The Warren, not the clang of metal from the smokestacks or the cry of the dockworkers.

Rot.

It is the only word that comes to your mind. It is as if the jewel itself is rotten, potent, and putrid. An invisible smell so strong you nearly gag. Your skin crawls the longer you stare, as if you rot along with it—bugs squirming beneath your flesh, the taste of dirt in your mouth.

“What’s this?” You asked, your voice strained. You know the blood has drained from your face. Bucky looks at you with curiosity.

“You tell me.”

You look down at the necklace. Dread rises once more, and the chill of soil settles across your shoulders. You twist your head and your neck, feeling uncomfortable and strained the longer you gaze upon the necklace.

There was something terribly, terribly wrong about it.

“There’s a… a sickness… a rot—a curse.” You stumble over your words, your entire body squirming against your will. The feeling of dread swims through you; the sensation that you need to get as far away as possible reverberates down your spine.

“Becca was right.” Steve sings somewhere besides you, but you barely register his words.

“Where’d you find this?” You ask. The room is tighter than usual, with the rickety, peeling cabinets closing in around you. The oven screeches on its iron legs, the yellowed wallpaper crushing closer and closer. Your head falls into your hands, elbows propped onto the table. You let out a shuddering breath, trying to rid yourself of the sickly feeling. You rub your fingers up your face, pinching the bridge of your nose, then massaging your forehead

“It was given to me. As a gift.” As he speaks, you reluctantly open your eyes once more. The room has returned to as you remember, your vision less dizzying as you take in a deep gulp of air, your heart thundering in your ears. You must make a face, because it prompts him to speak once more.

“My sister has a sensitivity. She is convinced—”

“There’s a spirit attached to that jewel.” You interrupt before thinking. Your knees bounce beneath the table, your feet shaking. Your entire being screams that you need to get away from the object. You do not care for politeness or fear of these men, as the horror in your heart you felt gazing upon the necklace greatly outweighed any potential anxieties of the future.

“Yes.” His voice matches his composure—cool and collected. Wholly unaffected by the horrific aura cast by the necklace. Bucky and his men were not magically inclined. They were completely oblivious to the calamity that sat before them.

“The spirits're attached to you, too.” You pause, the feeling of bile rising in your throat once more. “You need to get it lifted.”

“That’s where the favour comes in, doll.”

“I don’t…?” You nearly doubled over. “Please get rid of it. I can’t—”

Barnes leans forward, slowly dragging the necklace over the wood. He slowly deposits it into his breast pocket, watching with curiosity as you sag in relief. You would need to burn this table after they left. You could still sense the rot engrained in the pores of the wood.

“I need to speak with the spirit attached.”

Your forearms lay flat on the table, and you rest your head against them as you try to remember how to breathe. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you. Was this how they tortured their victims? Wore them down into pathetic, panting messes? Were you about to become another body at the bottom of the Sootstone port? You mumble into the fabric. “I can’t raise a spirit without a name.”

“I know her name.”

You pause, lifting your head slowly. “You want to ask her how to break it? You may know her, but spirits’re tricksters they won’t always give ya the correct information—”

“I know how to deal with her.”

You arch a brow, unsure.

“She’s a scorned lover.” Sam whispers beside you. You jump, having forgotten the two other men sitting besides you. Bucky scowls at his words—the most emotion he has shown in the entire time.

“Everyone knows you don’t ‘ave a witch for a moll unless you’re gonna marry her.” Steve butts in, and the two men share a chuckle.

“Shut your mugs. The both of ya.” Bucky snarls, and they both fall silent, although you can’t help but notice their bemused smiles. After a brief, tense silence, the gangster settles back into his seat, tipping his chin upward in a nod. “Morwenna Blackthorn.”

You hesitate, glancing between the three men. They watch you expectantly, relaxing back into their respective seats. Given their status and reputation, you had to presume they were familiar with the workings of underground magic. Licenced practitioners would have clients sign lengthy documents for protection in the event of a spell or session backfiring. The Warrens did not have such luxuries—if you made a mistake, no one could protect you or them from the consequences.

You inhale sharply, placing your hands palms down on the table. The wood hums beneath your touch, the invisible vapours of the curse tickling your flesh. With a roll of your shoulders, you exhale slowly, allowing your body to relax.

Ink drips across your vision, swirling darkness millimetres before your eyes. You stare hard into the invisible void, searching blindly through the tendrils of smoke. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your mind hums. Through the dark fog, you can make out figures—flickers of candle flames casting large, distorted shadows. Morwenna Blackthorn. Bones crunch beneath your feet, yet at the same time, you float. Morwenna Blackthorn. Your hands burn into the table, the rotting sensation tangling through your digits, pulling you deeper.

Morwenna Blackthorn

You can see a thin line of thread hanging through the void.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

It is red; a series of knots tugged tightly intermittently.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

Your fingers grasp the fibres gently, your nail hooking around one of the tiny knots.

You tug.

Morwenna Blackthorn.

A violent, ragged gasp leaves you. It claws up your throat, ripping at the flesh. Your entire body tenses, your spine straightening as your head snaps back. For a moment, you are suspended. You can feel her with you, her ghostly fingers stroking tenderly across your skin. She smooths over the back of your hands, slowly and gradually winding her way up your arms. She clutches your shoulders, her bones digging into your flesh.

Then, with violence strong enough that you fear she has folded your spine in half, she pushes down.

Your body instantly relaxes, head lulling downward. Your eyes roll into the back of your head, and despite the appearance being a milky white, you can see perfectly clearly. Morwenna has settled herself deep within your bones, controlling your movements like a puppeteer. You are conscious enough to understand what is happening, but you are not in control of your actions or speech.

Your mouth spread into a wide, sly smile. “Bucky, my love.”

“Mor.” The gangster greets, although he does not seem entirely pleased. You pout, leaning your elbows onto the table.

“Not happy to see me?” You coo. Somewhere beside you, Steve shifts in his seat uncomfortably. It is the most off put you’ve ever seen the man so far. He winces as your head swings around, a wicked grin gracing your lips. “Oh, Stevie and Sam. Didn’t see you two here.”

“Mor.” The two men grumble in unison, scowling.

“Awh. Why so glum, boys?” You whine, your chair scraping against the floor as you stand. Your movements are fluid and graceful, entirely not your own. Your hands stroke across the back of the chair, then swooshes up to meet your chest.

You lean forward, tutting as you inspect your reflection in the glass of a nearby cupboard. “Trust you to find a pretty one in The Warrens.”

Your hands move to unpin your mantle, a cloud of ash lingering in the air as you drop it to the floor. You sigh in relief, your fingers unbuttoning the top of your shirt, revealing the curve of your breasts. Your hands smooth down your waist to your hips; your full figure is now displayed.

“You missed me that much, my love? That you had to find a pretty vessel for me so you could get your cock wet, hm?” You hum, sashying towards the table once more.

“That’s not why you’re here.” Bucky replies. He seems frozen in place. The horror of familiarity. Recognising the mannerisms of someone he once knew in a complete stranger.

You ignore his words, unpinning your hair. Thick locks unroll, cascading down your shoulders and back. You let out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh, rolling your neck. The strands frame your face, and the rich colour brings colour to your cheeks.

“Morwenna.” Bucky snaps. Your brows furrow as you look over to him, pouting once more. “You put a curse. On the necklace.”

Your mind momentarily blanks, as if Morwenna were trying to recall what he said. Spirits often grew confused trying to recall memories, especially ones that brought them anguish. A cog seems to turn as you flash the gangster another beaming smile.

“The necklace… oh. Did you like it? My parting gift to you? Before you fucked me over you piece of—” Your voice, once sweet and soft, deepens to a guttural growl. Your body shakes, and words cut off as you cough and hack. Your hand raises to your mouth, warm fluid leaking from your lips. You let in a shuddering breath, rubbing your fingers and palms down your chin. Blood smears across your skin.

“You shot me, my love.” You gasp, your brows furrowing as your head tilts. “You shot me.”

“You betrayed us, remember? You were a rat—” Steve jumps in, but is quickly cut off.

“Steve.” Bucky warns.

Your hands find your stomach, doubling over as you sob. There is no wound, no blood. Still, your hands dig at the fabric while ragged, pathetic cries leave your blood stained lips.

“How do I break the curse?”

You shuddering sobs stop, a dreadful silence falling over the tiny kitchen. A guttural laugh erupts from you, saliva mixed with blood dripping from your lips to the floor. “The curse. The curse? I should have known… I should have known…”

Your body jerks upward, movements stiff, and jerks like a marionette doll. Sam’s face contorts into one of fear, while Steve looks horrified. You jerk forward, nearly tripping over the chair as you plunge towards the table. Your stomach smacks hard against the wood, a winded wheeze escaping your lungs as you drag yourself forward by your nails.

“Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” You cry, your head beginning to twist, the angle so unnatural that it strains your neck.

“How do I break it?” Bucky repeats, voice firm. He hasn’t so much as flinched, a wall of steel as you crawl towards him.

“It was born in chaos, so it must be undone in chaos. I will find you. I will tear you limb from limb. I will make you rot from the inside out; maggots will grow within you; and mould will bloom in your soul. Everything will crumble to dust beneath your touch. I will ruin you until you b–b—be—”

Your body slides back, and for the first time in the entire session, you grab the reins. You search blindly for the knotted thread, tugging hard. Your body steps back from the table, muscles spasming and tense as your body locks in place.

You tug harder, and darkness swims across your vision. Candles flicker and dance in the distance, the sun rising and falling as your body twists up and down. The smell of rot slowly subsides, threads slipping from your fingers. The scent of copper and ash is on your tongue, and your head is pounding.

A dramatic sigh leaves you as your body slumps. You find yourself standing before the table, three sets of eyes burning into you as your own eyes roll back into place. Sam and Steve look equally disturbed as they are horrified, the blond’s mouth agape in shock.

“The fuck was that?” Sam barks.

“I ain’t never seen a spirit session like that before, Buck—” Steve begins.

“Shut it.” Bucky barks, rising to his feet.

There is a sickly feeling in your chest, a radiating pain across your ribcage. You barely register the gangster walking up to you, gripping your chin between his index and thumb.

“You pulled yourself out early.” Bucky sneers. “Why?”

“Buck—” Steve calls again. With a growl, Bucky releases you, twisting around to snarl at Steve.

“I thought you told me she was the best in the Warrens?”

“She is. Did’ya not see that shit?”

“She didn’t get me an answer—”

“Chaos magic.” You finally speak up, your voice raspy. The gangsters pause, slowly turning to face you. “She told you. It’s chaos magic. What’s born in chaos must be undone in chaos.”

Your hand raises to your face, your fingertips touching your upperlip as warm blood flows from your nose. You raise your hand into the light, inspecting the crimson liquid. Your eyes cut over to Bucky's, and he frowns.

“Chaos magic?” He questions.

“Sex magic.” You state, fighting the heat growing across your cheeks. Without much of a care or a flinch, you navigate your way past the group. Your shirt brushes against Bucky’s jacket, the rotting feeling momentarily settling in your stomach as the fabric brushes his breastpocket. You pause in front of your sink, knuckles white as you grip the lip. Blood continues to stream steadily from your nose, dripping into the basin.

“You focus your thoughts on one thing; you get pulled into a trance. Take the energy, the chaos, and you focus it. At the peak, picture what you’re manifestin’. The chaos that you’ve built through the act is released at the moment of orgasm.” You explain, your gaze solidly locked onto the blood that swirls down your drain.

“Sex magic.” Bucky hums in thought.

Steve spoke up from beside him with a snicker. “How poetic.”

—

You hated how your hands shook. If Bucky had noticed, he hadn’t brought it up. He was coolly inspecting your tiny bedroom, hands tucked into his pockets. The room had an eclectic taste, with walls covered in shelving. You collected books, objects, trinkets, or other things that helped your work. Drying herbs hung from your curtain railings, your desk cluttered with papers you had hastily scribbled notes upon.

You ground your palm harder into the pestle, gritting your teeth as you worked the herbs inside into a fine paste. Your bed, stripped bare, had been pushed to the side of the room. It usually sat near the centre, atop a fraying rug. The rug had also been removed, rolled up, and placed somewhere in your stairway. The old wood beneath had been painted by your hand, with intricate runes, symbols, and swirls making up the general shape of a circle. You had already lined it with black salt, candles burning at each cardinal direction. At the centre of the circle, you had laid your bedding and pillows for comfort.

Bucky had sent Steve and Sam away, the two men snickering like a pair of school boys. You all knew what was about to unfold; it was just a question of why you had allowed yourself to become tangled up in such a situation. You had done similar rituals for clients before, yes, but none of those clients had been the boss of the Smog Boys. None of them had been Bucky Barnes.

You eyed him as he paused in front of the carved circle, mindlessly playing with the jewelled necklace that hung from his grip. The awful, dreadful, rotting sensation was dulled; you’d nearly begged the gangster to let you cleanse the object. It was a temporary relief that would wear down in a few hours, but at least you could complete your work without gagging at the feeling of it. You hurriedly poured the thick paste from the herbs into a pot, which boiled in your fireplace. It only took a couple of stirs for the potion to settle. You could feel Bucky’s eyes assessing your every movement as you poured the steaming liquid into two cups, briefly swirling each to ensure the consistency was correct.

“Remind me what this is.” The gangster asked, closing the distance between you. His nose wrinkled in distaste at the scent.

“A potion to help with the ritual. Some find it…hard to perform.” You say, wincing as you realise what you implied. Bucky raises a brow as you fumble over your words. “It heightens arousal and pleasure.”

“I won’t find it hard to perform.” He replies curtly.

“I know. I wasn’t saying that—I just… from experience…” You stumble again. If only you could punch yourself in the face for this idiocy.

“Relax, doll.” He hums, his hand finding your shoulder. You exhale sharply, lips pressed together, as your shoulders drop in response. “I can find someone else if you don’t want this.”

As much as you hated yourself for admitting it, you did want this. Maybe it was a sick curiosity, wondering if this dangerous yet handsome man could perform as well as you imagined, as well as it was rumoured. You swallow, your mouth feeling dry. “No. I want this.”

“Good.” His hand brushes a loose strand of hair from your face, and his head dips to look at you better. “Honestly, I could fuck you with or without the potion, doll.”

There is a knowing smirk spreading across his face as your mind blanks. Fucking rake. You consider if the fumes from the potion have already leaked their effects onto you both. You can feel a warmth growing between your legs.

“It’s my job.” You mutter, stepping away. Although you’re unsure if the reassurance is for yourself or for him. His chuckle follows you as you sweep across the room, returning to your small desk. “Do you want me to explain the ritual in detail or just give you the gist of it?”

“Spare the details; just run me through what I need to do.” He responds. He has closed the distance between the both of you again, peering over your shoulder as you fumble through your things.

“Well, it’s pretty simple.” You sigh, turning around. Your chests are nearly pressed together as you spin. You back up as far as possible, your hands moving behind your back as you grip the edge of the desk to steady yourself. "We’ll have to draw some blood with a blade and put it on the necklace to link it to our energies. It’s sigil magic, nothing you’ll have to worry about. We take the potions…”

You fade off with a shrug. Bucky smirks once more, his chin lifting in amusement, but his gaze remains solidly locked onto you. His hands go to his pockets, and his wide chest blocks your movements. You clear your throat. “The ending is more what you’ll need to focus on. When you reach… climax… you must focus all your energy on the necklace and nothing else. I will be there to guide and remind you, but you can’t let your thoughts stray.”

“What about you? What will you have to think of?” He questions, his voice low. His adams apple bobs as he swallows slowly, his tongue running across his bottom lip in thought. Intriguing question. No one had asked you that before.

“Doesn’t matter. You’re the only one who needs to orgasm.”

“Why?”

“The curse is linked to you. Only you can break it, with my assistance, of course. I am just here to help guide you and lend you my energy. I am just a conduit for the magic, to focus it.” You explain. Thinking it was best to get it over and done with, you finally pluck up the courage to push past him.

Your athame was already in place; the candles were lit, salt laid, and sigil memorised. There was only one thing left to do—the act. You crouch down by the fireplace, retrieving the two cups. Bucky gives you an incredulous look.

“It tastes better than it smells.” You reassure him, handing him the saucer. He inspects the liquid once more, wincing, then shrugging in surprise as he finally downs the lot. You watch with a scrutinising gaze as he places the cup down, rolling his shoulders.

The potion would take all of five seconds to take affect. It didn’t alter the brain or take away authority; rather, it heightened already present feelings of arousal or pleasure. The user would experience a rather euphoric sensation. Dodgy brothels often microdosed their clients with such herbs to heighten the experience. Also to hook in a new, loyal customer. Used sparingly, the herbs were fine, but they were highly addictive.

And illegal. Most of your work fell into that category.

Within moments, you could see Bucky’s pupils dilate, his jaw and shoulders relaxing, and his nostrils flaring as he exhaled slowly. His voice was strained as he spoke up, his tone gravelly and low as he cleared his throat in surprise. “Fuck. That does feel good, doesn’t it?”

You smile shyly into your own cup and swallow down the liquid. You were familiar with the taste and it’s effects. It was surprisingly sweet, with a vanilla, nutty aftertaste. As soon as it hit your stomach, you could already feel the warmth growing in your core—a delightful tingling sensation spreading up your spine and skull.

