#cw forced isolation

[icannotgetoverbirds]

Severe fucking content warning

Content warning for literal fucking torture and abuse. everything else should be tagged. If I miss any content warnings please for the love of all that is holy tell me so I can fix it.

Psychological torture. Those are the words bouncing around my head this morning.

Did you know that sleep deprivation and social isolation are often considered to be tied for the worst tortures known to humankind?

Let me give you some more context. When I left mormonism, I lost everything in regards to my social safety net. Mormonism and my mormon friends and family were all I had.

It's by design, too; how is someone supposed to leave if their only safety net disappears when they do? Why would they even consider leaving if that safety net holds them perfectly because they can conform?

But when you can't conform, you fall through the cracks. As I did.

I didn't just lose everything, though. I didn't stop there. I also gained a neighborhood full of watchdogs who I was sure would herd me back to the cult at the first opportunity.

Going outside on foot was no longer an option - if any of my many mormon neighbors saw me, they would have Questions. If I gave any worrying answers, there was bound to be Visits. I wasn't strong enough to handle that.

Besides, I lived in suburban hell. Fifteen minutes just to get out of the neighborhood on foot, another fifteen to get to the nearest gas station. My depressed, broke self wasn't about to spend an hour walking for a round trip to the fucking gas station when I could barely handle doing my own laundry.

So I was trapped inside the house unless my parents or someone else with a car deigned to bring me with them on a trip. But it was fine at first, because I had an internet connection and multiple online friends; plus, I'd managed to forge one irl friendship with someone between deconverting and graduating high school.

My parents weren't happy about this for some reason (I have a working theory as to why and I'll get to it later). Their justification was that it was just generally bad for me to be spending as much time online as I was.

Of course, I wasn't doing great mentally, but they refused to believe that they could be at fault for that with their "mild" transphobia. Surely refusing to accept my newfangled, sinful identity on the basis of a false moral high ground couldn't possibly be the most significant source of my suffering; surely deadnaming and misgendering me couldn't be doing that much damage.

Surely refusing to assist the transitioning process in any way shape or form couldn't be a good enough reason for suicidal ideation. Surely I was just an undermedicated psycho for considering lighting myself on fire just to get them to understand my pain enough to... help me with the process of buying a binder with my own money.

Surely I just needed to get my act together and get over myself.

So, ever since that psych ward visit that treated me better than they did, they decided that I could only have internet access if I did enough of my chores around the house.

Doesn't sound too unreasonable until you remember that 99% of my friends were online. I tried telling them this, and their response was to encourage me to get back in touch with my old ward member friends. You know, from the cult I had just escaped. That, granted, my parents were still very much a part of.

(Remember that theory I was telling you about? That little tidbit is an important piece of evidence.)

So I was cut off from the world with significant regularity, having nothing but a flip phone to contact the one supportive friend whose phone number I had. That friend kept me alive and sane enough to stay that way for nearly a year as this hell dragged on.

At some point, my brother and his girlfriend moved back in with us. I guess they weren't a fan of all the sinning I was doing, because my parents had multiple talks with me about how I needed to give them more space (aka stop existing in the same room as them).

So, eventually, I was all but confined to my bedroom, since I could never sit them down to have a conversation about what times I was allowed to be downstairs and what times they would be occupying that space.

This all built up to the breaking point. I had just developed a new medical condition that left me basically bedbound in pain. I was forced out of bed anyways, because nobody was going to take care of me (probably due to the nature of the condition being considered 'sinful'). I did what I could as I could, as I always have.

There had been a misunderstanding about chores. My brother and his girlfriend were in charge of one bathroom, i was in charge of the other. Except I thought I was in charge of the wrong one. So while the downstairs bathroom stayed clean (despite me not doing much to maintain it), the upstairs bathroom became absolutely filthy.

It all came to a head when my brother yelled at me to take care of my responsibility. I finally figured out what had happened and explained to him why I hadn't been doing it, as well as why I wasn't about to start until I could actually, you know, stay standing for any significant amount of time. He yelled at me more and threatened to tell our mom.

I told him to go ahead, as any rational person would take one look at the situation and agree that I needed to rest. My only mistake was assuming that my mom retained any rationality for me.

So she called me and attempted to chew me out. mind you, i was ill and in debilitating pain already, so I put my foot down and asked her to save it for later. But I knew what was coming when she said we were going to "have a conversation" when she got home. She was going to take away my flip phone to force me to do as I was told.

My flip phone, 99% of the use for which was to call my one and only friend that i could access. My one and only friend who was the sole support in my life. The only person, the only thing keeping me sane.

That was going to be it for me. If she did that (and she'd done it before, so there was precedent), I was going to fucking kill myself.

So I locked her out of my room that night and tried to get a good night's rest in preparation for what would have to happen in order for me to survive.

At about 4 in the morning the next day, I packed up everything that i could carry and i walked out the door.

Every single thing I have been through since that day has been worth it to get out of that hell. I am still homeless over a year later and the only thing I wish I did different was to leave sooner and prepare better. Maybe get a nice duffel bag and do my laundry first instead of hauling all my dirty clothes in trash bags. I could've saved myself a lot of trouble by getting my documents together beforehand.

anyways. Befoer I came out as trans and not a mormon, my mother seemed fully supportive - or at least, like she was supporting me as much as she was capable of doing.

Afterwards? She never looked at me the same way again.

And so I have to wonder how two changes to my identity and lifestyle could wrench her away from kindness like that. How they could possibly cause such a significant change in how she treated me.

Here's the working theory.

Mormons prey on vulnerable people. Their missionaries are literally told to seek out the meek and weary and poor to "give them rest." This is also how they bring people back - they find out which inactive members are struggling without their safety net (which they often remove for the sin of inactivity/deconversion/etc) and those are the ones that they grasp at to try and bring back. Those are the ones that they reach out to, that they check in on.

