#as someone that was led to believe that professionals would help

[after-witch]

Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Sufferance [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: Patience is a thread. Eventually, it snaps. You should have minded this with someone like Chrollo Lucilfer.

word count: 3000+

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, rough noncon sex, sexual assault, degradation

You love books. You always have. As a child, you would curl up under your covers, flashlight in your mouth or propped up carefully with dirty laundry, reading page after page until you heard the creak of your mother’s footsteps in the hallway and had to flop down like a fish, pretending to be asleep. As a teen, you devoured books on the bus, in between classes, sometimes during classes much to your teacher’s irritation. 

Your love of reading led where it sometimes does as an adult--to the library. You were just an assistant--shelver, pamphlet folder, read-books-to-the-kids-every-Tuesday-morning--but it was enough for you to be in the building.It wasn’t a particularly lucrative job, and you had heard from friends and family time and time again that you really ought to go back to school and aim for something higher. Time and time again, you shook your head, smiling, and said you were happy to be there.

Now, you wish you had listened to them. You wish you had put in your 2 weeks notice and went back to school or hell, just quit and taken a job somewhere else. Anywhere else. Preferably in a backroom. A warehouse. Somewhere that wasn’t visible to the public and therefore visible to people like him.

Somewhere that didn’t have you sitting quietly behind a desk, processing books, double checking inventory, darting here and there to help patrons or put something back on the shelves. 

Because that is exactly how Chrollo Lucilfer found you.

You met him once… twice… three… four… five times at the library. At least, five times that you know of; thinking back, you wonder if he watched you secretly. He must have, to know so much about you. You push that thought away.

He left an impression, but how couldn’t he? He was handsome and rather intimidating, with a casually professional outfit and an intriguing bandage wrapped around his forehead. His voice was soft and polite, inquiring, curious. 

He came back a few times. Struck up a conversation. Helped you reach a tall shelf, a low shelf. Offered to carry a stack of books that you had to put away without the cart because it had gone missing. 

At first you appreciated another kind patron--but there was something about him that you didn’t like. Something which seemed to seep out of him as time went on.

Oh, you couldn't have pinpointed it if you’d been paid in solid gold. It was something innate. Something primal. Something deep in your gut that told you to stay away from him, like a rabbit catching a whiff of a predator in the woods.

So you started avoiding him as much as possible, running into the stock room whenever you saw him come in, pleading with a coworker that you weren’t feeling well and needed to swap out. You thought if you ignored him, he would leave you alone, move on. 

Chrollo, on the other hand--if his own words told to you later are to be believed--fell absolutely, maddeningly for you.

So he waited to see if you could come around (you didn’t) and he took matters into his own hands.

That is to say, he kidnapped you. 

You had asked him why, just the once. He shrugged and mentioned that he couldn’t stay in this town forever, and he had to take you before he left. If he didn’t have to go, perhaps he might have tried to court you, but ah, it simply couldn’t be helped.

“Couldn’t be helped.” That’s what he said. It couldn’t be helped that he stole you from your life, your friends, your family. It couldn’t be helped that he stole you. Took you away from everything you’ve known and has decided to keep you with him. Like a pet--no, not that. Like a treasure. Something to be admired and touched at his whim.

And that is where you are now… 

Well. More or less.

Just because he’s kidnapped you doesn’t mean you have to give in to him. At least not outside of the fact that you can’t get away from him, and you know that there’s no point in trying to run or fight or desperately beg hotel concierges or passers-by for help. Because no one can help you. 

What you can do is fight, in little ways. Ways that dig under his skin and keep you from completely drowning in horror and misery. 

The best way to dig under the skin of the seemingly almighty Chrollo Lucilfer is to ignore his attempts to woo you. And oh, they are temptations, there is no doubting that. He has offered so much at your feet that you sometimes wonder why he simply doesn’t find someone who might be open to his advances and do the same. You’ve told him as much, and he’s murmured sweet nothings (emphasis on nothings, in your opinion) about how you’re the only one who’s ever really caught his eye and his heart. 

He’s offered you a veritable library of books, including treasures that you’re sure (even if he won't admit it) were stolen from some priceless collection. He’s taken you to bookstores and told you to have your pick, anything you want--it’s yours. He’ll even read it with you. 

He suggests getting your favorite meals--sticky and spicy rice dishes, homey pasta from the local restaurant, pastries with sweet cream. Whatever you want, whenever you want. He’s collected all of your favorite films (the fact that he knows which were your favorites makes you feel sick every time you think about it) and watched them with you, but there’s no enjoyment in the scenes. Just as there is no enjoyment in the jewelry he clasps around your wrist, your neck; the rings he slides on your fingers. 

You reject the intention behind them all, verbally or physically. Except the food, but only because you need the energy to keep up your struggles for another day. 

You refuse to accept this as normal. Any of this. 

That’s why he still ties you up when he has to leave, whether it’s a short leash that keeps you on the bed or a long chain around your ankle, keeping you away from the front door of wherever you’ve been stashed.

Sometimes you’re tied up when he’s here, too, if you’ve been too ornery. You refuse to let him touch you or kiss you, though God in heaven knows he’s tried. You’ve bitten him in the past, and got gagged for the trouble, but it was worth it. It’s not like you wanted to talk to him anyway. 

He can kidnap you, but he can’t make you love him. He can’t make you let him love you, either, whatever version of “love” he believes is in his heart.

But.

But.

But.

Patience is a thread. Eventually, when pulled too tight, it snaps.

You might have paid more attention to this fact, if you knew what was coming.

--

You shouldn’t be surprised when you exit the bathroom, freshly showered and dressed in clean sweatpants and a lounge shirt, that the apartment has been transformed. It’s not the first time Chrollo has attempted a romantic evening.

But you weren’t expecting it and tonight, he’s pulled out everything in the book. Lights. Music. Food. Mood.

On the table of the hotel room are some of your favorite dishes, all neatly arranged on top of a crisp white tablecloth. There are glasses of wine, probably expensive. In the background soft music plays, something nice, relaxing, elegant. There are candles on the dining table, on the coffee table, above the fireplace. Flickering and dancing, giving the room a dreamy effect. 

And there is Chrollo, of course, standing as casually as he can (which is not very much at all) in front of the table. Staring at you with unspoken expectations in his eyes. 

“I thought,” he says, slowly, after a while, “that you could pick our movie tonight as well. Anything you please.” 

You don’t answer. You look at the table and then at him, but you don’t answer.

He sighs, and you see--just for a moment--one of the hands at his side clench and release. He walks toward you, and you’ve half a mind to turn around and lock yourself in the bathroom, but he’s quicker than your thoughts. 

One hand goes to your chin and you set your jaw together as tight as you can, lips pursed, ready to spit venom if he should try anything. 

“Darling,” he whispers. “I wish you’d let me treat you.” He pauses. “I wish you’d let me kiss you.” 

You can feel his breath on your cheek. It smells like mint. He probably popped one while you were in the shower. Asshole. 

He leans in, and it’s not the first time he’s tried to kiss you but it’s the most audacious in recent memory, and you yank your jaw away and take a step back.

You breathe in through your nose, wishing hot fumes could come out to represent how you feel inside. But they don’t. 

So you settle for words.

“Fuck. You.” You spit them out, jaw clenched, brow furrowed. “Fuck you and your ‘date’ and if you think I’m ever, ever going to let you… let you…” Kiss me, touch me, have anything from me except poison and hatred? You can’t finish.

The words aren’t enough. You need something more, something that lets you kinetically toss all of this anger and helplessness out into the world. 

Ah. The table. 

You don’t think before you do it. You just do it. Your hands grip the pressed white table cloth and you yank, hard, sending all the carefully set glasses and dishes flying to the floor. The candles, fragile things, sputter out in the process.

For a few moments, it is mostly silent, punctuated only by a soft dripping that you assume must be spilled wine and your own rapid breathing.

And then you look back at Chrollo and feel your stomach drop out from underneath you.

He’s staring, not at the mess you’ve made, but you. And he doesn’t look angry at all, which isn’t quite right--because you know he’s angry. You know it because the air feels heavy, rancid, like you’re being pressed down by mere emotion. 

“I’ve been kind,” he says finally, voice soft and calm. You want to scream--kind?!--but the feeling in the air keeps you from speaking. You don’t want it inside your mouth, this air. 

“I’ve been kind,” he repeats, “but enough is enough.” 

If you were a rabbit, you would have run. But you’re not, and so you’re standing perfectly still when he takes slow steps toward you and grabs your wrist.

Now, you do try to pull away--but for once, you can’t wrench yourself from his grip. You always had been able to before. But this is different--he’s different. It’s like he’s a stone statue, and no matter how you pull, it makes no difference.

Only he’s not as still as a statue. His hand returns to its earlier position, but instead of gripping your chin, he continues upward, tracing lines across your jaw, up your cheek.

“So lovely,” he says. “A pity that you haven’t let me admire you.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, venomous air be damned. You pull as hard as you can, your socked feet sliding on the floor. You wrench and yank and squirm. Stupidly, it turns out, because it doesn’t work.

He smiles at you. It’s not a nice smile at all.

“That is the plan, dearest.”

Your stomach lurches ahead of you, like a sudden stop on a roller coaster.

“What?” 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he begins to walk, pulling you behind him.  Your feet skid and slide, but it doesn’t matter. It’s like you're made of nothing, a doll, a toy, that he’s pulling along without resistance.

“Chrollo--what?” You ask again. 

He’s silent as he drags you into the bedroom, and it’s then, your toe bumping against the threshold on the floor, that you realize where this is going. 

“Wait, wait--” The words tumble out of you like water, but there’s no stopping the pull against your arm, or the gravitational force when he gives you a push onto the bed.

The softness of the mattress has you sinking into it, but you manage to scramble backwards before turning yourself over.

“Wait--” 

He stands over the bed. He looks at you for a few long, awful moments.

“No more waiting,” he says. Simply. Coldly. Goosebumps run up your arms and you want to run but you feel stuck, frozen, like something is holding you to the bed. You can’t tell if it’s something real or your fear keeping you there.

And then he’s crawling on the bed, his body over yours.

“I’ve been patient.”

His hand reaches out and grabs your wrists, which feel limp and useless; he pins them above your head.

“I’ve been kind.”

His other hand goes to your chest, but not to touch you. He grips the fabric of your shirt and pulls. It rips like paper. The air must be cool because goosebumps immediately dot the flesh of your bared chest, sending a shiver through your body that almost covers up the sense of dread within you.

There’s a sense of finality to those goosebumps. Because he’s not going to stop at taking off your shirt, is he? 

“No, I don’t want--you--you--you can’t.”

There’s something that changes in his expression, then. You don’t know what it is, and there’s not enough time to really focus on it. Not with adrenaline pumping through you, making you start to squirm, making your breath start to come fast.

He leans down, close to your ear, that damned smell of mint wafting into your nostrils again.

“I’m a thief, love. I can take whatever I want.” 

He lets go of your wrists, and both of his hands grip the waistband of your sweatpants. And that’s exactly when panic truly sets in. Your leg kicks--you hit him, you think--and your body flails, hands flying. Every muscle in your body is tight and tense and screaming to get away.

“No, no, no, no!” 

At your panic-induced fury, he merely hums, and it’s the most awful sound you’ve ever heard. 

You feel the shift in the air before you see the book. You hate the book. He’s never used the book on you, no, that is true. But you’ve seen it used on others. A warning towards you, but you didn’t heed it well enough.

He murmurs something and your hands fly up towards the headboard. You try to move them but you can’t. It’s like they're held together by some invisible rope. It doesn’t stop you from kicking your legs, twisting and turning, spit flying as your breath comes in ragged gasps.

At this, Chrollo merely uses his free hands to pin down your thighs.

And he waits.

He waits until your body is exhausted, too exhausted to kick or flail or fight him. Not that it did you any good, with your hands bound. And with his own strength in the mix. 

When your body ceases to do more than squirm pitifully against the bed, and your breath has gone from spitting and ragged to merely heaving, he smiles down at you.

“There, now. That’s better.”

You don’t want this.

“Please don’t,” you say, voice cracking.

But it doesn’t matter what you want.

Your sweatpants are pulled down first. He doesn’t pull them all the way off, and somehow, this makes your stomach squirm. Then he pulls down your underwear, bunching it along with your sweatpants down by your ankles.

You squeeze your eyes tightly and will yourself to be anywhere but here.

You hear his breath hitch at the sight of your bared body, at all the things you’ve kept hidden from him until now.

“Beautiful,” he says, a crooning reverence in his tone. “Simply lovely.”

Something desperate and stupid pushes you to open your eyes, to look at him, gaze shining with oncoming tears.

“D-Don’t,” you force out. “Let’s do--let’s do something else, okay? You can kiss me, or… or…” Your mind scrambles for some substitution.

Chrollo smiles down at you with indulgence, then presses a finger to your trembling lips.

“Hush now. You had a chance--many chances, in fact--but they’re gone now. We’ll do this a different way.”

And then he finally unbuttons his trousers and pulls them down, along with his boxers. You immediately look up, afraid and unwilling to see what’s underneath. 

He leaves his own shirt on, and the sight of that makes you angry, somewhere, deep down. Goosebumps on your chest give way to righteous flushing, hot, angry. 

There’s a moment where the two of you merely look at one another. You, with your eyes watery and wide, naked, bared. And Chrollo, his eyes drinking in the sight of you, filling up his own hollow spaces with what was prone in front of him.

And then his mouth is on yours, wet, warm, insistent. 

For the briefest of moments, it occurs to you that while you can’t move your wrists, you can still move your mouth. You can still bite. 

He pulls back only to speak against your lips, sensing your throats.

“Don’t bite,” he murmurs, in between pressing his lips to yours. “I can be so much worse than this.” 

And just like that, the thought of biting recedes, stuck behind the cold fear of what else Chrollo could do. Would do, if you pushed him to it. 

But that just leaves you and him, on this bed. 

He murmurs something in approval and begins to kiss you again. HIs tongue finds its way into your mouth and you want to retch. It’s wet and warm and awful. There’s pressure on your chest--his hands, resting at first, then kneading your breasts. 

Your entire body wants to recede into the mattress. To simply dissolve into it, down to the floor, and possibly beyond.

You don’t want him touching you, but he is.

He pulls away from your mouth, and you can’t look him in the eye, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“I can’t wait any longer, my dear.” 

You know what he’s talking about but it doesn’t make it any less terrifying when his hands drift away from your chest, trailing down your stomach, until they finally reach between your legs.

It’s a light touch, at first. Something you could blink away. But he has no patience to take it slow, and in a moment his fingers are inside you. You’re dry. It hurts. But he says nothing when your breath catches in your throat and you let out a pained wheeze. 

Your inner walls squeeze him, not to keep him in but in an attempt to push his digits out. It’s an instinctive gesture, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t bother you about it. 

He pulls his fingers out and there’s relief for a moment,  until you feel  his thumb rubbing your clit. There’s too much pressure, an electric sort of tingle. You can’t tell if he’s experimenting or trying to get you wet or something else entirely.

You stare up at the ceiling. The ceiling has tiles. You could count them. You could count them and pretend you’re not here, and that this isn’t happening. 