You were quick to place your cup down and cross the room to retrieve the athame. You had to pin point your actions very directly so as not to get distracted by the hulking man looming in your room. The potion was definitely potent, because any fear or anxiety had left you. Your body begged for him to come closer, to touch you, to kiss you. Not yet. Soon.

“Come here.” You murmur, drawing the blade from it’s sheath. Bucky obeys, wordlessly stalking towards you and presenting you with his palm. You look up at him through your lashes, gently taking his hand into yours. Your skin sings at the content, a rush of goosebumps raising across your skin. “We don’t need much blood.”

The gangster is still as you drag the blade in a short cut along the heel of his palm. You push into the mound, coaxing out droplets of blood to blister to the surface. “The necklace.”

He lets out a low, agreeable grunt as he hands it to you. The potion has helped you ignore any bad energy attached to the object. Your skin simmers as you brush your finger tips along the cut, gathering Bucky’s blood. You take the jewel, smearing the blood across the slippery surface into one half of a symbol. Bucky watches expectantly as you hastily repeat the process with your own hand, smearing your blood to complete the symbol.

“You need to wear it.” You hum and guide the chain over his head. You know you should find a bandage or some kind of healing salve for your hands, but your attention is pulled away as Bucky grasps your hand. An involuntary whimper leaves your throat as he raises your palm to his lips, his tongue peaking out as he runs it across the open wound. The potion had definitely taken effect. Holy fuck, your back arches as pleasure shoots down your arm, blooming at the base of your skull.

His lips kiss along the cut, sucking and licking. Your mind swims from the sensation—ideas of where else he could be putting his mouth to use. You pull your palm away, dragging it across his cheek as you cup his face. A crimson streak is smeared along his skin, and his lips are glossy from saliva and stained with your blood. The two of you clash in desperation, a rumbling groan being pulled from the gangster as his lips engulf yours.

You can taste copper on his tongue, his hands finding your waist as he pulls you flush against his body. The two of you move in a frantic rhythm, scarcely making room to breathe. You guide him clumsily to the painted circle, the two of you falling to your knees in unison. Blindly, you find his clothing, helping him tug off the jacket and then unbutton his vest.

His hands slip under your blouse, caressing the skin beneath. His fingers roam to your brassiere, your nipples hardening as he brushes them through the sleek fabric. You mewl into his mouth, squirming under his touch as the pulse between your legs quickens. His large palm comes to rest below your breasts, his thumb sitting on your sternum as he yanks you backwards onto his lap.

Your lips break, and you gasp for air as the gangster continues his assault down your neck to the exposed skin of your collarbone. His stubble tickles across your neck, and he gathers your skirts, fingers gliding past your stockings to your exposed inner thigh.

Your head tips backwards to rest on his shoulder, and loud, satisfied sighs leave you. The sensation is near blinding, your body alight with pleasure. Had you accidentally made a stronger dose in your nervousness? You had never yearned in such a way before—

“What’re you doing?” You query with a gasp as his fingers slip beneath your loose tap pants.

Your question is answered as he strokes a fingertip through your wet folds.

“You’re so wet.” He hums against your skin, voice strained. You can already feel his erection pressing into you. His grip on you remains firm, your back flush against his chest as he dips two of his fingers into you. Ecstasy fizzles across your skin, nails digging into his skin where you grip his arm.

“What’re you— I’m supposed to make you—ah!” You whine, your breath coming fast as you lean harder into him. Your hips rock greedily, pushing your pelvis in time with his pumping fingers so the heel of his palm grinds against your clit.

“Shh, doll. Relax.” He whispers, his tongue licking up the shell of your ear. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your body is locked in place by his grip. His pace increases, and the panting in your ear grows as his two digits glide in and out of your tight cunt.

“Do you like that?” He groans in your ear. Your grinding hips are now giving friction to his cock, which twitches against your backside through his pants. You whimper in response, a short sob bubbling from your mouth as you clench around him.

Your head lifts, eyes widening as you look down. You can’t see much due to your skirts, but you can feel the knot tightening within your belly. Your hips move more desperately, needy, pathetic moans escaping you as his pace remains steady.

“Please—” You beg, squirming as the gangster chuckles.

“You do like this, huh? Even if you acted like a little innocent virgin earlier.” He growls. The vibration is enough to set you over the edge, a loud cry leaving you as you clench hard around his fingers, body spasming. Bucky continues to steadily pump you through your orgasm. “Good girl.”

A continued arousal stirs in your belly at his praise. Your body slumps against him, panting and exhausted.

“Such a good girl.” He hums again, his digits slipping out of you. You can feel the sloppy mess between your thighs, and as Bucky pulls his hand into the light, you can see the wet drenching his fingers. “I think I like this version of you. The one who makes pretty little noises while I fuck her brains out, hm?”

You’re left speechless as the gangster lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a devilish smirk.

“Well, time to get this ritual over with then, don’t you think?” He says. You’re too exhausted and drunk on desire to bother replying. You allow him to guide you down, so your head is placed side-ways on one of the pillows. He guides your hips up, your legs slightly spread, and pushes your skirts to your hips.

“You’ll have to tell me when you’re close, so I can guide you.” You finally muster up the strength to say. The gangster pulls your tap pants down, exposing your cunt fully.

“Sure thing, doll.” He says in response. You hear the sound of fabric rustling as he pulls out his cock.

Without much warning, he pushes into you, your arousal making it easy for his member to slide in and out of you. A growl burns in the back of his throat while you wordlessly make a fist around the sheets and blankets beneath you.

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” Bucky groans, his voice strained. “And to think you’ve been hidin’ out in The Warrens all this time.”

He sinks deeper into you, pulling small whimpers and moans from you as he finds a steady, pleasurable rhythm. His hand slides up your clothed back, pushing you harder into the pillow with a grunt. His other hand finds your hips, his grip bruising as he guides you.

You bite down into the pillow, your pleasured sobs muffled by the feathers.

“You squeezed so tightly around my fingers; I can’t wait to see how you’ll feel when you come around my cock.” Bucky grunted as he ploughed into you. His hand fists around your loose hair, fingers tangling through the locks as he tugs. Tears are beginning to prickle in your eyes, and your legs are wobbling from the sensation.

“Please—” you gasp out.

“Please, what?” The gangster asks, tugging harder. The hand on your hip is squeezing tighter as he holds you in place.

“Please—I need to—”

“No.” He growls, tugging you upward. You fall backwards into his lap once more, his cock still inside you but somehow deeper from the angle he holds you. “You need to finish the ritual, remember? I can’t have you guide me if you’re too fucked out to talk.”

Another sob leaves you, but you wordlessly nod. You hold onto the burning sensation in your gut, the waves of satisfaction so immense that your limbs tremble. Bucky continues to fuck up into you, his cock steadily driving into you as his free hand comes to lazily swirl your swollen clit.

You try to remember words, instructions, anything. You feel too high to even breathe. All you can do is focus on the sensation of the necklace rubbing against your back and the friction burning against your skin.

“Focus on the necklace. How it feels around your neck.” You squeak out, your eyes squeezed shut, as you try to ground yourself. “Focus on the feeling of the chain, the weight of the jewel. Think of your blood, how a piece of you is painted onto it.”

There is a moment of silence between the two of you, only the slapping of skin and the rasping of breath.

“Are you focused on it?” You ask.

“Yes.” The gangster cuts back. His strokes were beginning to grow sloppy.

“Focus.” You whisper, though a breathy moan leaves you. “Feel your energy flow; feel your blood seep into the stone. Picture how it will shatter beneath your power.”

His hips jerk beneath you, his finger on your clit swirling faster. Your breath comes in sharp stutters, your back arching as you find no way to escape the rising sensation. His back is rock solid behind you, his hands keeping you in place as you begin to spiral. Your pussy tightens around him as you begin to scream—

“Please, Bucky. Please!”

Something snaps between the both of you, his hips jerking wildly as he spills into you. He moans into your ear at a deafening level, his fingers digging into your thighs. You double over in pleasure, your vision briefly going black as you cry out. Sparks dance across your skin, your body momentarily alight as the power of magic flows through you. You can feel the rush as your energy meets Bucky’s entangling with one another in a fierce battle. For a second, you feel intoxicated, colours bursting across your sight as the rush of magic rests in your chest, and then, just as quickly as it arrived, it cascades out of you.

Behind you, the sound of shattering can be heard above the moans.

Panting, Bucky releases you. You slump to the floor, off his lap. His cum drips from your pussy, thighs wet as sticky as you close your eyes, desperately trying to catch your breath. You roll onto your back, pressing your thighs together. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you look down at Bucky. He sits kneeling, dishevelled. His hair is ruffled, blood is still smeared along his cheek, and his shirt is untucked and creased.

At some point, he has tucked his cock away, suspenders hanging loosely by his hips. His gaze is not on you; rather, it is solely focused on the necklace in his palm. You go to lift your head, but you find yourself too weak and exhausted to bother. A mixture of being too fucked out to care and the lack of energy from acting as a conduit for the ritual.