So, how better to take advantage of someone's vulnerability than to make them vulnerable yourself? How better to make them vulnerable than to take away all of their safety nets? How better to tear them from their sin than to tear their sinful friends from them?

How better to break an apostate than to back them into a corner and bring in the walls? How better to turn someone towards your god than to give them no other choice except to be crushed?

And if they'd rather die than return to Jesus, well, then, at least you're sending them straight to the afterlife. Then they'll HAVE to see the truth. Then they'll HAVE to repent.

After all, all my mother needs to do to keep our family together forever is to keep me righteous. She already gave me a body. What loss is the rest of my life compared to the rest of eternity?

Better to die young than to live in sin. Better to be forced to come to Jesus than to choose to live free of him.

She wasn't a bumbling fool incapable of listening to me when I told her she was hurting me. She knew exactly what she was doing.

She abused me, TORTURED me, entirely on purpose. Entirely for the purpose of bringing me back to her god.

I have been tortured. I have experienced psychological torture. I probably have fucking brain damage from said psychological torture.

https://solitarywatch.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/SW-Fact-Sheet-5-Neurological-Effects-v230613.pdf

So, all that said, is it any wonder that I thought the streets would be better? Is it any wonder that I never want to see her again unless it's to use her grave as a gender neutral bathroom?

She nearly killed me. I think that was an acceptable outcome to her, too.

Certainly, the last thing she expected was for me to put my back to one wall and my feet to another and clamber out of that trap she made. Should've put a roof on it, I guess.

Anyways. If it seems like I've been less online/chipper than usual, it's because I've spent the past week coming to terms with this shit.

I love you all so, so much. Thanks for being there for me. Here's to staying alive; to escaping the trap; to finding our own families and leaving our abusers behind in the dust.

Here's to all of you. Y'all were worth the trouble of being homeless, easily.

[dumbdomb]

at this point, idk where to be... i'm not into many of the popular kinks going around, rough play, and being perceived as literally anything other than whatever i've got going on... it's just not fun or interesting. i hate that some of my more fantasy based kinks are in online spaces that overlap with a lot of stuff i'm REALLY trying to avoid (no shame to anyone else, just some stuff ain't for me personally- and i shouldn't have to erase or lower my boundaries, to have other people's kinks forced upon me). it feels like i'm too niche, and i can't find "my kind of people."

i'm worried that, even if i put kinky interests aside, i'd still have difficulty matching up with people (platonically). like, i'm always too weird and "different" or i don't conform enough... so, i never fit in anywhere or with anyone. and it's all just starting to build up. i mean... is this it? is this all anyone does, performing a restricted version of themselves that has an appropriate script and core beliefs which are the same as everyone else in the group?

why are so many people acting the same way that mainstream society does? this is so frustrating to even process. like, is there not any space anywhere for any person to simply exist?

[moondirti]

cws: creepy behaviour that leads into future dubcon. you’re not enthusiastic but don’t hate it either? idk how to tag this

a home loaning system where civilians (who pass a thorough vetting by the military) can sublet their home as a safe house for any soldier who might need it.

you’re no patriot. when you sign up, you aren’t doing it to serve those who serve your country like the website suggests. in fact, it’s a last ditch attempt to keep yourself afloat after your roommate moves out and leaves you with a rent you can’t feasibly afford yourself. sacrifice your space in exchange for your housing fully paid for and a headache gone – it’s appealing, certainly, a little too good to be true. you’d suspect it a scam if the url didn’t end in .gov.

they ask for a lot, of course. a photo. your national insurance number, passport details and travel history from the past 10 years. occupation (student, which prompts a second question asking for your school and university ID). a ‘robust’ paragraph about your living habits. family history, health details. you must black out at one point, as you find yourself hitting submit hours later with no knowledge of what to expect.

that is, if you should expect anything. a confirmation email arrives moments later, and that’s the last you hear of it.

until 4 months later. a hefty sum hits your account, set to the exact amount you specified your rent + utilities to cost. the sender is the only indication you get that you’ve been accepted: the royal army pay corps. on their dime now, and expected to act with the utmost discretion – for your sake as much as theirs. you spend that night fighting sleep on the couch, waiting for a knock by some zealot in fatigues.

no one shows up.

not immediately, at least. gratefully – and a tad surprising given your infamously cheap government – you’re paid regardless of whether anyone requires your service or not. for weeks you treat it as passive income, gauze against bleeding finances, tamping your stress so you can focus on your studies instead. life begins to look up. the air smells a little crisper every morning. you sleep deep and well.

but the knock comes. belatedly, but it comes.

at 12 am, no less. you had resolved to pull an all-nighter to study for your midterm, so you don’t miss the low rap of knuckles against your door. though at this point, you’ve long forgotten of the expectation that can be delegated to you at any time. your apartment’s a mess: laundry unfolded, dishes stacked in the sink. what’s more, your spontaneous guest scares you out of your right mind. a quick look through the peephole is enough to tell you that he is not the pizza delivery man, but a figure towering over two metres, dressed in a balaclava and plain hoodie.

“who is it?” you call out, scrambling for an offensive weapon of any sort. you end up with a broom from the nearby cleaning cupboard.

“lieutenant riley.”

oh.

you crack open the door, poking your head out to give him a thorough once over. “you don’t look very military-like.”

“wha’ a shame.”

lieutenant riley then gives you no choice but to step aside, driving himself through the entryway through brute force. your instinct is to react with pure terror, tripping backward until the broomstick crosses firmly over your chest. yet flight rapidly switches to fight as he dumps his duffel bag by your shoe rack and rummages through your fridge.

“hey! don’t they teach you manners in basic?”

“wouldn’ last a day if they did, pet.” he tucks three water bottles under his arm, then picks his stuff off the ground once more. amidst the warmer light of your home, he stands as a herculean anomaly. shoulders that fill the foyer, each hand as large as your skull. his eyes – shadowed, framed in isolation from the rest of his face. and when he stares, unease bleeds into you. as black and void as his civic garb, forming a tightening grip over your heart.

this strange man is in your home.

this strange, large, dangerous man is here to stay for however long he needs.

he lacks all propriety and unabashedly ogles at your bare legs, adjusting himself in plain sight – and to make things exponentially worse, he isn’t uninvited. you brought this man here.

