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gojover · 23 days ago

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SOFT AS IT BEGAN ⭑ 02. THE CAPITOL.

district four’s only victors—satoru gojo, dazzling and deadly, and you, cunning and stubborn—are dragged back into the arena for the quarter quell. with the capitol watching and a rebellion brewing, the hunger games are no longer just about survival. they’re about trust, betrayal, and the unresolved past that still burns between you.

— pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader — tags: romance, angst, eventual smut, action, slow burn, hurt/comfort. the hunger games!au, dystopian!au, enemies to lovers!au. this chapter contains: profanity, mentions of forced prostitution, mentions of death & violence. — word count: 9.1k

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The train was too clean.

Satoru hated it: the sterile shine of the floors, the glassy sheen on the windows, the faint scent of synthetic citrus pumped through the vents. Everything about it made his skin itch. It was nothing like the salt-slick wood of his old home, nothing like the creaky floorboards of Reiko and Ren’s kitchen, where the kettle always screamed before boiling and the walls were yellowing from too much sun.

He didn’t remember standing. One moment he was lying on the cot in his cabin, staring blankly at the ceiling, fingers wrapped tight around the mockingjay pin burning a hole in his pocket. The next, he was walking down the corridor, urged by some inexplicable force—resentment, maybe. Or your voice in his head, sarcastic and furious, telling him to go ahead and starve if he wanted.

He didn’t want to starve. But he didn’t want to eat, either. His stomach roiled unpleasantly.

The dining car was draped in Capitol excess, down to the velvet curtains and the marble-effect table. You were already there, face drawn, picking listlessly at a piece of bread. Across from you, Coral was mid-sentence, droning about how dreadfully boring the off-season was in the Capitol. Satoru’s stomach turned.

“Do you never get tired of running your mouth?” he said, tone flat and venomous.

Coral blinked at him, clearly unimpressed. She sat reclined, long legs crossed elegantly, a half-finished glass of crimson wine in one hand. Her curls gleamed under the artificial lighting and her nails—painted a garish shade of turquoise—tapped idly against the crystal. She didn’t stop smiling.

“Oh, Satoru,” she sighed. “Don’t tell me you’re still sulking. It’s so unbecoming. You’ve been given such a rare opportunity. You should be thanking us.”

He stared at her, blankly. “For what, exactly? Watching a man get shot in front of his grandkid? Being yanked from our homes and shoved into this freak parade of a train like pigs on the way to slaughter?”

“You’re so crude. No wonder your little tributes didn’t get any sponsors last time, what with their mentor being so despicably uncultured. It’s a shame even the Career districts don’t seem to—”

“That’s enough,” you interrupted, finally looking up from your untouched plate. Your voice was hoarse; Satoru suspected it had been all day.

“Oh, you’re both so moody,” the escort drawled. “It’s a wonder they selected either of you. The Gamemakers won’t like that sulking thing you do.”

Satoru watched as you ladled some soup into a bowl and set it down across from you. He looked away. For a second, he thought he might actually lunge across the table and do something truly stupid—punch Coral, maybe. Rip the wine glass out of her hand and shatter it against the floor.

“They shot an old man in front of his grandson,” he said again, like it would make this air-headed Capitol bitch see sense.

“They did,” Coral agreed coolly, dabbing at her lipsticked mouth with a silk napkin. “And now here you are—alive, handsome and controversial. The Capitol eats that up, you know.”

Satoru felt something ugly lurch inside his chest.

Alive. He was alive. And she wasn’t.

Reiko and Ren’s mother was a good woman. She was the only adult who had looked at him after his Games without flinching, who had given him second helpings when he was a child and scolded him like he was her own. She had given him the pin with shaking hands, and said it belonged to his mother. His mother. He hadn’t even had time to ask her how she got it. She’d smiled at him, and then a Peacekeeper struck her so hard, her head hit the stone.

He hadn’t seen her get up.

Satoru gripped the back of a chair hard, knuckles bone-white.

“You should eat,” you said to him, not unkindly.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“Then don’t eat,” you snapped. “Just stop acting like a whiny little piece of shit.”

Satoru scoffed, bitter and humourless, and dropped into the seat. The soup in front of him steamed faintly, rich and full of spices. He stared at it. Picked up the spoon. Put it down again. His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

“Do you children always argue like this, or is it just foreplay?” Coral said.

You stiffened. Satoru didn’t bother replying.

“President Snow is going to love you,” she added. “So tragic and rebellious. Just a hint of young, doomed romance. It’s positively Shakespearean.”

Satoru grit his teeth. You hunched your shoulders, tearing the crust of your slice of bread to pieces, over and over. The air inside the dining car was stifling—the cloying smell of rich food, the hum of the train tracks, the faint perfume Coral wore that reminded him of expensive flowers left too long in stagnant water. He still hadn’t taken a bite of his food.

Coral leaned back again, lazily inspecting her cuticles. “Well, you’d better find your spirit soon. We arrive in the Capitol tomorrow morning, and it will be televised. And unlike your precious little fishing town, image actually matters there.”

Satoru stood up so abruptly his chair scraped against the floor, harsh and metallic. He didn’t say anything—just took his bowl, still full, and dumped it into the disposal chute without a word. Then he turned and walked out, fists clenched at his sides.

The hallway felt colder now. He walked past mirrored panels and velvet-lined walls, down and down until he put as much distance as he could between himself and the dining car. The windows blurred past wilderness and darkness and nothing that resembled home. He didn’t stop until the hallway ended, and even then, he simply stood there, staring at his reflection in the glass.

His face looked like his father’s, who had drowned in a boating accident when he was an infant. His eyes, bright and startlingly blue, were like his mother’s, or so he’d been told. He’d never actually met her. She died while giving birth to him. Satoru had been raised by his neighbours until he was old enough to do odd jobs here and there, helping out the fishermen and earning a livelihood from it. Then, he’d been reaped, and he had to watch his fellow tribute—Amanai Riko, the smartest and kindest fourteen-year-old he’d ever known—get shot through the head.

The Capitol was still miles away, but already, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. The pin in his pocket dug into his thigh when he moved. He took it out again, and turned it over in his palm. It was an old thing—worn, with the gold a little tarnished—but unmistakable. A mockingjay in flight.

He remembered the way the pin had felt in his palm: warm from Midori’s skin. And then the crack of the Peacekeeper’s hand across her face. And then the sound of his own scream.

He hadn’t been able to save her. He wasn’t going to be able to save anyone.

“Satoru—”

“Don’t.” He didn’t bother turning around. “You told me to starve, so I’m just following orders.”

You cursed under your breath. “I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.”

He heard you step forward anyway, the hallway narrow enough that even your silence felt like intrusion. Satoru didn’t move, didn’t flinch—just kept his eyes on the blurred lights outside the train window like if he stared long enough, he could will himself out of this life and into another one.

“I was angry,” you said. “We’re all angry.”

“They killed her,” he said. “She was the only person left who gave a damn about me, and they didn’t even hesitate.”

“You think I don’t know what it feels like to lose people?” you said, shifting to stand next to him, hand tightening around the brass edge of the doorway. “To watch them die and not be able to do a single thing?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, but it’s what you meant.”

He turned to you then, finally. His expression was thunderous, eyes rimmed red like he’d been crying—or maybe like he wanted to and didn’t know how. “You think you know me? You think just because we’re stuck on this nightmare train together, you get to play therapist? Screw that.”

Your voice shook, but you didn’t raise it. “You think I want to be here with you? You think I want to be picked as some Capitol pawn, paraded around with a guy who hasn’t said a kind word to me since I was reaped five years ago? You’re not the only one who lost something.”

“Don’t twist this—”

“I’m not!” you snapped. “But you’re not the only person in the world who’s hurting, Satoru. We all are. I’m just not throwing a tantrum about it every five seconds.”

He laughed, sardonic and joyless. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is my grief inconvenient for you? Maybe I should’ve just smiled for the cameras, like a good little martyr.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You sure about that?” he said, voice rising now. “Because you sound a hell lot like Coral right now. ‘Tragic and rebellious’—isn’t that what she said? Maybe I should lean into the aesthetic. Sell myself to the Capitol. At least that way, someone might survive.”

You looked like he’d slapped you. “That’s not funny,” you said, quieter now. “Don’t talk like that.”

But he was shaking, eyes wild. “What else is there to talk about? Do you want to hear about the Games? About how I didn’t sleep for months because every time I closed my eyes I saw Riko’s face? Or maybe about how my best friend got reaped the year after me and I had to watch him die while you stood and did nothing? Or maybe about how Reiko and Ren’s mom died simply because she gave me a pin?”

He was shouting now. You let him.

“I was a kid. I was a kid, and they made me kill for their entertainment. And now they want me back. Again. Again. And you’re telling me to calm down. To eat. To behave. To get it together because the Capitol doesn’t like messy tributes.”

“Fuck you, Satoru,” you said, and he didn’t even realise tears were streaming down your face until he looked at you properly, chest heaving. “Fuck you. They killed my parents, too. They used my body year after year, every single time I was sent with you to the Capitol as a mentor. President Snow made me coerce secrets from their mouths with the use of my hands touching their skin.”

Satoru froze—no more words, no more rage. He simply stood, blinking like he’d walked into a wall.

You dragged in a shaky breath, shoulders taut, fists trembling by your sides. “I did nothing?” you repeated. “You think I had a choice?”

Satoru’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. You pressed on.

“They made me watch,” you said, your voice cracking. “They made me memorise names, families, weaknesses. You were the golden boy—District Four’s prodigy, our great bloody hope. But I was the one they broke open, again and again, year after year, because I had pretty eyes and a warm touch and they liked how easily people talked to me.”

Silence fell like a blade. Only the dull hum of the train beneath your feet remained.

You wiped your face roughly with your sleeve, as though you were angry at yourself for crying. “I did everything I could to protect our tributes. I smiled for the cameras and kissed the sponsors and sweet-talked the Gamemakers. And every time I closed the door behind me, I screamed until my throat bled. But sure, Satoru, tell me again how I stood and did nothing.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t know.”

“No. You didn’t ask.”

That hurt, and you knew it. He flinched like you’d thrown something.

“I’m not proud of what I’ve done,” you went on, quieter now, the rage ebbing to something exhausted and spent. “I’m not asking you to forgive me. But don’t you dare pretend you were the only one who lost something.”

Satoru exhaled, long and slow. The silence between you stretched again, but it was different now. He was still breathing hard, eyes glassy, but the fury had dulled into something heavier.

“I just…” He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the roots. “I’m scared.”

“I am, too,” you admitted.

Satoru’s shoulders dropped a little. He looked away, ashamed. “I didn’t mean what I said. About you doing nothing.”

“Didn’t mean what I said either,” you said, shrugging. “About starving.”

His laugh was dry. “We’re a pair of fucking disasters.”

“President Snow’s favourites,” you agreed.

The train slowed to a crawl the next morning.

Satoru felt it before he saw it, like the very oxygen shifted the moment the Capitol came into view. The glass of the windows shimmered under the harsh gaze of too much light, too much colour, too much control. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until the screech of metal on metal echoed down the tracks, and the train eased to a halt.

He didn’t move.

Outside the Capitol sprawled like a wound that refused to scab. Towers of glass and gold cut into the sky like knives, their angles too clean, their beauty too deliberate. The streets below swarmed with people in grotesque, glittering costumes—some with skin dyed cerulean, some with implants under their flesh that pulsed like veins full of starlight. Feathers. Jewels. Artificial wings. Faces that barely resembled people anymore.

They were all smiling. Satoru hated that he remembered what it was like to be in awe of it. He hated more that some part of him still was.

You brushed your shoulder against him once, standing by the door. He nodded. He could do this. He had done this. But it didn’t get easier—not with the Capitol’s scent already curling in through the cracks: roses and blood and something chemical, sweet, and sharp enough to sting his eyes.

The train doors hissed open.

The moment he stepped out, the world exploded in colour. Cameras flashed. A Capitol woman shrieked his name from somewhere in the crowd, her voice high and warped by excitement. Someone else held up a sign that read “Satoru: Our Second Coming”, glitter glued in thick, uneven letters.

He swallowed bile.

“Smile, darlings,” Coral hissed through gritted teeth. Satoru tensed. He didn’t know when the escort had shown up, but she was behind him now, trailing that scent of that sickly-sweet perfume she used and her face powdered blue.

Satoru didn’t turn to look at her. He kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, spine locked into something almost regal—if only to spite her. The cameras loved that posture, and so did the Capitol. The Victor they remembered wasn’t allowed to look small, or scared, or tired.

He was a symbol. A trophy polished to perfection. So he smiled.

Not the soft kind. This was the Capitol smile: sharp at the edges, glittering with menace. His lips curled like he knew something they didn’t, like he liked the attention, like he was their second coming.

Beside him, you didn’t smile at all. He didn’t need to look at you to know this. Coral didn’t seem to notice, or she did and didn’t care. She was already waving, stepping out onto the platform, her dress of coral-pink feathers trailing behind her like smoke.

Peacekeepers flanked the entrance, white uniforms spotless, helmets reflecting the overhead lights like polished bone. One of them nodded once. That was the only greeting they ever got from them.

Satoru scanned the platform. Still, the cameras flashed. He heard his name again. Then again, and then louder.

“Satoru! Look here—just a quick wave!”

“How does it feel to be back?”

“Tell us about the lucky girl! Are the rumours true?”

His stomach churned. Lucky, they said, as if being chained to memory and the Capitol’s golden leash was some kind of blessing. As if winning the Hunger Games hadn’t broken him into pieces he still didn’t know how to glue back together.

He kept smiling.

He reached the car, which was sleek, black and armoured, though you wouldn’t know it unless you’d ridden in one before. You opened the door before the Peacekeeper could. Satoru ducked his head, and slid in without a word. You slid in after him, careful to avoid Coral’s train, which caught in the door and earned an irritated noise from her throat. She snapped something at you, but you didn’t reply.

The car drove away from the platform like it had done a hundred times before, tires humming against the smooth black road with mechanical perfection. The doors sealed with a hiss, insulating them from the frenzy outside—but not completely. Not even the Capitol’s best engineering could mute the roar of spectacle.

Satoru let his head fall back against the seat. The leather was too soft. The kind that cost more than most families in the districts made in a year. The kind they gave to Victors because comfort was currency here—another way to keep them quiet.

He could feel the static of the cameras still clinging to his skin, like spiderwebs. Like ghost hands.

The Capitol blurred past the tinted windows, too saturated, too symmetric to be real. Every building was a statement; geometry turned violent. The sky split with spires of glass that caught the light like they wanted to blind him, all chrome and gold and shimmering edges. Below, the streets crawled with people like insects in silk, each more grotesque than the last.

One man wore a suit of mirrors that fractured the sunlight into shards, throwing it across the asphalt like confetti. A woman walked a pair of cats with scales instead of fur, their tails split like serpents. A child skipped across a plaza in stilts shaped like wings, her giggles echoing through a speaker embedded in her throat.

Everything was noise. Everything was too much.

And still—God, still—some part of him felt that flicker of wonder. That traitorous, sick little spark remembered the first time he saw it, before the arena, before the blood. When he was just a boy, pulled from a grey world into a place that glittered so brightly, it felt like dreaming.

He hated that boy. He hated that he could still remember what it felt like to hope.

You sat across from him, quiet, your hands folded in your lap. Your posture was tight, controlled, but your gaze drifted—to the window, to him, then back again. He could see it: the calculation, the exhaustion. The way your shoulders sank half an inch lower when you thought no one was looking.

Coral babbled on across from you, scrolling through her Capitol-issued tablet like her life depended on it. She rattled off times and locations with a breathless efficiency, fingers fluttering like the feathers stitched into her ridiculous sleeves.

“Meeting with President Snow at noon. Tribute rehearsal at fourteen-hundred. Full prep schedule locked in by sixteen. We’ll need to trim that hair, obviously,” she added, glancing at Satoru like his pale curls were a personal insult.

Satoru said nothing. Instead, he watched the skyline twist as they turned a corner, the whole city unfolding like a living organism. The air smelled like roses. Not real ones—the chemical kind, the ones that clung to everything in the Capitol like perfume and rot. It was too sweet; too sharp. A scent that made his nose sting. It mixed with something else, too. Smoke. Ash. The faintest hint of ozone.

He remembered that smell. He remembered breathing it in as he watched Riko die.

Outside the window, a billboard flickered. His face stared back at him, a younger version—hair slicked back, eyes fierce, jaw set. A crown of fire had been edited into the shot, curling above his head like he was some kind of deity.

“SATORU GOJO: THE STORM THAT SURVIVED.”

“They love you,” you said flatly.

He turned to look at you, the Capitol’s reflection dancing in your eyes. “They love their idea of me.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you looked out the window again, and your fingers curled into fists.

“Must I remind you to smile again?” Coral sang, catching your silence with the lilt of her voice. “President Snow won’t be pleased if you’re sulking.”

You both ignored her. The car slowed again.

They were approaching the Presidential Tower’s annex. It was all columns and balconies, soft blue lighting and manicured hedges sculpted into the shapes of snakes and songbirds. Satoru thought it looked like a mausoleum.