Yet it’s too hard to do that, when you can feel him. Feel his thumb rubbing your clit and his pressure on the body and hear his breathing.

“Look at me, darling,” he says, light, crooning. Like he wasn’t keeping you tied to the bed and touching you unwillingly. Maybe while you’re trying to count tiles, he’s imagining that this went a different way. Maybe.

When you meet his gaze, he keeps it there. 

“This will hurt, I imagine.” 

He stares at you as he thrusts inside you and he’s right. It does hurt. You’re a little wet, maybe, but not really prepared. It feels like your breath gets knocked out of you, like something is stuck in your lungs, all the while a rough stinging against your inner walls brings tears immediately to your eyes. There’s an awful soreness where the two of you meet.

Tiles, tiles, tiles--who can count tiles while this is going on? 

Chrollo, still wearing his damn shirt, begins to thrust inside you. Your breath comes back just in time for it to hitch at the roughness of his thrusts, at how unusually wild and uncontrolled he seems. 

It’s painful. It’s humiliating. You don’t know how long it’s going on. Tears trickle down your cheeks, but they feel cold. A startling contrast to the painful heat between your legs, the uncomfortable dryness even as he thrusts inside you. 

“Oh, you’re cruel,” he says suddenly, voice tinged with just a touch of breathiness. 

His words make something inside you begin to crack. A fissure line ready to spread. 

“I’m cruel?” Pain chokes your voice.

He presses against you, leaning down so that he can kiss your jawline, peppering kisses on  your tear-tracked skin. 

“Yes.” His breath is hot against your cheek. “For denying me the pleasure of this feeling for so long.” 

Some part of you, some dull dragging part, wants you to ask what feeling he means. All you feel is pain and humiliation and this awful helplessness that feels like your guts are being scooped out while you’re still alive. 

“How awful of you,” he continues, uncaring of whatever thoughts might be racing around in your head. He presses a kiss to your lips. “But I’ll forgive you, in time. Starting with this.”

You shake your head against it all, and he only chuckles, pressing a sickeningly chaste kiss to your cheek.

And then he begins to thrust harder, and there’s added torment to it. More pain, more stinging, an awful feeling of stretch. Another feeling, too, something hitting you--again and again, timed with his thrusts. You realize, with a humiliation that makes you actually cry, that his balls are slapping against you. 

There’s an awful lewdness to it, and it’s something you’ll never forget. 

Now and then, you feel a thumb brush against your clit, and you jolt from it. But there’s no pleasure, no warmth, no seeking out his lips and arms to meld together in an embrace. The sweat you feel against your back makes you feel dirty. 

But all you can do is clench your fingers, wrists bound by some invisible cord, and wish for it to be over soon. It would be a mercy.

You don’t know how long it takes. Time drags and hurts. But eventually you feel him speeding up, catch a crack in his expression that tells you with certainty that he’s going to reach his peak. He leans down again, gripping your chin, and kisses you deeper than he has before.

He groans into your mouth as you feel him still, as you feel wetness inside you. It’s warm and thick and you want to vomit it up, even though it’s not in your mouth. You wish you could spit out the sound of his moan. You imagine brushing your teeth a thousand times and never ridding yourself of it.

In time, Chrollo pulls away from you, and removes himself from between your legs. Liquid seeps out of you, slow and warm. 

You will think, later, of birth control. Of asking for a pill. Your stomach will clench and you will throw up with worry that you could be pregnant. He will give you a pill and that worry, at least, will disappear. But that is later. 

Now, however, all is silent. Or almost silent. Your ragged breathing and somewhere on the wall, a soft ticking of a clock. Dim sounds from outside, but maybe that is only rushing in your ears. 

Your thoughts are not so silent. They are buzzing, going from thought to thought. He hurt you. It hurts. He made you kiss him. He fucked you. 

He’s taken everything from you now. Everything you tried to keep, stubborn, stupid thing that you are. Is it any wonder that more tears come, when this thought slams into your brain? 

And is it any wonder that Chrollo gazes down at you with something like reverence when you do? He drinks in  your expression, and when he leans in, you think for a moment--and only a moment--that he’s guilty. Or sorry. Or something almost like those two human emotions that everyone should possess. 

But what he whispers is nothing so human. 

“This is your fault, you know. If you hadn’t denied me for so long, well…”

He nuzzles your neck. His touch feels like sandpaper, but you can’t bat him away. How long will he keep your wrists bound like this? Another minute? Another hour? All night? 

He sighs against your skin. 

“Next time will be better, won’t it? No need to repeat this?”

You would like to go into the bathroom and flush everything out of you with scalding hot water. You would like to drink pure alcohol to rid your mouth of his taste. You would like to down pain pills, to address the pain between your legs.

But you’re tied to the bed and can’t do any of those things.

So you nod, absently. Your eyes go from his face--though his never leave yours, watching what you do, taking it all in--towards the ceiling. 

Oh, the tiles. 

One of the tiles on the ceiling is cracked. 

Someone should really fix it. 

[wttcsms]

if you feel like falling (catch me on the way down) | ONE

ᝰ.ᐟ after getting your heart broken by professional soccer player, rin itoshi, all because he loved the game more than you, you officially swear off all men — especially athletes. your publicist doesn't get that memo, though, and you find yourself roped into a fake relationship with yoichi isagi, who isn't just a pro soccer player, but also your ex's rival. things could get messy. ( fem!reader )

pairing yoichi isagi x reader (endgame), past! rin itoshi x reader word count 2.9k chapter synopsis there are certain perks to having a relationship that operates on a "private not secret" basis. for example, you're allowed at least two weeks before the batshit crazy people online figure out that little miss it girl just got her ass dumped. chapter contains partying to cope, social drinking, diet culture, this fic is so chronically online LOL author's notes so normally, i would organize the fic's different arcs or acts by explicitly saying "act 1" or whatever. like i said, we're gonna be chronically online, so the arcs are described as different "eras" and when it's a new arc, we'll get a new era 🤭 each era has special graphics for it: what the media sees vs what's actually going on. think of the era intro as a moodboard for the chapters that'll follow <3

⋆˚࿔ CURRENT ERA: PARTY GIRL 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ from the outside, it's giving irl serena van der woodsen but even better, no one can possibly have the same 24 hours as you, someone needs to convince you to drop the skincare routine STAT, matter of fact - we just need your whole game card

— guest starred on the hottest pop culture podcast where it was basically just a glaze session for you (besides the last 10 minutes where the host started asking about rin), articles that want to help readers live your (unattainable if you're not rich!) lifestyle, and a devoted fanpage that updates your every move... every move.

on the inside, it's actually giving listening and actually relating to sad music, asking an 8 ball if you're the problem, being desperate enough to believe those tiktoks that say if you claim this sound and interact 3x he'll text you back, wondering when you should mail him back his stuff, keeping busy in the public eye so no one suspects how miserable you are right now

— even spotify clocked you and it's auto-generated, customized playlist perfectly depicts what you're going through (talk about the saddest soundtrack to your life), got desperate and consulted quora (this is how you know you're at rockbottom). not shown: your credit card statement (retail therapy works, right? right?!)

“Promise you’ll be on your best behavior?” Yukimiya peers over his sunglasses so he can give you a very pointed look. You tilt your head innocently.

“When am I ever not?” 

Yukimiya lets out a very loud, very drawn out, very exasperated sigh. When have you not been on your best behavior? Well, just last month, you got drunk, stumbled out to your garage, hopped in your custom-wrapped pink Porsche, and somehow ended up falling asleep on top of the hood. (In your defense, at least even in a drunken stupor, you weren’t stupid enough to drive.) Last week, you collected the numbers of about eight different athletes and models, sufficiently led every single one of them on, and are now actively ghosting all of them because they committed the cardinal sin of not sounding like, feeling like, or being anything like Rin. And speaking of the devil, Rin’s the reason why just last night, you ended up blocking not just him from your social media, but his whole entire team, too. You felt vindicated when you did this at 2 AM. Yeah, because that’ll sure show him! He hasn’t looked at your story once since the breakup (not that you’ve been keeping track or anything), but in case he tries to play it cool and gets one of his teammates to view it on his behalf, you’ll have put a stop to that plan. 

(Even when you’re spiraling, you’re still painfully aware of the fact that Rin’s most likely doing okay, if not still performing at his best. He is most certainly not doing something as childish as getting his teammates to relay info on you to him. Meanwhile, you are apparently a social liability for your closest friends. Spectacular.) 

“Don’t answer that.” You tell him. “I don’t want to know what my life looks like through your eyes.” It’s bad enough that every little thing you do gets documented, photographed, and then sensationalized on the Internet, but it’s one thing for strangers to commentate on your behavior when they don’t even have the full story. It’s another thing entirely when it’s your best friend criticizing your current lifestyle. 

“I’m just saying, it’s going to be a very casual lunch with my favorite people. Not a party.” Yukimiya clarifies. 

“Kenyu, you do realize that inviting me to a birthday party, and then saying ‘it’s not a party’ is kind of giving mixed signals right now.” Now it’s your turn to give him a pointed look, but just like his, there’s no true venom behind it. It’s Kenyu’s birthday celebration, anyway. You’re not about to corrupt Mr. Catholic Private School and tell him to throw a fucking rager. 

“If my team gets their way, there probably will be an actual party. If there is, you’ll be the first one I give the details to.” There’s a distant shout in the back; the photographer is done with his lunch, and he’s ready to wrap this shoot up. Kenyu examines his hair in the vanity mirror before getting out of his chair and giving you a quick hug. Your photos have already been taken, and there’s really no point for you to be on set still. 

However, Kenyu’s on set. Your only other viable option is to just go home and hide under your covers, rewatching Someone Great on Netflix and Doordashing Ben & Jerry’s. Juliette is home in France and won’t be coming back until the end of the month, and you’re not really in the mood to see any of your other friends. It’s tiring being around people who can’t separate front-cover-of-Vogue you from the real you. If you’re going to have to fake a smile, it might as well be on set rather than grabbing brunch with people who would kill to be able to leak something as headline-inducing as your breakup. 

“Pinky promise?” You look up at Yukimiya. “You promise to tell me about the party even if I’ll make a fool of myself because apparently I don’t act on my best behavior?” 

He rolls his eyes at your comment. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, and you know that. Besides, you could never make a fool of yourself. Anything you do is declared iconic, anyway.”

Having a famous movie director as a father and a certified Hollywood starlet as a mother, life wasn’t just set at easy mode for you. You practically were given an unlimited money hack and started off with like, five times the XP compared to any other beginner. At thirteen, you told your parents that for your birthday, you wanted to become a model. Two phone calls and a private jet flight later, and you had signed with the best modeling agency in the country and had your first ever photoshoot booked. 

Fate gave you parents with connections, and you’d be a fool to not use it to your advantage. Fate also gave you the same photoshoot as another young model, and you’d be a fool to not befriend Kenyu Yukimiya immediately. Out of all the friends you’ve ever made, fate only gives you good luck twice: first with Yuki, then with Juliette. You used to think you got lucky three times — meeting Rin for the first time was like experiencing something cosmic. Now you know better. Even rich people can have shit luck, too. 

Today’s unlucky situation is the way Yukimiya’s “favorite people” all happen to be athletes. There’s not a single person here who isn’t his teammate or somehow related to Bastard Munchen, except for you. If you didn’t love Yukimiya so much, you would have hauled ass. It’s normally easy enough for you to avoid soccer players at parties because they don’t normally get invited to the same social events you do, but now you’re the odd one out. 

At least the food is good. You don’t have a photoshoot scheduled until next week, and that’s exactly why you’re comfortable with choking down half a bagel sandwich rather than socialize with the guys seated by you. Yukimiya’s real big on intimacy and the power of friendship or whatever, which is probably easier to achieve when you play a team sport versus the modeling industry, where good jobs are few and far between, and the reason why some models are so skinny is because they can’t afford to eat — literally and figuratively. If they’re not booking jobs, there’s no way they can buy groceries in this economy. 

He has everyone assembled at one long table in the massive backyard of his mansion. It’s honestly kind of Last Supper-core, but it fits him. Little Yuki’s finally old enough to have a seat at the big kid’s table. He’s sitting across from you, and you’re sandwiched between Kunigami and Hiori. Next to Yukimiya is Isagi. Out of everyone at this party, soccer player or not, Isagi is the person you want to avoid the most. So far, you think you’ve managed to skirt under his radar. If everything goes as planned, you’ll be able to leave this lunch with your belly full and not having to interact with anybody. It’s looking like you won’t even have to drink in order to get through this. 

“Hey, out of all of us at this table, who d’ya think would have the best shot at being a model?” Hiori is clearly speaking to you. The blue-haired player is looking directly at you, for God’s sake. You wonder if it’ll be mean to blatantly ignore him, but considering how this little question seems to have captured the attention of the surrounding players, it looks like pretending you’re hard of hearing is out of the question. 

Inside, you’re dying. The last thing you wanted to do was socialize, but it’d be selfish and bratty to request that Yukimiya find more time in his busy schedule to have a one-on-one celebration with you. You’re here to support your friend. You can stomach being friendly with boys who have probably seen Rin more recently than you’ve last seen him. Fuck — why are you thinking about Rin? Do not think about Rin!

You grab one of the premade mimosas from the tray in the center of the table. You down the glass in one swift gulp. On the outside, you flash Hiori a bright smile and give an airy giggle. “Why? You trying to get a foot into the industry?” 

Hiori’s cheeks turn a light shade of pink. “W-well, no. Just wanted to make conversation.” 

“No worries! I’ve been trying to keep up with whatever you guys are talking about, but even after all this time being friends with Kenyu, I still don’t really get soccer.” Your smile is still intact. You reach for another mimosa. 

“Rin didn’t teach you anything?” 

Ever since you entered the industry, you knew that you had to get comfortable with standing out. No — you needed to thrive on standing out. You needed to crave, to rely on, people’s undying attention in order to survive. In the eyes of the media, you’re the center of attention. You got what every girl your age wants. At this table, everyone’s eyes are focused on you. What you want is to be back in your room, away from their prying gazes and curious stares.

But you’re a trained professional. Your smile never slides off, never turns into a grimace. You give a casual shrug, directing your answer to the person who mentioned Rin in the first place. 

“I make it a rule to not discuss work when we’re together.” You look at Isagi, asking him with your eyes if that’s a good enough explanation for him. He holds your gaze, looking at you like he sees right through you.

You drink another mimosa. 

After loosening up because of the drinks, you find casual conversation with the Munchen players to be easy. The boys honestly never shut up, and you don’t know what they’re talking about half the time, but you’re cracking genuine smiles every so often, and by the time Yukimiya is going around and saying his thanks for everyone showing up, you are…

Not drunk, per se. You’ve built up quite the tolerance these past few weeks, and it’s hard to get wasted off of drinks that are basically three-fourths orange juice. (Seriously, was Yukimiya getting stingy with the champagne? Sober You might be able to acknowledge the fact that Yukimiya might have just been preparing for the Worst Case Scenario, which would be you hogging all the drinks to yourself. Which sort of happened. Fuck. Sometimes it sucks to be known so well.) You’re definitely tipsy, though. Maybe half a tier above tipsy? Whatever the case, you are definitely in no shape to drive. 

“Kenny,” you whine out his nickname, trying your best to pull out your puppy-dog eyes. “Please take me home.” 