(which means you’ll have to put up with the strange violation already settling in your chest.)

“your… your room is on the left.”

he says nothing, disappearing to where you point him.

so, the lieutenant is a fucking nightmare.

whatever benefits came with having your rent paid for are immediately negated by the amount of food he consumes. groceries that last you a fortnight are gone in a matter of days, which is perplexing given that you never see him cook. you imagine he slips whatever he can down his throat before going back into hibernation, like some beast too primal for preference.

you call it hibernation because that’s what it is. he knocks out for hours, door locked, no sound or light coming from the gap underneath. you once spent half an hour just listening in after he hadn’t shown face all day, wondering whether you’d be making a call to corpse control for the dead body in your guest room. the effort had been purely motivated by concern, you swear it, however hard that was to explain when he stepped out a few minutes later to find you on your knees, cheek pressed against the floor.

the look he gave you is impossible to forget. hungry, amusement palpable behind the eyes that immediately fix onto your raised behind. you stopped wearing pyjama shorts that day. partly due to your discomfort, but mostly because the pair goes inexplicably missing from your laundry basket. a voice tells you to check under his pillow when he steps out, but the possibility is far too upsetting to seriously consider.

not like he’s above it, though. he crosses so many boundaries, you’d think they weren’t common courtesy.

of such instances: in the months since your roommate moved out, you’d gotten into the bad habit of keeping the bathroom door unlocked. while that is your fault, the terror himself isn’t blameless given his address of the situation. he should be able to hear the water running as you brush your teeth or wash your face, and yet he walks in anyway, pulling his heavy cock out to piss as you try to ignore the way it heaves between his legs, even when completely soft.

“doyewmind?” you hiss one morning, mouth still full of foam. it looms in your periphery, fat and ruddy. a trail of wild hair leading down to–

riley shoots you a blank look. “no’ at all.”

then tucks himself back into his pants, hand smoothing across your lower back as he slips out. it occurs to you to be grateful that he keeps away when you shower, up until the absolute absurdity of your standards hit you like a killing blow.

the bar is in hell.

(yet you sneak a finger between your legs sometimes, only when you’re absolutely sure you’ve locked the door, and imagine how things would unfold if he were to infringe on your most basic of rights.)

it doesn’t take long before your quiet fantasy is realised. all it takes is for you to come home particularly late one night – heels in hand and makeup a mess after letting yourself loose at the end-of-term party – to find riley waiting on you, unmasked.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Getting Thrashed

Female Alpha Yandere x Male Omega Reader (CW: Noncon/dubcon, heat cycles, scent kink, pheromones, non-traditional a/b/o dynamics, NO mpreg, enslaved reader, conquered society, general yandere behavior, teasing, biting, claiming, space pirates) Word Count: 3.4k (WOW, sorry that took so long. I started off writing fast because I loved the idea then lost motivation halfway through. Hope you guys enjoy the second female yandere fic I have written and the first one I have written with smut. Also first fic I have written where the reader penetrates the yandere.)

Your day on the space colony of Nithyal started out like any other. You diligently did your assigned work of farming a wide array of essential foods for the colony.

It was pretty vigorous manual labor, but you didn't mind. You rather enjoyed the scent of fresh soil and ripe fruits.

And you were fairly compensated. Everyone was in Nithyal. After all, the colony was on the planet Solstan. And it wasn't called a paradise world for nothing. The weather was agreeable, there were few dangerous animals, and everyone lived harmoniously. No homelessness, no corruption, no hunger, no violence. You were very grateful to live in such a place.

Especially since you were an omega.

Many generations ago, human fertility was greatly diminishing. In a bid to save the species, there were numerous fertility experiments.

One of the most extreme experiments that altered human DNA and psychology the most resulted in two new variants of humans: Alphas and Omegas.

They were both given extreme fertility, but what good is being fertile if you just end up with a barren partner?

So they were both given heightened olfactory senses, with omegas being given genes to produce pheromones that alphas were attracted to and vice versa.

They were also capable of quickly forming intense bonds with their romantic/sexual interests.

But the biggest difference from unaltered humans was that alphas entered ruts and omegas had heats. These periods of ultra high libido were to make sure they were compelled to procreate.

The gene editing was not without unintended consequences.

Alphas tended to be larger, stronger, and more aggressive than normal people, and omegas had a tendency to be smaller and a bit more submissive.

Alphas also tended to be possessive and jealous, even going so far as almost always needing to mark their mate with a permanent bite.

These behavioral concerns lead to the discontinuation of the program. Specifically, concerns about omegas maintaining their agency when faced with such forceful alphas that could easily sniff them out.

Human fertility was restored through more refined gene editing later, with suppressants being developed for the humans already altered and their descendants so they could mask themselves.

Heats and ruts were only partly suppressed, though and it wasn't too hard for someone to discover who was an omega when their life was put on hold in a predictable pattern once every few months.

It wasn't ideal, since most people hated such altered humans.

But Nithyal was different. Everyone just cared about each other and didn't bother with any judgement.

There was no better place in the galaxy.

That was... until the dark day that a pirate fleet came from the deepest reaches of known space to upend everything.

They were called The Eternal Eclipse. And they certainly eclipsed any joy you found in Nithyal.

Your people tried to mount a defense, fighting bravely with the few ships and ground to air weapons that were available, but given their numbers there was no chance of victory.

Your colony was pretty isolated from the rest of civilization so once conquered there was little chance of liberation.

They quickly killed or at least maimed anyone who tried to fight back or organize a rebellion.

The colonists had become little more than slaves.

Many continued the hard labors they had before, with more demand to support the new ruling population, others were forced into personal servitude for the higher up pirates, and a decent chunk of the population became personal fuck toys.