The car stopped. A Peacekeeper opened the door. Satoru stepped out, and the Capitol swallowed him whole again.

Everything felt thinner here: the air, the silence. Like even the space between his bones had to be approved by Capitol decree. He felt eyes on him already, from the windows above, from the cameras he couldn’t see. From the insects masquerading as stylists and sponsors and hosts, watching from the glittering towers.

Each step towards the building felt like the ground recognised him, like it remembered his blood.

He was back. The boy who won. The man who never really left.

Somewhere behind him, you followed—just as you always had. Just as he had once asked you not to.

But here you both were, again, just like the Capitol wanted.

The elevator ride up was silent. Not the kind of silence that soothed, but the kind that gathered in your lungs and settled like ash. Every second ticked by like the loading of a gun. Satoru stood rigid in the mirrored walls, his reflection splintered from a dozen angles, all of them wearing the same grim expression.

You were beside him, close but not touching. Neither of you spoke. There wasn’t anything to say. The doors opened with a sigh into the top floor of the Presidential Tower, the highest place in all of Panem.

It was colder up here, though Satoru couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the lack of colour. The entire corridor was white—white floors, white walls, white marble polished to an unnatural sheen, as if even dust had been outlawed here. The air smelled of antiseptic and roses, so thickly perfumed that it made Satoru’s throat itch.

Guards lined the halls, motionless in gold and black. Their visors reflected Satoru and you as you walked past, giving him back no expressions or names. Just hollowed-out silence in humanoid shape.

At the end of the corridor, beyond the skeletal archway of thorn-shaped beams, was President Snow, seated like a spider in the centre of his web.

The office around him gleamed with deliberate elegance—glass-paned walls looking out across the Capitol skyline, a blood-red carpet beneath his desk, and behind him, a flowering wall of roses, growing in unnatural white and red, vines crawling like veins.

The president smiled before he even approached.

“Ah,” he said, standing. “Our victors.”

His voice slithered across the room like fog: low, papery, always polite. He gestured with a skeletal hand. “Please, sit. You must be tired after your trip.”

Satoru remained standing. You didn’t budge an inch, either.

Snow tilted his head, still smiling, like someone indulging a pet. “No? Very well. Let’s get to it, then.”

He folded his hands behind his back.

“You two have caused quite the stir,” he drawled. “Young minds are so… impressionable. All it takes is a single phrase, a single image, and suddenly the Capitol is flooded with whispers. Symbols.” His smile widened. “Martyrs. And you know what happens to martyrs, don’t you?”

Satoru said nothing.

The President turned slightly, studying the Capitol through the glass like it was a snow globe he’d built himself. “I find it… fascinating,” he said, “the way stories spread. A flicker becomes a flame, and suddenly there’s smoke in places it doesn’t belong. District Four. District Eleven. Even whispers from Twelve, and we all know how dangerous whispers can be.”

He turned to face you both, face still smooth, voice still gentle. “You are not martyrs,” he said. “You are actors. You perform. You smile. You play the part we assign you.”

Satoru’s throat felt dry, but he forced his voice to remain steady. “Everything we said was true.”

“Truth,” Snow echoed, amused now. “Truth is irrelevant. Believability is power. You’re lucky. We’ve spun something from this mess. A story the Capitol can digest. A romance. A tragedy. A pair of haunted lovers forced to return to the arena—but this time, together.”

His eyes gleamed. “The people are already eating it up.”

You shifted beside Satoru, the slightest hitch in your breath the only indication that you were listening.

“But I’ll be clear,” Snow said, taking a step closer. “If either of you deviate from the narrative—if you hesitate, or slip, or speak one wrong word—I will end the story myself.”

He reached up and adjusted the rose on his lapel, the petals shining blood-red in the artificial light.

“And not with dignity.”

Satoru wanted to scream. To lunge. To shove every inch of marble and rose and power down this sick man’s throat, but he knew he couldn’t, because he knew the stakes.

Snow circled slowly back to his desk and sat once more. “You will go to hair and makeup after this. You will hold hands. You will cry, if you must. You will kiss, perhaps.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever it takes.”

Then, almost as an afterthought: “Oh. And remember to thank me during the interviews. For giving you a second chance at love.”

The words stuck in Satoru’s spine like needles. The President turned away, already finished, and said, “You may go.”

The guards didn’t move, but you did: a single step, steady. You didn’t look back. Satoru followed you out into the hall, his feet like lead, his heart a roar beneath his ribs.

The prep team arrived two hours later—or maybe earlier; time didn’t pass properly in the Capitol. It stretched and buckled like melted sugar. One second, he’d been lying stiff on the too-soft bed in the penthouse suite; the next, the door had slid open and in they came, all perfume and sequins and chirping voices.

“Satoru!” cooed Lume, her eyes rimmed with rhinestones and something vaguely reptilian about the way her lips curved too far. “Oh, we’ve missed you so much. Didn’t we say he’d look taller in person, Davi?”

Davi—a man whose eyebrows were replaced entirely by a row of sapphires—clasped his hands together as if seeing Satoru was akin to witnessing the birth of a star. “Taller and paler,” he sighed. “He’s like a marble statue.”

“Mmm, delicious.” The third one—Krin—circled him with a tablet in hand, analysing angles. She had fins today, literal ones, shimmering gill-like extensions curling from the sides of her neck. “Still lean. So perfect.”

Satoru said nothing, because they didn’t expect him to, anyway.

The prep team didn’t speak to people so much as at them, monologues wrapped in cotton candy and electric laughter. They fluttered and hovered and gestured, and eventually ushered him towards the marble-tiled bathroom where the true transformation began.

It started with the clothes. Off, first. They made a show of not looking, but they always did—covert glances as they peeled the shirt from his frame, as they noted the new scars like collectors inspecting a rare coin. Satoru let them. Resistance was worse.

“Still no body hair,” Krin muttered, almost disappointed. “Is it natural, or—”

“Don’t ask,” Lume interrupted, slapping her hand away from his chest.

They scrubbed him raw. Water that smelled faintly of flowers and bleach poured over him, too hot. Hands moved with choreographed precision: one lathering his hair with a shampoo that tingled like mint and metal, another scraping calluses of his palms with something sharp. A third held a mirror up to his face, noting the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the near-imperceptible tremble in his jaw.

“He’s not sleeping,” Davi whispered, scandalised. “That won’t do. Coral will throw a fit.”

“No need to worry,” Krin said cheerfully. “I’ll send for the white drops. They’ll brighten the sclera, just enough to fake vitality.”

Fake vitality. That was all the Capitol ever wanted, wasn’t it?

By the time they were done with his skin—lotions, creams, serums with names he couldn’t pronounce—he felt scraped clean. Empty. A mannequin waiting to be assembled.

Then came the clothing. Today’s look, they informed him, was a study in tragic resilience. His stylist hadn’t yet arrived, but the outfit had been couriered ahead of time: a tailored suit in stark white, lapels lined with metallic thread that glinted like sunlight bouncing off the ocean’s waves. Beneath it, a high-neck shirt the colour of sea-foam. A single silver pin sat in the shape of a rose. Satoru wanted to throw up when he saw it.

“It’s so… haunted,” Lume said breathlessly, helping him into the jacket. “So wounded-boy-meets-iconic-messiah. Very in this season.”

Satoru stood still, arms out, as they fastened the cuffs.

He stared into the mirror.

The boy in the reflection was not a boy. Not anymore. He looked sharp enough to cut—his hair pushed back from his forehead, revealing his cheekbones; his skin unnaturally smooth, his lips touched with the faintest hint of colour.

He looked like someone who could inspire revolutions. He looked like someone they’d shoot on sight.

The prep team was still fussing, adding final touches—powder here, a dab of gloss there. They argued about whether or not to conceal the scar on his temple.

“Leave it,” Satoru said hoarsely.

They all turned. It was the first thing he’d said all morning.

“...Of course,” Krin replied quickly, nodding. “Yes. Of course.”

They said nothing else after that.

Lume smoothed the shoulders of his jacket and smiled too brightly. Davi handed him a small flask of something herbal “for the nerves,” which Satoru tucked into his pocket without looking. Krin stepped back and made a note on her tablet.

They left Satoru alone.

The room shimmered with Capitol excess—dripping chandeliers, crystal vases full of genetically modified orchids, and a wardrobe larger than his old house in the District. Everything smelled like artificial lemon.

Satoru’s mind was somewhere else.

Back in the Victor’s Village. Back on the train. Back to you, with your trembling hands and your resolute voice. The things you’d said. They want a hero, he thought, but he was never that. He was just a survivor.

He smoothed his jacket. Straightened his spine.

Coral would be here any minute to lead him down to the Tribute Parade. The cameras would start rolling. The world would be watching.

He looked one last time in the mirror, and let them see what they wanted to see. Let them believe the lie.

Satoru stepped out of his suite and closed the door behind him with a gentle click, then stood there for a moment, fingers twitching at his sides. Hearing the sound of soft footsteps, he turned before he even heard your voice.

Your outfit matched his in almost every detail—the same pearlescent fabric, the same oceanic shine in the metallic thread that edged your cuffs and collar. Only yours had a veil. Translucent and whisper-thin, it hung from a small comb tucked behind your ear, falling like frost over your shoulders. You didn’t bother lifting it.

They’d done this on purpose. He could see it now, how calculated it all was. The paired whites, the blue accents, your stupid veil. A wedding aesthetic without the ceremony. The Capitol didn’t need to announce your love. It was already in the details, and anyone watching would assume it. Would need to.

Satoru’s hand curled into a fist at his side, the other smoothing down the line of his jacket, more out of habit than vanity. The tension in his shoulders was a low, coiled thing.

“Snow has a sick sense of humour,” he muttered.

Your lips quirked behind the veil. “What gave it away? The matching outfits or the part where we’re supposed to pretend to be in love on national television?”

“Take your pick.”

“He’s serious about this,” you said.

“I know.”

You looked over your shoulder down the hall, then back at him. “So. What do we do?”

He opened his mouth to answer. Closed it. His hands found the edge of his sleeves, fiddling with the cufflinks. The hallway lighting threw shadows beneath your eyes. Maybe they’d tried to cover them up. Maybe they’d left them there on purpose, for the tragic appeal.

“We play along,” he said.

“You mean—”

“I mean we pretend,” he interrupted, “until we figure something else out. We’ll give them what they want. They love a good story.”

“Funny,” you said. “You’ve never been much of an actor.”

“Neither have you.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you glanced down the corridor where Capitol handlers were no doubt waiting just beyond the next corner, armed with cameras and microphones. The Peacekeepers would follow soon after.

“Do you think they’ll believe it?” you asked sardonically. “That Satoru Gojo, the Capitol’s golden boy, suddenly fell in love with the girl he’s spent years hating?”

“Hating you was easy,” he said. “Pretending not to will be harder.”

You turned your face to him fully then, veil catching the light as it shifted like water. “Then maybe don’t try too hard. Your disgust might pass for passion if you squint.”

Satoru didn’t know why he stepped closer. Maybe it was instinct, that old, ruthless Capitol instinct to perform—to charm, to command a room, even when the room was empty. Maybe it was something else, something far less useful and far more dangerous. But he didn’t let himself dwell on it.

From this close, he could see the faint shimmer dusted across your cheekbones. He could also see the stubborn glint in your eyes, that familiar spark he’d hated the moment he saw it all those years ago in the Training Center, the spark that said you’d rather go down swinging than even let someone else win.

“Hold still,” he said quietly, almost low enough to be mistaken for tenderness.

Your brows rose behind the veil, but you didn’t move when he lifted one hand and let it hover in front of your face. His fingers hesitated for a heartbeat too long before he gently pinched the fabric near your temple and adjusted the comb just slightly, letting the veil fall a bit straighter. There—less crooked, more symmetrical. Picture-perfect.

He told himself it was about optics. Always optics.

“There,” he said. “Now you look fit to be a bride.”

His joke was in poor taste. You didn’t thank him. Of course, you didn’t. You tilted your head slightly and looked at him through the thin mesh, studying him with the same wariness you always had—like you were waiting for the knife behind the compliment.

He wished it annoyed him. It used to.

Before he could say anything else, Coral’s heels clicked into the hallway. But even after she reached them, even as she began her chirping monologue about camera angles and choreography, Satoru didn’t look away from you.

He didn’t like you. That part hadn’t changed. You were reckless and infuriating and always two steps ahead of him in ways that didn’t make sense. He remembered the first time you’d beat your fellow tribute, Suguru Geto, in a sparring match. You’d won not because you were stronger, but because you were meaner, cutthroat in a way he hadn’t expected. It had rattled something in him.

That was the problem. You rattled him.

Even now, arm looped with yours, as Coral guided you both down the corridor, he could feel it—the gnawing hum of something pulling taut under his skin. Not attraction, not exactly. More like gravity. Something unpleasant and inevitable.

Satoru Gojo did not fall in love. But he did play the game, and if the Capitol wanted a love story, they were going to get one so dazzling they wouldn’t know where to look.

The elevator doors opened. He let you step in first. As the doors slid shut behind them, sealing off the world beyond, he looked at your reflection in the polished paneling. The veil shimmered. Your lips were pressed into a grimace.

He wondered, not for the first time, if you could put on an act convincing enough to fool President Snow, too.

He hoped so. He really, really hoped so.

The staging hall behind the Remake Center was cavernous and cold, the kind of cold that wasn’t from temperature but from gleaming walls, sterilised floors, and that metallic scent of too much money. Gold and glass chandeliers hung above the waiting area, casting warped halos over everyone beneath them. Like the Presidential Tower in the City Centre, and the penthouses in the Tribute District, it was too bright, too perfect, and too quiet.

Satoru stood with his hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed in a way that was entirely performative. He didn’t glance at the cameras tucked discreetly into the corners of the room, but he knew they were there, humming softly, hungry for any flicker of tension or weakness. He’d learned long ago that Capitol cameras didn’t blink. They just watched, and waited.

You stood beside him, slightly angled away like you couldn’t stand to be too close. Not that he blamed you. The veil still hung from the comb behind your ear, and from the corner of his eye, he could see the way it moved when you breathed—shallow, steady. Controlled.

You were always so good at that. Controlled.

There were already a few pairs gathered in the hall—other victors summoned back to die for the Capitol’s amusement in this sadistic Quarter Quell. Some Satoru recognised instantly. Some he hadn’t seen since they stood on podiums with blood on their faces and flowers in their arms.

He saw Kento Nanami, standing near one of the pillars like he’d rather be anywhere else. Satoru wasn’t surprised he was here. District 11 hadn’t produced many victors in the last few decades, but Kento had been a quiet legend in his own right: clever, composed, and ruthless in the arena when it mattered. Rumour had it he’d won his Games with a broken rib and a shattered wrist. The Capitol had tried to dress him afterward, sculpt him into something shiny, but even now, years later, Kento still looked like someone who didn’t quite belong in these rooms.

His uniform was darker than most, muted bronze with a charcoal sash over one shoulder. He was speaking in low tones to his district partner, who Satoru didn’t immediately recognise. Probably a younger victor. A new lamb for slaughter.

“You think if I throw up before the parade, they’ll cancel it?” someone piped up cheerfully nearby.

Satoru turned to see Yu Haibara, from District 7, beaming at him with a sort of unshakeable optimism that made Satoru’s teeth hurt. The kid was barely older than twenty, his brown curls slightly mussed by the stylists, his uniform stitched from dyed bark and deep green velvet. A nod to his lumber roots, no doubt.

“If it’s on camera,” Yu added brightly, “I might get extra sponsors.”

“You’d better empty your guts dramatically then,” Satoru drawled, slipping easily into Capitol charm. “Preferably mid-spin.”

Yu laughed. “Maybe you can catch me if I faint too. Really sell the tragic romance angle.”

Satoru flashed a grin. “Sorry. I only catch people I like.”

“Oh? Then she’s lucky,” Yu said, gesturing loosely towards you.

You didn’t smile. Not even a twitch. Satoru could practically hear the words you were not saying through the veil. But you stepped just slightly closer to him, shoulder grazing his, and for the Capitol’s invisible audience, it was a performance worth millions.

“Do you think Snow’s going to make us dance next?” Yu asked after a beat. “Like, literally dance? Before he lets us kill each other?”

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Kento said, walking up to you three. He offered a stiff nod to Satoru, then to you. His expression was impassive, but his eyes were tired. “Though if we’re lucky, maybe they’ll send the mutts in before the waltz.”

“Have to keep the pacing up,” Satoru murmured. Mutts, or muttations, normal animals genetically modified in the Capitol’s labs into creatures more grotesque than he could ever imagine, were the least of his worries. “Wouldn’t want the audience to get bored.”

“God forbid,” Nanami replied dryly.

Satoru’s smile faded just slightly. There was a hollow spot behind his ribs that hadn’t stopped aching since the reaping.

Yu reached into his sleeve and produced a bright red candy. “Want one?” he offered Satoru. “Tastes like synthetic strawberries. Or so they say. I’ve never actually had strawberries before.”

Satoru blinked at him, then took the candy and popped it into his mouth.