“Ah, damnnit, [Name].” He runs his fingers through his dark curls. “Did you seriously get drunk off of orange juice?” 

“Champagne drunk is the best drunk. I’m pretty sure People Magazine quoted me on that like, last year, so it’s basically fact.” Yukimiya doesn’t seem overly impressed. “And I’m not drunk, but my alcohol levels right now are definitely above the legal limit. Sorry, but I don’t plan on making headlines for a DUI. Hard to spin that into something iconic.” 

This gets Yukimiya to crack a smile. “I thought you were leaning into the party girl look?” 

“Yeah, but after Justin Timberlake got caught for intoxicated driving, he made it look totally lame. He ruined it for us!” 

“I wish I could drive you back, but I have to retake some photos for this sneaker ad I’m doing, and with traffic, I’m really cutting it close already. Do you want to just come with, or hang out at my place until I get back? You should’ve said something sooner; I could’ve asked one of the guys to drop you off.”

You crinkle your nose. “No, thanks. I’m not a fan of strangers knowing where I live.” Becoming a model at such a young age thrust you into the spotlight. With media attention comes total pervs who lurk in Reddit threads and 4Chan, and stumbling upon some of the things said about you, reading the things they would do to you if they found you, all laid out in disgusting, graphic detail, left you kind of paranoid. Getting doxxed might be one of your worst fears. No Ubers. No car ride homes with strangers. “I’ll wait here. It’s been a while since I went through your things, so I’m sure there’ll be enough of your dirty secrets to uncover to keep me occupied.” 

“Did you need a ride?” 

Shitty luck, indeed. 

The teammate who decided to stay behind to help clean up (because he’s just that outstanding of a guy) is the sole reason for why you went buckwild on the mimosas. You can see why Rin was always frustrated with him.

“Nope—” You say, at the same exact time as Yukimiya nods enthusiastically. 

“Would you mind? [Name] actually lives pretty close by, so it might not be out of the way.” 

You shoot Yukimiya a scathing glare. He ignores it completely, smiling at Isagi. 

“I don’t mind. That is, if you don’t mind.” Isagi is looking at you expectantly. Yukimiya trusts him. And you trust Yukimiya. By some sort of logic, you should reasonably be able to trust Isagi. It’s clear that Kenyu wants you to carpool with him, anyway, otherwise he wouldn’t have been so happy to dump you onto him. 

“Sure. I’m ready to go whenever you are.” 

What would happen if you jumped out of a moving vehicle? 

At best, you’d get your pretty skin all scraped up, meaning your photoshoots would either have to be delayed, or you would have to endure all the clear distaste for your “unprofessionalism” in the workplace from the people who actually had to work to get to where they’re at. At worst, you end up hospitalized. Somehow, it seems easier to photoshop out a few cuts and scrapes than working with someone in a full-body cast.

As you weigh the pros and cons of jumping out of Yoichi Isagi’s vehicle — a sleek, black sedan that’s top of the line, sure, but understated luxury; it’s not flashy like the sports cars you see most athletes sporting — he smoothly reverses out of Yukimiya’s driveway. Isagi does that boyish thing where he ignores his backup camera completely and opts to rest one hand on the back of the passenger headrest, the other hand on the steering wheel. Fuck. Maybe it’s not a boyish thing. Maybe it’s manly. Isagi leans a bit into your space; not enough to bother you, but enough to where you can smell the scent of his cologne. He smells clean and fresh. Maybe it’s not cologne, but laundry detergent and fabric softener. Somehow, you find this very fitting of him. 

He glances out the window to check for traffic and eases you two onto the open road. 

He’s not playing any music, and you’re sure as hell not about to ask for the aux. You look out the window instead, watching the world pass you by through tinted glass. It makes everything around you appear darker. Somehow, you find this to be very fitting for you.

“You live around this area, yeah?” Isagi asks you, and you’re reminded that if you want to go home, you actually have to let the driver know where home is. 

“Yeah, sorry. Keep heading straight, and I’ll let you know when there’s a turn coming up.” Talking to Isagi shouldn’t feel so awkward. After all, you managed to talk (and actually enjoy talking) to all of Yukimiya’s teammates. You even got along well with Kaiser. But it just feels weird — you’ve never met him directly, but you’ve heard so much about him, that it’s hard to not see Rin’s rants every time you look at Isagi. 

So you don’t — look at Isagi, that is. You look at everything else. His car is clean. There are air fresheners in the AC vents. The floor of the passenger seat is oddly clean, like no one ever sits here. If that’s the case, you hope your heels didn’t track in any grass blades or dirt. 

“Um,” Isagi awkwardly clears his throat at a red light. “When I mentioned Rin earlier at the party…” 

“What about it?” Fuck, this is so embarrassing. Since the car is stationary, you’re in the clear, right? If you just unlock the door, you can escape on foot. Your house is now close enough that it’ll just count as today’s exercise. 

“Sorry for bringing him up. I didn’t know—”

“—didn’t know what?” You turn to face him. His jaw is surprisingly sharp, and you watch the way he swallows before he answers you. 

“I didn’t know that you two broke up.” 

No one knows that you two broke up. You’re still in the process of making sense of it all, and because you’re so messed up over it, naturally you had to confide in Yukimiya and Juliette. Neither of them would ever share that secret, though. 

So why the hell does Yoichi Isagi know?

“The light’s green.” You tell him, shifting your body in the seat, avoiding him by positioning yourself even closer to the door. 

Neither of you say anything else during the drive.

[lets-try-some-writing]

In your professional opinion: what would be some Cybertronian Superstitions? Like do the miners hit the entrance of mines after someone dies inside it to help free their sparks from their tomb? Do people not say Unicron’s name after dark for fear it’ll summon him? Is there a name(s) that you can’t say inside the Iacon Hall Of Records or else you’ll be cursed with bad luck????

Please feel free to go hog wild with this.

Oh boy I LOVE the idea of that sort of thing. Honestly, I can see all sorts of little superstitions existing due to mythos and history.

Miners make it a point to never leave their tools unattended. They take them everywhere. To recharge, to fuel, even to get repairs. As for why they do this? There is a certain belief that the tools carry a bit of the luck and wisdom of those who held them previously. And since most tools are handed down from one fallen miner to the next, miners treat their tools with reverence. Many have carried the same pick, and each has left their mark. It cannot be disregarded.

Additionally, miners refuse to enter a deep tunnel system without whistling down it first. The habit has been long since made null and void by tunneling improvements, but there are stories of miners getting lost in the dark, before they adapted to it. Many died before their optics were augmented to the low light conditions. Great swaths of miners still believe that the wandering sparks of those lost in the dark linger there, scared and alone. Whistling down the tunnel before entering gives the lost spirits of the dead something to cling to, a guide to the afterlife in a sense.

Gladiators have a particular set of beliefs revolving entirely around the concept of honor. They know that their work is bloody and often cruel, and so they have developed a strange set of beliefs. Every gladiator, before combat, will take a stick or something equally useless, and snap it in half. They will give half of their broken instrument to a trusted comrade and march off to fight. If they return alive, the two pieces are to be put back together and promptly crushed into powder to be cast out upon whichever mech or beast died so that the gladiator could live. A sign of respect. However, if the gladiator were to die, their comrade is obliged to gather up the fallen's half of the instrument and have them run through their funeral rites with the joined object. This is done out of a belief that the dead must be honored, lest they linger in the living realm to haunt those who killed them (in the case of the gladiator surviving) or to stay with the other piece of their spark (in the event the gladiator dies).

Gladiators also have a firm belief that going into battle without paint will inevitably lead to bad luck coming upon them. They take meticulous care of their accenting paint, tracing swirls and jagged lines with delicate touches meant for those of higher castes. Some believe the marks distract enemies. Others say that the marks ward off attacks, letting otherwise lethal combat situations turn in their favor. No one really knows what they do. It is just something that must be done. Failure to go into battle without paint has led to more than a few gladiators meeting their end. Seeing such things has left the rest preferring to not take chances. Megatron himself went into battle without paint one time, and he quickly learned never to do that again when he returned with a brand new scar on his shoulder.

Amongst dock workers, there are various superstitions revolving around cargo in particular. It's bad luck to look at someone's cargo if it has a written letter attached. It doesn't matter what is in the box, it is considered a stain on one's spark to witness the usually rather sappy interactions between those who bother with sending hardcomms. Additionally, dock workers have long since grown to fear any box that comes in solid black. There was exactly one incident where a black box appeared amidst the cargo and disappeared without a trace, taking several other cargo pieces with it. Since then, any black boxes are either thrown right off the truck with a collective agreement that the loss will be signed off as an accident, or said boxes are loaded up with one unfortunate spark to transfer alone. Black boxes being delivered by one mech are often found missing, the driver and the box itself having vanished without a trace. Black boxes are terrifying, and not one dock worker is willing to risk it.

It is also notoriously bad luck among dock workers to deny the youngling with golden optics a ride. They will appear anywhere and at any time without rhyme or reason. When they appear, they never say a word, instead coming up to dock workers and pointing toward whatever transport they are loading up. Dock workers have long since learned to quietly nod and promptly ignore the youngling as they load up alongside the cargo. Interacting with the youngling results in the worker in question befalling some unfortunate end. Ignoring the youngling entirely leads to a similar situation. This superstition began long ago, and many younglings have abused it relentlessly since no one knows what the mysterious youngling from the myth actually looks like aside from their optics.

Low caste mecha as a whole have a strange superstition revolving around the concept of truth. They are notorious for keeping information to themselves, but low caste mecha never ever outwardly or blatantly lie. They are very careful to leave even the smallest grain of truth in their words. Why? Because telling lies brings the whispers of Liege Maximo. What are the whispers? No one is exactly sure. It is an evil omen, one that has led the low castes to develop odd honesty. They don't want to risk Liege's touch, not when he was stated to have been torn apart during the first age for his manipulations.

Low level soldiers hold the belief that giving away their names to one another is bad luck. Since they can all die at any given moment, they find it easier to remain nameless around one another. To them, remaining without a name in the optics of those around them ensures that survivors of battle can move on without fear. Giving a name means binding oneself to another. Their sparks might linger if they are attached, and that could lead to pain for both themselves and their comrades. So to get around this, soldiers don't do the name thing. Instead, every soldier refers to each other through characteristics or words of endearment. "Yellow" for a mech with yellow plating. "Comrade" or "Brother" for a mech they have served with frequently. Anything except a name. It would be cruel to bind the dead to living and the living to the dead.

Soldiers also have a belief that leaving a corpse to rot is incredibly bad luck. It doesn't matter whose corpse it is. It can't be left out. If nothing is salvageable, the spark chamber must be removed and taken to be given proper funeral rites. Not a spark wants to risk and angry spirit lingering because the body was not tended to properly. This belief extends to the point where soldiers will actively tear out their own spark chambers if they know they are going to die (or request others to do it for them). They don't want to linger and haunt those around them, so its best that the core of their frame is guaranteed proper rites.

Flyers of all kinds simply refuse to fly when Luna 1 and 2 are fully aligned. There are a thousand stories telling tales of fliers crashing, being killed, hit by rogue shots, and everything else. They won't risk it, and instead of flying, flyers will instead actively hide from the moons on such occasions. Usually unwilling to be locked in tight spaces, such cycles are the exception. To be seen by the moons is to be hunted. They won't risk it. Additionally, flyers have one particular stretch of Cybertronian landscape they all avoid like the plague. Mecha have been known to go in and never come back out, or if they do return, they are changed. They don't want to mess with that place, not for anything.

Flyers also hold the firm belief that one must keep their optics in perfect condition. They run tests all the time to ensure that their optics function without issue. Some even go so far as to get goggles or visors built into their frames just to protect them. Most chalk this up to a simple desire to not go blind. But flyers think differently. They won't get their optics replaced even if its an option. Why? Because they hold the belief that they carry the optics of a mech who didn't get to soar. Every flyer who has ever lived has had the optics of a grounder who will never get to grace the skies. For flyers, they see their optics as something sacred. They fly not just for themselves, but also for whoever their counterpart is, living or dead. They honor another through their sight, and so they must maintain their vision at all costs. Some call the phenomenon something akin to soulmates. The flyers state that it is the price they pay for their gift of flight.

(Note: Starscream and many of his people do not subscribe to the above thought process. Thundercracker is the only notable exception. Most chalk this up to his love of romance novels.)

Enforcers have many little quirks depending on city, but one they all share is the universal habit of naming their weapon of choice. It is a strange not quite religious belief for them. Whatever the thought process actual is, Enforcers rely heavily on their weapons, and as such, they must appease the weapon itself. They have to bond to it, make it an extension of themselves so that they can move it just as easily as a limb. They go about this through naming, and once named, they never get rid of the weapon in question. Even if its outdated, old, or broken. The weapon stays. If it is obliterated or lost, the Enforcer is obliged to get a copy of their prior weapon for the sake of their continued success. For this reason, most Enforcers fight with inbuilt weapons until they settle on something, and then they buy several copies just in case.

Enforcers will also never actively say "goodbye" to one another. Doing so would imply that there is a possibility of not coming back from the next patrol. So Enforcers simply don't use such language. "Good luck" or "Get those slaggers" are common supplements. Surprisingly, Enforcers only dodge around "goodbye" while on duty. They will casually wave off companions when not on the clock without a care in the world. However, if an Enforcer really does not like someone while on the clock, they will say "goodbye" as their polite version of a middle finger.

It is not exactly a rule, but Archivist as a whole simply do not refer to the Primes by name most of the time. There is a belief that uttering their designations aloud will bring their gaze upon whoever spoke. That can either be good or bad depending on the context, but since Primus's chosen can never really be predicted, most Archivists won't risk it. Instead, if they must say a Prime's name, they will tap a nearby surface a few times to supposedly draw attention away from themselves and hopefully keep the Prime in question from seeing them. It makes no sense, but even Orion Pax kept to the habit. Although some, like Orion, usually worked around this by coming up with slightly different pronunciations of the designations of Primes to hopefully avert their gazes.

Archivists also refuse to read anything relating to relics after a certain time. There is a longstanding belief that doing so can drive a mech mad. Hidden knowledge comes at Primus's chosen joor. Sometimes Archivists will reach grand discoveries at this specific time after delving into records of relics. But more often than not, Archivists have been noted having mental breakdowns, crying, losing their minds, or otherwise going haywire. Medical professionals chalk it up to exhaustion and mania. The Archivists believe it is a warning. They refuse to read about relics during Primus's joor. Obviously, there are some thing between the veil they are not meant to know.

Medics won't come within a ten mile radius of the smelting pits where most of the dead are dealt with. They believe it is a bad omen to linger in places of death, and that the wrath of the deceased can stick to their frames, making other patients lose their lives. This has led medics to make it a habit to remove dead mecha from hospitals as fast as physically possible, handing them off to medical students to carry to the pits. Medical students hardly ever do anything of note with the patients, so the professionals don't feel bad dumping all the potential bad luck on them. The only medics who actively hang around smelting pits are morticians and mecha focused on autopsies. They think lingering around the dead will help them understand the dead. That way, they can better diagnose just what killed a mech. Such medics are usually avoided by the rest who work with the living.