At first, when the pirates had gathered up all of the colonists to assign them their fates, you were mercifully going to continue the work that you had already been doing.

But unfortunately you somehow caught the eye of Thrash and for some reason she had taken a liking to you. So instead of cultivating plants, you were forced to be by her side all day as a simple servant. This probably wouldn’t have been too bad if the violent leader didn’t happen to be, against all odds, an alpha.

You had never met one before but you could tell right away. Her scent, her attitude, the fact that she was larger and stronger than most adult men. She had hair like fire and an energy and attitude to match.

At first you were worried that she had pegged you for an omega, but she gave no indication that she knew. You were in constant fear that your omega nature would be discovered. It wasn't unheard of for omegas to be brutally raped, sold to far off black markets, or even just outright killed. Surely if she had known you wouldn’t just be a personal slave.

It seemed that your suppressants were enough to completely hide yourself from her, and you had a huge supply of them. Though you knew for a fact that once your heat started, your pheromones would poke through. And you’d also be rather horny. Maybe you could feign illness and cover yourself in perfume?

That was probably your best bet. Though you hoped no one would notice that you got ill like clockwork. Luckily you still had plenty of time until your next heat.

Working for Thrash wasn’t too physically demanding, you just had to clean up after her, prepare meals, and do little odd tasks like deliver a note or something to one of her subordinates. You actually got a lot of down time between tasks… though you always had to stay nearby in case Thrash needed something.

The overworked farmers would have surely enjoyed such a relatively cushy work detail, but it was absolute hell for you. It was like walking on eggshells, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Thrash hadn’t treated you poorly, never hit you. But you had no idea how an omega would be treated.

It was especially scary when she decided to tease you, just because she enjoyed watching you squirm.

When she licked your neck in the cafeteria in front of all her dining pirate crew she cackled at how your face turned red and you got as still as a statue as your brain shut down. You were terrified that she could smell or even taste the omega on your skin.

Thrash didn’t really know why but something in her made her love flustering you. She just couldn’t help it. She had always enjoyed making men uncomfortable or putting them in their place, but you were a bit different. It wasn’t like it was with her male pirate colleagues, where she strove to be the best and made them obey her. No, this was different, seeing your face turn red made her hungry for more.

One night she dismissed you with a smack on the ass and let you go to bed while she stayed up drinking with her best buddies. You felt humiliated and rushed off to your room, which was one that was in the house she had claimed for herself in case she needed you for something she wanted you close by. You were really like a live-in maid.

You tidied up a few things before washing up and going to bed, still embarrassed about having your butt touched in public. Despite that you managed to go to sleep pretty quickly.

Though a few hours later a very drunk Thrash comes stumbling in drunk. You wake up with a jolt and nearly jump out of your bed as a strong arm wraps around your waste and firmly pulls you close.

“Mmm where ya goin cutie? Ya need to stay close to yer alpha!”

She lightly grinded into you for a moment, her crotch against your ass before stopping and nuzzling into your neck.

“Thr-Thrash… uh… I think you accident-”

She shushed you by licking your neck and nibbling a bit. You went still as stone. If she broke the skin the special enzymes in her alpha saliva would cause you to have a permanent mark. Fortunately that didn’t happen, instead remaining content with sloppy kisses, sucking, and gentle nibbling.

You couldn’t help but let out a series of little whimpering moans at the sensation. You also became aware of just how nice she smelled. So dominant. Kinda… safe…

She chuckled at your noises.

“Haha, you’re practically a tiny defenseless omega!”

That made you shake the thoughts and distractions from your mind. This woman was not safe. She stole your home and turned you into a glorified slave. If she knew what you were she’d sell you to the highest bidder!

Luckily after that comment she had passed out in a drunken stupor.

You managed to extricate yourself from her grasp before scrambling to get to the restroom. You had to double check to make sure that the bites that Thrash had so kindly applied to your neck had not broken the skin, luckily they hadn’t.

But you still looked absolutely horrible. Your neck was covered in little hickeys, your hair was a mess, and you were so shaky from the rude awakening that you could barely stand.

Something about looking so debauched made your cock hard. Maybe it was because you had her alpha stink all over you or maybe it was something to do with the bites all over your neck. Maybe it was just because you weren’t used to the attention.

It didn’t matter why the result was the same, you had to do something about this almost painful arousal. And the scent that clung to you.

As you got in the shower you gave your cock the attention it was demanding, thinking filthy and shameful thoughts about Thrash. You tried to pleasure yourself to other thoughts but your mind kept drifting back to the oppressor of your people and the way she smelled as she bit and drooled all over your neck.

You couldn’t spill until you imagined her leaving a permanent claiming bite on your neck.

After your shower you felt dirtier than you had before you got in. You reminded yourself that you hated Thrash and that she and her crew had done to upend the lives of you and your people. It wasn’t your fault she made you aroused. What omega wouldn’t have been after that?

After you got dressed and left the bathroom you wrapped your spare blanket around you and slept in the chair in the corner of the room, you would have rather not been in the same room as the drunk alpha, but you had nowhere else you could go.

When Thrash woke up she found you sleeping soundly in the room and it took her a moment to realize she wasn’t in her room. She must have kicked you out of your bed. She did feel kinda bad about it, but she figured you would live. She was the one with the massive headache.

She went back to her quarters, leaving you to sleep a bit longer.

When you woke up you found her, thankfully gone, you wrapped a scarf around yourself to hide your neck, the weather was cool lately so no one should give a second thought to you wearing one. Then you left to start your day of servitude as you did everyday.

Unfortunately for you, you had to accompany her as she went on one of the landed ships to see what the problem was with it since she had originally been a mechanic and engineer. It was very hot in the engine room.

“How are you wearing that scarf? It’s so hot in here.” The heat wasn’t the only problem you were dealing with, she was sweating and only wearing a tank top, allowing her musk to practically smother you.