“Very sweet,” he confirmed. It wasn’t the worst thing he’d tasted in the Capitol. That title still belonged to whatever poison they called oysters.

Kento’s eyes flicked from Satoru to you. “How long do you plan to keep this act up?”

Satoru tilted his head, smiling like the answer didn’t matter. “As long as we have to.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Kento rolled his eyes, but he didn’t push. Not here, where every word was being catalogued, where even the smallest twitch of tension could be repackaged and broadcast in high definition.

You spoke up then, voice quiet but clear. “It’s what they want, isn’t it? A star-crossed twist. All’s fair in love and war, and whatever other fuckery goes on in their heads.”

“You guys sound fun at parties,” Yu said.

“We used to be,” Satoru muttered.

The doors at the far end of the hall opened with a sudden, echoing click. A handler in Capitol lavender beckoned them forward. The chariots were being prepped. The parade was about to begin.

Satoru sighed once, long and shallow. He extended a hand towards you, palm up. Your fingers were cold. Or maybe his were. Either way, they fit too easily.

Yu winked as he passed. “Try not to upstage the rest of us, lovebirds.”

“No promises,” Satoru said, walking forward with you on his arm, every step a silent, glittering lie.

The Avenue of the Tributes stretched out before Satoru like a burnished mirror, polished till the cobblestones shone. Spotlights hovered above on silent rails, casting pools of white-gold light that tracked each chariot as it rolled through the wide boulevard, flanked on either side by rows and rows of screaming Capitol citizens.

Satoru stood at the front of the chariot, spine straight beneath the pearlescent jacket that shimmered in the light. Every movement made the fabric catch on itself—blue, then green, then silver—like he was wearing the ocean on his skin. At his side, you stood just as poised, your hand tucked loosely into the crook of his elbow, veil trembling slightly in the wind.

Your other hand was hidden between you, fingers curled around his. For balance, you’d said when you climbed into the chariot. You hadn’t let go since.

Cheers echoed through the corridor of lights and screens. The hover-cams whirred softly as they zoomed in, projecting close-up feeds of each pair onto the giant curved panels looming over the avenue. On one, Satoru caught a glimpse of his own face—mask-like, unreadable—and yours beside it, half-concealed by your veil. Together, you looked like the climax of a fairy tale, right before everything fell apart.

Good. That was the point.

“They’re eating this up,” he murmured, not turning his head.

Your voice floated back just as quiet. “You sure it’s not the outfits?”

“I think it’s the misery.”

You let out a faint huff that might have been a laugh. Or maybe a sigh.

Ahead of your chariot, the chariot from District 3 turned the final bend, where the wide boulevard narrowed into City Centre. From here, Satoru could see the Presidential Tower rising like a blade of glass into the night sky. All the light in the world seemed to pool at its base—cold, brilliant, all-consuming.

He hated that tower.

The chariot began to slow.

Coral had instructed him to do something big when they reached the end. “A gesture,” she had said, fluttering her manicured fingers. “Something iconic. They need to fall in love with the idea of you two.”

Satoru had nodded absently. He knew how this worked. He knew what sold.

He also knew that every camera would be trained on you and him in the next sixty seconds. President Snow would be watching from his perch, eyes like twin chips of frozen steel. Every Capitol citizen and every grieving mother in Panem would be holding their breath, ready to believe in the lie if he made it beautiful enough.

So when the chariot began to slow, and the crowd’s screams peaked into something shrill and hysterical, he turned to you.

Your eyes met his behind the veil, and just for a second, everything stilled. He saw the fatigue carved beneath your lashes. The way you held your chin just high enough to not look scared. The way your mouth parted slightly like you were about to say something—then didn’t.

Satoru reached up, slowly, and pushed the veil back.

It slipped over your hair like mist, pooling behind your shoulders, baring your face to the cameras. Gasps rippled through the crowd. You flinched, almost imperceptibly.

Satoru stepped closer, one hand still in yours. The other lifted to your cheek, resting there with the barest pressure.

“This is a terrible idea,” you said, breath brushing his lips.

“That’s what makes it romantic,” he said, and kissed you, not softly or chastely.

He kissed you like he was trying to rewrite the story with his mouth. Like if he kissed you hard enough, the Capitol might forget what this parade really was. Like maybe he could forget, too.

Your lips parted beneath his. You didn’t pull away.

The crowd screamed. Fireworks ignited above the tower in bursts of crystalline white and glittering crimson. Cameras whirred. Screens flashed. Satoru closed his eyes against all of it.

When he finally pulled back, your lipstick was smudged and your expression unreadable. The veil fluttered behind you, untethered. Your fingers were still tight around his. He forced a smile, something charming and rakish, for the Capitol. You didn’t smile back, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

The chariot rolled to a halt in front of the Tower. The anthem swelled, deafening now, but all Satoru could hear was the thud of his own heartbeat and the whisper of your breath against his collar. He stood there, hand still cradling your cheek, eyes on the President’s balcony, where a single white rose gleamed in a crystal vase.

He wondered what the Capitol saw at that moment. Their golden boy and his beloved? Or just two more corpses with pretty faces and perfect timing?

Let them choose, he thought bitterly. Let them believe whatever version of the lie they liked best. He could play this role until the end. He had to.

The applause didn’t fade so much as shift, muted behind the tall glass doors of the Training Center as the chariot peeled away into the underground corridors. The quiet was jarring, sudden, like someone had clamped a hand over the Capitol’s glittering mouth.

Satoru released a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. The veil was still pushed back, your fingers still tangled loosely in his, a quiet echo of the performance you’d just sold to the entire nation. He loosened his grip before you could pull away first. You didn’t look at him as you adjusted the comb in your hair. He didn’t expect you to.

Coral’s voice chimed in beside him—overly chipper, as though she hadn’t just watched you both broadcast a staged kiss to millions of viewers. “Darlings, you were stunning. President Snow’s aides are going to be in a frenzy by morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if he requests an exclusive interview before the interviews. Now, you two will—naturally, of course—be sharing a suite with a single bedroom. Lovebirds, and all that pizzazz.”

Satoru muttered something noncommittal and let her guide him down the main hallway. The Training Center was the same as always: gleaming floors, ceiling panels aglow with sterile light, the soft scent of something floral piped in to cover the antiseptic undertones. Every year, he remembered it being too quiet. Too polished. Like the building was pretending not to be what it was.

Prison. Vault. Mausoleum.

The elevator opened with a soft chim, and Coral stepped in with you, instructing the Peacekeepers to wait below. District 4’s floor was near the top, just underneath a few high-scoring districts. The doors slid open into a carpeted hallway lined with glass doors, each suite labeled in a metallic script. He hadn’t even reached his assigned room before a voice called out from the end of the hall:

“Satoru! Hey!”

Satoru turned to see Yu again, grinning as brightly as he had back before the parade, his dark curls windswept. He was still in his tribute outfit. Beside him, Kento leaned against the wall, eyes flicking between you and Satoru with a kind of calm interest.

“District Four’s really making a statement tonight,” Yu said, jogging up. “I knew you’d pull something like that.”

“Glad to give the people what they want,” Satoru replied easily.

Yu shot a teasing glance at you. “He always this romantic when cameras are off?”

“Worse,” you said, not missing a beat.

“Theatrics aside,” Kento said, walking over, “it was well-played. You’ll be the Capitol’s sweethearts by tomorrow.”

“Is that a good thing?” Satoru asked.

“Only if you don’t mind being watched,” Kento said. “Constantly.”

Another door opened down the hall.

Yuki Tsukumo stepped out barefoot, wearing an oversized black robe that barely grazed her knees. Her hair was still styled from the parade—loose curls and golden embellishments tucked behind one ear—and she walked with the easy confidence of someone who didn’t mind being the centre of attention in the room.

“Ah,” she said, eyes lighting up as she caught sight of your little congregation. “The lovers of the hour.”

Satoru barely had time to brace before she was in front of him, eyes dragging over the details of his still-buttoned jacket and the faint trace of lipstick smudged near his mouth.

“Didn’t know you had it in you, Gojo,” she crooned, tilting her head. “I always thought you were more of a solo act.”

He offered her a smile. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“True.” Yuki stepped closer, unabashed. “But I’d love to find out.”

From the corner of his eye, Satoru caught sight of your shoulders stiffening just slightly. He said nothing.

Yuki’s hand reached up, smooth fingers brushing the edge of his collar. “Nice stitching. Did your stylist tailor it just for you?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

“I like a man with taste.”

“And I like a woman who doesn’t waste time,” he replied, stepping just out of reach. “But unfortunately, I’m spoken for now.”

He reached for your hand before he could second-guess it.

Yuki’s eyebrows lifted, clearly amused. “Well, how tragic for me.” She turned her gaze to you, lips curled. “But lucky you. If you ever get bored of the Capitol’s golden boy, let me know.”

You smiled. “If I ever get bored, I’ll be too dead to care.”

Yuki laughed and lifted two fingers to her brow in a mock-salute before sauntering back to her suite. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Yu let out a low whistle. “District Two really doesn’t believe in subtlety, huh?”

“She’s just bored,” Kento said simply. “She’s already won once. Flirting’s just another way to stay sharp.”

Coral clapped her hands, clearly uncomfortable with the whole exchange. “Alright! Let’s get you two settled in. Training begins tomorrow, and I’d hate for either of you to look anything less than breathtaking at breakfast.”

You let her drag you towards the suite, your fingers slipping out of Satoru’s grip somewhere along the way. Yu yawned and pressed the button for the elevator, before waving goodbye and stepping inside. Kento, however, stayed where he was.

Satoru glanced at him.

Kento’s voice was low. “Keep your eyes open, Gojo. That kiss was a declaration—not just to the Capitol. To the other tributes as well.”

“What of it?” Satoru didn’t look away.

“You better be careful.”

Satoru said nothing.

When he finally stepped into the suite and the doors closed behind him, the noise of the hallway faded; all he could think of was that kiss, the way your breath caught against his cheek, the soft tremble he hadn’t imagined. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew they were all watching now.

He wasn’t sure he could afford a single mistake from here on.

You didn’t enter the bedroom at all that night.

Satoru padded barefoot into the common lounge, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, hair still tousled from tossing against Capitol pillows that, though soft, offered him no comfort. You sat on the low couch near the window wall, knees tucked to your chest, gaze fixed on the glowing skyline of the Capitol.

You didn’t turn at the sound of his footsteps, though you’d clearly heard them.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“Didn’t know you were capable of whispering,” you said back.

He smirked, but didn’t answer. Instead, he moved to the opposite end of the couch and lowered himself onto it slowly, stretching one leg out and letting the other rest lazily against the floor. His elbows found his knees.

“That kiss…” you said. “You really sold it.”

“You kissed me back,” he said.

“We’re playing a role.”

“Sure,” he said. “You still kissed me back. You don’t have to be afraid, you know.”

You turned to him, eyebrows lifted.

“I mean,” he continued, leaning his head back against the couch, “not of me. If you want… I can sleep on the couch tonight. You can take the bed.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You seemed on edge. I figured having someone else awake nearby might help.”

Satoru didn’t have to tell you what he was actually referring to. He thought about your argument on the train more often than he should have, something dark and ugly and twisted slithering about in his chest every time he remembered your words. He wanted to kill all those fucking sponsors who’d touched you, tear their limbs off one by one—he didn’t like you, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to protect you. Suguru would have wanted it.

“I’m fine,” you said.

“I know,” he said. “Just offering.”

a/n: thanks for reading! and thank you to @mahowaga for beta reading :) comments are appreciated!

art credit: _3aem

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk angst #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen angst #jujutsu kaisen x you #gojo satoru angst #gojo satoru x you #gojo x reader #gojo angst #gojo x you #satoru x reader #satoru angst #satoru x you #satoru #gojo satoru

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8r14r-r0s3 · 2 months ago

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Ì don't think a piece of media has fucked me up as much as tetro has. Like Jesus fucking christ. It's frankly horrifyingly realistic how none of the characters are recognizable. They're all broken.

Wada's regressed in every way possible. His selective mutism came back as a stress reaction. He hasn't eaten in a week. And just like into the game, he has no one. But now it's even worse, because now instead of never having them, each and every one of them slipped through his fingers. It's unlikely he'll actually be able to locate any of the other students, and before the game he was struggling to make ends meet. Now he doesn't even have a coping mechanism. Isono is gone. He'll never be able to view a streamer the same way again. His eating habits aren't going to get better when he's completely and utterly alone. He's going to starve to death. Wada Masanari died in the killing game, just like Isono, Tsuno, Watari, and Hama. And with them gone, his stumbling husk will meet their same fate.

Mai. God Mai. She fought through everything. She shouldered every burden, she made every sacrifice, she befriended every last person, and in the end, it wasn't enough. Hayashi Mai was broken. She was physically tortured, she lost any semblance of feeling safe, she lost parts of her body, and she fought through it all until the very last second. She died fighting, I doubt it was just shock, her hands were cut because she wanted to try to save herself. But in the end, Hayashi Mai lost the fight. She fell on the sword for everyone else. Hayashi Mai died in the killing game. And what's left of her body will remain in a burned down school in an underground cavern to rot.

Ojima seemingly lost nothing, but Ojima also lost everything. At first he was genuinely trying his best to be a leader for the group, almost like a second in command to sasaki at some points, but he lost his privacy and then everyone pitied him. Ojima was close with no one, but he was close with everyone. Ojima wasn't well socialized, he views every person who continues to be near him a friend, it's why he always calls people by their first names. While Ojima lost no one, Ojima lost everyone. He had what was left of his innocence defiled. He no longer felt safe within his own mind, he was scared he would hurt someone, he forced himself to stay afloat in an ocean with no bouys but a million whirlpools, and he broke. Ojima Takeshi died in the killing game just like Sasaki. And now he exists as an adult, stripped of his blissful ignorance of the world, and now way to escape the horrors he's seen.

Hiroaki. Where to even begin with Hiroaki. He was hurting when he entered the killing game, and he was hurting when he left it. He was broken, and slowly he tried to fix himself, and he was broken again by the people he hurt, and eventually he couldn't find the strength to fix himself. He's using again. He has been fairly clean for a few weeks, and now he's using again. He at least used to have his ego to fall back on, but now? Now he's nothing. He says his own name like it's an insult. He's done horrible things and hurt the people around him. Every character from Isono to Yanagi, he all hurt them somehow. And he didn't get the chance to apologize to most of them, and he has to live with the guilt that he didn't. It's honestly doubtless that Hiroakis behavior patterns are only going to get worse. He has his drug supply back, he's back with those same faux friends, and he's separated from the people he's grown to actually care about. Hiroaki Nakamigawa died in the killing game, just like Sasaki, Chiba, and Tsuno. And what's left of his facade has to continue through his old routine and go through his same habits, but with none of the artificial joy they used to provide.

Tamba is ruined. Her career is over. Her parents aren't going to give her the kind of love she's desperate for. She's looked in the mirror and seen the worst, ugliest, most horrible parts of herself. She's a coward, she's a backstabber, and she's a hypocrite. And worst of all, Tamba survived. Out of everyone who died. Isono, Sasaki, Chiba, Harada, Kamimura, Tsuno, Watari, Hama, Mai, and Hasegawa. Tamba Ruiko survived but they didn't, and she has to live with that forever. When she was cruel, when she was angry, when she bit the hands reaching out to her, and when they did everything they could to be safe. But Tamba is alive. But she isn't. Tamba Ruiko died in the killing game, just like Kamimura, Watari, and Mai. And now what's left of her broken body has to live in the shadows of their lives.

Hasegawa lost. He was a winner. He was a champion. And he lost. Everything about his life in the killing game was fundamentally unfair. He did his best to do everything right and protect the people he loved and he lost. Then he did his best to hurt the people he felt let his best friend die, and he lost. They were going to lose. He was going to win. But due to forces outside of his control, he lost. Hasegawa lost the only things keeping him steady. His meds ran out weeks ago. Kamimura died weeks ago. And now he's rotting in the med bay. He didn't have the energy to care about the people reaching out to him, and when he did get his energy back, the only thing he wanted to do was get revenge. To make them suffer the same loss he suffered, to make them understand a fraction of what it felt like. Hasegawa Ken died in the killing game the exact moment Okazaki killed Kamimura. And then with what little he had left in him, he took the blade from Okazaki's cold hands and plunged it into Hayashi.

Yanagi Shigeki became what he despises. He's nothing like who he used to be and he'll never be able to go back. One by one the layers of his facade he had built up over the years were stripped away. First he lost his faith when Sasaki killed Isono. Then he lost his dignity when he broke and hurt Nakamigawa. Then he lost his prince guise when he continued to fail time and time again to please and protect the people around him. Then, he lost Mai. He lost his knights oath. The one thing he has left was that he had Mai, he had her and he was loyal to her and he was at her service and he was going to hold onto her and die before he let go. But he was forced to. He was locked in a room with all his failures as the one flicker success he had was snuffed out. And now, he's angry. He's angry and upset and he's violent. He's exactly what he despises, a violent man who scares people. He feels deserving of death, because those kind of men are deserving of death. Yanagi Shigeki died in the killing game just like Sasaki, Tsuno, Watari, and Mai. And now, all that's left of him is everything he despises, and with nothing but hatred in his heart, he's forced to return to the people who would fear him most

This wasn't a happy ending. It was never going to be a happy ending. They're alive. The five of them are alive, but they're all dead. Everything that made them *them* when they entered the game was destroyed. Sasaki was right. Children are their best before they become aware of the horrors of the world.