Medics have very sensitive servos. There is a longstanding belief that if a medic is to retire or happens to die, he or she must give up their servos to a younger medic in training. This is to pass on skill, at least in theory. It is also a sign that a medic in training is skilled and worthy of note. To take the servos of an old medic is to take on their legacy. Similarly to the miners, medics take honoring those who came before them very seriously. They will go above and beyond to keep their servos in perfect condition so that whoever comes after them can have the vital sensors that come with a medic's servos. Ratchet is one of the few mecha to not have inherited his servos from anyone. He has also never signed up to have anyone get them after he dies. Most take this to mean he never will die. And considering how long Ratchet has lived, a good chunk of the population firmly believe that Ratchet is eternal.

[blueparadis]

❝ GOOD GIRL ❞ + AKI HAYAKAWA.

+. CWs —» f!reader, m!oral, f→m receiving, cum-play, corruption k!nk; word count — 1kish

+. PRECIS —» Sometimes Aki takes a little advantage as your supervisor.

+. NOTES —» each and every brain cell is soaked in his thoughts which is quite shocking for me since I'm Yoshida stan but oh well we shall see; to read more of my works browse through navigation links.

One and a half months of being under division four. One and a half months yet all he did was to howl orders to all the members in his unit. You didn't anticipate how you would end up working under him given the fact he was once your supervisor.

Aki was anything but professional. He shared his half burnt cigarettes, listened to your stories with rapt attention about how you ended up being from ordinary college girl to a devil hunter. Sometimes he would hit the bar with you and he did all of it in the name of breaking ‘rules are meant to be broken’.

If you were to tell these to anyone in his unit they would probably think you were talking about someone else but fortunately you don't have a habit of rambling if things became haywire. And things did become haywire.

It seems like a common notion to conclude that you wouldn't be under the same division led by your supervising officer. Aki believed that too yet he could not help but bring you home after you nailed your first hunt.

“Open your mouth.” Aki snarls, looking down at you as you sit on his bed, folding your legs, with your knees kissing the bed sheet.

“Why … ?”, your voice drifts as his eyes meticulously scan you from head to torso. Your eyebrows jump deciphering his thoughts. “But I’ve... never...” you stammer, struggling to put it in words let alone do what he demands of you.

“sucked a cock, yea ?. Right” Aki finishes, holding your chin up so he has your eyes at him. He rejoices at the bashful sight of yours, eager to try yet unaware of how to proceed.

You lick your lower lip feeling the warmth smothering your cheeks carefully conveying, . “y... y-es. never... did that.”

Your sheepish whisper, the coyness in your glimmering pupils that is roaming all over the dim apartment room of his refusing to look at him and those perfectly plush lips that declines to say the word makes Aki’s heart bubble with joy.

He wishes to fuck you in all positions known to a man. He wants to fuck you on this very bed you are seated to the point that your supple skin becomes flush, your pussy all sore, your mind betraying you.

But he can wait. He wants to wait, wait and see how long this ivory facade of yours is gonna last.

“come on, you've never . . .” Aki demands, lips curving in delight hoping that you'd say the word, imagining how lewd you'd look. He grasps your chin as you blink and manage to blurt out, “i... i’ve never sucked a... cock... before.”

Aki grins , his cock pulsating inside his pants as he leans closer to your face, crouching so he could look your eager eyes. “you will ... now.”, he rasps finally releasing his cock from his pants, pumping it a few times in front of your astonished face before lining it up to your mouth. You clear your throat staring at his girth.

“i don’t know how...” , Aki’s brow jumps in fascination, “hold and spit on the head.” what on earth did he do to have to go through all these? Not that he complains but he has experienced sloppy blow jobs to mind ravaging ones that made him never go for the inexperienced ones.

But here you’re, his one and a half months subordinate, popular and demanding devil hunter who has not only managed to occupy his bed but also his mind.

“wh-at?” you blink at him, lips slightly brushing against the swollen head of his cock. Aki brings froth his cock closer to your mouth while holding your head in place so as to push the tip to your lips, to open by lightly grazing.

“ lick it, the pre. . . a good girl should.”You open your mouth slightly, feeling your pussy clenching around nothing when his precum spills on your tongue. You squeeze your eyes shut wrapping your mouth around the head.

“fuck,” Aki hisses, spreading his feet on to the floor mat , toes curling to prevent himself from jamming his cock into your mouth.

“Yeah, like that.”, he assures as half of his cock enters your mouth, saliva coating your mouth due to inexperience which Aki finds to be an undeniably alluring sight. A soft moan escapes your lips, eyes widening to glance at him with your brows pinching together as you notice him let out a groan. He only smirks at you encouraging you.

“you’re doing great, baby,” Aki cooes, watching as you struggle to suck him all in. “like that. Mmgh...just like that,” his words roll smoothly, eyes focusing on your stretched lips that are wrapped around his cock. You work your mouth wider, throat bobbing to adjust to his length touching the back of your throat.

“Wait…ugh… stop.” Aki’s voice becomes ragged that makes your heart drop instantly, you're not sure why that is.

“lick it.”, he instructs in one breath without meeting the eye.You glup all your wary before flattening your tongue ready to lick on his silky smooth shaft.

You accumulate a little bit of courage to lick and suck half-way of his throbbing member, occasionally earning more of his low moans. This is why he likes to work with you, a few straight directions and you're quick enough to build your own pace.

He cups your face with both of his palms before snapping his hips forward, making your nose graze the skin above his cock. You gag, tears suddenly pooling at the corner of your eyes yet Aki refuses to stop. He slowly thrusts in and out, his grip getting stronger trying his best not to lose control.

“take it,” he grunts. “All. Of. It”Aki never bothered to have a memory of how many times he had his cock sucked by different girls who has worked with him and who has not worked with him. Sometimes, he doesn't even bother to know the name unless they’re from his line of work.

He rarely sullies his professional relationship. He has no iota of idea of how many times he has shot his cum down someone else’s throat while still face-fucking them. You are no where to be labelled as skilled.

However, he can't deny that this one would imprint on his mind. Aki groans head inclining upwards with his Adam's apple being pronouncedly on display. “holy fuck,” he utters as his fluid fills your mouth, some escaping along the lines of your lips, some spilling on bedsheets. He pulls out his cock jerking a few times before zipping it up inside his pants.

And as he does he looks at you amazed how your cheeks are bulged, a lazy pout forming on your face. “swallow it” he pants rashly and you obey him without a second thought gulping his fluid down. You tore your gaze away immediately licking your lips thinking of what to do now, fidgeting with the loose ends of your unbuttoned shirt.

Aki still finds its amusing how a skilled devil hunter like you ended up being his subordinate. He thinks you're quite skilled to be a solo operator or perhaps he has grown fond of your pretty face.

“Good girl,” Aki chimes with a smile before kissing your puffy lips pushing you down to the soft mattress. There is a reflexive resistance as he desperately sucks your lips. You hum before caving in to his kiss as he proceeded to your neckline.

“God, you're so cute.”, and in that moment you regretted it, all of these, letting your heart soak in desires and affection. Perhaps,he did too when you desperately clawed his back as you deepened the kiss.

—

@akicore , @tokyometronetwork

[john-get-the-salt]

Oblivious (w/Derek Morgan)

Imagine: From strangers, to coworkers, to friends, to…? The evolution of you and Derek

Contains: Derek getting nervous/panicking when his usual flirting doesn’t work, penny not so secretly trying to push you two together, new agent on the team! Au

Warnings: none

The quiet hum of the elevator was oddly comforting as you stood in it, watching the display as it went up up up…..

You couldn’t stop fidgeting, brushing non-existent dust off your dress pants and pulling on the sleeves of your sweater. You’d agonized for hours on what to wear to your first day at this new job. You wanted to be comfortable but also professional. The BAU didn’t have a tight dress code for the office, though it got strict when in the field.

You tried to steady your nerves, using your favorite mindfulness technique of breathing in, holding for 5 seconds, and then releasing. It worked a bit, your shoulders easing.

Your constant stream of thought was interrupted by the elevator beeping and opening its doors to your floor.

You filled before leaving the safety of the elevator and walking through another lobby area towards a set of glass doors.

'Behavioral Analysis Unit' was printed in large black letters, and they seemed to loom over you. Before you could reach for the door handle, a blonde woman stepped up beside you.

"Let me guess, first day?"

You smiled ruefully. The woman wore colorful clothes with blue glasses perched on her nose.

"That obvious, huh?"

"Not at all,” she lied. “Do you need help finding the right office?" She offered.

Your smile widened in relief, "That would be great. I'm looking for Agent Hotchner, I'm joining his team."

Your final interview happened in person with the Agent, but it'd been a few weeks and you didn't want to risk getting lost.

Her eyes lit up. "You're the new recruit! I'm Penelope, but everyone calls me Garcia. I was just heading in, I can show you the way."

You thanked her and followed her through the glass doors. The BAU floor was as busy as you expected. People were weaving about, clutching coffee and files and paperwork.

Garcia led you through the floor, towards a row of raised offices. She knocked on the door to the first one, giving you a thumbs up before scurrying away.

“Come in.”

With one last deep breath, you opened the door.

Agent Hotchner was rising from his desk as you stepped in. He offered you his hand and you shook it firmly.

“Agent Hotchner, good morning.”

“Good morning. Hotch is ok. Good to see you again.”

“You as well.”

He gestured to the chair in front of his desk and you took a seat as the two of you went over some general pre-boarding information. You also received your badge and other keys to get around the office building.

Hotch explained that the team didn't yet have a case for the day, but he'd called a meeting so everyone could meet you. Afterwards you would be working on paperwork for the day, unless the team was needed elsewhere. That was fine with you, someone who actually enjoyed paperwork, and you followed as your new boss led you out of his office and down the hall.

You approached a conference room and could see it was already full. Of course as soon as you stepped into the room all eyes were on you. You held your chin high and met their gazes evenly. As nervous as you were joining a new team, you were confident in yourself and your abilities. You’d been hired for a reason, and you had to believe that.

"Team, this is Agent (y/n)."

They stood up one by one, introducing themselves with either a handshake or a nod. David, J.J, Derek, Spencer, Emily, and Penelope once again. You committed the names to memory, introducing yourself.

"We haven't had anything come in yet today, but we all have plenty of paperwork to keep us busy." And with a nod Hotch was gone again.

You have looked a bit stunned, as Rossi chuckled. "He isn't much of a talker."

“I respect it. Straight to the point."

You turned to Garcia as the team began filing out of the room, “Thank you again, for this morning."

Her smile got even brighter, something you didn't think was possible..

“Oh of course! Not a problem at all. Do you need me to help you find your desk?”

You chuckled. "No, Hotch pointed it out for me. But we could pretend you're helping me and chat on the way."

"Ohhhh new girl I like you."

She led the way out of the conference room and down the stairs into the pen of desks and agents. She asked a lot of questions, which you answered as quickly as you could. It was a lot of basic stuff about what you liked to do and where you had worked before this. It was incredibly relieving having someone so kind and so willing to talk you. And it was endearing to see how enthusiastic she was to learn about you.

Unfortunately, you did eventually make it to your desk and she had to leave you.

"This is your stop," she sighed dramatically. "I suppose I should return to my cave now."

You laughed, setting down your bag at your new desk. She’d told you all about her little tech cave and already told you were welcome to stop by anytime.

Your desk was situated by Derek and Emily’s and you shot them both a smile as you sat down.

"I'll be here all day, Penelope. And who knows, I might get lost trying to get lunch."

She clapped her hands. "Yes! Lunch! Ok my love I shall go and see you again at lunch!"

You smiled and waved as she hustled away.

"You two are already getting along well," Derek noted.

“I guess so. She's incredibly sweet."

He had no argument with that, and went quiet again as you clicked your pen and opened your folder. The towering stack of paperwork probably would've made other agents feel faint. But you couldn't help but feel content. As much as you loved working in the field, you'd been through enough crazy circumstances that you would never take advantage of a peaceful desk day.

"Yikes," Emily winced, catching a glance at the work in front of you. "Newbie paperwork....no joke."

"Call me crazy, but I actually do not mind paperwork."

She fake gasped and you laughed. "I know, I know. Controversial opinion. It just feels so satisfying to get it done."

"You and pretty boy would get along great."

You raised an eyebrow at Derek so he clarified, "Reid, aka pretty boy."

"Ah, no love for paperwork yourself?"

He gave you a dazzling smile that you were sure made other girls swoon. "Unfortunately we don't all get excited for desk work, sweetheart."

You rolled your eyes, but shot him a smile so he knew you were only kidding. The floor got quiet again as everyone finally settled in for the days work.

————

A month or so after that fateful first day, you couldn’t believe you’d ever been that nervous. Your coworkers was great, and after an awkward week or two you found your place and fit perfectly into the puzzle that was your BAU team.

You’d made friends with everyone on the team in different ways, though the biggest surprise had been Derek. You two just worked, and often got paired together out in the field. You made a good team. And though you had more than proved yourself in the short time since you’d started, Derek tended to keep an extra eye on you.

It was obnoxiously sunny out in Colorado, where the team was currently investigating a string of ritualistic murders. Hotch sent you and Derek to go check out the latest dumping ground, out in the middle of some barren desert land. Without any trees for shade the sun was particularly harsh.

Out of bad habit, you’d left your sunglasses back at the police station where you’d set up home base. This meant you were stuck squinting and trying to use your hands as a visor so you could see.

Luckily you only had to struggle for a few moments before Derek was nudging you and offering you his signature black sunglasses.

“Oh no, that’s ok Der. You need em. Next time i’ll just be smarter and remember mine.”

“That’s what you said last time baby girl. Which is why..” he trailed off as he pulled a second pair of identical glasses out of his back pocket. “I bought myself a backup pair.”

“Huh.” You chuckled before you took his offer and slid the glasses onto your face. “It’s almost like you knew I’d forget them.”

Derek just grinned, and the two of you got to work.

And when the two of you returned to the police station in your matching sunglasses, even Hotch cracked a smile.

————

A couple months after first meeting the team you couldn't imagine working anywhere else ever again.

You adored every single person in their own way, and you loved working with them every single day.

Hotch, stoic and closed off, was absolutely brilliant. He always seemed to know what the team needed even if you didn't yourselves. He was someone you really looked up too and idolized.

Jennifer, or JJ as everyone called her, was kickass. She was so good at handling press you would've thought she'd been doing it her entire life. You were in awe of her and absolutely adored her son Henry. 

Emily, when you were first getting to know her, was a bit quiet and reserved. It took a while for her to open up to you, but with the help of some team work and margaritas she finally felt safe and comfortable around you. She was unbelievably sassy, and contrary to popular belief enjoyed playing pranks on the rest of the team. 

Rossi was deceptively smart. He knew exactly how to get under an unsubs skin and look damn fly while doing it. You could only hope to be in the game as long as he was, and tried to mentally write down everything he ever said. He was currently in the process of trying to teach you how to cook, something you were slowly improving at.

Reid was the smartest person you had ever met. Hands down. He was easy to talk to and greeted you every morning with a fact of the day. It made you happy and he seemed to enjoy having someone to spout numbers at.

Penelope, or Penny as you now called her, was like the teams own personal sunshine. You had lunch together every day, and some weekends spent more time at her apartment than your own. The team had come to call you two sisters, and most days it really felt like you were. You two just got each other.