“Did it work?” You ask the gangster, and his eyes finally pull up to look at you. His gaze wanders over your face, examining your swollen lips, the blush across your cheeks, and the areas where exposed skin remains. He cracks a grin, lifting his hand. The necklace dangles from his fingers, the large, blue jewel now gifted with a large crack down the centre.

You let out a sigh of relief, letting your head fall back as you stared up at the ceiling. Your eyes flicker closed, a sleepy warmth prickling across your scalp.

“Doll?”

Your eyes snap open with a jolt.

“It’s all done? The curse is gone?” The gangster questions. You weakly nod in reply.

“Her spirit and whatever curse she held have been released.” You affirm, voice sleepy, relaxing back into the pillows and blankets. “Apologies. This type of spell drains me.”

Bucky chuckles. You were just glad you had enough sense near the end to actually guide him. The gangster appeared to be attempting to prove something with the orgasms he extracted from you. In the state you were in, you had little reason to complain.

When you opened your eyes again, he was across the room, vest on and jacket slung over his arm.

“I’ll leave your payment downstairs.” He says, only pausing to look down at you, still curled up on the floor. You blink up at him sleepily. “Thanks for your help, spirit-raiser.”

You can’t find the energy to correct him.

PONY CLUB (PART 2)

167 notes · View notes

scarletskiesinthepaths · 5 months

Text

Levi’s Childhood: “Bad Boy”, The Underground, Kuchel, and Kenny—What Are the Implications?

Content Warning: Discussion of rape, sexual abuse, and sex trafficking

“Bad Boy” makes it even more explicitly clear that the Underground was no place for a child. From the “Bad Boy” panels alone, it is evident that Levi likely had constant people preying on him at all times—especially before he awakened his Ackerman powers. All these men Levi encounters here had no issue beating a child to (near) death or selling him into sexual slavery. Similar to the way it is portrayed in the “A Choice with No Regrets” storyline, the Underground is also described by Levi as “hopelessly dirty” with “rotten air”.

It is significant to note here that Levi was well-known for being a prostitute’s son; all of those men were aware of Levi’s relation to Kuchel, even before Levi himself made it clear. They wanted to traffic him for that reason. In terms of speculation, it is very believable and even highly probable that Levi experienced sexual assault and rape before he awakened. Having grown up in a brothel with his mom, and now further seeing how common sex trafficking in the Underground was and also Levi’s infamy for being a prostitute’s son—there is no doubt that Levi was exposed to extreme levels of sexual violence regularly, whether it be him being witness to it, him experiencing the direct threat of it such as in “Bad Boy,” or him experiencing the actual act. The trauma of this is impossible to overstate. It seems the most likely, however, that Levi has had direct personal experience with the act itself, as men would have likely continued visiting “Olympia” after she died (and before Kenny appeared), and upon discovering she was no longer a viable option to have sex with, some of those men would have set their sights on Levi, who was a helpless child in the process of starving to death.

The men in “Bad Boy” spoke about Levi as if he was born strictly to live a life of sexual slavery, referring to him as a “whore’s child” and discussing how they’d be able to profit from making him do the same job as his mother, saying he may have “inherited her talents”. Levi had probably heard this sort of language used in his presence before. As such, it would not be surprising if Levi had learned to expect this sort of treatment, as if he was placed in the world solely to suffer. Levi would have sought out a reason for this—why must he constantly be subjected to suffering? Is it because there is something wrong with him? If that’s the case, what specifically is wrong with him? It is important to consider as well that Levi’s entire sense of identity at this point was wrapped up in being the son of a prostitute and being raised by a serial killer, who may or may not have been his father.

The violence Levi was subjected to in “Bad Boy,” such as having his head repeatedly smashed against the ground with a fist, would have most certainly resulted in his death, or at the very least, permanent brain damage, had Levi’s powers not awakened in that moment. However, what’s notable to me during all of this is the absence of Kenny’s presence. This indicates that Kenny would leave Levi alone in the Underground for significant enough periods of time that Levi still had the opportunity to find himself in situations of extreme danger, situations such that would have resulted in his death. Given what we know about Levi’s childhood from Kenny’s recollection of it in the main series, Kenny would subject Levi to fights against fully grown men in order to develop Levi’s combat skills and likely prompt his awakening. It is also clear in these “Bad Boy” panels that Levi already knew how to fight, given the way he initially tried to protect himself from being beaten by all those men. He was, however, helpless in protecting himself, given the deep disadvantage he had from being a child, as well as being faced against multiple opponents. Levi’s combat skills after his awakening also demonstrated he already had significant training. The responsible thing for an adult in Kenny’s position would have been to, not teach Levi how to fight, but remove him from the environment that necessitated that knowledge in the first place.

Needless to say, this practice was cruel and immensely abusive. The amount of psychological damage and self-worth issues this would undoubtedly cause Levi are immeasurable. It was Kenny’s responsibility to protect Levi’s childhood innocence, but it is because of Kenny’s actions (and inactions) that Levi was placed in a position of having to kill multiple men as a young child. Kenny may have saved Levi from the imminent death of starvation, but his abuse and abandonment ultimately caused Levi more harm than good in the long-run; he taught and exposed Levi to a life of violence. Indeed, Kenny wanted Levi to be a force for violence. That is all he ever modeled for Levi and desired from him, even though he had the capability of sparing Levi from such experiences. However, it speaks to Levi’s innate goodness that he still loved Kenny after all he was made to suffer by him and even forgave Kenny by the end.

The awakening of Levi’s powers demonstrated to Levi the idea that he was an agent of destruction and a monster. Recall back to the moment during the “Uprising” arc when a man accuses Levi of being such and Levi simply responds, “Maybe I am”. Levi’s awakening was described by Levi as a form of dissociation, as if he was not fully aware of what he was doing. Consider his words here: “I didn’t think it was strange that something had happened to me at the time. The pain in my head disappeared and I felt calm, as if my head was submerged in water. And the idea of what to do came to mind. But I just followed the instinct and acted accordingly.” And yet, Levi likely blames himself for the brutality of which he killed his attackers, despite acting in self-defense and having no other recourse. It was an answer to his question: what is wrong with him? He must be a monster. Being forced into such a situation as a child would instill this view in Levi that he was born into his life only to bring suffering to others. That is why he suffers in turn.

This perception of an inner monstrosity in Levi is furthered by what the man in the glasses tells him directly after this: “Stop doing things that will make your mother in heaven sad!” Levi’s impression of Kuchel, his mother, was the one thing that brought him comfort in his life. He remembered her “elegant” posture. With these man’s words, even that one comfort was lost to Levi. Now the thought of his mother would instead be associated with the idea that she would view him as bad—that she would have seen his “murderous” actions and would cast judgment on him. This is completely incorrect, of course. The only reason Levi even awakened his strength was because he was protecting his mom’s image from the cruel words the men were speaking against her. Levi was severely beaten to near death, all because he loved his mom essentially. Think of the tragedy of that; Levi was directly punished for loving someone. This further demonstrates that innate goodness in Levi—how he continues to love and care about others, despite the immense suffering it’s brought him over and over. To further the tragedy of all this, it is evident that Levi still views his mother with fondness, in spite of the belief that she would hate him. Levi purposely seeks out the brothel in which he grew up with her, undoubtedly filled with countless awful and traumatic memories, in order to feel closer to her presence.

After Levi’s awakening, Levi soon after finds himself in yet another fight, and it is this moment that Levi watches as Kenny walks away and abandons him forever. Levi thought Kenny wanted him to become strong. He thought his strength would earn him Kenny’s acceptance, but instead, he was met with his rejection. If Kenny still didn’t love him even after becoming strong, that once again proved to Levi that there was something deeply wrong with him. Similar to the way Levi would come to associate his strength as the thing responsible for making him a “killer” and ruining his mother’s perception of him, Levi would likely form the association that his physical strength led directly to Kenny abandoning him. Moreover, what was the purpose of his strength? Levi did not want to use it to bring suffering to others.

Levi discovered on his own that his strength could be used to help others—to protect. This is incredibly significant because Levi was literally taught the opposite his whole life: that it made him a monster, that its only purpose was for saving himself and bringing death and destruction—he was taught even that that’s something he should desire. Somehow, despite all that, Levi still found a way to use his strength for the benefit of others. Although, this highlights a further tragedy in Levi. As demonstrated earlier, Levi was taught that it was the normal state of the world, the status quo, for him to be abused; he learned that this treatment of him was, not only happening because it was something he was somehow meant for, but also happening because he was some abnormal monster. Levi desiring to use his strength for others does not negate Levi’s own negative perception of himself. All of the events in Levi’s childhood taught Levi that he had no worth, and that is indeed the way we see Levi treat himself throughout the entire series.