Goodbye, Tetro Danganronpa Pink. Goodbye Isono Miki. Goodbye Harada Keizou. Goodbye Chiba Airi. Goodbye Kamimura Kazutoshi. Goodbye Hayashi Mai. Goodbye Wada Masanari. Goodbye Sasaki Hitomi. Goodbye Ojima Takeshi. Goodbye Okazaki Hanano. Goodbye Hama Ran. Goodbye Tsuno Manami. Goodbye Hiroaki Nakamkgawa. Goodbye Tamba Ruiko. Goodbye Hasegawa Ken. Goodbye Watari Nishino. Goodbye Yanagi Shigeki. It was an honor to meet you all, and wherever you are, I hope you're happy. You all deserve it. You were all just children, broken, innocent, scared children. And while you may never be innocent again, I hope you can still be happy.

And thank you most to Von Babbit, the voice actors, and the editors. Thank you for giving me the honor to experience your art. I will never be the same again, but that's okay. Because you guided me here. I'm not lost, I'm not afraid, I'm just somewhere new. And I think it's beautiful here.

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txttletale · 23 days ago

Note

Do you have any opinions on the current Bluesky discourse about acting as a receiver for Palestinian fundraisers? You have a good head on your shoulders so your input would be nice

i don't keep up with bluesky discourse. i do maintain however that the broad reaction to palestinian fundraisers on here at least has been -- if i'm being brutally honest -- founded almost entirely in first-world guilt, leading to a strategy that fails to understand two extremely crucial facts:

palestinian cost-of-living fundraisers are a zero-sum game

there is a real, artificial scarcity in gaza. if an anonymous billionaire donated $10,000 to every gazan gofundme, it would not create more food or hospital beds in gaza, only increase the prices of those things to match. every gazan who can afford food for their family because their gofundme hit a certain goal is buying food at hyper-inflated prices that other families are not going to be able to get, and this will continue to be the case so long as israel continues their genocidal strategy of deliberate starvation.

2. your blog's attention economy is a zero-sum game

say you have 1,000 followers. let's assume a click-through rate of 5%, about commensuarate with the upper edge of what charities can expect -- that means that out of your followers, 5% of them will both see the gofundme link and click through to the actual page. then, again assuming you're operating at a similar batting average to very succesful charities, let's give you a 40% conversion rate from there, which means that 40% of your 5% will actually donate once they're on the page. that lands you at 20 people ultimately donating. there's no good data on 'average donation to a gaza gofundme specifically' and i can't think of a good analogue, so just scoping a few out it seems like $10 is a pretty 'average' donation. so that's $200 potentially directed to a fundraiser. which is not nothing!

but it's also not infinite. if you boost two fundraisers, you are now splitting those potential donators. you don't have infinite followers with infinite money: every gaza fundraiser post you make is competing with every other fundraiser that person has seen this day, or this week, or this month, or whatever period within which they allocate the budget they have for stuff like this. every separate fundraiser you reblog is competing with every other fundraiser on your blog for the attention (and therefore money) of your followers specifically.

and so when you combine these points, i think the very common strategy of "reblog every fundraiser you see or get sent" is an extremely bad one. this is not an 'every dollar helps' situation! this is a 'very large amounts of money are needed to cover basic living expenses on an ongoing basis' situation -- if a bag of flour costs $300, then splitting $200 worth of potential donations multiple ways can make the difference between the single family whose fundraiser you're promoting being able to buy it or none of the multiple fundraisers you're putting in front of your followers being able to.

and so i think that reblogging or posting a scattershot selection of fundraisers/asks is significantly less helpful to anybody than simply choosing one or two to consistently, regularly boost, and is a practice (if i am being ruthlessly honest) mostly fueled by people feeling guilty for 'ignoring' fundraisers and aid requests instead of thinking practically about how to provide the most help to people.

people will reply to this: 'but then it feels like i'm choosing who to help', and, yeah. that's what charity is. if you are not willing to do the calculus of triage between strangers in life or death situations then you should not be directly donating--and if you give to an NGO or a mutual aid fund, the same calculus has to be done regardless, you're just pushing it off onto someone else who may or may not be better equipped. and it is brutal and awful and the product of a deeply fucking evil global economic and political system but if you close your eyes and say 'la la la' and pretend that isn't the case that's not going to help any gazans eat.

because of this, i personally recommend that if you don't have family or friends in gaza, or some other personal connection that makes you determined to help a specific family, you focus on on-the-ground mutual aid efforts, who can at least take advantage of economies of scale and help those who can't access the internet or speak english. note that by this i do not mean international charities, who are mostly being prevented from providing aid by israel as of the date of this post (01/06/2025). i personally have focused my blog's attention economy on highlighting dahnoun mutual aid and the sameer project for this reason. i can't tell you what to do because ultimately that is a moral decision you have to make about who you want to help and how. & if you have less followers than i do (& therefore less reach, less potential impact) the stakes are ultimately lower. but i hate that the 'palestinian scammers' accusations have poisoned the well so thoroughly on having earnest discussions about whether the current popular engagement with fundraisers is actually as helpful as it could be.

#ask #Anonymous

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nana-mania · 4 months ago

Note

since it's canon that izana loves fishies, what if he meets his s.o in a waterpark (she ain't a fish enthusiast but was just dragged along by her girlfriends) and he kept staring at her as she stared at the aquarium full of fishes. (she's nonchalant af)

"WATERPARK ENCOUNTER" a coincidental meeting with his future wife..?

╰┈➤: ̗̀➛ oneshot

࿐*ೃ feat : izana kurokawa

࿐*ೃ fandom : tokyo revengers

࿐*ೃ extra : fluff, fem!reader

THE giant aquarium stretched across the wall, filled with vibrant fish gliding through the water. Schools of neon tetras darted between the artificial coral, while larger koi and angelfish drifted lazily, their scales glistening under the dim blue lighting.

You, however, remained unimpressed.

Arms crossed, you stood before the display, scrutinizing the fish with a judging look. Your friends had dragged you here, claiming it would be “fun,” but all it had done was put you in a situation where you were now stuck staring at fish. What exactly was fun about this?

As you stared, you felt an odd sensation. The distinct feeling of being watched.

You shifted your gaze slightly and immediately locked eyes with someone across the tank. He was positioned at the other side of the aquarium, leaning against the railing, his silver hair catching the glow of the water. His sharp yet dangerously beautiful lilac eyes were focused directly on you, his expression unreadable yet strangely intense.

Most people would have awkwardly looked away after being caught staring. But this guy? He didn’t.

Fine. If he wanted to play that game, so be it.

You stared back.

Seconds passed. Then a full minute.

Neither of you blinked. Neither of you looked away. The fish continued swimming between you, entirely unaware of the silent battle of wills taking place.

Eventually, you were the one to break the silence. “Enjoying your sightseeing so far?”

The corners of his lips twitched slightly, as if amused. “Yeah. You?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just judging the fish ‘cause I’m bored. My friends dragged me here for some reason.”

“Hm.” He didn’t sound surprised, nor did he question it. Instead, he glanced at the aquarium briefly before looking back at you. “What’s your verdict?”

“The koi are the only ones that look decent. Everything else is just floating around, doing nothing.”

“Sounds like you’re describing half the people here.”

That actually got a small exhale from you—too short to be considered a real laugh, but close enough. You tilted your head, regarding him. He was… interesting. And, considering your current situation, maybe a potential escape route.

Without much thought, you asked, “Wanna go eat something?”

His eyes narrowed, as if trying to decipher your motive. “Why?”

“Revenge.”

Now he was intrigued. “On?”

“My friends. They dragged me here, so I’m gonna disappear and let them freak out for a bit.”

A pause. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he gave a slow nod. “Alright.”

And just like that, he fell into step beside you as you walked off, leaving behind the aquarium and your unwitting friends.

The café inside the waterpark was a cozy, semi-outdoor setup, offering a decent selection of snacks and drinks. You and the white-haired stranger sat across from each other at a small table, a plate of pastries and two iced drinks between you.

“So,” you started, stirring your drink lazily with your straw. “Who are you?”

“Izana,” he answered casually. He didn’t offer a last name, nor did he seem to care if you recognized it or not.

You hummed, leaning back in your seat. “Izana. Cool name.”

He tilted his head, watching you. “And you?”

"Y/n." You told him your name, and he nodded as if committing it to memory.

For a while, the conversation drifted from topic to topic in an unexpectedly effortless way. He wasn’t overly talkative, but he responded smoothly, his dry wit making the conversation surprisingly enjoyable. You told him about how your friends dragged you here against your will, and he admitted that he came alone—just to see the fish.

“You actually like fish that much?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, taking a sip of his drink. “Yeah. They’re quiet. Peaceful.”

“Unlike people?”

A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. “Exactly.”

You studied him for a moment, realizing that, despite his sharp and almost intimidating appearance, he had a strangely calming presence. You could see why he liked fish—they moved with the same silent, effortless grace he did.

“Guess you’re more passionate about this place than I am,” you mused.

Izana shrugged. “Maybe. But you still came here.”

“Against my will.”

“You still came.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, you took a bite of your pastry, only for a bit of powdered sugar to land on the corner of your mouth. You didn’t notice it, but Izana did.

Before you could react, he leaned over the table, raising a hand. His thumb brushed against the corner of your lips, wiping the sugar away.

You froze mid-chew.

He didn’t say anything about it, simply returning to his drink as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

You, on the other hand, were left staring at him. “Did you just—”

“There was sugar,” he said simply.

Your brain short-circuited for a second before you swallowed your food. “…You could’ve just told me.”

“Easier this way.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he only smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“…You’re a bold one, huh?” you muttered, shaking your head.

“Depends.” He took another sip. “You’re not running away.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Why would I? You’re entertaining.”

Izana chuckled under his breath, the sound low and amused. “Glad to know.”

At some point, the conversation shifted to the people around you. You both started making sarcastic comments about random park-goers—like the kid aggressively trying to eat an ice cream bigger than his face, or the couple who were clearly on an awkward first date.

You didn’t know when, but at some point, Izana had leaned his elbow against the table, resting his chin in his palm as he watched you with that same unreadable look from earlier.

“You’re interesting,” he remarked suddenly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Yeah. Thought you’d be more boring at first.”

You huffed. “Rude.”

“But I was wrong,” he continued smoothly, not even fazed. “You’re blunt but fun. And you didn’t hesitate to drag me along for food.”

You shrugged. “You were staring first.”

He chuckled at that, but before he could respond, the distant sound of your friends’ voices calling your name echoed through the café.

Izana glanced toward the entrance, then back at you. “Time to return to them?”

You sighed dramatically. “Looks like it.”

“Want me to disappear?”

You considered it for a moment before shaking your head. “Nah. I wanna see how they react.”

Sure enough, when your friends spotted you—sitting comfortably with a stranger, laughing over drinks—they rushed over, demanding to know where you’d been.

You just sipped your drink, watching them with an amused look. “Oh, you know. Just enjoying the fish.”

Izana smirked beside you, taking another sip of his drink.

Something told you this wouldn’t be the last time you saw him.

࿐*ೃ thanks for reading this scenario! likes, interaction and reblogs are deeply appreciated ♡

#izana kurokawa #fluff #tokyo revengers #tokrev #fem reader #izana kurokawa x fem reader #izana kurokawa oneshot #izana kurokawa x you #kurokawa izana #femreader #izana tokyo revengers #izana x reader #tokyo revengers izana #tokyorevengers #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revenger #tokrev x reader

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vasito-de-leche · 12 days ago

Text

;R1999 A Study on Afflatus (I)

Analysis and theories regarding the concept of Afflatus within the universe of Reverse: 1999

if you're from the old r99 news server or the current r99 rp one (or if you've talked to me at any point about r99) then you might know how obsessed I am with afflatus analysis!

so after going feral on my main account about it, and seeing my afflatus thesis drafts just catch dust on my wips, I decided to just open a discussion about it in the fandom! just little by little as I get the thoughts out of my brain!

so yes, this is very much an invitation for people to discuss and theorize about smaller details of the game such as afflatus, medium and other things--there are many fun ways to interpret the way afflatus applies to characters, I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts! ping me in your posts, go feral in the reblogs or comments!

as usual, transcripts were taken from the R1999 Neocities transcript project!

During the first few months of GL's launch, "Afflatus" was generally considered an extradiegetic aspect of the game--a simple mechanic meant to facilitate gameplay for the player, without any relevance to the lore or the plot. Throughout the course of the following patches, namely within the main story, this idea was disproved in many ways, and there were plenty of clues that reinforced its existence in-universe from the very beginning. For the sake of those who have never noticed, I'll do my best to be thorough, but there may be some instances of Afflatus that I missed, feel free to let me know!

The very first time Afflatus is mentioned is in the main story; Chapter 01 - Stage 4 "Chicago Rescue," Sonetto is the one to bring it up during one of the battle tutorials.

Sonetto: That's quite a lot of critters! Timekeeper, we must do something to turn things around now. Remember what the instructor said in class? "Afflatus is a way to hunt in the world." "Observations of the minerals, plants, stars, and beasts as well as our experiences with the spirit and intelligence let us better understand our own existence." Sonetto: Select a proper target for me, Timekeeper. Sonetto: Use an incantation that is strong against the enemy's Afflatus to defeat them more quickly. You can take it from here, Timekeeper.

The fact that this conversation takes place during a game tutorial doesn't instantly render the contents discussed as "just meta," since we've had many different instances of game mechanics being relevant to the overall history and worldbuilding of the setting; Artificial Somnambulism Therapy is both a game mode and a type of therapy developed by Mesmer Jr's family, used extensively within Laplace, as well as a key plot point in Chapter 3 "Nouvelles et Textes pour Rien"; Picrasma Candy is a way for the player to continue playing and an actual medicine for arcanists developed by Medicine Pocket that Argus heavily depends on to use her own arcanum. Bluepoch makes a point to further develop their story through these mechanics, thus it is impossible to separate them from the story itself--battle conversations, daily tidbits, loading screens, items and other details can all be considered canon! Afflatus is no different.

Another early instance of Afflatus occurs in the Tutorial Notebook, which disappears forever once completed--so the following screenshot was taken from this video!

The text reads:

Sometimes, our Afflatus is strong or weak against an enemy. We need to follow this principle and select the proper arcane skills based on the enemy. Strong or weak? Like a cat to a rat? The relationship between different Afflatuses is like the ecological cycle. When your Afflatus is strong against the target's, your incantation will deal more damage. ─ On Afflatus, Chapter 1

The sticky note implies the existence of a book or research on the subject ("On Afflatus, Chapter 1") which, in turn, supports Sonetto's dialogue about the Afflatus lessons she received in SPDM ("Remember what the instructor said in class?"). With this we can understand that Afflatus exists within the world to a degree that allows it to be studied, also eliminating one of the earliest theories in GL about how Vertin is the only person who can perceive Afflatus due to her status as the Timekeeper.

To my knowledge, there are no direct explanations nor clues as to why or how one would discern Afflatus in others as of writing this. What is the point of assigning Afflatus types in-universe? How can it be done? Sadly, I don't have answers to these questions in particular!

But let's analyze our current examples so far.

According to Sonetto's knowledge on the subject, Afflatus encompasses "observations of the minerals, plants, stars and beasts as well as our experiences with the spirit and intelligence," that allows people to understand themselves. This serves as a list of both Natural (Mineral, Plant, Star, Beast) and Primal (Spirit, Intellect) Afflatuses, while hinting towards the purpose of Afflatus as a tool of introspection.

With this, one may theorize that Afflatus can apply to every living being, as it tackles observations with the surrounding world (Natural Afflatus) and one's inner world (Primal Afflatus). This is partially true, there is a small yet important distinction to be made!

The 1.5 "Revival! The Uluru Games" patch explored the physiological and social differences between humans and arcanists through Ezra and Spathodea, and a new batch of loading screen tidbits were added, such as this one:

The text reads:

The arcanum's Afflatus categories do not apply to humans. However, factors such as personality and preferred instruments may cause certain individuals to have a closer affinity to a particular type of arcane Afflatus.

This daily tidbit confirms that arcanum's Afflatus categories do not apply to humans. The rest of tidbits emphasize on the contrast between the two groups in different aspects; humans cannot cast arcane skills, they use technology and commands rather than incantations, they're considered rational instead of passionate, reason vs instinct, etc etc.

But I believe there is an important distinction to be made! The first loading screen tidbit mentions "arcanum's Afflatus categories," rather than Afflatus itself. There is an aspect of Afflatus that is directly linked with arcanum, and thus it makes sense that it cannot be applied to humans.

We can see this happening in Greta Hoffman's report from the Special Chapter - "The Star" in which she explains her interactions with 37's mother, 77. Here are a few excerpts.

Writer of the Report: I'm not sure whether she was making fun of me or being serious, but I had this feeling that she was eager to tell me how she was granted the secret through a moment of afflatus. It seemed she just saw through the laws behind all things instead of finding them through logical deduction.