Last but not least was Derek Morgan. Derek was, to you, an enigma. His charm was always at +20 around you. Emily assured you that's just how he always was, but Penny seemed to think different. She was convinced you two had something going on.

But to be honest you really didn't know much about the man. You knew he liked baseball, loved sushi and secretly enjoyed fruity margaritas. He fixed houses in his spare time and had an uncanny ability to recite Brittney Spears word for word. You also knew he was incredibly good at getting what he needed out of unsubs, never afraid to take one for the team and do what needed to be done. He could also be a hothead, letting his anger take control and lash out.

Did you think he was attractive? Oh absolutely. Did he make you question every decision you'd ever made that led you to know such a fine man? No doubt. But he was was a friend, and a coworker at that.

Which was why as Penny bugged you at the coffee station about your "crush" for the millionth time one day, you thought nothing of it.

"Penny, we've been over this like a thousand times. There's nothing going on."

"What's going on?" Derek stepped up beside you, empty coffee mug in hand.

You rolled your eyes as you poured him a cup. "Nothing, just Pen getting overzealous per usual."

You smiled innocently at the glare your friend sent you before retreating back to your desk. It was only 1 p.m and you still had plenty to get done for the day.

Penelope and Derek loitered the coffee bar for another couple minutes before they dispersed, Derek returning to his desk beside yours.

"Baby girl is really on it today."

You snorted, not looking up from the current sheet you were filling out.

"You're telling me. I woke up this morning to 20 texts asking what I was going to wear today. She was worried she'd accidentally match again."

Morgan laughed, thinking back to the time you and Garcia had both come into work wearing the same sky blue dress. She loved you to death, but vowed it could never happen again.

You smiled softly, enjoying his laugh. It often made you laugh just hearing it. It was infectious, kind of like the man himself the more you thought about it.

"You doing anything exciting this weekend?"

"Don’t think so. If we actually get the days off I'll probably just sleep as long as humanly possible. Maybe try to cook. Rossi is not amused with my lack of progress in that department."

"You wanna go get Indian tonight?"

You perked up. "Yes please! I'll ask Spence if he wants to come, he didn't come last time and I really think he'd like the-"

"I don't want pretty boy to come," Derek interrupted.

You snapped your lips closed, raising an eyebrow. "Is this because of that prank phone call? Cause I'm sorry Der but that was hilarious and-"

"No Reid. Just us."

You furrowed your brows. Was he really still that pissed at Spencer for his dumb pranks? He always acted pissed but you thought he realized it was all for fun. Was there something else going on between the two of them?

He sighed. "You know, for a genius profiler you're pretty clueless."

"Hey! Who you calling clueless, clueless?"

He leaned forward over his desk, making direct eye contact and said, "I'm trying to ask you out on a date here."

Your mouth formed an o as the words sunk in.

A date. With Derek Morgan. Like a romantic date. With Derek. Date.

"Like a date? A date date?"

"You don't have to say yes if you don't want too, and I understand if you don't," he rambled on as you sat dumbfounded.

"Of course I want to go on a date with you. I just can't believe how fucking dumb I am."

He froze, searching your eyes for any tricks.

“Really?”

"I've been flirting with you for the past month, Der. I just can't believe you finally got the balls to ask me out and I was totally oblivious."

"Mama if you didn't think i was flirting back that entire time, you really are oblivious."

"Maybe I'm not, and you just need to step up your game. "

"Hey!" It was his turn to exclaim and you laughed.

"So Indian. Tonight. After work."

"It's a date."

[pastel-medic]

So, wait, if Axel is the Spy that Red Medic removed the head of, how are they in a relationship? Wouldn't that spawn some kind of resentment?

I'm going to trigger warn this post for topics of s//cide, depression, and poor health because I can't exactly explain their dynamic without getting into Axel's mental health. I tried to make this as brief as I could but it ended up becoming an oc ramble anyway 😭 sorry in advance for the long post!!!

Also please note my personal lore and hcs for them isn't strictly based on canon lore, so RED Medic having Axel's head in fridge is due to different reasons than just being a crazy doctor :V

You have been warned!!!

This will be delving a bit more into Axel's character, and a lot of this I will try not to spoil too much as it is a plot point in an ongoing fic I'm writing.

Axel is, to put it simply, someone who struggles immensely with self identity and has a very nihilistic point of view. Working as a Spy for years since he was young has created a sense of worthlessness in his mind, as he viewed himself as a nobody who wears the faces of other people (especially after an incident that I won't detail since it's spoilers). He hasn't been able to hold relationships because he constantly "changes his identity", adopting a new fake name and fake history with every new assignment he's given while leaving the people he once formed bonds with behind once his work is done.

On top of that the people who had taught him to be a Spy often compared him constantly to his brother Pierre (RED Spy), so he never felt like he was good enough. He developed depression when he was a young adult and hasn't been able to cope in healthy ways, which led to him having very poor health and malnutrition. Every time he was offered help and support he rejected it out of fear and ran away (metaphorically and literally), the folly of pride and the guilt of being a burden to someone else. He's had many s//cidal tendencies (a lot of Axel is split from my personal trauma so bear with me), and believed that if he were to just disappear one day nobody would notice. He's waiting, HOPING, that one day he can just disappear forever...

So when he's taken by the RED Medic as a mere head in a fridge imagine his confusion when the enemy doctor refuses to kill him immediately no matter what he says. "Kill me" he keeps saying. "Later" is the only response he gets. Yet the doctor doesn't ever seem to want to. At first Axel thinks it's because of scientific curiosity, and he'd be right at first, but that's not the real reason Medic keeps him around. As it turns out Ludwig has a slightly twisted and odd excuse for keeping him around.

Seeing the Spy in a state of self destruction and withering health hurts Ludwig as a medical professional. A doctor's duty to heal others is something that even with his crazy mind still remains true. He can't help but feel the need to heal this person, his own enemy, who has become nearly broken beyond repair. He wants to help the Spy, but his solution is pretty bizarre and unconventional. If he keeps the Spy around he can try to heal the brokenness in his mind. As a head in a fridge he can't run away from the help offered to him. He realizes he doesn't want to just heal the Spy, he wants to help him; He wants to give Axel that feeling of value in his life that he struggles to have. He wants to be the person who can save Axel no matter how insane his methods are, a Don Quixote.

He wants to help Spy live.

"You are not the masks you wear, nor are you a nobody without them. You are you. And you are important no matter what."

As foolish as this logic is it's effective, as it doesn't give Spy that door to escape to. Now he HAS to see the damage to himself. Though the longer Spy stays with the enemy Medic the more he can see that he isn't the only one who needs healing. Out of all the people Ludwig can heal, he doesn't seem to be able to want to heal himself. All of his struggles are private, and he keeps the pain hidden away behind closed doors. It seems Spy is not alone when it comes to blocking others out. Medic knows he has sins crawling up his back, yet he actively pretends the Devil on his shoulder isn't there. Yet the more he ignores his mental strain the more volatile and unstable it becomes. He cannot see the damage he is inflicting on himself, and Spy knows he will continue to turn a blind eye unless he sees the harm it is causing. Regardless of how crazy it is, he realizes he wants to help the doctor too.

Spy wants to be someone who can help Medic see his self worth, a mirror to show him that he is more than simply a healer for others.

"How can you help those around you if you refuse to help yourself? You are deserving of healing too."

TL;DR to reiterate one of my previous posts about my MedicSpy ship their dynamic has always been about healing and finding security and comfort in someone who cares about you. Yes they have their flaws and are not perfect by any means, but they uplift and support each other because they care.

[nanowrimo]

Write Meow! 4 Writing Tips Cats Teach Us

Did you know cats have a lot of wisdom about the writing process? It's because of their cat lifestyles! NaNo Participant Megan Jenkins lets us know what our wise cat friends can teach us about writing.

“Cats are too human-like,” my friend complained while explaining to my cat-lady-self why she’s a dog person. I laughed, but after pondering my cat’s behavior, I realized just how much cats can teach us about becoming a better human, and more importantly, a better writer. (Arguably.)

Here are a few writing lessons we can learn from cats.

1. Have a Routine

As someone who rolled her eyes at this advice for years, I still cannot believe that my cat hoodwinked me into a morning routine. 

My cat was right though. 

Writing for 15 minutes during my cat’s breakfast has me writing more than ever before. While 15 minutes may not seem like a lot, giving yourself prompts for the next session and having consistent sessions helps you accomplish more than you would think.

Also, cats are great accountability partners. If you stray from their routine, they will meow loudly and slap you with their paw. (Or is that just my cat?)

2. Take Breaks

Before my cat, my writing process was to write for hours at a time on a random weekend day. This process was exhausting and made me feel like I had to block an entire day for writing, which is becoming increasingly impossible. 

However, cats inherently know the importance of taking breaks and stepping away from screens, which is why they sit in front of our keyboards and computers when we spend too much time on them (I assume). 

One way to remember to take breaks is to participate in writing sprints, in which writers write together for a set time. 

For any fellow introverts, the Pomodoro Technique, in which you work for 25 minutes then break for 5 minutes with a longer break after four rounds, has been shown to increase productivity. 

You might hesitate to try sprints or Pomodoro like I did because you love to emerge yourself in your writing for hours. However, I have found that both methods have built my endurance, allowing me to write longer. 

Plus, the frequent breaks to entertain my cat prevent her from hijacking my keyboard. 

3. Prioritize Meals

Cats are grazers, meaning they eat several small meals throughout the day, which they do not like to miss. 

Unlike my cat, I skipped meals all the time. I couldn’t be like Pippin in The Lord of the Rings asking for second breakfast while on an important quest!

However, modeling my cat, I now prioritize my eating. While it may not work for everyone, eating throughout the day gives me energy to write after work, not just rewatch The Lord of the Rings.

Since you are likely not on a quest to eliminate all evil, try prioritizing eating, like cats (and hobbits) do, and see how it impacts your writing. 

4. Focus on the Present

Do you sometimes focus so much on the past or the future that you forget about the present? I do. With NaNoWriMo especially, I tend to over-plan and dwell on any minor failures. 

Cats don’t do this. Cats live in the present, and while cats learn from their past, they do not dwell on their failures or worry about the future. Instead, cats deal with problems when they arise.

Similarly, do not torture yourself if you have a bad writing day (or week or month) or worry about every what-if. Instead, use the past to improve your current writing session.

As NaNoWriMo begins, I hope what I have learned from cats’ behavior helps remind you to have a healthier relationship with writing, which is ultimately the goal of NaNoWriMo. Besides the 50k.

Megan is a business risk and control advisor at a financial institution. The rest of her time, she spends dreaming of fantastical places. Her love for language led her to obtain a BA in English with a concentration in professional writing and an MA in Technical Communication and Rhetoric. When she is not writing, reading, or editing, she also enjoys traveling, watching movies, and spending time with her family and cat, Sophie. Connect with her on Linkedin or Goodreads!

Photo by Pixabay

[wordsvomit101]

Reverse AU: What if... 'You' are his favorite fictional character.

Summary: In their mundane human lives, filled with ups and downs, there’s one constant: you. As a beloved character from the pages of fiction, they find themselves irresistibly drawn to you. Though you exist by someone else imaginations, your presence brings a daily dose of joy and inspiration. Now, imagine their sheer amazement when they stumble upon you in the real world, a living, breathing embodiment of their cherished fictional hero.

Warning: A small bit of yandere, not too much. A lot of how they were as human are my hcs. I have a lot of fun putting them in different scenarios as you can tell.

Satan

In his youth, Satan was a notorious troublemaker, causing endless headaches for adults while earning the admiration of his peers. As the leader of a biker gang and winner of many martial arts competitions, he was the coolest guy around—both in school and in his neighborhood. Even his rivals admitted it. His rebellious nature led to frequent clashes with authorities, stemming from countless property damage incidents, noise complaints, and weekly brawls—many of which he instigated. Despite the chaos, Satan was well-liked and respected. His unwavering commitment to his word and reputation as a tough but honorable man inspired loyalty wherever he went, making people feel they could rely on him no matter the circumstances. These traits even managed to draw in the uptight Sitri from another neighborhood, who became his right-hand man and later his manager when Satan turned professional racer.

As a child, Satan was a huge fan of action and sports movies and TV series. Speeding through the streets on his motorbike made him feel alive, and he sought out any media that thrilled him and distracted him from his depression and insomnia. When he wasn't smoking or drinking himself to sleep, his gang members or Sitri would take him back to his empty home. His parents had long given up trying to discipline him and make him follow their path as upstanding citizens—wealthy socialites—in the upper echelon of society. So they left him the house, some workers to clean and cook, and helped with the bills. Aside from that, he was on his own. These movies and TV series made him feel less alone when he didn't have company over. One of his favorites was about a secret military project that endangers a post-dystopian country by turning a biker gang member into a rampaging psychic psychopath, who can only be stopped by a teenager, his gang, and a group of psychics.

Satan both loved and hated this movie. Beyond the action and the dream of owning the red motorcycle featured in the film, he adored a side character who was a close friend of the main character. He was enraged when they died sacrificing themselves for the protagonist. Back then, he deluded himself into believing that he could save that friend if he were the main character. When he confided this to Sitri or Mammon, they only patted him on the back and looked at him with sadness or amusement. He punched and kicked them both. Satan continues to watch the movie throughout his life, despite the gore and violence. Whenever the side character is on the screen, they calm him, and their soothing words lull him to sleep every time.

As an adult, successful and owning his dream red motorcycle, Satan became a respected racer and moved far away from that empty house, carrying only the good memories with him. His love for the movie, especially the side character, remained strong. When he heard about a sequel to the original, he abandoned his photoshoot schedule, leaving an angry Sitri behind, and raced to be the first in line for a ticket. The movie, set in an alternate scenario where his beloved character is still alive, elated him. Whenever they appeared, he grinned with pure joy, his eyes full of love, causing those beside him to be flustered by his radiance. He mentally thanked every animator who brought the character to life and wished he could capture every moment they were on screen with his phone.

Imagine his surprise when, after winning a prestigious motorcycle racing event, he heads to the hotel bar and catches a glimpse of you through the windows—real and breathing the same air as him—walking out of the hotel with your luggage. Heart pounding, Satan races down to the ground floor, but by the time he arrives, you’ve already vanished, leaving him in a mix of anger and disappointment. Yet, there’s no doubt in his mind. He knows it was you, your distinctive look and walk burned into his memory for years. From that day forward, he leverages every connection at his disposal to track you down, enduring months of fruitless searching until Lady Luck finally smiles upon him.

When he sees you talking to the receptionist at his usual gym, he can't contain himself and tackles you into a crushing hug. He savors every micro-expression you make—the way your breath grazes his face, how lovely your voice sounds when you yelp in shock, and how you grip his shoulders, trying to push him away. You are real. This realization sends a shiver down his spine, and his elated grin remains even when you slap him for hugging you out of nowhere. The sting on his cheek feels incredible, and he almost wants you to continue, but he lets you go. Despite his intense desire to carry you off and shower you with kisses, he knows he has to be patient. He has all the time in the world to get to know you better.