It didn’t really take all that long for you to get more than a bit dizzy and flustered. And once you were, it took even less time for Thrash to notice, she often kept an overprotective eye on you, though you had rarely noticed.

She came stomping over and looked down at you.

“I told you it was too hot for that! You’re gonna get sick dumbass! Take it off and let’s go outside for some fresh air.”

You fidgeted under her gaze and mumbled that you were okay.

When you didn’t take it off immediately she growled, jerked you over to her, and yanked it off of you.

She stared wide-eyed at your neck, not remembering having put the marks there herself the night before. And she was fucking livid.

“When the fuck did you hook up with someone, you fucking slut!? You belong to ME and I didn’t give you any permission for that shit!”

The enraged alpha slapped you hard across the cheek, making you yelp and stumble to the ground. You were sobbing and could scarcely manage to croak any words out.

“I-i d-d-didn’t l-let anyone d-do-”

Had one of her men defiled you against your will? Defiled HER slave?

“Tell me who did it!! I’ll cut their dick off and shove it up their own ass!”

Her eyes were like a cats, narrow slits. Your naturally submissive instincts told you to put your head down and obey anything the near feral alpha might demand of you.

“Y-you were dr-dr-drunk and b-bit me last night…”

Tears were leaking down your face. If you had not been on suppressants your scent would surely be one of fear mixed with pheromones to calm down this beast.

That’s right, she had woken up with a bad hangover in your room...

Thrash stared at you, at this tiny crying man in front of her, crying and terrified. She felt awful, and she didn’t often feel bad about her actions. She was a pirate, but for some reason she just didn’t like seeing you suffer at all. Certainly not because of her.

“Fuck… I’m… sorry…” She managed to say as she knelt down and rubbed your back.

“I really have no memory of last night...”

The large powerful woman picked you up easily, with your head nuzzled into her neck, crying into her.

“C’mon crybaby, let’s get you cooled off, I’ll deal with this engine later~”

She carried you carefully back to your room in the housing building, collecting odd looks as she did, which she quickly got rid of with a glare each time.

Thrash placed you into your bed and felt your head with the back of her hand. Despite not having the scarf, having been exposed to the cool outside air on the way over here, and now being in an air conditioned room you were hotter than ever.

Your mind was getting foggier and when she left to go get a cool rag and some medicine from the bathroom you finally realized why you were so hot. You were entering heat. The neck stimulation and all of Thrash’s dominant behavior over you must have somehow triggered an early one.

You had to leave before she came back and smelled it. It would only be a matter of moments before the smell broke through your suppressants.

Something in your brain was telling you to just stay there and let your alpha come back and take care of you, but the other much more grounded in reality part of your brain was telling you you had to hide in a utility closet somewhere and deal with the consequences of your absenteeism later. Better than being sold off or raped by every pirate who wants to try out an omega.

Right then you really wished suppressants just completely eliminated heats completely instead of just diluting them a bit.

Right after you had that thought Thrash entered the room and saw you standing by the door, you saw her hand had a bottle of pills. Though her search in your medicine cabinet yielded no fever reducers she found something else hidden away under your sink. Your suppressants.

And then your scent hit her. It was dulled by your medication, but she was an alpha unused to omega pheromones in any capacity.

She growled low and her pupils were like slits as her stare bored into you angrily.

“You’re MY property! And you’re keeping secrets from ME!?”

Before you could stumble out the door she charged at you, picked you up and slammed you down on the bed a bit harder than she had intended. You looked away, unable to meet her domineering and angry gaze. Your only response was to instinctively whimper in submission to placate her rage.

Thrash sniffed you, inhaling your scent from your underarm to your neck. You leaned your head over to give her easier access and show that you submitted to her will. You were terrified and she could certainly smell it.

Some of her drool dripped onto your neck as she hovered above it, licking you tentatively to calm you down. She was going to bite you and make you into her personal fuck toy and mate, she was mad that you had hidden your nature from her, but she would never hurt you.

Thrash sucked and nibbled at the gland in your neck, with you gracing her ears with a new whimpering gasp or moan each time she touched the sensitive spot.

Your terror evaporated quickly, replaced by heat fueled desire. And if you were honest with yourself maybe not all of the yearning was born from your heat.

The lust filled alpha couldn’t help but inhale your scent over and over, it was literally a drug for her. She had already wanted to fuck you into oblivion even before she got a whiff of you in heat, but now there was no stopping herself. Already she couldn’t wait to drink in your smell during your next heat when your suppressants were out of your system.

She made a mental note to flush them after this.

The pirate rubbed your crotch, palming at your erection, getting you even more aroused before she bit your neck. Hard. Her fangs pumping into you something that would make you smell claimed to any other alphas and leaving a large permanent hickey on that portion of your neck.

You moaned out loud in painful pleasure, arching your back and thrusting your clothed arousal into her hand.

Thrash licked your bleeding wound and then turned her attention to your cock and her own pleasure.

You could only stare and writhe in need as she pulled away from you and took off her clothes.

“Gimme a second, I just need to get our clothes off!”

It was the first time you had seen her breasts. You were in awe of this figure above you. So strong and assertive. So beautiful. A perfect partner.

To her you were the beautiful one. So sweet and pretty and perfect put in your place below her.

She practically ripped your clothing off and buried herself back in your neck as she brought herself down on you, enveloping your entire length in the warmth of her cunt. Her hands pushed down your shoulders as she rode you.

Your pleasured moans mixed with her grunts and growls as she fucked you until you saw stars. Your first orgasm was really quick, and was not nearly enough for either of you. Another perk of heats, insatiable libido.

With each of her downward movements you thrust upwards, desperate to get as deep as possible, the scent of her aroused pheromones combined with your heat making you absolutely unable to care about anything else.

You didn’t care that she had conquered your people or that she controlled them. In this state it only made her stronger in your eyes. A more suitable mate. You wanted to fill her up with so many babies.

The sex lasted hours, until the both of you were too sore to keep moving. It finally ended with you clinging to her and using her tits as a pillow with her arm wrapped around your protectively.