Levi never once defends himself against people’s cruel words against him. Think back to the way Mikasa said it was Levi’s fault that they had lost Eren in the “Female Titan” arc directly after Levi had lost his entire squad; think of the way Levi accepts Dieter’s words against him and Erwin about being “devoid of humanity” in the aftermath of the Female Titan’s attack; think of how Levi accepts the negative way the people of Trost and the merchants were speaking against him; and as mentioned earlier, think of the way Levi accepts being called a monster during “Uprising”. Levi directly refers to himself as “abnormal” as well during that same arc. There are countless more examples of this. Levi fights during the Battle of Heaven and Earth, despite being grievously injured already. It is because of this that he ultimately ends up in a wheelchair. Levi fights for other people to the complete detriment of himself. That is pure selflessness. Levi treats himself as completely devoid of worth, despite seeing so much worth in others. As such, Levi dedicates everything he has, even if it would result in severe damage to himself; he views himself as expendable. It is clear too that Levi views himself as unclean from all the blood he has on his hands and all the filth he was surrounded by growing up. It was his “dirty” hands after all that killed all those men and led to his mom’s teacup breaking at the end of "Bad Boy"; a sign of his inner badness.

197 notes · View notes

skaruresonic · 11 months

Text

The common rebuttal to "this reads like fanfic (derogatory)" is "read better fanfic," which is true in certain cases, but on the other hand, there is some grain of truth to the idea that you can tell when someone's primary mode of literary analysis is fanfic instead of... well... literally anything else. It's okay to like or even prefer fanfic, but if you want to take your craft seriously you also need to read books, dude. Published books will teach you a lot of stuff fanfic doesn't, like proper dialogue formatting and how to introduce your reader to unfamiliar characters. Even the crappiest book (well, if it's not After or 50 Shades, which started off as fanfic to begin with lol) will have been subjected to some sort of editing process to ensure at least the appearance of proper grammar. That's not a guarantee with your average fanfic, and hence why you can't always take all your writing cues from fanfic because it's "so much better" than commercially published original fiction or whatever. Frankly, fic writers tend to peddle some absolutist and downright bad takes sometimes. "Said is dead" is a terrible rule, though not because said is invisible and a perfectly serviceable tag; that's just part of it. Dialogue tags are a garnish, not a main dish that can be swapped out for more ostentatious words. If your characters murmur and mutter instead of simply saying stuff, your readers are going to wonder why nobody speaks up. "'I'm explaining some very plot-important shit right now lol,' she elaborated," likewise, is a form of telling. Instead of letting the reader extrapolate that "she elaborated" via the contents of the dialogue itself, you're telling them what to think about it. And that's why it's distracting: your authorial hand is showing. Writing is an act of camouflage. You, as the writer, need to make your presence as invisible as possible so as to not intrude on the reader's suspension of disbelief. That's the driving reason behind "show, don't tell." And overall, everyone could stand to cut down on the frequency of their dialogue tags anyway. Not every exchange needs "he said" or "she whispered" attached as long as you establish who is doing the talking before the exchange. Some people will complain of confusion if you go on for too long without a dialogue tag, and that definitely is a risk, but at some point you also need to resist the temptation of holding the reader's hand. If they can't follow a conversation between two people, chances are they weren't meeting you halfway and paying that much attention in the first place. In fact, you don't even necessarily need action beats in between every piece of dialogue, as Tumblr writing advice posts will often suggest as a fix. Pruning things often cleans them up just fine.

Another fanfic-influenced trend in writing is, I guess, beige prose? A heavy focus on internal narration with lots of telling. It's not a style I can concretely describe, but every time I click on a non-mutual's writing, I feel like it always has, like. This "samey" voice to it. There's no real attempt to experiment and use unique or provocative language, or even imagery half the time. It's almost a dry recital of narration that doesn't leave much room for subtext. I see this style most often in fanfic where you can meander and wax poetic about how the characters feel without ever really getting around to the plot. And it's like. DO something.

Other tells that the author is taking their cues from fanfic mores rather than books: >>too much minute description of eyes, especially their color and their movement >>doesn't leave much room for subtext (has a character speak their every thought aloud instead of letting the reader infer what they're thinking via action or implication) >>too much stage action ("X looked at Y. Y moved to push their seat in. X took a deep breath and stepped toward Y with a determined look on his face. 'We need to talk,' he said.") >>tells instead of shows, even when the example is about showing instead of telling ("he clenched his teeth in agony" instead of just "he clenched his teeth") >>has improper dialogue tag formatting, especially with putting full stops where there should be commas ("'Lol and lmao.' she said" instead of "'Lol and lmao,' she said." This one drives me up a wall) >>uses too many dialogue tags >>"em dashes, semi-colons and commas, my beloved" - I get the appeal but full stops are your friends. Too much alternate punctuation makes your writing seem stilted and choppy. >>"he's all tousled brown hair and hard muscle" and "she's all smiles and long legs." This turn of phrase is so cliche, it drives me up a wall. Find less trite ways of describing your characters pls. >>"X released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding" >>every fucking Hot Guy ever is described as lean and sinewy >>sobbing. why is everyone sobbing. some restraint, pls >>Tumblr in general tends to think a truism counts as good writing if you make the most melodramatic statement possible (bonus: if it's written in a faux-archaic way), garnish it with a hint of egotism, and toss in allusions to the Christian God, afterlife, or death. ("I will stare God in the face and walk backwards into hell," "What is a god to a nonbeliever?") It's indicative of emotional immaturity imo, that every emotional truth need be expressed That Intensely in order to resonate with people. >>pushes the "Oh." moment as the pinnacle of Romantic Epiphany >>Therapy Speak dialogue. why is this emotionally constipated forty-something man who drinks himself stupid every morning to escape gruesome war memories speaking about his trauma like a clinical psychologist >>"this well-established kuudere should Show More Emoshun. I want him to break down crying on his love interest's shoulder from all his repressed trauma" - I am begging u. stop >>"why don't the characters just talk to each other?" "why can't we have healthy relationships?" I don't know, maybe because fiction is not supposed to be a model for reality and perfect communication makes for boring drama?

>>improperly using actions as dialogue tags ("'Looks like we're going hunting,' he grinned") >>why is everyone muttering and murmuring. speak up >>too many adverbs, especially "weakly" and "shakily." use stronger verbs. ("trembled" instead of "shook weakly") >>too many epithets ("the younger man" or "the brunette detective") >>too many filter words ("he felt," "she thought," "I remembered")

>>no, Tumblr, first-person POV is not the devil; you're just using way too many filter words (see above) and not enough sentence variation to make it flow well enough. First-person POV is an actually pretty good POV (not just for unreliable and self-aware narrators) if you know what you're doing and a lot of fun crafting an engaging character voice. Tumblr's hatred of first-person baffles me, and all I can think is you would only hate it if your only frame of reference was, like, My Immortal. Have you tried reading A Book? First-person POV is just another tool in your toolbox, and like all tools, it can be used properly or improperly. But it's not inherently a marker of bad writing. The disdain surrounding it strikes me as about as sensical as making fun of the concept of characters. Oh, your work has characters in it? Ew, I automatically click off a fic if it has characters in it. like what.

#writing #obligatory disclaimer that I am speaking broadly and this is in no way intended to make anyone feel self-conscious

422 notes · View notes

raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year

Text

savanaclaw light novel: the importance of introspection

I’ve previously discussed how TWST benefits from telling us the same story across different mediums. Different mediums provide different benefits over others, and some can “patch up” rougher bits of story or add more detail to them. The game is interactive and serves as a baseline for most new content. The manga is able to have far more freedom of movement and expression due to being visual-heavy. And last, but not least, a light novel, which is mostly text, has the boon of letting us see more of each character’s thoughts and feelings. We can elaborate on what the game already established and understand the characters on a deeper level.

I would say that the light novel’s format will most benefit the OB boys, as they are the ones who will go through the biggest character arcs in the main story. Because the game’s story is told via mostly dialogue and some sound effects, we rarely, if ever, get a clear understanding of what the OB boys are truly thinking and feeling outside of their brief post-OB flashbacks. The same goes for the manga, which has limited pages to tell its story, so it has to keep a certain pace. But a light novel? Well, you can go ham there with an omniscient narrator.

Today, I want to talk about Leona’s expanded post-OB introspection in the second volume of the light novel as an example of this. Then I will combine it with the information we have from the game and see how the light novel complements what already we know of his character thanks to hindsight. (I’ll be referencing this fan translation if you want to read and follow along!)