Sitri

As the sole legacy of his grandmother, Sitri carries the weight of her expectations when she sends him to the city for a better education, arranging for him to live with a close acquaintance. It was the first time he took the train too. Determined not to worry her, he strives to be responsible: studying diligently, maintaining his health, avoiding trouble, making friends, and being respectful to others. His life is simple yet challenging, easy yet demanding—truly mundane. The bright spots were learning about various teas and the art of tea making from his grandmother, engaging with his fascinating neighbors next door in their apartment complex, and playing drums in his school band with Juno, Belial, and Jiyu.

Until Satan discovered him during a school festival performance and promptly recruited him into the gang, Sitri was used to leading a relatively quiet life, though not anymore after that fateful day. The constant headaches from the trouble he had to resolve for his new gang members and the concern from his grandmother and his guardian seemed enough to turn his hair white from stress. Yet, this chaos brought color and excitement to his life, much like discovering new flavors of tea that thrilled his senses. Satan gave him a place where he felt he belonged, new people to care for, and a friend he promised to follow for the rest of his life.

Sitri never met his parents, and his grandmother didn't like talking about them, so he refrained from asking. Sometimes, he forgot they existed unless someone mentioned them. If asked whether he missed them, he would say he didn't; it was impossible to miss people he never knew. However, he did feel a deep connection to a character whom he has always yearned to have in his life from an old drama—which became a significant part of his childhood and adulthood—about a spy agency retrieving a stolen martial arts manual, leading to epic battles and encounters. The protagonist, along with his friends, ultimately defeats the villains and chooses to roam the martial arts world.

Growing up in a retirement community, he was surrounded by elderly folks who treated him like their own grandson, so he rarely felt lonely despite not having peers his age. However, before meeting his friends and Satan, he always wondered what it would be like to have a friend his age to share adventures with. The main character’s friendship with a beloved side character, who taught valuable lessons and provided unwavering support, made him especially envious. When that character left the story, Sitri was deeply heartbroken and sulked for days until his grandmother gifted him a mug with the character's silhouette carved on it by an old uncle at her request. That mug became his favorite for drinking tea, a treasured item that no one else, not even Satan, was allowed to use.

Despite his affection for Satan as a leader and a friend, managing Satan's temper and tendency to get into trouble was no easy task. This challenge was compounded by the constant bombardment of calls and texts from their former biker gang members—most of which were thoughtful inquiries about their well-being, but after an hour of chatting, his phone would become hot from the incessant vibrations. What kept Sitri's sanity intact were the generous paychecks he received for handling PR nightmares and the quiet nights he spent with tea and snacks, re-watching his favorite childhood drama just to see his beloved character's face on the screen. One evening, seeking relief from the headache induced by Satan's latest chaos, Sitri went to a bar. While massaging his forehead and groaning after a phone call with an agent, he heard a clink next to him.

Looking up, he nearly choked from the shock. There you were, sitting next to him with a friendly but concerned expression, offering him a warm cup of black tea. You looked exactly like his favorite character, even your mannerisms were identical. His heart pounded harder as he noticed the simple gestures you made that were the same habits you have in the drama. When you tilted your head gently in confusion at his silence, blood rushed to his face and south. Quickly, before you could leave, he grabbed your hands and, with fervent eyes and equally sweaty hands, gasped out a question for your name, struggling to breathe from the excitement and disbelief. Everything doesn't feel real but his entire body screams for him to never let go of your hands.

Juno P. Cruel 666 Orgasm

Juno had always been hailed as the best in his clan: the most handsome, the strongest, the smartest, the most talented. It was obvious that the clan elders had a favorite among the children, and it quickly became irritating to hear them constantly brag about him as if they had birthed him themselves. They would say he would never disappoint them, that he would honor the clan by joining politics or taking over the family's massive military manufacturing business. Juno hated it. He wished that some of his relatives would hate him enough to challenge his position. What baffled him even more was how his cousins could respect and look up to him despite the unfair comparisons. He liked them and wanted them to succeed, but he wished they would show some dissatisfaction with the situation.

Juno had always admired Satan's powerful aura and leadership. Joining his gang was an act of defiance, but the elders dismissed it as a childish tantrum, saying he would get his act together eventually. Juno felt ridiculous for harboring anger when he was the privileged one, handed everything on a golden platter without effort. From home to school, it was the same. There was even a sizable fan club dedicated to him since middle school, which grew when he became a guitarist in a band. While they rarely bothered him, it was embarrassing when their actions affected bystanders. He never knew how to explain to his friends why he had to apologize for his fan club's behavior. Despite this, he couldn't dislike them; many were good people if you ignored their fixation on him. The club leader even introduced him to his long-time obsession: a novel about an idol group that debuted from an idol survival show. The group had been involved in many controversies since its debut and lost more than half its initial members. However, with the help of their new manager and staff, they turned their situation around and fought their way to the top of the industry.

The novel was compelling, showcasing the intricate sides of the idol world with a great cast of characters and dynamics. Juno's favorite character is the manager who helps the struggling group, sticking by them through thick and thin and giving them a chance to succeed in a harsh environment. He read the novel dozens of times, never getting the urge to throw it away, even when it became worn from being hastily packed into his bag. At some point, he ran away from home with only his clothes, personal items, and the novel when it was announced he would officially be the next head of the business. He drove his motorcycle aimlessly until it carried him to his closest friend's house. Zagan found him sitting outside his family antique store, finally calming down from the adrenaline rush.

Zagan and his grandfather offered to house Juno temporarily until he graduated and found his own place. Juno was grateful and content to stay with Zagan's family, helping around until a new idol project aired on a broadcasting channel. This reminded him of the novel the feeling that it was his calling urging him every day until it led him to audition for the show. He had never experienced anything more intense. Compared to other trainees, he was like a fish out of water. His core beliefs and confidence were shattered countless times by online haters, behind-the-scenes producers, instructors evaluating the trainees' skills, or his endlessly talented peers, some even four years younger than him. It was hard, even with support from his fans, but the situation only made him cling to the novel like a lifeline. He devoured every letter to ground himself, gripping the manager's advice as if he were there with them, following their lead to survive through sleepless nights.

Juno succeeded in the end. His stage name, Ppyong, reached the top spot, and he became the face of the group due to his large popularity and underdog story. Many broadcasting shows wanted to invite him and the group, his gag jokes became viral hits, and the group's songs became international sensations. They faced many baseless controversies from antis, and smear campaigns from his clan, or by the elders and his parents. As well as terrible management teams, and an old-fashioned PR team, but they pushed through. Juno almost built a shrine for the novel since he sometimes relying on the manager's advice and knowledge to navigate group meetings and problems. He was always jealous of how the idol group in the story had the manager with them, and the bitter feeling only intensified each time he reread the story. Even his teammates joked about his obsession in interviews.

He could only cry when he saw you sitting across from him during a fan meeting, gifting him a small box of his favorite snack, Ferrero Rocher. Through his tears and snot, he noticed your surprise and fussing over him in the soft, sweet tone he had dreamed of hearing for years. He wanted to reach out, to take your hands and feel their warmth, but with the eyes watching and the risk of jealous fans targeting you, he restrained himself. He gave a half lie, put on his usual cheery attitude, and sneakily wrote down his number and a meeting location on the exclusive merch you gave him to sign. He drank in your beautiful, blushing face as he winked at you when you noticed.

[pseudowho]

Hi Mrs Haitch! First let me say that I adore your stories and the way you write the men in your fics. Not only are they hot and enjoyable to read but also they feel real and adult. I don't want to bash on anyone by saying this, but sometimes it's difficult to enjoy fics written by younger people when you're pushing 30 because they portray a different reality. Please, never stop writing!

Before getting into the next part of the ask I'd like to say that this is in no way a demand and I it's not my intention to trauma dump on you. I just felt like talking a little about my experience could provide a bit of context.

I just read the ask about the soft spot and, although I'm not a virgin, I'm a serial victim of bad sex. I would love technical (even if explicit) descriptions on how to find the famed spot. I think is really cool when women in the medical field talk about sexual health, and it could be good having this kind of knowledge on a famous fic blog like yours, since I imagine a lot of fic readers are either virgins or had less than ideal sexual experiences, like me.

I don't want to seem like I'm pressuring you though! I totally understand if you prefer to keep this kind of thing out of your blog. It's just that a while ago I read on another blog from a healthcare professional a post about how sex shouldn't hurt even in the first time and I was blown away (this happened years after I started having sex and after having deemed myself "defective" and doomed to painful sex to the rest of my life)

Sorry for the long ask. Sending lots of hapiness your way <3

Well, if it helps even one person, it is absolutely my pleasure to do so.

I'm sorry for your bad sex. Nothing excuses it, frankly, and I'm a firm believer that most people are profoundly shit at giving vagina-owners orgasms.

(you calling my blog 'famous' does not go unnoticed and I could blush. Shhhh.)

I think age comes with so much beauty. I am a staunch believer in the unifying power of people, and when groups of women support the ducklings of the group, the ducklings are far less likely to be led down the garden path, on what is 'normal' or 'abnormal' or 'good' or 'bad' in sex.

This is why men and the media fear strongly-bonded groups of women so much-- it's almost like we'll talk and start to take note of the real problems. Cats amongst pigeons, right?

Anyway...

Cw and tw: medical discussion, discussion of self-examination

So again, while the location of the g-spot varies in exact location from vagina-owner to vagina-owner, on average it is located 2-3 inches into the vagina, on the anterior vaginal wall.

What I mean by anterior vaginal wall is, if standing and facing forwards, it's the wall of your vagina closest to the front of you, rather than your back.

Picture posted again, for reference!

The g-spot is of variable size, usually the size of a large coin, and it may feel a bit rougher or ridged than other parts of your vagina, but becomes spongier or thicker and plusher when aroused or stimulated.

If you were to get two fingers on your dominant hand, reach inside the vagina up to the base of your fingers, and hook forwards, you should find it.

I suggest for the first time, finding it when you need to pee. This is because, the g-spot sits against the urethral canal (the tube you pee out of), and if you have a full bladder, you'll know you've found the g-spot because it will feel really sensitive and likely increase your urge to pee.

If you happen to orgasm with g-spot and clitoral stimulation while you have urine in your bladder, your chances of "squirting" (which, if you see my previous post, is almost certainly just pee) are much higher. It's a unique experience and you should try it. Put a towel down.

I find a good sized wand vibrator, inserted and positioned just-so, will give great continuous g-spot stimulation while you, or someone else, goes to town elsewhere.

Start combining all of the erogenous zones and it's party time.

As said previously, sensitivity is very variable. Exploring and knowing yourself is key to showing a partner how to pleasure you.

If you have sex with a partner who responds with anything other than "teach me" absolute enthusiasm, when you want to show them what works for you...if they 'try' for a short time, then give up? If they carry on doing their own thing anyway? If they're impatient?

Kick them to the curb. They can go fuck themselves.

Very much love as always,

-- Haitch xxx

[novamariestark]

Slip of the Tongue - Alden Parker

Summary: You accidentally call Alden his pet name in front of the team

Warnings: None, except maybe, use of a pet name

Word count: 1681

Fandom: NCIS

Pairing: Alden Parker x reader

[A/N] I've been working on this for weeks and it didn't really end up as well as I pictured it in my head but I am happy that my lazyass brain let me write something.

You hadn’t meant to say it. It was an accident. Just a slip of the tongue. You knew for sure that Nick was never going to let you live this down.

You and Alden have been together for about six months and for the sake of your professional relationship, you kept it secret. At least you did. It didn’t take an investigator to figure it out.

You all hadn’t long come back from a crime scene and whilst you were there, you spotted someone suspicious. His body language set him apart from all the other onlookers. That’s when Gibbs’ voice popped into your mind.

Rule 35: Always watch the watchers.

You were the team’s profiler and one of the best. Many agents came by and asked for your thoughts on possible motives or to observe an interrogation. Your journey into psychology and profiling began when you were just 15 years old. When you met Ducky. At that time, he was in the middle of his pursuit of his master’s degree in psychology. The world of the human mind had held a certain mystique that had captivated you from the start, just as much as Ducky's stories did.

When Ducky decided to retire as ME, he personally chose you and Jimmy as his successors. You initially apprehensive about taking that role given the size of the shoes you had to fill but Ducky believed that you were both more than capable to do the job. As it turned out, he was right. As usual.

When you got back to your desk, you immediately started to investigate the onlooker you had seen. You started to run him through facial recognition hoping to find something. Whilst you were waiting for a hit, you looked through the crime scene photos, looking for something you may have missed when you took the photo.

A little over an hour later, your computer beeped, and like meerkats, the team all looked up from their tasks.

“Ooh, sounds like [Y/N] has something,”

You shook your head, you hadn’t found anything, just the name of the onlooker, “No, it’s just an e-mail, ignore it,”

The team exchanged glances but didn’t push any further. You turned your attention to your “e-mail” and began scouring databases, cross-referencing information, and followed his digital trails, determined to find out if he had anything to do with it.

Soon you find out that he’s got a lengthy list of offences, violent ones, “McGee?” you spoke up, shifting in your seat to look at him.

“Yeah?” he asked looking away from his screen giving you his full attention.

“Have you looked into the wife yet?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

McGee couldn't help but chuckle. "Don't tell me you're following Tony's logic," he teased, referring to their former colleague's penchant for the saying, "It's always the spouse."

You joined in the laughter, shaking your head. "No, just wondering. I mean, I could if you're busy,"

McGee scrunched his eyebrows at you, “Okay, what are you working on over there?” he asked getting increasingly curious.

You glanced around the room and noticed that the entire team had turned their attention to you. You sighed and then looked back at Tim. "Rule 35," you said simply.

“Really? Someone set off your spidey sense?” he asked, you nodded in response.

“Care to share?” Alden asked, “What’s rule 35?”

You chewed your lip, would he be annoyed you kept this to yourself? You opened your mouth to answer but McGee beat you to it.

“Uh, Gibbs’ rule 35. Always watch the watchers,” he explained.

“I uh, saw a man in the crowd of onlookers. His body language was different than everyone else,” you explained further, “It was just a hunch, if it led anywhere, I would tell you guys,”

“And did it?” Alden asked, standing up from his desk and walking over to yours. You looked up at him. Sometimes you wondered how you managed to concentrate at all with how damn sexy he was. All. The. Time. But you did.

“Um, the guy I saw has a restraining order against him by a Naomi Fisher,” you shrugged, “I know that’s the first name of the victim’s wife and…” you stopped when you saw a look on his face, one you couldn’t decipher. Not that you’d tell Nick that, “I’m sorry, I just thought that it was suspicious, I should have told you,” you looked down at your hands on the desk, at the keyboard, anywhere away from his eyes. Beside you, you could hear the clacking of McGee’s keyboard.

“Naomi Wilkes’ maiden name is Fisher,” he spoke up with a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” Torres groaned playfully from the other side of you, “How am I supposed to kiss ass if you’re always using your superpowers?”

Alden smiled at you, “Good job,” he said before turning to walk away.

“Thanks, daddy,” you said, immediately clasping your hands over your mouth. Alden stops dead in his tracks.

The office fell into a stunned silence, and the team's jaws dropped making it clear that they had caught your slip up. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you realized what you had just said. Oh shit. Why did you say that? Because he praised you? Was that your weakness?

What the hell, of course it is. You were surprised you lasted this long.