"HER": "The rhombus can't be seen with eyes. You shall close your eyes, hearken to the teaching of the supreme existence, and seize the moment of afflatus!" Writer of the Report: Of course, I didn't see anything, nor did I understand what a moment of afflatus was. Perhaps it's just another privilege enjoyed by arcanists, just like their right to be lunatic. Nevertheless, she reached the correct conclusion in a completely wrong way. Is it really possible?

Writer of the Report: But, if there is a god, why are you playing such a prank on us, after we had suffered from the collapse of all the existing orders and the failure of all the great laws? If this is what she called the glimpse of the supreme existence, the moment of afflatus, do you have to present it in such a cruel way?

Even Matilda brings up afflatus during this chapter, in reference to her job monitoring new members.

Matilda: &$#% ... I know she's a rookie, but even so, she's way too unbelievable! "Guide new members with caution and patience. Trigger their afflatus at the right time." Oh, I have to admit, Vertin is doing it better than me for now.

Note the distinction between capital A "Afflatus" and lowercase "afflatus." In this context, the "moment of afflatus" exists as its namesake implies--as an inspiration, a moment of divine impulse that only arcanists can utilize and, therefore, cannot be explained nor proved through human logic.

That is the basis for the tension between Greta Hoffman (a mixed whose arcane blood has been so diluted she can easily pass off as a pure-blooded human) and 77 (a pure-blooded arcanist from an isolated and ancient arcanist society) as two characters from vastly different groups that cannot reconcile nor find a middle ground in their differences. This is the arcane aspect of Afflatus as the 1.5's tidbit mentions, the part that cannot be applied to mankind. But Afflatus also exists as a tool of introspection as mentioned before, which encompasses aspects that any living being can relate to--therefore, it explains why we have both playable and non-playable humans with Afflatus types.

To further understand how non-arcane living beings can still lean towards different types of Afflatus, let's examine the enemies in the game.

The main story is very consistent with how they portray enemies, if you pay attention to their battle information you can see all the deliberate details Bluepoch has added; every enemy comes with a short description that might evolve and change along the story in future renditions of their fights, there are different card sets for different factions (Manus Vindictae's deep black and blue cards vs the Foundation's white and light blue cards), each attack/incantation is uniquely named, giving context and insight into the enemy you're fighting, some even have uniquely named traits/buffs/debuffs!

And as far as I know, every single enemy in the game, regardless of whether they're arcane in nature or not, has an Afflatus assigned to them. Let's look at arcane beings first.

We see that all three examples match their respective Afflatus; a Mineral Carbuncle with a Mineral Afflatus, a Dryad, commonly associated with nature has the Plant Afflatus, and Druvis III, a playable character, retains her Plant Afflatus even as a mysterious NPC boss fight in which her regular incantations have been switched to Manus Vindictae.

And we can also see continuity in Afflatus in other bosses, such as Matilda and Lilya in later chapters--they both retain their own Afflatus as playable characters, and much like Druvis, Matilda's cards are concealed as the default Foundation set for the sake of keeping their identities concealed. There is a clear intent behind these choices.

In the Surface levels of Artificial Somnambulism, the ones that directly correlate to the main story, also feature many other playable characters with their respective Afflatuses; La Source in "Misty Lake a"; The Fool, Bunny Bunny, Pavia, Satsuki and Tennant in "Floating Park a" ...

And I do want to mention that there are instances in which the game allows us to fight playable characters whose Afflatuses have been changed--but there is still an clear goal behind this.

The beta levels of Artificial Somnambulism feature the same aforementioned characters as the alpha ones, but a few of them have different Afflatus. This can be explained within the main story as the direct result of Vertin's mind being tampered with, as we see her struggle to remember and forget things clearly during her AST induced coma in Chapter 3.

???: Her traumatic segment has been reactivated. Increase the power, stabilize her psychube. Try the next dream. Z: The artificial somnambulism therapy may not work on her, Mesmer.

Mesmer Jr.: It means she had suffered the same traumatic experience repeatedly. Even so, she showed no behavioral or cognitive impairment. Back then, as we held her down and put the helmet on her, she even advised me in an extremely calm manner … “I agree with your judgment, but it’s just for this time.” … She was the bellwether of the “break-away” incident after all. I’ll say she’s been well-behaved this time. Sonetto: … I-I thought … Timekeeper is receiving for her low spirit. But you said you held her down … Mesmer Jr.: Oh, that’s just another description of the method used for the same purpose. The aim was to ensure Vertin was unconscious and taken back. That’s the direct order from the vice president of the committee, Constantine. The order from on high was given on the premise of rational thinking and consideration over pros and cons─you are not questioning the reasoning of mankind, are you?

A similar situation happens during UTTU Week, which features playable characters as different characters within the story that UTTU is attempting to share. For example, in 1.2 "Nightmare at Green Lake," the playable characters you fight in UTTU Week represent various different archetypes and tropes in horror.

These inconsistencies are done on purpose, as they're not meant to reflect the truth 1:1.

Now, let's look at human enemies. Here are the two human children from the beginning of the game who disrupt the suitcase--despite being humans, they both have Afflatus assigned to them, and not only that but different types as well, Star and Mineral respectively.

So, to backtrack again! Afflatus cannot be applied to humans from an arcane point of view, simply because humans cannot cast incantations. Therefore, their affinity for a specific type of Afflatus is based on something else, something that they share with arcane beings--such as personality, experiences and preferred instruments.

I want to propose the interpretation of Afflatus being the totality of one's experiences in life; depending on your experiences, the way they've shaped your thinking patterns, your instincts and your personality, you may have an affinity for one Afflatus or another.

This ties in with a different aspect of Afflatus: the idea that one's Afflatus type can change, as the person goes through big changes in their life that influence them in different ways.

If we acknowledge that these battle details are all deliberate and meant to add to the narrative, there are two outliers whose Afflatuses change. The first one is Kakania herself; her debut in 1.7 "E Lucevan le Stelle" includes a fight against her in Stage 8 "Mirror and Lantern" which clearly states her Afflatus is Intellect.

One could argue that this is not the true Kakania, as the battle involves fighting mirror versions of her--but as a reminder, the true one is, in fact, hidden among them! And furthermore, if the reflections are exact versions of the real Kakania, it makes sense that they would have the same battle information as her.

As we all know, when Kakania becomes playable in 1.9 "Vereinsamt," her Afflatus is not Intellect but Plant--I'd like to explain this change as the development Kakania goes through in this specific arc of the story.

Her idealistic views and activism, both for her city and her patients, are directly challenged as the story progresses. She realizes that none of her friends within The Circle were the people she thought them to be, namely Isolde whose complex life and struggles were both overlooked and impossible to discern in Kakania's eyes due to their close relationship, and she also sees the town she acknowledged as flawed but still worth fighting for, turn into violent patriots. Everything that Kakania stood for is gone in an instant, and we see her fighting spirit turn into a desperate near-suicidal attempt at making up for her perceived wrongs.

Such radical events like this would warrant a change in Afflatus, as Kakania adjusts her views due to her experiences.

And then on the other hand, we have The Guiding One's Harbringer boss fight in 1.9's Stage 21 "A Homage Paid"--one of its core mechanics is to change Afflatus to that of the last attack it received. Here we see that distinction from before, the lowercase afflatus referring to the arcane aspect, rather than the experiences a person goes through.

As far as I know, this section of the game also becomes unplayable (or is currently unplayable, I can't seem to access it anymore) so the following screenshots are taken from this video!

Kakania's Afflatus change is something that seems to be directly linked to her evolution as a character, while the Guiding One's Harbringer's Afflatus change is directly linked to its status as an arcane construct, using it as a "mimic strategy" during battle. The psychological aspect vs the arcane aspect of Afflatus respectively.

Next, I'd like to discuss some assumptions made about the different Afflatus types; we expect that Beast characters must have an affinity with animals or be animals themselves (Darley Clatter, Getian, Medicine Pocket, Nick Bottom ...) and we expect that Star characters are all related to celestial bodies or the skies (37, Lilya, Matilda, Lorelei, Voyager ...) due to the naming conventions of the Afflatus. And yes, there are motifs within the Afflatus types that match their naming conventions, but a quick look through the character list prove there is much more to offer, as a good chunk of characters don't align with this initial read of their themes.

We have Pickles, a literal dog, and Kaalaa Baunaa, an astronomer, both with Mineral Afflatus instead of what one would expect of them. It's similar to how fandom perceives Awakened as the sole category for sentient objects, when we have characters like Door and Darley Clatter who are undoubtedly objects, implied to have been given sentience, and thus fall within the group of pure-blooded Arcanists rather than Awakened.

I would also like to point out that these initial motifs have nothing to do with a character's Arcanum--another theory I've seen around is that Afflatus types influence an arcanist's arcanum, which can't be further from the truth. One could argue that Kaalaa Baunaa's arcanum (the summoning of meteors and planets) is related to her Mineral Afflatus--both relate to rocks, after all--but just like the previous assumptions, this falls apart when you examine other examples. Jiu Niangzi's arcanum has nothing to do with rocks nor minerals, but liquor. Ulu's arcanum revolves around fire, yet she's still Mineral.

As far as we know, arcanum is something that can be inherited through bloodlines or lineage--think of Mesmer Jr's 01 Story in her Cover Profile, which states “Nobody is more talented in this than Mesmer Jr. Her bloodline gives her outstanding ability and keen senses, which makes everything clear and intelligible to her” in the context of performing AST, or Tennant, whose 02 Story hints towards her father performing the same type of arcanum she's known for--but it's also something that can be taught. We see this most clearly within students of SPDM such as Sonetto, as her skill set matches that of the SPDM students fought during Chapter 3, portraying the "standard" arcanum taught to all arcanist children.

But not only that, arcanum can be influenced by other factors, such as a character's situation and interests--Blonney's arcanum revolves around making drawings come to life, which correlates with her love for storytelling and horror as a child. Pavia's shadow arcanum is hinted to have been formed out of necessity or as a result of his childhood in a dark basement. Tooth Fairy utilizes the fairies she traps.

We also know that arcanists from the same family may not inherit the same level of arcane power, as seen in Shamane and Kumar; the latter was cast out of her family due to her weak arcane power. In all of these cases, Afflatus has nothing to do with arcanum.

So what exactly do Afflatus types tackle?

These are the Afflatus as I've analyzed them, as much as I could summarize it for easier digestion!

With this interpretation, we can see that Star relates to celestial objects and the skies, but also trailblazer geniuses and unstoppable forces, that which is out of reach for common people. Mineral relates to solid materials and stability in permanence, but also the rigidness of strict systems or traditions or stagnancy. Beast relates to wild animals and creatures found in the world, but also the survival of the individual, the struggle to find a place for oneself no matter what. And Plant relates to the flora and the natural cycles in the world, but also the safety of a collective, that which is inherent to the world such as community or change.

This is why these belong to the Natural category of Afflatus: they are concepts that already existed on the world or were manifested into it, from the ground we touch, the people we interact with, to the ideals and beliefs that influence and create societies or bring people together.

On the other hand we have Spirit, relating to the soul, the supernatural and the spiritual aspect of things, but also the unknown, to follow one's gut instinct or embrace the inexplicable. "The way I see the world is unconventional, because I feel these different things about why and how things are the way they are." And then Intellect, relating to the mind and the logical aspect of things, but also the different mindsets and patterns of thought one can have to rationalize things. "The way I see the world is unconventional, because I have these different rules about why and how things are the way they are."

This is why they belong to the Primal category of Afflatus: they are, as the name implies, ancient impulses and habits that mostly exist within ourselves, our thoughts and our feelings.

The Tutorial Notebook also mentions an "ecological cycle," there is a relationship between the different categories that explains why some are strong or weak against others. It's rather easy to understand for the Primal Afflatus, as it's the classic fight between hearts and minds, but Natural Afflatus is a little harder to grasp.

We see the relationship between Beast and Mineral; the former is weak against the latter, the latter is strong against the former. You may read the Natural Afflatus wheel clockwise or counter clockwise.

Using the previous explanations, let us examine this cycle!

Beast is strong against Plant, because it's the disruption of a community or the harmony of the world through a single individual desperately fighting to change their current situation. A desperate animal does not think about the consequences its actions has on the environment while it tries to survive. Plant is strong against Star, because it's a tight-knit collective that embraces change and thus, the lone genius cannot shine above the rest. In an environment that welcomes everyone and everything, there is no way to stand out. Star is strong against Mineral, because it's a single individual choosing to disrupt the status quo, the stability of their society, for the sake of a dream or ideal. A single genius can topple over entire societies. And Mineral is strong against Beast, because a rigid set of rules or traditions leave no place for those who don't fit inside of it or who oppose it. A government that advocates for mankind's superiority leaves no room for arcanists and their rights, it forces them to assimilate within their established rules.

And this cycle goes backwards and forwards!

But I would also like to propose a different type of relation: we understand the aspect of having advantage or disadvantage, but what about Afflatuses that directly mirror each other?

Beast and Star are two Afflatus that directly correlate to an individual against a collective, whereas Mineral and Plant are two Afflatus that directly correlate to a collective against the individual. They're foils of each other; Beast is the underdog, Star is the genius, while Mineral is the stagnant and rigid yet stable and secure systems while Plant is the ever-changing and adaptive nature of the world.

We may also see this in a more precise way: the ecological cycle and Afflatus relationships exist because someone of Mineral Afflatus who is stuck in their ways and refuses to change can be easily upset by someone of Star Afflatus whose nature is to radically change traditions and offer different paths. This is why Semmelweis, a Mineral Afflatus who is hellbent on clinging to the human aspect of herself and sticks to her stubborn mindsets, has such a fascination with Lorelei. Or rather, why Lorelei has such an effect on Semmelweis, as she is a Star Afflatus that begins Semmelweis' journey of self-discovery and acceptance within Series of Dusks.

We can also see previous themes discussed within this post here: one would think that such a radical change is enough to cause Semmelweis to change Afflatus, but we see through her gamemode and the different endings presented that this change is still very much in line with her mindsets and behaviour, Semmelweis remains stubbornly adaptive and pragmatic to the very end, and choosing to follow Lorelei has brought her a deeper insight to understand herself without radically changing who she truly is.

Another example would be Forget Me Not and Druvis III; we know that Forget Me Not is Mineral Afflatus due to his boss fight in Chapter 2 - Stage 13 "Documentary" and Druvis III is Plant Afflatus.

We see the foil dynamics of Afflatus that don't directly interact with each other: the reason Forget Me Not and Druvis III seem to have this type of relationship can be explained through their Afflatus, with Forget Me Not insisting that she perpetuates the very same cycle of revenge and pain, to never move on and continue in the same spot of grieving and mourning for her family. While Druvis III's entire development throughout the Chicago arc--and even leading into the next chapters--tackles her desire to grow and move on, to finally let go of the worst night of her life that took her family away and begin healing from it. It's exactly what Vertin notices within her, and why she's able to connect with Druvis III.

Vertin: Once you dispel the arcanum, it would not be what it is now. I think you are clear, Ms. Druvis, that … Every tree lives for tomorrow.

And that's where I'll leave this extremely long introduction to my study on Afflatus! I'm planning on discussing other themes in the future, such as the way a character's Medium serves as a bridge between their Afflatus and Arcanum, and analysis of the cover profule, but also proper in-depth analysis of each individual Afflatus!

There is so much to look at when discussing Afflatus, every single Insight material has its own description, and each stage for each Afflatus tells a story that relates to their themes!

Please don't be afraid to reach out with your own ideas or observations, I look forward to what everyone else thinks! And congratulations for making it this far <3

#reverse 1999 #reverse: 1999 #reverse 1999 afflatus #reverse 1999 headcanons #i dont know how to stress this enough #i LOVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE afflatus analysis #i LOVEEEEEEEEEEE thinking deeply about things and connecting dots

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invidioso-dogma · 2 years ago

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What I love about the forgotten legions in 40k is that you can construct some wild theories and there is no one to stop you. Games workshop doesn't care but we do.

But my personal concern is.

The lore says unknown, but I am not satisfied with that response.

So today we will attemp to get inside Malcador's head and answer one of the Imperium's best kept secrets.

The facts we have so far

BUT WAIT.

The plot thickens because if we take it as fact that the geneseed was stolen from another legion we have to guess who is the father?

But fear not we have more evidence as to guess who might be.

1) All of the Grey Knights are sorcerers and pretty powerful ones at that.

2) One of the first hand picked, finger pointed, wholeheartedly selected Grey Knights was a Night Lord.

3) They are smug, walking talking warp magic nukes. They have that wap. Wild ass potential.

Also I am not joking. The Emperor saw that Night Lord and I guess was impressed by his human skin collection and agreed for him to join.

Malcador too. But at this point we all can agree Malcy Malc boy was a thief. Bad choices is his strongest suit.

SO.

👏🏻

Dad Theory No1

THE FATHER MIGHT BE. (empasis on might but it would be really funny if it was the truth)

Same same. But now a different picture. From a better angle.

The Crimson King is their dad.

Yes I am serious.