First thing’s first! From the game, we know that Leona enrolled in Night Raven College one year late (and then got held back a year, which makes sense considering he is 20 in the main story present). He didn't find a use in attending school since he, by royal birth, was able to afford all the best tutors in the world and didn't think NRC had anything left to teach him. In Leona's Birthday Boy vignettes, he further specifies that he decided to enroll at NRC after Cheka was born. As Leona says in his post-OB flashback in-game, Cheka's birth means "the despised second son loses what little claim he had to the throne forever", essentially putting an end to his hopes. This would imply that this specific change in circumstance was the push that made Leona want to physically distance himself from home. Furthermore, it's supported by Leona's other behaviors: he does not take calls or read letters from home if he can help it (implied by Cheka asking why Leona doesn't answer his letters and Cheka calling on Halloween night to catch up with him; Leona lies and quickly hangs up), he makes excuses to avoid going home (as Kifaji states), etc. If we want to extrapolate even more, how is it that Leona, second born prince, initially crossed paths with Ruggie, who was born and raised in the slums (which, I imagine, must be quite some distance away from the royal palace)? This makes me think that even before Leona enrolled at NRC he would leave his housing and roam around, finding alternative places to stay because home just felt too uncomfortable and suffocating for him. There's also the implication that Leona often brooded over his circumstances, as he confesses to thinking about it and going to NRC to get his mind away from the tired cycle--although he also acknowledges that he's running away from "the pain" of having lost the throne.

The distancing would prove itself to be beneficial to his mental health, as Leona cites that his heart started feeling lighter, his restlessness dulled, and his pain numbed. With the throne out of sight, so, too, was it out of mind, and his longing softened. But that same haunting despair returns when another group starts to place expectations on him. This time, it's no longer the palace servants, but his own dorm members. Instead of fear and derision, his new pack looks at him, their "king", with desperateness--and, more importantly, hope. Speaking about the future with sparkling eyes. That, in turn, made Leona hopeful too. He can't let these people who look up to him and rely on him down, so he must do anything to win. That's all he ever wanted: to win, just this once. No matter what, he wants to win.

But when Leona's plans crumble, that crushing sense of despair rears its ugly head. He fails. And he suddenly understands that all his efforts will always amount to nothing, that they will always be meaningless, that there is no future for him. Leona's hopes have been dashed. He has been struck down by the world once again, just as he had started to climb up, fighting tooth and nail, to prove himself. Yet when defeat came, he also claims it doesn't bother him as much as he thought he would--perhaps because he's so accustomed to not winning, because maybe this is the outcome he had expected all along in the deepest recesses of his heart. That familiar disappointment begins to hurt him once more, and Leona wants to forget it all, to retreat to the shadows and to lick his wounds, to be far away from that pain.

One interesting new detail we glean from the light novel is that Leona is terrified by his dorm mates staring at him with hopeful eyes. It's not their expectations he's inherently scared of, but what those expectations can do to him. Leona is scared of himself, of being motivated by others to act, to never give up hope, when he still anticipates being beat down again and again by a world that rejects him and denies him. He even goes so far as to say he would be pathetic if he let his dorm mates' words inspire him and keep his waning hope alive. Ruggie, who had wanted to turn the world upside down together. Jack, who was inspired by his play three years back. All the mobs putting faith in their futures on him, their one and only leader. With so many people looking to him, how can he not be swayed by that positivity that had once been so elusive to him? How could that not ignite what little spark of hope is left in him? And that's exactly what Leona finds so dangerous about it. He's lived almost his entire life being put in his place, hurt every time he tried to demonstrate what he could do, how he could contribute--yet time and time again, here comes life, tempting him to try again, just to inevitably be compared to his brother and kicked down, delivering another blow to his pride and his self-image. Leona truly seems to hate himself for not being able to let go of that small fragment of hope he has left. He wants so badly to give up and not have to worry anymore about something he can never obtain. He's so tired of struggling and suffering for nothing. If he just caved, then he would never be hurt again. He can't be hurt if he doesn't care about anything. Yet no matter how much he wishes or tries, he can't run far enough away to detach himself from those expectations of grandeur, of being something more.

There's been many fan theories about Leona's mental health in circulation well before the release of this light novel, many of which mention self-loathing in spite of how proud and confident he typically presents as. You'd have to read in-between the lines of dialogue from the game to draw these clues out, whereas the light novel lays it more bare to you. It hits very differently reading hateful statements made by the character to himself. Leona calls himself all sorts of things: a fool, pathetic, insignificant, boring. That he isn't strong, that he isn't wise, that he's not loved. (In the in-game flashback, Leona also talks in a self-deprecating way, but to a far lesser extent than in the light novel; we also see that Falena does his best to discourage Leona from this kind of behavior.) That this is who he is, that it's the one thing he's afraid to admit and accept--but he also says he lacks the "strength" to give up. That's why Leona would rather run away than confront that potential truth. The option to embrace complete nihilism just isn't possible for him, because he can't just quash that pesky little thing called hope. This is much more complex than what's explained in the games and demonstrates a maturity and degree of self-reflection from Leona that we've never seen before. What's more, this gives us brand new context with which to view many of his other seemingly mundane actions mentioned in the game. At face value, Leona often acts very callously and doesn't care to help others unless he gets some kind of benefit from it (like agreeing to poof the contracts in book 3 just because he has his own deal he wants to get rid of). We see this time and time again when he instructs others reliant on him or less knowledgeable than he is in various matters where he is well-read and experienced with. For example, he takes note of his club members' strengths and weaknesses and offers tailored advice to help them improve their play. He tells others how to mine magestones of an adequate size in Vargas Camp. Maybe he's just doing these things to make the circumstances easier for himself (so he can put forth less effort to leading them in a game, or so he can nap heartily). But from what we've just learned from the light novel, now I'm suspecting a different secondary motive.

What if... Leona is, in part, encouraging and helping others to hone their own skills to subconsciously compensate for what he doesn't believe he himself is capable of? Because there's still so much hope for his dorm mates, for his underclassmen... (and, let's not forget, it was those in Savanaclaw that first motivated Leona to "try" again for the first time in forever) but he doesn't have that same amount of hope for himself. I get these vibes as late as book 6, when Leona and Jamil have a talk. In their conversation, Leona directs many pointed, blunt words at Jamil--words that could very easily also be thrown back at Leona's face and be applicable to his book 2 self. He accuses Jamil of making excuses so he won't have to actually act, just as Leona has continuously run away from uncomfortable situations to put himself at ease. At one point, I believe Leona event states that Jamil “*isn’t like [me]”, Here, again, it can be argued that we're seeing Leona's self-awareness on display, as well as a willingness to warn others to not follow down the same path he once treaded, to lose all hope in the future. Again, it's done with a double purpose: the other one being to get Jamil out of his way while they're exploring. And (of course) Leona's way of expressing his message is gruff and not very warm, not to Jamil and certainly not to himself. He's become prickly and defensive himself after all of his experiences--but that just adds to the complexity of his character when we synthesize what we know of him from TWST multimedia.

I really wish a lot of what was in the light novel post-Leona OB was also in the game. It would have helped to flesh out Leona's motivations and fears, which book 2 was sorely needing. As he is presented now, he appears shallow and selfish in his goals, and we don't fully understand the emotions spurring him on, a lot of which is genuine self-loathing and the sinking despair that comes with thinking you're not enough and you'll never be enough. That would have been so much more relatable than the in-game Leona having himself a pity party with a great amount of emphasis on the throne--a throne which, in actuality, just symbolizes a desire for recognition, love, and acceptance. It was never about explicitly being king. It was about being seen as his own person and appreciated for it instead of being admonished and compared to his exalted older brother.

Now, as an adult, Leona has become someone who pushes away those who try to give him that which he craves. He sees a lot of people--his own family and his dorm mates, the closest thing he has to friends--as dangers to his own mental wellbeing. He's scared to let them in, so he's built up these emotional, arrogant walls around himself. Think at how often he rejects advice from Falena and refuses Cheka's affection for him. Look at how this behavior extends beyond those who are keeping him from a literal throne and to his classmates. They instill hope in him, hope which scares Leona. The things he has wanted all his life are now poison that chips away at him. Considering all of that together, it makes Leona's story far more tragic than how it was initially shown to us in the game alone. But guess what? That can also become his strength, fuel for his character arc. Leona isn't running anymore. He's actually returning home for winter break in book 4. He's determined to not get held back again. He's committing to an internship in a field (an energy lab) which will immensely help his country (which is rich in natural resources). All of this, coming from a young man who once acted bitter when his older brother suggested that there were many things Leona could do with his intelligence to benefit their homeland. Leona is making slow strides and steady progress toward a future he used to think was unattainable for him. From that darkness, he's rising anew--like the sun upon the savanna.