You quickly looked at Alden, "I'm sorry, Alden,"

He gave you a subtle, reassuring smile, “It’s alright, [Y/N]”

Jess exchanged a knowing glance with Tim, who wore a subtle grin and Nick was trying and failing to suppress his laugh.

“Okay, stay focused still got a case to solve. Everyone back to what they were doing,” Alden said returning to his desk, “[Y/N], create a profile on your onlooker,” he said with a smile.

You smiled back, “Sure,”

***

You delved into both his and Naomi’s background, their relationship going as far back as pre teen years. They dated, he got multiple arrests and she filed a restraining order against him 5 years ago after he almost killed her little brother. He is currently out on parole. You found the number of his officer and rang them up. After the call you find that he’s missed his appointment with his parole officer and can’t be found. You decided to call metro and ask if they could place some officers outside Naomi Wilkes house just in case he returned.

“Okay, I’m done,” you said standing up, you faintly hear Nick mumble ‘this’ll be good,’ he enjoyed watching you analyse things, as did everyone else. Especially Alden, he found it completely sexy.

“His name is Jon Milton. He was recently released from prison on parole however his parole officer doesn’t know where he is. Anyway, he has an obsessive fixation on Naomi. He is unable to accept the end of their relationship. This is a possible motive for the murder of Craig Wilkes, likely an attempt to regain control over her and may even be punishment for her moving on. He’s narcissistic, he believes he is entitled to her affection, her love, her loyalty. He sees her choices as a direct threat to his self-esteem and he reacts with anger and violence to reassert his dominance. He has a violent history which indicates that he has often resorted to aggression as a means of gaining control. He’s delusional. He’s convinced himself that killing Naomi’s husband was the only way to regain her affections. He also exhibits psychopathic traits. He’s lacking empathy or remorse for his actions. His return to the crime scene to watch Naomi grieve her husband's death demonstrates sadistic tendencies. He derives pleasure from her pain and relishes in his own cruel actions,” you finished your presentation of your findings and looked to everyone.

“I believe he did it,” you added, nodding your head to his picture on the screen, “I also believe he will continue to harm those near her. I called Metro and asked them to have officers posted outside her house,”

As the team mobilized to verify your hunch about the onlooker being the murderer, your investigation took a turn. McGee began combing through stolen car reports, cross-referencing them with camera footage from the victim's neighborhood. Soon, on one of the cameras, he spotted the stolen car, parked on the same street as the victim's residence.

Meanwhile, Kasie, the team's forensic expert, was hard at work analyzing evidence from the crime scene. She finally came across all the prints you pulled from the porch banister. Kasie ran it through the database. It matched the onlooker's known prints. This was another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

As you all pieced together these findings, your phone rang. Your BOLO alert had come back. The onlooker had just been spotted a few streets away from his ex's house. You thanked the man and immediately called the officers that were sat outside her house to warn them and let them know they were on their way.

“He’s just been spotted a few streets away from the Wilkes’ house,”

“Alright let’s move,” Alden said as he started gearing up.

***

Later that night, after you all got back after arresting Milton, you were all back in the bullpen. McGee was getting ready to leave. So were Jess and Nick, but they all noticed that you and Alden weren’t moving.

“So, uh,” Torres spoke up, “Was he playing with his plants or…”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you laughed at him.

“Yeah, please don’t,” McGee begged.

“Okay, okay,” he said walking away, towards the elevator, “Don’t stay up too late!” he called over before the doors shut.

“I’m sorry,” you sighed, you knew he wanted to keep it a secret. Well not so much a secret, just he preferred to keep your professional relationship and your personal relationship separate.

“Don’t worry about it,” Alden reassured you again, “At least you don’t have to come up with all these different lies anymore. When Torres asks you to hang out you can just say you’d rather hang out with me,”

[vickyvicarious]

Oh No. You made me aware of the implications of Mina's words (when Mina says that some may say that this is a happy occasion for her and Jonathan) that she nay already be dealing with peoples' Whispering or subtle comments... from Hawkins' circle perhaps.

Yeah. :(

See, the thing is, there has been talk since last year of an outside perspective of all this with various degrees of apparent shadiness in different characters (I think I made a post about exactly that last year). But most of those takes I've seen deal with people suspecting our main characters of outright murder. Arthur, getting into Mrs. Westenra's will and then killing her and Lucy off with the help of his doctor friends to cover up for him. Or even just killing Lucy after her mother dies and leaves everything to him. Jonathan and Mina killing Mr. Hawkins in order to inherit everything he has, including Jonathan's big promotion shortly beforehand. It's all very sinister-sounding stuff.

But it doesn't have to be that bad, even in other peoples' minds. For Arthur, his father's illness seems like something that would have been well-known, and of course he was due to inherit everything from him anyway since they were quite close and he has no siblings. It sounds like there were rumors going around about him and Lucy, so their engagement wouldn't have been a surprise. Mrs. Westenra kept her illness secret from Lucy, but not really the other characters, and it's possible she would have allowed some other friends in on the secret too, so her death might not be a surprise either. Lucy's illness was abrupt and tragic, but having a friendly doctor consult/care for an invalid at home wouldn't have been anything too weird, so it's not necessarily ringing alarm bells. The weirdest part is the inheritance and the super-fast funeral, but in addition to Arthur getting potentially more leeway since he's so high-status, the knowledge of his father's death at about the same time might have led people to be more excusing of him even if they didn't like how he conducted the funeral. The inheritance is really weird though, and I could see even people who trust he wasn't responsible for any deaths believing that he maybe manipulated or pressured an ill woman to convince her to sign off Lucy's money to him when he knows she's likely to die much sooner than Mrs. Westenra thinks. And then he had them both buried as fast as possible and tried to move right past it. Not necessarily murder, but scummy. Even then though, I feel like most people wouldn't be saying this kind of thing openly even if it did run through their minds - and it would be less likely to occur to most in the first place since they know Arthur more already.

But while Arthur's status, both as a rich and presumably well-liked member of high-society, and someone who was known to be close to both the Westenras before they fell ill, serves to make people more forgiving of him... Jonathan and Mina don't have any of that.

Jonathan didn't already have money, to point to and say "he didn't need to inherit that wealth anyway." Jonathan didn't have his own property to make him getting that house less weird. He didn't already have his own staff, he didn't already have his own title/job even. He worked for Mr. Hawkins. He literally only just became a lawyer a couple of months ago, and he hasn't even been in the country let alone actively involved in the practice for most of the time since then. His meteoric rise is definitely weird, especially if you consider that his relationship with Mr. Hawkins, pre-trip, seems to have been pretty professional. Maybe he and his boss both secretly were more fond of one another than that, but I don't get the sense they expressed it very much.

So it's much easier to make the jump to the Harkers killing Mr. Hawkins. But there's a leap that's even easier than that and in some ways sadder. We know that Mr. Hawkins didn't have family, and apparently his funeral wasn't super well attended. His gout had been an ongoing issue, and while that alone isn't typically enough to kill someone it can go along with other illnesses. Jonathan had worked for him since he was a boy, and then his first business trip went wrong.

I think it could be quite easy for people to assume that Jonathan was ambitious, and deliberately played on the feelings of a lonely, sick old man. Perhaps he manipulated his guilt as a way to get 'in' with him past professional roles, and then started acting the part of a son in order to con Mr. Hawkins into giving him everything. Again, it doesn't have to be murder to still be mercenary and cold.

At the very least, if you're an old acquaintance of Mr. Hawkins, or someone who has worked with him for a while, the sudden appointment of his former clerk as his chief mourner, heir to all his wealth and his legal practice - it definitely seems odd enough to attribute to greed. Jonathan and Mina don't have any social status or wealth to protect them from that, and so I feel like they could get a lot more open suspicion or scorn or snubbing than Arthur ever would. No one ever has to say a word about it looking like murder; they could make 'jokes' about the Harkers 'lucking out' or at least 'landing on their feet' with a certain tone and that would be enough to be quite hurtful (and yeah, Mina's line suggests that at least she suspects some are saying that). They could easily not give accounts to them, or back out of existing contracts, and apologize by saying they were used to counting on Mr. Hawkins' many years of experience, but Mr. Harker is... newer to this. They could just fail to make any social offers, in a way that the Harker probably couldn't call anyone out on. And so on.

[greatideas-badwriter]

Sacrificed To The Banished Prince Ch. 33

AN: Sorry that the update is a few days late. I was on a trip with my Mom!

Baron Haruno was uncharacteristically silent until the three Uchiha royals led him into Madara’s personal office and presented him with an urn filled with ashes. His face turned red. It was as though all the manners left his body because he barked, peering into the urn, “How can you be sure this is my son when this is all you have?” 

Itachi responded promptly, an air of professionalism intact, “I assure you that the palace mages were very thorough during the identification process. This is Hihara Haruno.” 

Sasuke accidentally shared a look with his uncle, whose eyes burnt with anger. It wasn’t easy to determine the cause of his ire. It was, however, simple to make the deduction that he didn’t wish to be on the receiving end of it. The second prince had never witnessed Madara’s ruthless personality firsthand, but the stories of him during the war when he and his father were in their early twenties were the thing of legend. It was said that the current king killed nearly a thousand people in a single day, all without using magic. The amount of energy, ability, and anger needed to commit such a feat would be immense. 

“Was it not the same crackpot mages who’ve also spent months unsuccessfully searching for the boy?” Baron Haruno bit. 

Madara’s glare hardened, his aura darkening, “Don’t misinterpret this formality as an act of forgiveness for the terrors with which your son plagued Konoha’s only princess. As far as the royal family is concerned, this world is a far better place with that poor excuse for a human dead.” 

Sasuke couldn’t help but add, poison coating his words as he leered at his father-in-law, “Be grateful you’re receiving this much. If it’d been me to discover him alive, nothing would remain but memories.”

It was as though the prince’s lack of faux-kindness reminded the Haruno man of their last meeting and he became awkward while still visibly irritated. He said nothing more about the remains. 

Clearly, the Uchiha men believed their business to be finished, but Kizashi hesitated before sighing defeatedly, “I must admit I haven’t traveled here just to collect my son’s remains.” He avoided Sasuke’s gaze. Instead, he tried to hold Itachi’s, likely since he was the sole member of the royal family who hadn’t shown his distaste openly. “Will you please have your mages inspect my youngest daughter?” 

Everyone stared at him in disbelief. The Baron quickly continued, sensing his plight was unlikely to be thoroughly investigated, “Since shortly after Sakura’s departure, she’s become unrecognizable. She’s always been a kind-hearted girl, but she suddenly became cold and intelligent beyond her years. I’m concerned something is very wrong.” 

‘It’s likely the one humane being in her life disappearing made her realize what a terrible family to which she’s been born,’ Sasuke thought and badly wanted to say. 

Instead, the king bit, “Who are you to ask a favor of us?” 

“Your Highness, please-” “I’ll allow your family to spend the night since it’s already afternoon, but that is the extent of my hospitality. You’re to leave the palace after breakfast tomorrow.” Even Sasuke was intimidated by Madara’s firm tone. 

With no room to argue, the unwelcome guest excused himself from the office. Itachi shared a look with his younger brother, a clear warning not to press the subject, but the prince couldn’t help it. He knew how much the youngest Haruno daughter meant to his wife. Even if the rest of her family was despicable, the girl had personally done nothing wrong. So, he cautiously said, “Uncle, we should at least have the girl inspected by the palace physicians.” 

The king’s gaze remained cold as he stared down his nephew. He took a moment to ponder before shaking his head, “I forbid it. The Haruno family has received more than enough lenience from us. If I treat someone who has disrespected the crown so kindly, our kingdom’s enemies and supporters alike will view the Uchiha name as spineless.” 

Itachi’s teeth gritted. He obviously wanted to say something but didn’t. Sasuke should’ve taken his lead, but he also didn’t. “The princess holds the girl very dear. Please reconsider.” 

“I’ve made my decision, Nephew. I suggest you accept it,” The king’s voice raised. 

The prince opened his mouth to argue, only for Itachi to interrupt, “Brother, I need to speak with Uncle alone. Can you excuse us?” 

Sasuke begrudgingly left, knowing full well that his brother just didn’t want him to butt heads with the king. When he turns the corner down the hall, headed toward the garden where his wife was likely entertaining her sisters, Kizashi Haruno is waiting. His eyes lit up when they landed on the prince, and he fell into step at his side when Sasuke walked right past with the intent to ignore him. 

“Surely you’ll help me, Son-In-Law! Think of how upset Sakura will be if something happens to her beloved sister!” 

Sasuke froze, the man following suit, before facing him with murderous intent boiling his blood. “How casually you speak to me after I explicitly said I’d kill you if you stood in my presence again.” 

Baron Haruno barely looked affected, standing tall and proud while dropping the doting father-in-law act. “Does Sakura know her husband is someone who’d kill a father simply trying to find help for his daughter?”

The prince couldn’t hold back anymore. He hit the man with all his might. Kizashi stumbled, lifting a hand to his bleeding lip and glaring at the prince, who bent forward slightly to hiss, “Sakura is also your daughter! Where was this protective nature when she was being neglected and mistreated within the walls of your own estate?” In the end, that was the biggest issue Sasuke had with the man: that he’d been a bystander and likely even directly responsible for his wife’s tragic upbringing and lack of self-value. 

“That filth is no child of mine!” As soon as the disgusted words left his mouth, the baron closed his lips with an expression that said he was trying to hide the fact that he hadn’t meant to say that. 

‘Does he mean he doesn’t consider her part of his family? That much is obvious, so why would he feel the need to say it? Unless…..’ Sasuke’s glare darkened, “If you’re not her father, then who is?” 

Finally, Kizashi’s face showed unease, fear even. He straightened his spine and gave a poor attempt at covering up his mishap, “I am her father, biologically. I simply meant that, since my late-wife didn’t birth her, she’s not recognized as an official part of my family.” 

How easily it was to determine his words as false was surprising, considering how cunning and collected he’d always been. Sasuke was suspicious of his swift demeanor adjustment and shoved the older man against the wall, “Tell the truth, or I’ll make good on my promise to end your life here and now.” 

Just as quickly as Baron Haruno had become scared did he seem smug once more. His lips curled into a grin, “Any affection you have for her will cease when you find out. Are you certain you wish to know?” The prince was understandably confused but didn’t back down. If it was about Sakura, he had to know. It could be something life-threatening or maybe it could explain some of the unknowns about her, like the strange healing power she possessed. 

“While it’s true her mother was a performer, the man who sired that thing is the same one who gave you the mark on your shoulder, My Lord.” He said the title with disrespect clearly in his tone.

It was as though the world came to a standstill. Sasuke’s heart seemed to stop before starting again at double the pace to make up for lost time. He stepped back, away from the baron, “...The wizard Orochimaru?” 

“Her mother, unbeknownst to me, was already with child upon coming into my possession. It wasn’t until she gave birth that I realized I wasn’t the father,” Kizashi explained, appearing both unhappy with the facts and gleeful that the prince was so obviously disturbed by the news. “To answer the question you’re bound to ask, why I bothered raising a bastard child, her mother claimed to curse my entire family if I didn’t.” Then, his satisfaction faltered, his eyes falling into a glare, “It was shortly after my youngest’s birth that I tested the witch’s promise. I attempted to drown Sakura, which led to my wife’s death.” 