When the fog of pheromones and heat left your brain you were horrified by what had happened. But if you weren’t owned by her before, the new mark on your neck meant you certainly were now, and she would never let you go.

[yuitoru]

๑ ⋆˙⟡ ⠀ 𝐈 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐘 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐈𝐄 ⠀ ๑ ⋆˙⟡

๑ feat : lucifer morningstar

๑ cw : angst , no comfort , one-sided love

๑ part two

you knew that you would always be second to her. no matter how hard you tried or whatever you did, he would continue loving her over everything else. the ring on his finger proved it. even after seven years of heartbreak and betrayal, he still wears the ring, the shiny metal practically taunting at you every single day. it served as a reminder to you about how irrelevant you really were in comparison to his first love - how he would choose her over you without even having to think about it. you were just there, a temporary distraction to his years of grief.

it showed in how he looked at you, and how he looked at her. with you, his smile didnt reach his ears, a slight strain visible on his face. but, with her, it was real. she wasnt even there - he would look at her through the dozens of portraits scattered throughout his manor. even so, he looked happier being around dried paint on a canvas than you, opting to delicately trace his gloved fingers over her painted face than to seek out your tangible company. all you could do was watch - watch his adoring gaze as he stared at the past, not even bothering to turn around and face the future that was patiently waiting for him to acknowledge it. but, deep down, you knew that he never would.

you had to force a smile onto your face every time he would mess your and her name up, smiling through the pain as it stabbed and clawed at your breaking heart. you had to ignore how distant his touch felt, like he was trying to end it as quick as he could. you had to sleep alone in the oversized bed, as he had began sleeping in his office much more often, especially if the two of you had been intimate. and even during that, his eyes were never on you - instead locked on the portrait of her on the wall. you had to ignore the silence that followed whenever you uttered an "i love you", as he just awkwardly coughed and averted your gaze.

so, it didnt come as a surprise to you when you found all your bags packed and waiting after you woke up one morning. a few servants were standing nearby, clearly being there to assist you in moving the heavy luggage. the poorly concealed sympathy on their faces did little to soothe you - they had witnessed your years of neglect and isolation, and were now tasked with removing you from their master's life. silence filled the manor as you walked down the staircase, even when you locked eyes with your now ex lover, who had been standing at the bottom of the stairs. not a single word was exchanged between the two of you - you both had nothing to say. his gaze was filled with guilt, it being one of the only emotions you had witnessed from him since you two had first met. he looked at you one last time before silently walking past you - walking out of your life. you walked towards the doors, your fingers dancing against the firm oak before pulling them open and taking your first steps outside the building in years - being completely alone and abandoned by the one man you thought you could actually trust.

every single word he had shared with you, the fleeting touches, the love making, the affirmations - it had all been a lie. and like a fool, you drank up every drop of it that you could get. you were so blinded by love to realise he was never actually talking to you - it was all to her. it had always been her, and it always would be. no matter how hard you tried. you could never be lilith.

© yuitoru™ — dont copy, plagiarise, repost, modify and/or translate my works

[sexlapis]

Ho! I loooooooveeee your actor toji fics! Is it possible to get added to the taglist? Thank you ~

Also an idea: a bts scene of reader getting sick on set(perhaps even collapsing) due to fatigue and toji taking care of them- I feel like that'd be such a hit ship moment irl :D

thank you for liking my fics <3 you can be added to the tag list 🩵.

and omg yeah i love that idea of reader overworking themselves and toji looking after them :’). and yeah i didn’t make it a behind the scenes clip i made a short fic abt it bc i do not know when to stop.. like give me an idea and i will fly away w it like a bird liek..i don’t even think this is what you asked for srsly…i hope you don’t mind (but i’ll add it to my tojiyn headcanons hehe)

cw: actor toji x actress reader, hurt/comfort, angst to fluff, swearing, petnames (‘kid’, ik people don’t like this one but i think it’s so sweet & so toji :)), collapsing, mentions of skipping meals/not eating, poor sleeping habits, feelings of loneliness & inadequacy, crying, toji taking care of reader, i made this way more angsty than you asked sorry :(

wc: 2k+

you dragged yourself through the doors of the studio, immediately bombarded by directors, stylists, scrip writers and other cast members on your way to the dressing room, only fuelling your fatigue and stress.

sleep was a foreign concept at this point. five hours at most. so were healthy, filling meals - the last time you ate was yesterday at noon, and for breakfast today all you had was a cup of coffee, not helping your nervous, exhausted state.

admittedly, you were not doing very well. you felt that your acting was subpar and you felt lonely and isolated on set. while everyone went with their friends for a break or lunch, you sat by yourself in your dressing room, your only company being the silence.

sure, toji was also on set too, but he played a very minor role, so he wasn’t always there. and even when he was sometimes, he would hang out with the other crew members, which wasn’t a problem of course, but it did sting a little when he chose them over you.

you just felt so lonely, anxious and quite frankly upset at yourself and the circumstances you find yourself in.

there are a few knocks at your dressing room door and you weakly tell them to come in.

toji peeks is head in. “hey, kid. we start in five..” he takes a look at your weary face, dark eye bags prominent even through the makeup the stylists caked on and the frown on your lips and just knows something is wrong.

“are you ‘right?” he asks quietly, like you’re a deer who’s about to run away at the slightest of sounds.

“yes, i’m fine.” you lie, a voice in the back of your mind wishing he’d just ignore you like everyone else on this damn set does.

“‘you sure? ‘cause you don’t look-”

“i said im fine! just get out.” you snap, heart beating and breathing heavily at your own outburst.

fuck. you didn’t mean to say that.

but toji doesn’t look offended. he just nods and walks away footsteps fading as you put your head in your hands and sob.

so there you are, acting in front of the camera with your colleague in a scene where toji appears in too and you just seem off. everyone assumes it’s just not your day today and they’re not exactly wrong. you lines were slightly forced, tired and you were jittery and clearly apprehensive, like you didn’t even want to be here.