763 notes · View notes

literary-illuminati · 9 months

Text

Book Review 68 - Babel by R. F. Kuang

Overview

I came to Babel with extremely little knowledge about the actual contents of the book but a deep sense of all the vibes swirling around its reception – that it was robbed of a Hugo nomination (if the author didn’t outright refuse it), that it’s probably the single buzziest and most Important sf/f release of 2022, that it was stridently political, and plenty more besides. I also went in having mostly enjoyed The Poppy War series and being absolutely enamoured by the elevator pitch of an alternate history Industrial Revolution where translation is literally magic. And, well-

It is wrong to say I hated this book, but only because keeping track of my complaints and starting organize this review in my head was entertaining enough to keep me invested in the reading experience.

The story is set in an alternate 1830s, where the rise of the British Empire relies upon the dominance of its translators, as it is the mixture of translation and silverworking, the inscription of match-pairs in different languages on bars of worked silver and the leveraging of the ambiguity and loss of meaning between them that fuels the world’s magic. The protagonist is pluckted from his childhood home in Canton after his family dies in a cholera outbreak and whisked away to the estate of Professor Lowell, an Oxford translator he quickly realized is his unacknowledged father. He’s made to choose an English name (Robin Swift) and raised and tutored as a future translator in service to the Empire.

The meat of the story is focused on Robin’s education in Oxford, his relationship with the rest of his cohort, and his growing radicalization and entanglement with the revolutionary Hermes Society. Things come to a head when in his fourth year the cohort is sent back to Canton to, well, help provoke the first Opium War, though none of them aware of that. The final act follows the fallout of that, by which I mean it lives up to the full title of “Or the Necessity of Violence: An Arcane History of the Oxford Translators' Revolution”.

To be clear, this was technically a very accomplished book. The writing never dragged and the prose was, if not exactly lyrical, always clear and often evocative. Despite the breadth of space and time the story covers, I never had any complaints about the pacing – and honestly, the ending was, dramatically speaking, one of the more natural and well-executed ones I’ve read recently. It’s very well-constructed.

All that being said – allow me to apologize for how the rest of this is mostly just going to be a litany of complaints. But the book clearly believes itself to be an important and meaningful work of political art, which means I don’t feel particularly bad about holding it to high standards.

Narrative Voice

To start with, just, dear god the tone. This is a book with absolutely zero faith in its audience’s ability to reach their own conclusions, or even follow the symbolism and implication it lays down. Every important point is stated outright, repeated, and all but bolded and underlined. In this book set in 1830s England there are footnotes fact-checking the imperialists talking heads to, I guess, make sure we don’t accidentally become convinced by their apologia for the slave trade? Everything is just relentlessly didactic, in a way that ended up feeling rather insulting even when I agreed with the points Kuang was making.

More than that, and this is perhaps a more subjective complaint but – for an ostensible period piece, the narrative voice and perspective just felt intensely modern? This was theoretically an omniscient third person book, with the narrative voice being pretty distinct from any of the actual characters – with the result that the implicit narrator was instead the sort of person of spends six hours a day getting into arguments on twitter and for this effort calls themselves a progressive activist. The identities of all the characters – as delivered by the objective narration – were all very neat and legible from the perspective of someone at a 2022 HR department listing how diverse their team was, which was somewhere between a tragic lost opportunity to show how messy and historical racial/ethnic/national identities are and outright anachronistic, depending. (This was honestly one of the bigger disappointments, coming from Kuang’s earlier work. Say what you will of The Poppy War series, the narration is with Rin all the way down, and it trusts the reader enough not to blink.) More than that it was just distracting – the narration ended up feeling like an annoying obstacle between me and the story, and not in any fun postmodern way either.

Characters

Speaking of the cast – they simply do not sound or feel like they actually grew up in the 19th century. Now, some modernization of speech patterns and vocabulary and moral commensense is just the price of doing business with mass market period pieces, granted, but still – no 19th century Anglo-Indian revolutionary is going use the phrase ‘Narco-military state’ (if for no other reason than we’re something like a century early for ‘narco-state’ to be coined as a term at all). An even beyond feeling out of time most of the characters feel kind of thinly sketched?

Or no, it’s not that the characters are thinly sketched so much as their relationships are. We’re repeatedly, insistently told that these four students are fast friends and closer than family and would happily die for each other, but we’re very rarely actually shown it. This is partly just a causality of trying to skim over a four-year university education in the middle third of one book, I think, but still – the good times and happy moments are almost always sort of skimmed over, summarized in the course of a paragraph or two that usually talk in terms of memories and consequences more than the relationships themselves. The points of friction and the arguments, meanwhile, are usually played out entirely on the page, or at least described in much more detail. In the end you kind of have to just take it as read that any of these people actually love each other, given that at least two of them seem to be feuding at any given point for the entire time they know each other.

Letty deserves some special attention. She’s the only white member of Robin’s cohort at Babel and she honestly feels like less of acharacter and more a collection of tropes about white women in progressive spaces? Even more than the rest, it’s hard to believe the rest of the class views her as beloved ride-or-die found family when essentially every time she’s on screen it’s so she can do a microagression or a white fragility or something. Also, just – you know how relatively common it is to see just, blatantly misogynistic memes repackaged as anti-racist because it specifies ‘white women’? There’s a line in this that almost literally says ‘Letty wasn’t doing anything to disprove the stereotype of woman as uselessly emotional and hysteric’.

Also, she’s the one who ends up betraying the other three and trying to turn them in when they turn revolutionary. Which is probably inevitable given the book’s politics, but as it happened felt like less of the shocking betrayal that it was supposed to be and more just, checking off a box for a dramatic reverse. Of course she turned on them, none of them ever really seemed to even like each other.

As a Period Piece

So, the book is set in the 1830s, in the midst of the industrial revolution and its social fallout, and the leadup to the First Opium War (which is, through the magic of, well, magic ,but also mercantilist economics, make into a synecdoche for British global dominion more broadly). On the one hand, the setting is impeccably researched, recent and relevant historical events are referenced whenever they would come up, and the footnotes are full to bursting with quotes and explanations of texts or cultural ephemera that’s brought up in the narration.

On the other, the setting doesn’t feel authentic in the slightest, the portrayal of the British Empire is bizarrely inconsistent, and all that richly researched historical grounding ends up feeling less like a living world and more like a particularly well-down set for a Doctor Who episode.

The story is incredibly focused around Oxford as a city and a university. There’s a whole author’s note about the research and slight changes made into its geography and I absolutely believe its portrayal as a physical location and the laws about how women were treated and how the different colleges were organized and all that is exactly as accurate as Kuang wanted them to be. The issue is really the people. With the exception of a few cartoonish villains who barely get more than a couple pages apiece, no one feels, sounds like, or acts like they actually belong in the 19th century. The racism the protagonists struggle with all feels much more 21st century than Victorian, and the frame of mind everyone inhabits still comes across more as ‘unusually blatantly racist Englishman’ than 19th century scholars and polymaths.

This is especially blatant as far as religion goes. It’s occasionally mentioned, sure enough, but to the extent anyone actually believes in Christianity it’s of a very modern and disenchanted sort – this is a society that sends out missionaries as a conscious tool of colonial expansion, not because of anything as silly or absurd as actually wanting to spread their gospel. Also like, it’s Oxford, in the nineteenth century. For all the racism the protagonists have to deal with, they should be getting so much more shit from ‘well-meaning’ locals and students trying to save their (one Muslim, one atheist, one probably Christian but black and protective of Haitian Vodou on a cultural level which would be more than enough) souls.

Or, and this is more minor, it is a central conceit of the whole finale that if a few (like, two) determined revolutionaries can infiltrate Babel they’ll be able to take the entire place hostage with barely any trouble. This is because the students and professors there are, basically, whimpy bookworms who’ll faint at the sight of blood and have no stomach for the sort of violence their work actually supports and drives. Which – look, I really don’t want to defend the ruling class of Victorian Britain here, but I’m not sure physical cowardice is really one of their failings, as a group? I mean, there’s an entire system of institutionalized child abuse in the boarding schools they went to to get them used to taking and dealing out violence and abuse. Basically every upper-class sport is thinly disguised military drill or ritual combat (okay, or rowing). Half of them would graduate to immediately running off and invading places for the glory of the queen. I’m not sure two sleep-deprived nerds with knives would actually have been able to cow the crowd here, is what I’m saying. (This would stick out less if the text wasn’t so dripping with contempt for them on precisely these grounds.)

Much less minor are our heroic revolutionaries themselves. And okay, this is more a matter of taste than anything but like – the Hermes Society is an illegal conspiracy of renegade current and former Babel scholars dedicated to using their knowledge of magic and access to university resources to oppose and undermine the British Empire in general and the work of the school in particular. Think Metternich’s worse nightmare, but in Oxford instead of Paris and focused on colonial liberation (continental Europe barely exists for the purposes of the book, Britain is Empire.) So! A secret society of professional revolutionaries in the heydey of just that, with a name that just has to be Hermetic symbolism, who concern themselves with both high politics and metaphysics.