My limited research leads me to believe Magnus was the one... used for his geneseed by Malcador to create the loyalist version of nucler houdinis.

And you know what would make this theory even funnier if it was true.

Oh yes. Or oh no. Its the same at this point.

If the Grey Knights are indeed just a bunch of Thousand Sons but painted chrome and artificially orphaned.

That bastard Malcador.

He created 1000 sons and did not even have the decency to tell them who their dad was.

1000 men left out in the cold. With no place to call home.

1000 Sons -

1000 SONS PEOPLE THE GREY KNIGHTS ARE 1000 IN TOTAL. THATS THE FINAL CLUE WE NEEDED.

THEY ARE THE SONS OF MAGNUS BUT IN KNIGHT COSPLAY.

THIS IS CANON NOW.

MALCADOR STOLE MAGNUS SEED (THAT SOUNDS WRONG). AND MADE THE GREY KNIGHTS.

AND NOT ONLY THAT RUBRIC HAPPENED AND SINCE THOSE DUDES DON'T KNOW WHO THEIR DAD IS THEY PROBABLY WOKE UP ONE DAY +10 IN ALL THEIR STATS AND COULD NOT EXPLAIN WHY

Case closed

This is canon now

What will games workshop do?

Refute it?

#warhammer #warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #wh40k #grey knights #warhammer 30k #warhammer theory #thousand sons #magnus the red #malcador the sigillite #is a thief #shitpost #games workshop #black library

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

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The Trump administration’s Federal Trade Commission has removed four years’ worth of business guidance blogs as of Tuesday morning, including important consumer protection information related to artificial intelligence and the agency’s landmark privacy lawsuits under former chair Lina Khan against companies like Amazon and Microsoft. More than 300 blogs were removed.

On the FTC’s website, the page hosting all of the agency’s business-related blogs and guidance no longer includes any information published during former president Joe Biden’s administration, current and former FTC employees, who spoke under anonymity for fear of retaliation, tell WIRED. These blogs contained advice from the FTC on how big tech companies could avoid violating consumer protection laws.

One now deleted blog, titled “Hey, Alexa! What are you doing with my data?” explains how, according to two FTC complaints, Amazon and its Ring security camera products allegedly leveraged sensitive consumer data to train the ecommerce giant’s algorithms. (Amazon disagreed with the FTC’s claims.) It also provided guidance for companies operating similar products and services. Another post titled “$20 million FTC settlement addresses Microsoft Xbox illegal collection of kids’ data: A game changer for COPPA compliance” instructs tech companies on how to abide by the Children’s Online Privacy Protection Act by using the 2023 Microsoft settlement as an example. The settlement followed allegations by the FTC that Microsoft obtained data from children using Xbox systems without the consent of their parents or guardians.

“In terms of the message to industry on what our compliance expectations were, which is in some ways the most important part of enforcement action, they are trying to just erase those from history,” a source familiar tells WIRED.

Another removed FTC blog titled “The Luring Test: AI and the engineering of consumer trust” outlines how businesses could avoid creating chatbots that violate the FTC Act’s rules against unfair or deceptive products. This blog won an award in 2023 for “excellent descriptions of artificial intelligence.”

The Trump administration has received broad support from the tech industry. Big tech companies like Amazon and Meta, as well as tech entrepreneurs like OpenAI CEO Sam Altman, all donated to Trump’s inauguration fund. Other Silicon Valley leaders, like Elon Musk and David Sacks, are officially advising the administration. Musk’s so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) employs technologists sourced from Musk’s tech companies. And already, federal agencies like the General Services Administration have started to roll out AI products like GSAi, a general-purpose government chatbot.

The FTC did not immediately respond to a request for comment from WIRED.

Removing blogs raises serious compliance concerns under the Federal Records Act and the Open Government Data Act, one former FTC official tells WIRED. During the Biden administration, FTC leadership would place “warning” labels above previous administrations’ public decisions it no longer agreed with, the source said, fearing that removal would violate the law.

Since President Donald Trump designated Andrew Ferguson to replace Khan as FTC chair in January, the Republican regulator has vowed to leverage his authority to go after big tech companies. Unlike Khan, however, Ferguson’s criticisms center around the Republican party’s long-standing allegations that social media platforms, like Facebook and Instagram, censor conservative speech online. Before being selected as chair, Ferguson told Trump that his vision for the agency also included rolling back Biden-era regulations on artificial intelligence and tougher merger standards, The New York Times reported in December.

In an interview with CNBC last week, Ferguson argued that content moderation could equate to an antitrust violation. “If companies are degrading their product quality by kicking people off because they hold particular views, that could be an indication that there's a competition problem,” he said.

Sources speaking with WIRED on Tuesday claimed that tech companies are the only groups who benefit from the removal of these blogs.

“They are talking a big game on censorship. But at the end of the day, the thing that really hits these companies’ bottom line is what data they can collect, how they can use that data, whether they can train their AI models on that data, and if this administration is planning to take the foot off the gas there while stepping up its work on censorship,” the source familiar alleges. “I think that's a change big tech would be very happy with.”

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polybbiuss · 27 days ago

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saeava from awesome niche indie game artificial selection.... sveyrone should play....l

#my art #artificial selection #artificial selection game #indie game

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 7 months ago

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Ortho flying with three floating tablets (representing his parents and Idia) behind him is such a MagiCammable moment, according to Cater and his sisters lol

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

"Oh my gosh! Who's this little cutie patootie?!"

"W-Wah...!" Ortho scarcely had any time to formulate an appropriate reaction before he was accosted from both sides. They had leapt out from the Queen of Hearts' statue, like jaguars pouncing on unsuspecting prey. The three tablets floating beside Ortho were sent spiraling.

"B-Bwah?!" Idia sputtered from his end, eyes bulging at what his video feed was picking up. There was his poor little brother, smothered by a pair of flashy women. "A normie sneak attack!?"

To Idia's horror, he could see painted nails studded with jewelry running all over the boy's face and hair. He leapt out of his gaming chair, seizing his computer monitor with both hands.

"C-Calm down, Ortho! CALM DOWN, DON'T PANIC!! Y-Your big brother will help you out of this pinch... e-except I don't know how to deal with 3D women!! Th-There's no dialogue selection option IRL...!!"

"You're the one panicking the most here, nii-san..."

"Now, Idia--" their father began--cool, level-headed.

"Hold on, dear," his wife interrupted. "Don't you think it's too soon to intervene?"

"... What are you saying?"

"I mean, these girls are only appreciating Or-kun's cuteness, right? I don't think there's anything wrong with acknowledging that! In fact, the world should be more familiar with how adorable both of our sons are...!"

"B-Betrayed by the mom?!"

"Ahahah... Sorry, Shroud fam~" Cater called as he, too, stepped out from his spot behind a statue. He didn't look particularly apologetic, not with that growing grin tugging at his mouth. "It looks like my sisters took an interest in your youngest. I guess it's not every day you see a bot as advanced as Ortho-chan is, but still!"

"J-Just what I needed... Another sparkly extrovert to complicate this scenario!!" Idia moaned, clutching at his forehead.

"You have to get a pic of us together, Cater!" one sister pouted. "This is too cool not to! Be sure to get the tablets in the shot too, okay?"

"Alright, I'll try." He casually produced his phone. "Everybody has to smush together first though, and Idia-kun's kinda out of frame--"

"Are you, like, for reals a robot?" the other sister demanded, ogling Ortho's metallic body. "That's not cosplay, right?"

"Hehe, nope! I'm one hundred percent custom built by my nii-san."

Idia loudly snorted, far less amused than his brother was. "Cosplay? Are you blind? I'm insulted that you'd even suggest such a stupid idea. Check out the rocket boosters in his feet, the complex circuity in his chassis, the artificial intelligence with a limitless capacity to learn. It's all Ortho."

"That's right! Our Idia built Or-kun from scratch all on his own!" Mrs. Shroud chirped. "Ahhh, our sons are our pride and joy! Aren't they, Papa?"

Mr. Shroud drew out a sigh. "... Yes, dear."

Their tablets drew close and snuggled (or attempted to). Idia could only imagine that his parents had embraced one another on the other end of the line. Hot pink and neon blue twinning.

"Oh, bleh." He rolled his eyes. Mom and dad are being gross and mushy in public again.

Suddenly, his video feed jerked down. Idia got a chunk of pavement, then an eyeful of twinkling makeup and nails. The first of the Diamond sisters had seized his tablet, posing with it in front of her.

"Is he, like, in frame now?" she asked Cater, who flashed her a thumbs up.

"Perfect~ Now everyone else can squeeze in!"

At Cater's direction, his other sister rushed over. Ortho was tugged along like a balloon on a string--though he didn't put up any resistance. The Shroud parents allowed their tablets to lower to the appropriate height for the picture. Cater held his phone out, the camera flipped.

All eager for the photograph except for one.

"D-Don't I get a say in this?!" Idia weakly protested.

Cater laughed--and it sounded a little mean to Idia, as light-hearted as it was. "Sure, you get a say in this! I'll let you know what to say: cheese!"

CLICK!

The selfie was taken. The Diamonds and the Shrouds, immortalized in a shared image.

#twst #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Idia Shroud #Ortho Shroud #Ignihyde #Cater Diamond #NRC Family Day #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland scenarios

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kingkatsuki · 1 year ago

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Okay one more. But Kaji playing a game with you to guess his sucker flavor with his spit alone 🥴

Everyone knows Kaji isn't without two things, his headphones and a sucker. Although you swear the flavor changes, his tongue dyed a new color every day as he stands post outside of your work guarding the street. He's been doing that since highschool, well past young adulthood and just like you, he has to have breeched his thirties by now.

But he doesn't give up his headphones or his sweet lollipops. You make the mistake of asking him one day what flavor it is and he smirks, letting his tongue loll out and colored saliva dripping from the tip of his tongue after he asks

"Wanna guess?"

Warnings: 18+, spit, hair pulling.

“They’ll rot your teeth, you know.” You grin up at your boyfriend who’s standing outside your workplace with one battered converse propped against the wall and strong hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

“You’d still love me,” Kaji’s lips curl into a grin when he just about hears you over the bass of his music, pulling his headphones down as they sit around his neck as he removes the lollipop stick he’d been gnawing on since he finished the candy from between his lips as he gives you a soft peck in greeting, “Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” You parrot back. Smiling up at him as you reach out to grasp his jaw, your thumb grazes the rough two-day stubble that scatters across his chin as you prize his lips open. Standing on tiptoes as you try to decipher what flavour his lollipop had been today, “What flavour was it?”

“Guess.” Kaji sticks his tongue out playfully, the flat of it a bright red colour from the artificial sweetener as you ponder your selection for a minute.

“Strawberry?”

“Wrong,” He grins, reaching out to paw at your hips as he pulls you into another lingering kiss, “You suck at this.”

His words only have you more determined as your tongue swipes against his lips in a feeble attempt to taste it, but to no avail. Your head tilts with the motion of his lips, pulling him close as you try to deepen it, to swipe your tongue against his to taste the remnants of the sweet treat against his tongue.

“Cheat.” He murmurs against your lips, quiet and raspy as you feel one of his hands slide up your spine.

“I at least need a clue, Ren.” You pout.

Kaji presses against your back to bring you closer as you slot between his bent knee and his outstretched leg, his fingers pressed firm against the back of your neck as he holds your hair at the root. His half-lidded eyes gaze down at you as he tugs hard, pulling your head back as a slight twinge of pain throbs at the base of your skull. A gasp passes through your lips from the ache as Kaji holds you steady, placing his foot back on the ground to stand at full height as he towers over you.

“Keep it open.” His thumb drags down on your lower lip, showing your teeth before it flops back into place. Your lips stay parted as you almost forget to breathe, acutely aware you’re in public. Anyone could walk by and see you like this— completely at his mercy.

Your stomach swirls with anticipation at the thought, worsened by the dark, depraved look his gives you as he holds you steady. His throat bobs as he sucks spit from the back of his throat, holding it in his mouth as he positions himself above you and then he spits.

The sound alone is enough to have your thighs rubbing together for some sort of relief, your clit panders to his every move as it throbs with neglect when the glob of spit hits the back of your throat. You keep your lips parted so he can see it, the liquid still tinged red as he smooths his other hand against the column of your throat. Holding you so gently as though you’re the most delicate porcelain he’s ever laid hands on. His deep gaze watching intently as you taste him on your tongue before he’s tightening his grip around your neck.

“Swallow.” Your eyes roll back at the command, certain that without his grip at the back of your neck you’d be on the ground. He feels you follow his orders as your throat flutters under his touch as he strokes the bare column of it in satisfaction.

You can see Kaji looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to make your next guess as he cups your cheeks so tenderly. A stark contrast from his commanding actions moments earlier, calloused thumbs stroke against the apples of your cheeks as you’re barely able to whisper your response.

“Cherry.”

Kaji gives a coy smile at your response, bringing his face down as his mouth hovers against yours in the faintest brush of lips—

“Good girl.”

#ren Kaji smut #ren Kaji thirst #wind breaker smut #I changed it we deserve to be called good girl okay!!!!

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villainintern · 9 months ago

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🕱🕱 At UNDERHAND INCORPORATED, the world's leading supervillain corporate conglomerate, networking opportunities are many. Recruit henchmen, make enemies, forge tenuous friendships, and always be sure to collect blackmail. Just in case. ____________________________________________________

YOUR FELLOW INTERNS:

PETER HYDE interns for human resources, although he might not be totally human. Your cubicle neighbor is a geeky slack-off who (unlike you) doesn't really want to work here, but for some reason he's unable to quit. Laid-back, conflict avoidant, and generally easy to manipulate, he’s easy minion material- but his attitude belies a volatile, monstrous secret. Which can be a great asset or a major risk, depending on if you can maintain your control over him.

Appearance: Pale skin, black hair that always escapes his gel, earnest brown eyes rimmed with the harrowed look of someone who stares at screens all day. 6'5" but embarrassed about being tall, so he leans on stuff and slouches in chairs. Usually wearing cheap office attire and a novelty tie.

🫀Likes: Cozy furnished basements. Free flash computer games. Taking on a whole rotisserie chicken solo. 🚫Dislikes: Working overtime. Falling behind on payments. The bottomless, gnawing hunger.

"Tropes": Codependent coworkers, boss-henchman. Genuine friends somehow? More?

REID/RENEY SULLIVAN (gender selectable) is your nemesis, or at least they think so. An interning hero (at the rival hero company) with impressive telekinetic powers, they are nonetheless as much of an amateur as you, and so you find yourself on even footing with one of the most promising superheroes in the business. Earnest and witty, they genuinely just want to help people. Eventually, they become fixated on “figuring you out”, which can lead to them getting sucked into your schemes. That, or their meddling could be your downfall. Worst of all, they might even succeed in reforming you.

Appearance: Black skin and hair, styled into many twists that fall at different lengths around their face. Lithe, stringy runner's build. Expressive brown eyes, a wide, endearingly uneven smile.

🫀Likes: Doing good in the world. Veggie pizza. Playing smash bros with siblings. Maybe you, despite all their better instincts. 🚫Dislikes: You. The level of control their employer exerts over them. Skinny jeans.

"Tropes": Enemies to worse. Reluctant allies, bantering. Intimately charged hand-to-hand combat. Suddenly realizing your sworn nemesis is the most important and constant figure in your life.

T9-670 is a seven-foot tall ex-war machine, now interning with UnderHand's tech support department. Once a military member conscripted to the company's private security decal, its contract didn’t end when it died- the soldier’s brain was transplanted into a humanoid steel frame. T9 is doing some soul searching- it’s not totally sure if it even has one left, but it would like to have a purpose beyond fixing printers and mowing down UnderHand’s enemies with its plasma gun.

Appearance: T9's new mechanical body is imposing but graceful, made of smooth, interlocking steel. Its "face" is a rounded plate of dark glass. Small tubes connect to the back of its neck, carrying fluid to the brain through its artificial spine.

🫀Likes: The beautiful, almost organic curves of highway overpasses. 🚫Dislikes: Being unable to eat. It misses carbs.

"Tropes": Big huge strong shiny robot.

ELAINE FOSTER is an up-and-coming mad scientist interning as an assistant in the tech support laboratories. Although a genius prodigy, Foster otherwise has no superhuman abilities, which causes her to be overlooked by your superiors- as a result, she's become fixated on getting that elusive promotion. Exacting, calculating, and a little maniacal, Foster doesn't dole out her respect easily. But if she sees you making smart moves, you'll find her a very competent collaborator.

Appearance: Pale skin and frizzy, near-white blonde hair. Sharp, elegant, shrewd face. Grey eyes behind narrow cherry red cat-eye glasses. She usually wears her lab gear: the signature high collared white coat, black vinyl boots and gloves.

🫀Likes: A strong cup of green tea. A well-tailored pair of dress pants. Mugler, her pet lab rat. 🚫Dislikes: Temperatures above 68 degrees. Willful imbeciles. Being condescended to.

"Tropes": Icy exterior, rivals, lab partners in crime, the chemistry that comes from bonding over your obsessive shared career passions.