“cut!” the director calls out, more than annoyed with your behaviour. it was the sixth take and you’re really trying to make it believable, but it’s futile.

“this is the sixth take _____. this is ridiculous. get your act together. let’s take five.”

you look down at your shoes, face hot and chest thudding with embarrassment due to the director calling you out in front of everybody. tears well up in your eyes and you sigh, blinking them away as everyone starts talking again, walking away leaving you standing there like an idiot.

it all becomes too much for you. your empty stomach, oncoming headache, exhausted body, dry mouth, furrowed eyebrows, sweaty palms-

you let your script fall out of your hand as you stumble off the green screen, trying to get to your room before a hand is grabbing your arm. you turn around and it’s toji again.

“hey..” he leans down slightly to your height, scanning you over once. “you don’t look so good, _____-”

you shrug him off, vision becoming blurred with black static and limbs heavy and shaky. “i-i jus’ need to go. to my..uhm-” you stop, rubbing a hand down your face harshly. “i just-”

and then there is black.

౨ৎ

you come to and realise that you are laying on your dressing room couch, staring up at the ceiling. reaching up, you feel a wet, cool cloth on your head. you take it off. still fuzzy and body essentially lethargic, you try to sit up.

“hey, hey, hey.” toji whispers.

oh, toji’s here.

“take it easy.” he helps you sit up on the arm of the couch. he hands you a bottle of water and you drink it like a god.

“wait, what happened?” you ask, still confused and disoriented.

“you fuckin’ fainted that’s what,” he states bluntly. “scared the fuckin’ dogshit outta me.”

“oh.”

toji sits beside you on a chair, looking at you closely. you look down.

“the med team checked you out.” he tells you. “said you fainted, collapsed-whatever the fuck. ‘cos of stress and exhaustion. they even checked your blood sugar and said it was low as fuck.” he pauses. “not dangerously low,” he adds at the sight of your worried expression, “but.. low enough.”

you sigh, falling back on the couch. you think back to how the director shouted at you, how annoyed he was, and how humiliated you felt. tears start to form again and you cover your face with your hands, not wanting to cry in front of toji. you felt like you’ve had enough embarrassment for today.

toji leans forward. “what’s happening with you?”

the way he said it, so soft and concerned, makes the tears fall down and cause sobs to escape your mouth, hiccuped breaths falling from your mouth.

“hey, hey, hey..” toji coos. he reaches to you and makes you sit up again so he can take you into his arms. you let him, sobbing into his shoulder and sucking up all the comfort he gives you. toji’s big hand strokes your hair and the other caresses your back softly.

“shh, sh, sh…” he calms you down a little, you sobs turning into sniffles. he leans back and gives you space but his hands stay planted on your back. “tell toji what’s wrong.”

you hum sadly, looking down and gulping. “i’m..i’m tired. i wanna sleep..”

toji waits for you to continue. he can see you want to say more so he doesn’t hurry you along, he just rubs your back and nods to let you know you’re listening.

“i..” you take a breath, “i dunno what to do..i can’t do this fucking role.. i’m fucking tired half the fucking day and my so called colleagues don’t even like me!” you try to calm yourself down, taking another shaky breath. “and i just feel..lonely all the time..” you cry out the last few words, feeling another sob session coming up and toji pulls you close, letting you ruin his shirt with your tears as he rocks you back and forth in his arms.

“it’s okay, it’s okay..” he coos, resting his face in your hair.

you both stay like that for a few moments, you weeps dying down before toji talks.

“you can play this part, _____. ‘you have any idea how good your are, huh? you can act circles around half ‘these guys.”

you scoff, pulling your lips together. “i dunno about that..”

“‘m serious. _____, you can act, okay? ‘wouldn’t have made it this far if you couldn’t.”

“yeah but..this one’s hard..” you sigh, voice cracking but toji doesn’t let you start again.

“yeah, acting’s hard. but i can help you,” toji cups your wet face with his hands, wiping the tear streaks that paint you face, “we can all help you. the crew, your friends, that bitchass director. i’ll put a gun to everyone’s head to make them fuckin’ help you with this.”

you giggle at his seriousness and he huffs, relieved that you’re relaxing a little.

“they don’t hate you, y’know. everybody on set. the cast. they just think you’re a little shy and quiet. they don’t hate you, okay?” toji reassures you. you nod absentmindedly and he shakes your head from side to side to make you pay attention, making you smile, eyes crinkling even though they’re still tear stricken. “there she is..who the fuck could hate you, huh?”

“ugh, toji.” you roll your eyes, sniffling and rubbing your face. you pull away from him. “ugh..i just want my bed right now.”

“yeah..i know it ain’t my place but told the director that you’re taking a few days off. you need a break, kid.”

you didn’t even argue with him. you couldn’t.

“yeah, i do.” you agree.

suddenly, a loud rumble from your stomach erupts, it was like an earthquake.

toji laughs. “someone’s hungry.”

you groan. “‘m starving. haven’t eaten since yesterday.”

“we’re getting you something to eat.” he states, leaving no room for objections.

toji stands, holding his hand out for you to take. you do, his large, calloused hand dwarfing yours as he helps you stand up. “can you walk?”

“i will if there’s food involved.”

“that’s good.” toji chuckles, “how’s takeout sound?”

a/n: had to write a whole fic abt this i apologise 🥸 will add the tag list later i just keep forgetting the users </3

[em-prentiss]

Ice cold

————

In which you have freezing hands, and Aaron warms them up for you.

Cw: fem!bau!reader—I think it could also be read as gn reader, getting together, fluff, first kiss, no use of yn

Word count: 1.7k

This is my first time writing a reader insert, so please be gentle with me lol. I’ve been wanting to write an Aaron x reader for ages and this idea finally came to me last night. Idk if I’ll continue writing these, but if you have any prompts let me know! It took me ridiculously long to come up with this one haha <3

————

The cold bites at your exposed hands and you shiver, dropping your pen and notepad into your coat pockets because they’re all but useless now, your fingers close to snapping in half. You leave Aaron to jot down notes of the crime scene you’re in, keeping your hands in your equally freezing pockets in a poor attempt at keeping them warm.