Sasuke could barely wrap his head around all the new information. ‘Does that mean both of her parents had magical abilities? Depending on when Hana was born, Orochimaru could’ve been nearby, or he could’ve been captured by my family already.’ He wasn’t sure of the youngest Haruno daughter’s age, just that she was younger than sixteen since she’d yet to have a debut into society. 

“So, no, I care not for whether that devil-woman lives or dies. I do care for my actual children, so I’m begging for your help despite my pride.” 

The prince couldn’t figure out what to say or how to speak even if he did somehow manage to form a coherent thought. Instead, he turned and left the pathetic man in the hallway. His pace was quicker than before as he searched for his wife. 

He spotted her sitting on a bench in the garden next to her youngest sister. Her body was angled toward the girl, so he couldn’t see her face. As he approached, his steps faltered when a familiar burning met the scar on his shoulder. His hand clapped over the area as he froze. ‘It hasn’t done this since I gained control over The Curse. Is he trying to take over with sheer force?’ Clearly, the demon wanted to arise, but Sasuke gritted his teeth and refused. To be honest, since obtaining control over his body, he wasn’t sure how much easier or difficult it might be to regain it if he should let Akuma feel the sun. 

“Hello, Prince Sasuke,” a dull voice broke his train of thought and he looked up to see the two women looking his way. Hana had been the one to speak, but he could only look at his wife’s face. 

It was evident something was wrong by her pale skin and panicked expression. The thought of somehow bringing up the topic of her biological parents fell away as he approached her side. Instinctually, he held out a hand for her to hold, and she did, albeit softly and while lowering her gaze. 

‘Whatever it is, she doesn’t want to acknowledge it now.’ 

His eyes looked over her to confirm she had no new injuries before noticing someone was missing, “Where is the other girl?” The one that tried to weasel her way between them. 

“Haruka is across the garden. She and Sakura do not get along, so she angrily stepped away.” Hana answered, her tone just as emotionless as before. Sakura nodded slightly, squeezing his hand. 

Taking the hint, Sasuke knelt, “If you’ll excuse us, I believe the princess has become exhausted.” This time, the pink-haired woman didn’t protest when he picked her up and carried her back into the castle and upstairs toward the room they’d shared last night. That alone was enough to convince him her mood was low. 

As soon as the door was closed behind them, he opened his mouth to tell her what he’d learned of her lineage, only for her to cut him off. Her hand held a fist of his shirt as she tearfully said, “That’s not my sister down there! I don’t know who or what it is, but it’s not her!” 

It took a moment for the man to comprehend her words. He sat her down on the edge of the bed. She must’ve taken his silence as doubt because she shook her head, “I know I sound crazy, but I’m telling the truth, Sasuke.” 

“I believe you,” he quickly responded. And he did. “Baron Haruno offered concerns regarding her, as well. He asked my uncle to have the mages look over her.” 

Relief met Sakura’s face, “Oh, thank goodness. Surely they’ll be able to figure out what’s happening.” 

The man nodded but didn’t know why he didn’t tell her the truth, that the king had forbidden investigation of the matter. He also couldn’t bring himself to tell her that everything she knew about herself was a lie. 

As he wordlessly smoothed out her hair and kissed the top of her head so she couldn’t see the unease upon his face, his eyes closed. Until he’d solved all the mysteries surrounding the Haruno family and her birth, he’d let her focus on healing and the child growing in her stomach. 

[writingsofwesteros]

All of these thoughts are delicious, but I can immediately imagine it being Viserys. His daughter with Alicent was always ambitious, though this particular occurance was born from the necessity to protect her family. They had all seen just how little their father cared for them when it came to his prized daughter and it was enough to create a divide within the family, a deep cavern that would be nearly impossible to fill. Alicent's daughter learned from the world around her, always more of an observer than an actual player in life's game, a fact that made her a different type of dangerous. Perhaps if she were interested in someone that could match her head on, she would've paired herself with Larys, or more appropriately, Aemond. But alas, her cunningness led her down the path of "greatness", as in the words of Otto Hightower.

Borrowing a trick from her mother, the daughter hatches a plan to strengthen her claim to their father's heart and secure their future through seizing the throne. She feels like a cheap whore the way she dumbs herself down to pretend like she wasn't vastly more knowledgeable than Viserys in regards to their history, or any other subject as he seemed to be severly lacking in several areas. It takes no time for her to worm her way into his bed, playing innocent and allowing him to mount her the first few times, moaning wantonly and clinging to him like he was her only lifeline. As he thrusts inside her desperately, all she can do is feel self satisfied over her amazing acting skills. It was evident that Viserys never remembered anything regarding Alicent's children, especially since it was a big ordeal within the castle when the servants had found blood on her sheets from an unexpected late night hook up with Aegon in their youth. Even after facing Alicent's wrath and ridicule, that didn't stop them from enjoying the occasional romp.

One night she whispers cutely to Viserys that she had recieved a dirty book from her handmaiden and wished to test out the position. He was immediately on board, though worried about how his "innocent" daughter would fare doing something so lewd. He's quickly shut up when she ties him down like a professional and wastes no time slowly torturing him with the thought of fucking her. She blindfolds him and rubs her tits in his face, climbing on the bed and teasingly rubbing his red cock through her folds and chuckling when he attempts to enter her. Alicent's daughter isn't going to let him get away with treating her the way he did her mother when she is his new wife, teaching him patience and making him eat her out from behind, her creamy pussy suffocating him. She doesn't let him get a break, making him work hard to learn her sensitive areas and the quickest way to make her cum.

Once she believes he is decent enough at the job, she slowly slides his cock in her sensitive pussy and gives him the ride of his life. His fragile heart stutters as she fucks his cock in and out of her tight cunt as if she had to rush to do something after she finished. His poor cock is abused by her tight grip and unrelenting pace, Viserys swearing his daughter is going to snap his cock in half with her vigorous movements, though says nothing and enjoys his slice of heaven. Alicent's daughter is going through it as she finally takes the liberty of fucking him, honestly feeling disgusted yet turned on by how submissive she had him already. She always loved when Aegon would let her take her frustration out on him instead of their usual wrestling match that left the servants extra busy come cleaning time. Feeling him start to pulse inside her helps bring her closer to her edge as her plan is that much closer to being achieved and she races to the finish line by swirling her fingers around her clit.

Alicent's daughter fucks him like he's her bitch a few more times before untying him and leaving him covered in their combined juices, his face red from embarrassment and vision blurry as he watches her slip her dress on and walk out like nothing had happened, his cum dripping from her cunt still. Viserys can't tell if he got punked, but he definitely knows that 1. He's not unhappy she fucked him so hard he wasn't able to walk to dinner, and 2. He's going to definitely need to marry her since it's obvious he wouldn't be able to stop thinking about her after that night 👑💀

SO DELICIOUS !!

[calabria-mediterranea]

Vintage photo of women mourning the death of Christ, while they accompany the Virgin during an Easter procession.

Photo taken in Cassano Allo Ionio, Calabria, Italy by Carlo Paone in the 1980s.

Professional mourning or paid mourning is an occupation that originates from Mediterranean and Near Eastern cultures. Professional mourners, also called moirologists, were compensated to lament or deliver a eulogy and help comfort and entertain the grieving family.

In ancient Egypt, the mourners would be making an ostentatious display of grief which included tearing at dishevelled hair, loud wailing, beating of exposed breasts, and smearing the body with dirt. There are many inscriptions on tombs and pyramids of crowds of people following a body throughout the funerary procession.

However, the most important of these women were the two impersonating the two godddesses Isis and Nephthys.

Isis and Nephthys were both Egyptian goddesses who were believed to play a special role when someone died. They were to be impersonated as a mourning ritual by professional mourners. In most inscriptions seen, one of them is at either end of the corpse.

Meanwhile, Ancient Greek mourners were known as moirologists. In true Greek fashion, it was a position that added a dramatic flair to funerary practices. Moirologists gave performances that represented the life of the deceased, and they led chants with cries and wails to honor the dead.

In Roman history, mourners were hired to accompany funerary rituals and were often thought to be theatrical. In early history the public mourners, called praeficiae, would follow musicians in a funeral procession to sing for the dead.

Reports of the survival of this use occur in even more recent times in Southern Italy, especially in Sicily, Apulia and Calabria, where until the 1980s, in some mountain villages of the hinterlands, it was possible to witness such harrowing scenes.

Follow us on Instagram, @calabria_mediterranea

[icarusmonsoon]

healed wounds, mender hearts pt III - rafe cameron

rafe cameron x reader

nothing much is going on in this chapter, just a filler chapter following the previous one. Hope you guys enjoy!

Part I

Part II

___________________________________________

The weight of the unconscious form in his arms felt both fragile and burdensome, like he was carrying a precious treasure that could shatter at any moment. Rafe's heart pounded in his chest, not just from the physical exertion of holding Y/n's body, but from the fear and guilt that clawed at him. He couldn't believe how much he had let things spiral out of control, how much he had lost sight of himself and the consequences of his actions.

Now, the consequences were staring him in the face, and he knew he had to make things right. Gently, he laid Y/n down on a nearby crate, his hands shaking with trepidation. His fingers hovered over her wound, unsure of what to do. He desperately wished he had some medical knowledge, but he wasn't even sure how to properly clean and dress the injury.

He berated himself for not paying attention during first aid classes, for being too reckless and impulsive.As the reality of the situation sunk in, Rafe's mind was flooded with regret and remorse. He remembered all the times he had acted callously, the times he had hurt people physically and emotionally, all in the pursuit of his father's approval. He thought about how he had let his obsession with the cross blind him to the real dangers around him, including the ones he had inadvertently caused.

Tears welled up in Rafe's eyes as he looked at Y/n's still form. He felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility for her well-being, and he knew he had to do everything in his power to ensure she survived. He took off his shirt and ripped it into strips, using them to try and staunch the bleeding from her wound. He winced as he saw her flinch in response to his touch, reminding him that he was the last person she would want taking care of her.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the ship's noises. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted you to get hurt." He swallowed hard, trying to keep his emotions in check. He knew he couldn't afford to break down now; he had to stay focused and keep her safe.

With trembling hands, Rafe retrieved his phone again and dialed the ship's infirmary, praying that someone would pick up on the other end. He explained the situation as best as he could, stumbling over his words and trying to convey the urgency of the situation. When he finally got through to the doctor, he was instructed on how to stabilize Y/n until they could reach the infirmary.

Rafe felt a mix of relief and anxiety as he followed the doctor's instructions. He was afraid of doing something wrong, of causing more harm than good. He kept talking to Y/n, hoping that his voice would somehow reach her unconscious mind and let her know that he was trying to help.

As he waited for the medical team to arrive, Rafe's mind drifted to the events that led them to this moment. He thought about the treasure hunt, the rivalry between his family and the pogues, and how it had all escalated into this chaotic mess. He couldn't help but feel responsible for the violence and danger that had overtaken their lives.His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.

The medical team had arrived, and Rafe quickly stepped back to give them space. He watched anxiously as they assessed Y/n's condition, their faces serious and focused. The doctor acknowledged Rafe with a nod, silently acknowledging his efforts in stabilizing her.

Rafe felt a mix of gratitude and guilt as the medical team took over. He knew he had done what he could, but he couldn't shake the feeling that he had caused all of this. He stayed by Y/n's side as they prepared to transport her to the infirmary, his heart heavy with worry and regret.

Once Y/n was safely in the hands of the medical professionals, Rafe found himself feeling lost. He didn't know what to do next, where to go, or how to face the consequences of his actions. He knew he had to confront his father and put an end to this dangerous quest for the cross, but he also knew that it wouldn't be easy on him. After all, Ward's validation is all he ever wanted. And he was so close to getting what he wants, in exchange of the safety of the only person he can ever think about. The person he genuinely have feelings for.

Rafe's not sure what his feelings are, what he actually want. But as he wandered through the ship, Rafe's mind was a whirlwind of emotions. But one thing he knows for sure, he genuinely cared about Y/n.

[twinsarekeepers]

Let me preface this by saying, I’m a pre-med student who works in a psychology lab as a research assistant and has also worked in a doctor’s office with actual patients. A lot of my opinions about this ending are informed by that aspect of myself, but that does not mean I don’t understand the incredible weight and horror of Joel’s decision either. I am also a writer and the narrative of a parent’s love being that destructive is so compelling.

However, it’s not more important to me than making sure people know how egregiously terrible the Fireflies are. Because the logic that something can morally outweigh informed consent is what has led to some truly horrific, catastrophic events in our REAL human history. Henrietta Lacks, the Tuskegee study, and the CIA’s fake vaccination drive in Pakistan come to mind immediately for me. These are all events that I encourage everyone to learn about.

Putting all that aside for now, objectively, Jerry Anderson was stupid and wrong in every way possible. You never ever want to completely destroy the subject you are working on, ESPECIALLY if that is the only one you have. Because wtf are you going to do if your experiment doesn’t work? You killed the one source! Literally anything would’ve been better than KILLING ELLIE?? Killing her should be the very last resort after exhausting every other possible avenue, which they didn’t. (Before someone tells me that I need to suspend my disbelief … no. The whole show is rooted in realism and that this is a possibility SCIENTIFICALLY … so I’m going to think about it with my science brain, I’m sorry!)

Now onto the part that I know y’all are going to get your panties in a twist about, Ellie herself and her capacity to give consent. Which in my opinion, coming from someone whose literal job it is to get informed consent, she did not have.

Bodily autonomy and agency is obviously very important but you would never let your child run into oncoming traffic because “oh, it’s their body and I’d be violating their autonomy and agency if I physically held them back!!” Like no. That’s a child that doesn’t fully grasp what they are doing or what is going on around them so you as the adult must make the decision to not let them harm themselves.

Ellie is a slew of red flags to someone who would be searching for participants for an experiment. For one, Ellie is a child. Getting informed consent from a child is already hard because their brains are not developed enough to fully grasp and understand what they’d be agreeing to. Two, Ellie has gone through immense trauma and is suffering from the worst case of survivor’s guilt to possibly ever exist. She literally feels like the only way to compensate for her loss is to die. She is the definition of passively suicidal. The way I would rule her out of a study so fast and send her links to every helpline I know. And yes, I know that she can never actually get the help she needs. But in my opinion, she is not in any way able to give consent and Jerry and nurses should’ve been very aware of that.

So, the fact that the Fireflies are just medically inept, and on top of that, didn’t care to get consent, and even if they had, it wouldn’t matter because Ellie is not in a position to be making that kind of decision, makes them very, very wrong.

Does that make Joel right? No. Because Joel wasn’t thinking about any of that. He believed that the Fireflies knew what they were doing, that they had a shot at making a cure and he also knew what Ellie would want (again, she’s still not a position to give consent but JOEL DOESN’T KNOW THAT BECAUSE HE’S NOT A MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL) and he still chose to save Ellie over … the entire world. And then he lied to her about it.

(And the lie was to protect her emotionally because he knows she takes on so much blame and he doesn’t want to cause even MORE damage and pile on top of that insane survivor’s guilt … but lying to a teenager is never the way to go, they always know).

TLDR: it is very, very complicated!