BLINK is technically unemployed, a rogue villain or vigilante, depending on who you ask. Completely anonymous, they wear a unique suit of tactical gear that allows them to turn completely invisible, the first of its kind. Quippy, chipper, and sauntering, Blink is an invisible superhuman that loves the spotlight- a walking contradiction. Their motives are as obscure as their identity, but they sure seem to interfere with your missions a lot. Are they sabotaging your goals, or do theirs align? Do they just like following you around? ...are they following you right now? You're pretty sure you're alone. The hallway is dead silent. And yet...

Appearance: There's no way to know. Even when they're visible, Blink is covered head to toe in tactical gear, and they seem very cautious about keeping their face concealed. It's almost like they have something to hide from you, personally.

🫀Likes: Assassinating crooked politicians. Steel-toe boots. Invisibly entering people's houses just to see what it's like in there. 🚫Dislikes: Motion sensing doors.

"Tropes": Secret identity, watching you through their sniper scope and kicking their feet around like a schoolgirl.

#VI characters #Elaine Foster #Peter Hyde #R Sullivan #T9-670 #Blink

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boombox-fuckboy · 2 years ago

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Hey!!! You commented on my post about limetown haha which is why I’m here. You offered to give podcast recs! What are your favorites?? I’m looking for some new ones

I completely forgot I had this ask, excuse the delay. Here's a selection of 30 podcasts I enjoyed from a broad range of genres: hopefully at least one appeals.

Let me know if you're after something more specific.

Arden: (Investigative, Comedy) On the 25th of December, 2007, heiress and young actress Julie Capsom crashed her car into a tree and fled into a nearby forest clearing, leaving a trail that seemingly vanished into thin air, and a dismembered torso in the trunk. A decade later, Bea, the first reporter on the scene, and Brenda, a detective on the case, are hosting a true crime podcast about it, and neither is remotely impressed with what the other has to say. Arden is also a retelling of various Shakespeare plays.

Desperado: (Supernatural, Adventure, Horror Elements) In a modern world of gods and magic, three young people, all under the patronage of death dieties, embark on the same adventure for different reasons: for safety, for revenge, and to kill The Old Man in the Sky. Fantastic banter and killer action sequences.

The Far Meridian: (Magical Realism) An agoraphobic young woman wakes one day to discover her lighthouse home has travelled to somewhere entirely unfamilar. As this continues to happen day after day, she uses the opportunity to search for her missing brother. A really unique and charming piece of fiction.

Gastronaut: (Sci-Fi) Interstellar travel audio blog of a former food critic as he travels to an active warzone to get firsthand experience with unfamilar cuisine. ft. Disgruntled martian nobility, sinister businessmen, explosive mushrooms, forbidden snacks, rogue revolutionary artists, and the consequences of your actions.

Girl in Space: (Sci-Fi) The Girl In Space lives alone on a space station, doing science, making cheese, rewatching Jurassic Park, and tending to the plants, animals, and artificial sun entrusted to her. It's a little lonely, but not a bad life. Would be a shame if someone came along to ruin it.

The Goblet Wire: (Microfiction, Weird Fiction) A surreal microfiction with horror elements, taking the form of phone calls to an audio-based game in which the voice of the mysterious Dictator leads each player through fantastic and horrific world and story.

Hello From The Hallowoods: (Horror, Supernatural) A dramatic entity beyond your comprehension visits your nightmares to tell stories of the people (in varying degrees of human and alive) that inhabit the strange, deadly, and beautiful Hallowoods, as they find meaning and sometimes eachother.

Hi Nay: (Supernatural Horror) A year after moving to Toronto, sound designer Mari finds herself drawn into helping people around the city with various horrific supernatural encounters due to her babaylan (shaman) family background. It quickly becomes apparent that there's something much more sinister and complicated happening in the background.

Inco: (Microfiction, Sci-Fi) A perpetually exausted interstellar information trader and her peppy AI find a mysterious (read: bratty) boy floating in space and are inadventently pulled into a world political intrigue.

Inn Between: (Fantasy) Ever curious about what the D&D characters get up to at the tavern between sessions? A generally lighter-hearted (with some exceptions) with richly-written and always-growing characters. A really interesting format, too: a lot of the adventure appears in the "next time" and "last time" segments which makes it all flow really nicely. Not a tabletop podcast.

Janus Descending: (Sci-Fi, Horror, Tragedy) A xenoarcheologist and a xenopaleontologist are sent to a study a dead city on a distant world. Nobody likes what they find there. A unique format, with one set of logs presented first to last, and the other last to first. I'd recommend listening to the supercut for this one.

The Kingmaker Histories: (Steampunk, Weird Fiction, Adventure, Fantasy Elements) In the Valorian Socialist Republic 1911, on her 25th birthday, tailor's apprentice Colette experienced the worst headache of her life. As a result, she fleed from town with a human artificer and a fae chef - both now smugglers - pursued by an utterly furious flesh-crafter. I'm not sure I'm selling how good this podcast is but it's very good.

Life With Althaar: (Sci-Fi, Comedy) A human repairman moves to a space station on the edge of human territory that is perpetually on the edge of self-destruction, and ends up with a less-than-ideal last-minute roomate. Althaar is polite, friendly, deeply interested in human culture, and eager to be friends. Unfortunately he belongs to a species that sends humans into a visceral panic at a glance.

Lost Terminal: (Sci-Fi, Hopepunk) Seth is a very lonely AI living on a satellite. His crew were left stranded aboard with no hope of return, and it's been longer than he can count since then. The Earth below him has changed dramatically, and with only a few other AI down there to talk to, he's very lonely. But! He has a plan to make some new friends.

Love and Luck: (Romance, Slice-of-Life and Urban Fantasy Elements) Voice messages cataloguing two young men falling in love and opening a queer dry bar together.

Midnight Radio: (Light Supernatural, Romance) Sybil McIntyre, host of the ever-popular 1950's nightly radio hour, begins exchanging letters with an old fan who has reluctantly returned to visit Sybil's beloved town.

Midst: (Weird Fiction, Western, Sci-Fi and Fantasy Elements) The old-western planetoid islet of Midst floats, rotating steadily, in a sea of reality-warping darkness. Down in the town of Stationary Hill, things are in movement, and vistors from the light above are about to bring unanticipated change. ft a monocycle-riding monster-hunter, radio-famous airship paladins, deadly mica, the universe's peppiest cultist, good dogs, and a really strange businessman.

The Mistholme Museum of Mystery, Morbidity, and Mortality: (Weird Fiction, Supernatural, Urban Fantasy and Horror Elements) A friendly AI tour guide leads you on a tour of the Mistholme Museum, explaining the strange and often alternatural story behind each item.

Monstrous Agonies: (Supernatural, Relationship Advice) An interpersonal advice show for supernatural entities and other people living liminally in the modern world.

Night Shift: (Urban Fantasy, Investigative) Set in a modern world with the addition of magic, which manifests in small inherited skills/traits, can warp people in horrific ways, or can be manipulated with the right science (and intense work) to induce superpowers. Sebastian Fenn is a barista at Night Shift Coffee, but since things are slow he's decided to start a podcast to talk about various mysteries, crimes and conspiracies around the city, and of course finds himself deeper in them than he'd intended.

The Pasithea Powder: (Sci-Fi, Thriller Elements? I think?) The last major interplanetary war was full of atrocities, but none more infamous then the creation of Pasithea Powder, a memory altering drug which was used to horrible effect and landed it's entire team of creators in prison. So when decorated war hero Captain Sophie Green sees one of them wandering free, worlds away from his prison, she gets in touch with a very old, estranged friend: one Dr. Jane Gonzalez, who's behind bars for the very same reason.

SCP: Find Us Alive: (Weird Fiction, Supernatural, Horror and Slice-of-Life elements) You don't need to know anything about SCP to enjoy this. A research team gets trapped in an underground research facility when the complex collapses and the building is dragged into a pocket dimension. The tear it was designed to study begins creating tiny copies of itself, generating strange entities the team needs to deal with. And as if that wasn't enough, the entire situation physically resets itself every 30 days. And yet, this is genuinely also an office comedy.

Second Star to the Left: (Sci-Fi) Audio logs of a scout sent to explore and establish early infastructure new world, and the communications with the minder in charge of keeping her alive.

Seen and Not Heard: (Slice-of-Life, Drama) Seen and Not Heard follows Bet, who's still adjusting to life a year after a bout of severe illness, and the resulting hearing loss it caused. It's about the ways we make connection, and food, and art, and different kinds of grief.

The Silt Verses: (Horror) In a modern world where gods are abundant, frequently both commercialised and restricted, two devotees of an outlawed river god go on a pilgrimage.

SINKHOLE: (Sci-Fi, Weird Fiction) Forum posts from a data restoration community in a near future where the human brain is its own computer and one city hosts a massive void.

Starfall: (Fantasy) Seeking to escape her mysterious past and find some purpose, a young swordswoman joins a travelling actor's troupe. This new life is unfamilar and sometimes stressful, but she's taken under the wing of stagehand Fel, who's determined to help her feel welcome as she experiences the figurative and literal magic of the theatre for the first time.

The Tower: (Weird Fiction) A low-key, meditative podcasy about a young woman who decides to climb a seemingly endless tower. Gorgeous sound design.

The Vesta Clinic: (Sci-Fi) New GP Dr. Fae Underwood, with the expert transcription skills of resident AI Sec, writes up patient reports on human and alien patients of The Vesta Clinic, a medical clinic on the edge of human space. Really comfy and creative.

Victoriocity: (Steampunk, Mystery) Set in the steam-powered Victorian city of Even Greater London, an aspiring journalist and a tired detective find themselves working together to solve a strange murder. I say Victorian but as queen Victoria is now an extensive grandiocity of cyborg components following seven only-kind-of-successful assassinations, you may need to adjust expectations a little.

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alwaysmicado · 1 year ago

Text

smile, baby

5.1k | 18+ MDNI | Nathan Bateman x f!reader

Warnings: D/s dynamic, drinking, degradation, orgasm denial, masturbation (m), spitting, big fat cumshot Summary: Nathan teaches you a lesson in submission. You hate love it. A/N: Filth with heart. I can't be normal about this man, okay? Can be read alone or as a prequel to in control and predator & prey. Enjoy and let me know what you think! 🤍

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asks. “Giving up control. Being able to turn your brain off.”

– – –

“What are we doing tonight?” You sit down on the couch beside Nathan, a glass of wine in hand.

“I’m watching TV,” he answers coldly without as much as a glance in your direction.

“Hmm…okay,” you murmur. You take a generous sip from your glass, appreciating Nathan’s excellent taste in wine. It’s your favorite; you discovered it on a trip to France during your college years and haven’t been able to find it since then.

What an incredible coincidence that he would just have it here, right?

Not right.

Unbeknownst to you, Nathan meticulously arranged every single detail of your living environment before you even crossed the threshold of his mansion for the first time.

The exquisite wine you now sip, seemingly a stroke of luck, was deliberately stocked to align with your taste. Much like the lavender shampoo that envelops you in its soothing fragrance during each shower, the never-ending supply of fresh strawberries, and the perpetually replenishing KitKats in your minibar, each aspect of your surroundings has been carefully curated to ensure your every comfort is met.

You haven’t really picked up on that fact yet, as you’re still in the process of settling into your new, exciting, but overwhelming environment.

In the two weeks since moving in, you’ve immersed yourself in the intricacies of artificial intelligence, navigating the uncharted waters of innovation under Nathan’s eccentric mentorship.

And eccentric, he is.

It took you five minutes of mostly one-sided conversation to realize that his intellect, an unmatched force of brilliance, is rivaled only by the staggering magnitude of his ego.

And, even more strikingly, it took you just as little time to realize you’ve never craved another human being as badly as you do him. There’s just something about him…beneath all the arrogance and assholery. You can’t put your finger on it, but you feel it’s there.

Nathan sensed your immediate attraction to him, of course, reading your microexpressions and body language. And after a few days of subtle teasing, he decided to give you a small taste of pleasure you didn’t know you were capable of, only to leave you without it for the past week since then.

Beyond lingering glances, the subtle brush of his hand against the small of your back in the kitchen, the knowing smirk when he catches you stealing glances at the bulge in his shorts, or his deliberate choice to work out shirtless—Nathan has been purposefully cold, relishing in your growing desperation.

For him, this is more than a game; he revels in a level of amusement he hasn’t experienced in years.

He could never get the androids to look at him with the same intensity, hunger, and raw need he can see in your eyes, and the control he now holds over your desires is a source of unparalleled satisfaction.

He definitely made the right choice by selecting you.

Nestling your feet under you in an attempt to find comfort on the cushion, you silently study your boss’s profile, observing as he brings the fourth bottle of beer to his lips. Your eyes slowly trace the distinct contours of his nose, the meticulous lines of his beard, the strength evident in his neck and shoulders, until they finally reach the casual sprawl of his naked feet at rest on the coffee table.

His lidded eyes remain unwaveringly fixated on the screen as he leisurely surfs through the channels, a deliberate act of indifference that extends to ignoring your presence. You nervously chew on your lip, trying your hardest not to break the silence first, even though you so obviously want to.

Seemingly absorbed in the movie he settled on, Nathan is keenly aware of your eyes repeatedly drifting towards him, lingering for a few seconds before retreating reluctantly back to the indifferent glow of the screen.

You’re so cute when you’re trying to be coy.

“Did you think of me?” he asks suddenly, taking a sip of his beer.

“Did I…huh?” you respond, startled, your brow furrowed in confusion.

He turns his head to look at you, his face revealing no emotion, his dark eyes piercing yours. A shiver runs down your spine as his gaze drops to your lips for a split second before finding your sparkling eyes again.

“When you were fucking yourself with that purple dildo last night. Did you think of me?” He peers at you with a straight face, casually taking another sip from his bottle.

“Wha–”

Your heart skips a beat, and heat immediately rushes to your cheeks as his words hang in the air. Shocked and exposed, your eyes widen, and your body tenses. After a few endless seconds, surprise turns into a mixture of anger and humiliation as you figure out how he knows.

Mother. Fucker. There’s a fucking camera in your room.

“No need to act embarrassed, baby,” he scoffs. “You put on quite a show.”

“It’s not technically a show when I’m unaware that my pervy boss is watching me, though, is it?” you snap at him, crossing your arms defensively in front of your chest.

“Yeah, well. It’s all in the NDA you signed.”

“Oh, of course it is,” you chuckle incredulously, looking up at the high ceiling of the living room.

“Did you think of me?” Nathan asks again, his eyes not leaving you.

“Uh...yeah, I did.” You down the rest of your wine in one go.

“Tell me about it.”

You sigh deeply. “You saw everything, so why don’t you tell me?” you say, unsuccessfully trying to mask your embarrassment with annoyance.

Nathan raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond.

When he had you on your knees in front of him a week ago, hands tied behind your back, allowing you a few seconds to catch your breath before going back to fucking your throat, he asked if you’d thought of him while touching yourself. You were flying high at that point, teetering on the edge, so desperate for release that you would have admitted anything he asked.

And so, you blurted out the truth.

He can tell you regret it now, but that only makes him want to push you further. The thought of forcing you to admit what you want, what you are, has his cock hardening in his sweatpants.

“Okay, fine,” you murmur, unable to take the deafening silence anymore. You clear your throat and shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“I couldn’t fall asleep and thought…you know, an orgasm might help. So I started with my hand, trying to get myself off as fast as possible. But then, um, that wasn’t enough,” you trail off, your gaze avoiding his, and you set the empty wine glass on the coffee table with a sigh.

“Look at me, baby.”

Nathan studies your face, typically adorned with a confident smile, and feels a surge of satisfaction as he takes in your dilated pupils and bashful expression. This is turning you on.

“Continue.”

“My fingers weren’t enough, so I thought I could use the toy I brought. I, um,” you inhale and exhale deeply, “I imagined it was you and I thought of what you…I thought of what you’d do to me.”

Anxiously, you search his eyes for a sign of approval, your heart racing in your chest.

“What did you think I’d do to you?” he asks, taking a swig of his beer without breaking eye contact.

You swallow audibly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt, your cheeks ablaze with heat. The sensation coursing through your body is undeniable—an intoxicating blend of humiliation and arousal.

Under Nathan’s intense scrutiny, you can feel yourself growing wetter with each passing second, succumbing to the forbidden pleasure of confessing your innermost, shameful desires.

“I thought you’d grab me like last time and kiss me…kiss my neck, bite my lip, hold me down while…” you stop again, too ashamed to go on.

“Hold you down while?” Nathan prompts, making it clear that you’re not done talking.

You tilt your head and furrow your brow as your gaze lingers on the man who has dominated every waking thought since the first time your eyes locked with his.

He’s condescending, self-centered, moody, and so used to playing God in his kingdom of androids that he’s seemingly forgotten how to connect with humans and their emotions. And yet, there’s an inexplicable allure about him that has you longing for his touch, his attention, his…guidance.

What is going on with you?

“I imagined you’d put your weight on me, keeping me pinned down, making it impossible for me to get away,” you say, peering at him through your lashes. “You’d fuck me, hard, using me in any way you like.”