They are just so very, very boring. This is the age of the Conspiracy of the Equals, the Carbonari, the Seasons! The literal Illumanti are still within living memory! Where’s the pageantry, the ritual, the grandiosity? The elaborate initiation rituals and oaths of undying loyalty? They’re so pragmatic, so humble, so (and I know I keep coming back to this) modern. It’s just such an utter wasted opportunity. Even beyond the level of aesthetics, these are revolutionaries with remarkably little positive ideology – the oppose colonialism and racism for reasons they take as self-evident and so don’t feel the need to theorize about it (and talk about them with the vocabulary of a modern activist, because of course they do), but they’re pretty much consciously agnostic as to what world should look like instead. They vaguely end up supporting a sort of petty-bourgeois socialism (in the Marxist sense), but the alliance with Luddites is essentially political convenience – they really don’t seem to have any vision of the future at all, either in England or the various places they claim as homelands.

On Empire and Industrialization

The story is set during the early nineteenth century, so of course the Industrial Revolution is a pretty core part of the background. The Silver Industrial Revolution, technically, since the Babellers translation magic is in this world a key and load-bearing part of it. Despite the addition of miracle-working enhancers and supports to its fundamental technology, the industrial revolution plays out pretty identically to history – right down to the same cities becoming hubs of industry, despite steam engines using enchanted silver instead of coal and thus, presumably, the entire economic and logistical system that brought this particular cities to prominence being totally unrecognizable. This is not a book that’s in any way actually about tracing how something would change history – which isn’t a complaint, to be clear, that’s a perfectly valid creative choice.

It does, however, make it rather galling that the single actually significant difference to history is that the introduction of magic turns the industrial revolution into a Legend of Zelda boss with a giant glowing weak point you can hit to destroy the whole enterprise.

On a narrative level, I get it – it simplifies things and allows for a far happier and more dramatic ending if destroying Babel is not just a symbolic act but also literally sends London Bridge falling down and scuttles the entire royal navy and every mill and factory in Britain. It’s just that I think that by doing so it trades away any chance for actually making interesting commentary on anti-colonial and -capitalist resistance. A world where a single act of spectacular terrorism really can destroy a modern empire is frankly so detached from our world that it ceases to be able to really materially comment upon it.

Like, the principle reason to not take the Luddites as your role models is not that they were morally vicious but that they were doomed – capitalism’s ability to repair damage to infrastructure and fixed goods is legitimately very impressive! Trying to force an entire ruling class not to adopt a technology that makes whoever commits to it tremendous amounts of money (thus, power) is a herculean task even when you have a state apparatus and standing army – adding an ‘off’ button to the lot of it just trades all sense of relevance for a satisfyingly cathartic ending.

(This is leaving untouched how the book just takes it as a given that the industrial revolution was a strictly immiserating force that did nothing but redistribute money from artisans to capitalists. Which certainly tracks as something people at the time would have thought but given how resolutely modern all the other politics in the work are rings really weirdly.)

All of which is only my second biggest issue with how the book presents its successful resistance movement. It all pales in comparison to making the Empire a squeamish paper tiger.

Like, the book hates colonialism in general and the British Empire in particular, the narrative and footnotes are filled with little asides about various atrocities and injustices and just ways it was racist or complicit in some particular atrocity. But more than that it is contemptuous of it, it views the empire as (as the cliche goes) a perpetually rotting edifice that just needs one good kick; that it persists only through the myth of its own invincibility, and has no stomach for violent resistance from within. Which is absolutely absurd, and the book does seem to know it on occasion when it off-handedly mentions e.g. the Peterloo Massacre – but a character whose supposed to be the grizzled cynical pragmatic revolutionary still spouts off about how slave rebellions succeed because their masters aren’t willing to massacre their own property. Which is just so spectacularly wrong on every axis its actually almost offensive.

More importantly, the entire final act of the story relies upon the fact that the British Empire would allow a handful of foreign students seize control of a vital piece of infrastructure for weeks on end and do nothing but try to wait them out as the national physically falls apart around them. Like, c’mon, there would be siege artillery set up and taking shots by the end of week two. As with the Oxford students, the Victorian elite had all manner of flaws – take your pick, really – but squeamishness wasn’t really one of them.

On Magic

So the magical system underlying the whole story is – you know how Machinaries of Empire makes imperial ideology and metaphysics literally magical, giving expert technicians the ability to create superweapons and destroy worlds provided that the Hexarchate’s subjects observe the imperial calendar of rites and celebrate its triumphs/participate in rituals glorying in the torture of its ‘heretics’? It’s not exactly a subtle metaphor, but it works.

Babel does something similar, except the foundational atrocity fueling the engine of empire on a metaphysical level is, like, cultural appropriation. As an organizing metaphor, I find this less compelling.

Leaving that aside, the story makes translation literally capable of miracle-working – which of necessity requires making ‘languages’ distinct natural categories with observable metaphysical boundaries. It then sets the story in the 19th century – the era of newborn nation states and education systems and national literatures, where the concept of the national-linguistic community was the obsession of the entire European intelligentsia. Now this is not a book concerned with how the presence of magic would actually have changed history, in the slightest, but like – given how fascinated it is by translation and linguistics you’d think the whole ‘a language is a dialect with a navy’ cliché would at least get a light mention (but then the book doesn’t really treat language as any more inherent or natural than it does any other modern identity category, I suppose.)

As an Allegory

Okay, so having now spent an embarrassing number of words establishing to my own satisfaction that the book really doesn’t work at all as a period piece, let us consider; what if it wasn’t trying to be?

A great many things about the book just fit much better if you take it as a commentary on the modern university with Victorian window-dressing. Certainly the driving resentment of Oxford as an institution that sustains itself and grows rich off the exploitation of international students it considers second-class seems far more apt applied to contemporary elite western schools than 19th century ones. Likewise the racism the heroes face all seems like the kind you’d expect in a modern English town rather than a Victorian one. I’m not well-versed enough on the economics of the city to know for sure, but I would wager that the gleeful characterization of Oxford as a city that literally starts falling to ruin without the university to support it was also less accurate in the 1830s than it is today.

Read like this, everything coheres much better – but the most striking thing becomes the incredible vanity of the book. This is a morality tale where the natural revolutionary vanguard with the power to bring global hegemony to its knees through nothing but witholding their labour are..students at elite western universities (not, I must say, a class I’d consider in dire need of having their egos boosted). The emotions underlying everything make much more sense, but the plot itself becomes positively myopic.

Beyond that – if this is a story about international students at elite universities, it does a terrible job of actually portraying them. Or, properly, it only shows a certain type; just about every foreign-born student or professor we meet is some level of revolutionary, deeply opposed in principle to the empire they work within. No one is actually convinced by the carrot of a life as an exploited but exceedingly comfortable and well-compensated technician in the imperial core, and there’s not really acknowledgement at all of just how much of the apparatus of international institutions and governments in the global south – including positions with quite a bit of real power – end up being staffed by exactly that demographic who just sincerely agree with the various ideological projects employing them. Kuang makes it far too easy on herself by making just about every person of colour in the books one of the good guys, and totally undersells how convincing hegemonic ideology can be, basically.

The Necessity of Violence

This is a pet peeve and it’s a very minor thing that I really wouldn’t bring it up if that wasn’t literally part of the title. But it is, so – it’s a plot point that’s given a decent amount of attention that Griffin (Robin’s secret older brother, grizzled professional revolutionary, his introduction to anti-colonialism) is blamed for murdering one of his classmates who had the bad luck to be studying while he was sneaking in to steal some silver – a student that was quite well-loved by the faculty and her very successful classmates, who have never forgiven him. Later on, it’s revealed that this is an utter rewriting of history, and she’d been a double agent pretending to let herself be recruited into the Hermes Society who’d been luring Griffin into an ambush when he killed her and escaped.

This is – well, the most predictable not-even-a-twist imaginable, for one, but also – just rank cowardice. You titled the book ‘the necessity of violence’, the least you can do is actually own it and show that violent resistance means people (with faces, and names, not just abstractions only ever talked about in general terms) who are essentially personally innocent are going to end up collateral damage, and people are going to hold grudges about it. Have some courage in your convictions!

Translation

Okay, all of that said, this isn’t a book that’s wholly bad, or anything. In particular, you can really tell how much of a passion Kuang has for the art and science of translation. The depth of knowledge and eagerness to share just about overflows from the page whenever the book finds an excuse to talk about it at length, and it’s really very endearing. The philosophizing about translation was also as a rule much more interesting and nuanced then whenever the book tried to opine about high politics or revolutionary tactics.

Anyways, I really can’t recommend the book in any real way, but it did stick in my head for long enough that I’ve now written 4,000 words about it. So at the very least it’s the interesting sort of bad book, y’know?

#book review #babel #r. f. kuang #sff #lesbian space atrocities #-ish #hatermode

387 notes · View notes