You bite your lip and shift in your seat, feeling your pussy clench around nothing as you catch sight of Nathan’s hard cock twitching beneath the elastic fabric of his sweatpants. He’s still looking at you, his casual demeanor unchanged, beer in hand on his belly.

“You’d take, um, you’d take control of me, choking me, muffling my screams with your hand, grabbing my tits. I’d beg you to let me come, you’d bring me right to the edge and then you’d stop, denying me over and over again, and using me until I…”

“Until you?”

The subtle arch of Nathan’s eyebrow, the lingering scent of his beard oil, the way his lips press against the glass bottle’s opening—it all ignites an overwhelming surge of arousal within you, urging you to give him what he wants.

“Until I couldn’t take it anymore,” you purr seductively, your pupils so dilated your eyes are black.

“Is that the thought that made you squirt all over your bed?”

Your jaw drops and your chest tightens, the humiliation intensifying as he talks about this intimate, vulnerable moment with such nonchalance. Like it’s not a complete invasion of your privacy. Like he’s not penetrating the very core of your personal boundaries.

You feel a flutter in your stomach, and your throat constricts as you struggle to find your words.

“I…no,” you murmur, averting your gaze. Your eyes land on Nathan’s hand gripping the bottle a little harder than before. “What pushed me over the edge was you telling me to come.”

When your eyes meet his again, you recognize the same dark glint in them that you saw seconds before his lips crashed against yours for the first time.

“I would beg you to let me come over and over again, and you’d always deny me…until you decided I deserved it. And when you, uh, when you ordered me to come on your cock, I came so hard I lost all control.”

Nathan can barely hold back a groan as you confess your desire for his dominance. His cock is leaking precum, staining the inside of his pants. He’s this close to ripping your clothes off and taking you right here, right now, burying himself deep inside you and filling you up with his cum.

But that’s not the plan for tonight.

“Is that so,” is all he says, turning his head back to the TV, a satisfied, almost unnoticeable smirk playing on his lips. He chugs the rest of his beer, then sets the empty bottle down on the little side table next to him.

Keeping his eyes on the flickering screen, he purposely ignores you again, reveling in the escalating neediness and desperation he perceives from you. He can sense your fidgeting and squirming beside him, uncertain of your next move. After a brief pause, you lift your hand but retract it hesitantly. Amused, Nathan catches a glimpse of your indecision from the corner of his eye.

You’re such a perfect little slut—beautiful, eager, smart, pliant. And it just tickles him that you could scream at him to fuck your ass harder during sex, but act all shy and flustered when asked to talk about it.

Another minute of silence, and you’re unable to resist any longer. Your swollen clit is painfully sensitive, your damp panties are clinging to your pussy, and your brain is screaming at you to make a move. You reach out again, this time making contact with Nathan’s clothed chest. The rhythmic beat of his heart becomes palpable under your touch, and feeling his body connected with yours has you pressing your thighs together.

Your breath quickens as you slowly start trailing your hand down his chest and his belly, but before you get a chance to touch his cock, he stills your hand with his.

“Don’t,” he says without looking at you.

You wince and immediately pull your hand away, clasping it protectively against your chest with your other hand.

“I thought…sorry.” You look at him like he just slapped you.

Nathan sighs, but doesn’t say anything. There’s no scolding, no inquiries, no indication of what he wants you to do—it’s unnerving. You’re fidgeting with your shirt again, clearing your throat, and shifting your legs, trying to find a position that will alleviate at least some of the burning ache in your core.

“Can I–” you say quietly, but cut yourself off. You’re facing him completely now, feet tucked under you, hands on your thighs, a silent restraint preventing you from reaching out to touch him again.

Satisfied that you’re learning, he decides to reward you with his attention. His eyes find yours again, and he’s pleasantly surprised by what he sees. It’s not just lust or neediness; no, you’re lost. Completely, unequivocally lost without his orders.

Nathan’s used to Kyoko looking at him with a blank face, awaiting his commands, reacting to his actions, doing what he programmed her to do. But this is different.

You actually want him to tell you what to do.

He takes his feet off the coffee table and scoots back in his seat, spreading his legs. “Sit on the floor,” he orders, watching with an imperceptible smile as your eyes light up. You quickly get off the couch and kneel on the floor between his legs, your eyes fixated on the outline of his cock inches from your face.

You want to taste it so bad you can feel yourself salivating at the sight. You bite your lip and move a little closer, looking up at Nathan expectantly before gently putting your hands on his thighs. He lifts his hips slightly, groaning at the delicious feeling of his tip rubbing against his pants. You take that as a sign to continue, moving your hands further up to the waistband.

“No,” he says calmly before you can pull it down.

“Why not?” You don’t pull away your hands this time. “You’re hard. Why won’t you let me–”

“Look.” He leans down to tilt your chin up with his thumb and index finger. “I get that you’re a needy whore and seeing my cock instinctively makes you want to suck it, I really do, baby,” he scoffs, condescension dripping from his words. “But I honestly thought you’d be able to follow a simple instruction even dogs can understand.”

A sharp inhale catches in your throat and your eyes widen at his demeaning words. Your gaze locked onto his, you can feel a surge of frustration coursing through your veins, tinged with a spark of defiance. You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure.

Nathan tilts his head, studying your expression, your reaction. You could have slapped him by now, stormed off, told him to go fuck himself—anything. But no, you’re still kneeling between his legs, lust and determination evident in your eyes.

“Let’s try this again, hm?” His thumb gently traces your bottom lip. The sensation sends a wave of ecstasy through your body and it takes all of your self-control not to start sucking on his finger. He can read in your eyes what you’re thinking, so he repeats the motion with your upper lip just to test your resolve.

The way you squirm under his touch is mesmerizing and oh so gratifying.

“Sit on the floor.”

He releases his hold on your chin, reclines into the couch, grabs another beer from the side table, and redirects his attention back to the TV.

You decide to crawl out from between his legs, ensuring he gets a tantalizing view of your shapely ass in those snug yoga shorts. Leaning against the couch with a deep sigh, you position yourself next to his leg. You glance up at him, searching for a sign that he’s happy with your obedience—and also very much hoping for a reward that involves him fucking your brains out again.

It’s not as if you don’t deserve it for enduring his grandiose monologues and drunken crying sessions every other night. Besides, you’re hot, and he should be so lucky…

To your frustration, though, he’s ignoring you again, absentmindedly tapping the beer bottle with his index finger as his eyes stay focused on the movie. He can feel your annoyance, your anger, and it’s almost enough to get his softening cock hard again.

You sit in silence for a minute before quietly scooting closer and gently leaning against Nathan’s leg. Feeling him, even through fabric, is enough to embolden you to go further. You look up at him, trying to be sneaky. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are fixated on the TV, one hand cradling his beer, the other casually draped over the backrest.

You’re not giving up that easily. Your pussy won’t let you. Just one little touch, and you’re convinced you can get him in the mood. Just one little touch, and he won’t be able to resist you. Just one little–

“I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Then why the fuck am I down here?”

“Because I want you to be.”

“Oh, wow,” you scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “And now what? You think I’m just gonna sit here and watch you get drunk?”

He ignores your pouting.

“I got better stuff to do, you know.”

He turns up the volume of the TV.

“This is so dumb, Nathan. Why do you want me to sit here if you’re just gonna ignore me?”

“You like it when I tell you what to do,” he says calmly.

You’re taken aback by his statement and furrow your brow. “Well, yeah…but this isn’t…I–”

He looks down at you, effectively shutting you up.

It’s absolutely amazing how he can watch in real time as the defiant fire in your eyes fizzles out. The small, self-satisfied smile creeping across his arrogant face stings.

He’s such a cocky bastard.

You huff agitatedly, cross your arms in front of your chest, demonstratively turn away from him, and kick your legs out from under you. Nathan, on the other hand, relaxes in his seat. He’s thoroughly enjoying your little show, and your pouting doesn’t bother him. Not as long as you’re doing what you’re told.

After a few minutes of listening to the blood rushing in your ears and the occasional gulping sound coming from Nathan working on his beer, you can’t hold it back any longer.

“I’m not just gonna stay down here,” you hiss at him.

“Yes, you are.”

Unbelievable.

You stare at him incredulously. “And what makes you so sure of that, huh? I could just walk away and leave you here to sulk. I don’t need this, okay? And you–you can’t just–”

Nathan says your name sharply. “Stop your whining. You’re sitting on the floor because I told you to. That’s it.”

He looks at you, his eyebrow arched, daring you to defy him.

“That’s it?” you repeat, your eyes narrowed.

Nathan smirks and turns towards the TV again, slowly sipping his beer.

“Yup. That’s it.”

You glower at him, and, for a brief moment, he half-expects you to finally get up and storm out in frustration. He wouldn’t mind, really. But there seems to be a subtle shift within you, and after a few tense seconds, you release a long, aggravated breath. Turning away from him, you cross your arms with annoyance, and firmly plant your back against the couch.

Nathan keeps an eye on you, observing how your tense posture relaxes and how you make yourself comfortable after a few more minutes of sitting at his feet.

It’s an image he wants to savor.

You’ve been good for some time now, doing what he told you to do, submitting to him nicely. He decides to reward your obedience, reaching out to pet the back of your head. You’re startled and your body stiffens at his touch, but he can feel you relax more and more with each gentle stroke of his palm up and down the nape of your neck. He gives you a soothing massage, soft scratches, allows you to lean into his touch.

He’s stroking you for some time, relishing the feeling of dominance, of control, until a quiet moan escapes your lips.

Nathan smiles to himself and tightens his grip on your neck for a few seconds, intensifying the sensation. You sigh in pleasure and close your eyes, getting lost in his forceful touch. He then loosens his grip, and you release a contented sigh as you rest your head against his leg. He lets you, gently scratching your scalp, your soft moans music to his ears.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “It’s so much better when you do what I say, hm?”

You lift your head to meet his gaze, your brow furrowed.

Seeing you look up at him with those pretty, lust-filled eyes of yours is enough to get his cock hard again.

“You can just do what you’re told,” he says, his fingers gently tracing your neck. “You don’t have to think, or ask questions. You can just let yourself fall and give up control.”

Your eyes widen, and he caresses your cheek.

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asks. “Giving up control. Being able to turn your brain off. Not having to think for yourself, not having to make decisions.”

You don’t respond, mesmerized by his dark eyes and calm voice. There’s a hint of surprise in your expression, but that doesn’t surprise him. You’ve been suppressing your desire for submission for a long time, and now, he’s presenting you with the chance to finally embrace it.

“If I want you to sit on the floor because that’s where I feel you belong, you don’t ask why. You just do it,” he says, running his thumb over your lips again. “Right?”

You nod slowly and press your thighs together with a little whine. Your panties are drenched and it physically hurts you how empty you feel.

“Very good,” Nathan murmurs, pressing his thumb against your lips, and giving you a quick nod when you look at him questioningly. You open your mouth for him to slide his finger inside, your eyes going even wider at the sensation.

Nathan’s cock twitches at your total submission.

He gently thrusts his thumb in and out of your mouth, sliding it along your warm tongue. You suck and lick it seductively, eyes half-closed as you hum around the digit, swirling your tongue around it as if to show him what his cock is missing.

He sucks in a sharp breath and takes his thumb back out of your mouth, pulling down your bottom lip slowly before bringing his face close to yours.

You half-expect him to kiss you, but instead he murmurs, “Clothes off, hands on your thighs.”

He watches contentedly as your eyes light up, and you eagerly follow his orders, pulling your shirt over your head, unclasping your bra, pulling down your shorts and panties in one swift motion.

“Kneel over there,” he says, directing you to a spot away from the couch.

He gets up and pulls down his sweatpants, letting them fall onto the floor. You stare at his cock with need, awe, and a tinge of fear—your holes were sore for days after your last encounter. He smiles to himself, crossing the distance between you two, and positioning himself in front of you.

You’re sitting back on your heels, thighs spread, your hands firmly placed on them, your glistening pussy on display. There’s a smooth arch in your back and your head is tilted upwards as you wait for further instructions.

Nathan looks down at you, his eyes scanning your naked body, spits in his hand and starts stroking his cock. He groans at the delicious feeling of finally getting some relief. He hasn’t jerked off all day, despite watching the tape of you fucking yourself after he got up this morning. And after lunch. And again this afternoon.

To say he’s pent up would be an understatement.

“That’s it,” he moans, wasting no time to tease himself. His right hand sets a steady pace, sliding up and down his length with honed efficiency.

“I’m gonna come all over your pretty face, baby. And you’re gonna take it like a good girl, aren’t you?”

The thought of it, of Nathan marking you that way, dirty and wrong and everything you’re not supposed to desire, it sends a surge of heat through your body, settling in your clit with a throb.

You whimper an unintelligible response, your eyes fixated on his hand moving in practiced motions around his thick cock. Nathan chuckles above you, and you manage to tear your eyes away from his cock to catch the look of dark amusement on his face.

“You gotta speak up, baby. Or are you too cock-drunk to use your words already?”

You swallow hard and dig your nails into the flesh of your thighs. “Y-yes,” you manage to choke out. Your face burns with humiliation, intensifying your desperation as you plead, “Please come on my face, Nathan. I want you to mark me. Please give me your cum. Please.”

Shocked at your unexpectedly bold words, Nathan’s hand momentarily falters in its movement, before picking up again with increased speed.

A strangled groan bubbles out of his throat, followed by your name and a swipe of his thumb over the tip of his cock. His dark eyes meet yours for a split second, looking down at you as you’re patiently waiting for your reward with an opened mouth.

You writhe and squirm at the sound of Nathan’s groans and the intense sight of him pleasuring himself. You’ve never seen anything hotter. You want to touch yourself, to rub your clit or slip your fingers into your wet core—to finally get some release—but you resist the urge, clenching your hands into fists.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, baby,” Nathan pants, his words coming ragged and tight. He’s so close.

You look up into his lidded eyes and whisper, ��Please.”

“You want that, huh? Oh fuck. Such a filthy little cumslut.”

You moan at his words and feel your walls clench in desperation. Your arousal is dripping out of your pussy onto the floor below, an obscene sight that confirms what Nathan already knew.

You’re loving this.

Nathan’s hand is jerking his leaking cock, fast and firm, as he races toward his orgasm. He’s all you can see, all you can hear, all you can feel—the wet squelching sound of his hand around his slick cock, his grunts and moans, the mumbled curses, the heat radiating off his imposing body.

You see him twitch in his hand and your swollen clit pulsates in response. He increases the speed of his hand and reaches to fondle his balls with his left hand. It takes a harsh squeeze and a “Holy shit, fuck!” before he’s coming with a long, low moan.

Your eyes shut instinctively but you don’t flinch as you can feel it hitting your face and tits in hot, wet spurts. You stay still, like the good girl that you are, moaning as another thick rope of Nathan’s cum lands across your lips, dripping into your mouth, salty and bitter on your tongue.

You don’t get to see his face as he comes, but the explicit sounds that reach your ears are enough to make you twitch and moan in pleasure, expanding the puddle beneath you.

Nathan strokes himself through his orgasm until his balls are empty and he’s milked every last drop out of his cock and onto your face—until he’s painted you with it, until he’s marked you as his.

“Goddamnit.”

Spent, he lets go of his pulsating cock, putting his hands on his hips, taking a step back to take a good, long look at his work of art.

Your face is painted white with cum, spread all over your cheeks, chin, and dripping down to your tits. You put on a little show, gathering up the drops with your finger and sensually putting them on your tongue while keeping unwavering eye contact.

“You can swallow,” Nathan says, pleased with your conduct.

You do as he says, happily adding some more cum from your lips, and swallowing it all down with a blissed-out smile.

“Thank you, Sir,” you coo.

“Such a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” he murmurs, stepping closer. He bends down, grabs the back of your neck forcefully, and tilts your head up.

“Open your mouth, slut. Tongue out.”

You open wide, sticking your tongue out for him to see. He leans in to let a big glob of his spit fall directly into your open mouth. He hums in satisfaction as he watches you swallow it eagerly, and then he finally kisses you, dirty and messy, tasting himself on your tongue. You moan into his mouth, bucking your hips, desperate for him to finally touch your neglected pussy.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your lips, making you moan. “Now, go get cleaned up.”

Oh no, he wouldn’t.

You stare at him with wide eyes. “But I–”

“Go. Get. Cleaned. Up.”

“But I haven’t…what about me?” you stammer, your voice trembling.

“What about you?” he responds with a raised eyebrow, a sadistic glint in his eyes.

Your face falls and his cock pulsates at your expression. You look like you’re close to crying, your thighs pressed together to alleviate your aching clit, your nails painfully digging into your palms. You’re shaking with anger and frustration.

Nathan’s never been as turned on as he is from seeing you suffer—you’re just so pretty when you’re denied.

He can already picture himself playing with every part of you for hours on end, denying you over and over again until your body is ablaze with burning anticipation. And then, once he’s finally reduced you to a brainless, overstimulated mess, he’ll wrap his hand around your throat and make you take him until you beg him to stop.

But that’s for another day.

“Smile, baby,” he smirks, tapping your cum-stained cheek and straightening up to get himself another beer from the kitchen. “You’re on camera.”

– – –

Thank you for reading! 🤍

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