Who has the energy to dump and mutilate a body in the woods in the middle of January, anyway?

“Isolated and hard to find, safe to say he’s a local.” You murmur, tucking your chin into the collar of your coat. You curl your numb fingers into your palm, cursing quietly at the stiffness in them.

“Yeah,” Aaron agrees. “One with experience, too. No blood spatter, no drag marks. He could’ve wrapped them in tarps.” He clicks his pen closed and slides it into his pocket along with his notepad, making you sigh in relief at the thought of leaving soon. “We’ll know more once Morgan and Rossi come back from the ME.”

You nod silently, clenching your fingers around the cold fibers of your coat pocket as you shiver again. Aaron’s gaze slides to you. 

“You okay?” He asks.

“It’s fucking freezing,” you grumble, hunching your shoulders and trying to wrap your coat tighter around your body. Your hands have gone fully numb now, clenched into icy fists inside your pockets. “My hands froze over. They’re like ice blocks.” You frown, your jutted bottom lip scratching against the wool of your coat.

Aaron smiles amusedly, his heart warming at the sight of your furrowed brows, your chin tucked into your coat for warmth. You shift slightly from foot to foot, subconsciously huddling closer to him and his endless, blazing warmth. 

He turns his back on the deserted crime scene and focuses instead on you, his eyes lingering on the flush on your cheeks, your skin bitten from the cold. He looks perfectly warm, you think grouchily, in his stupid large coat and his stupid neatly wrapped scarf.

“And yet when we went to literal Alaska you didn’t have any complaints,” he says. 

You huff indignantly, “Excuse you, at least in Alaska I knew it was going to be—” You cut off as his fingers wrap around your wrists and gently pull your hands from your pockets.

Immediately the cold bites at them again, but that’s not what makes you falter. “What are you doing?” You ask as he cups both of your hands between his. Distantly, you think it’s a stupid question. But his hands are so warm, large and completely engulfing yours, making you feel like you just stuck them in an oven. You let out an involuntary sigh, your brain going blank at the sudden heat from his hands.

Aaron ignores your question. “You weren’t lying,” he says mildly, bending his head to look at the way your nails were turning blue. He brings your hands up to his face and blows warm air on the blue tips of your fingers, massaging them with circular motions to force the cold out of them. Your heart picks up at the way your hands disappear beneath his, what’s visible of them looking small in his gentle grip.

Your skin is icy beneath his own. “Jeez, are you anemic or something?” He looks up at you and his lips tilt upward at the flush on your cheeks, deeper now than it was before, and you both know it’s not from the cold.

“No,” you squeak, the excessive heat of his hands rendering you incoherent. His thumbs rub gentle circles onto your palms, slowly forcing the warmth back into them. “Just terrible circulation.”

Aaron hums and looks back down at your hands, massaging them thoroughly until you start to regain the feeling in your fingers. You waggle them experimentally and he smiles a little, moving his thumbs up to your knuckles and rubbing them slowly.

You can feel your blush deepen as you look at him. His gaze is fixed on your hands, utterly focused on his task as if it were the single most important thing on his mind today, as if you didn’t have any pressing concerns like a team waiting for your feedback or a serial killer needing to be caught.

By the time he’s moved to your wrists your whole body is warm, your blood buzzing under your skin. He’s involuntarily shifted closer to you, your hands held so close to his chest your fingertips ghost against his shirt. 

His warm fingers brush over your wrist, catching your fluttering pulse, and your breath is trapped in your throat. Aaron presses your palms together and secures his hands over yours, finally done with his task. The warmth of your joint hands travels to your cheeks, the way his thumbs absently skate over the heel of your hands making your whole body flush. “Warm enough now?” He murmurs.

Just about to catch fire, actually. But you nod. “You’re a useful partner in conditions like these, Agent Hotchner. What with your furnace-like hands.” You try to joke through your racing heartbeat.

He chuckles lightly, his dimples digging into his cheeks. His hands are still holding on to yours. You’re glad for that, because otherwise you’re sure you would’ve risen on your tiptoes and pressed a thumb to each dimple, watching the way your fingers dip into the crevice. 

“Happy to be of service. Anything else I can warm up for you?” His eyes are like sun warmed honey, gazing into yours, and the words leave your mouth before you can think about them.

“My lips are cold too.”

Oh god.

You drop your gaze as your cheeks start to flame, a jittery nervousness suddenly making your stomach hurt. You try to tug your hands out of his grip but Aaron holds on tighter, his fingers wrapping around your wrists and holding you in place. 

You’re still looking down at your joint hands when he clears his throat. “I can help with that,” he says evenly, as if his own heart isn’t racing abnormally fast.

Your head snaps up. “What?” You breathe, frozen in place as he lets go of your hands. You don’t even register the sudden cold, your whole focus on the way he takes your face into his palms, his warm fingers pressing against your cold cheeks.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” Aaron asks. His face is serious, all hints of his previously playful smile gone. Briefly you start to wonder if this is one of your many dreams about him, but his hands sear your skin, the icy air burns your lungs as you raggedly breathe in and out. 

You swallow, your throat unbearably dry, and nod. “Yes.” You grip the lapels of his coat, feeling the soft fibers between your fingers.

His face transforms. The hard lines soften, his seriousness melting away as he smiles again. The breath returns to your lungs. “Thank god,” he says bluntly, and you laugh, butterflies in your stomach, in your veins. You grin at him as his thumbs stroke your jaw, his fingertips sliding into your hair as he tilts your face up to his.  

“Your efforts at flirting are tragic, by the way,” he murmurs, just before he presses his lips to yours and steals your indignant reply. Immediately you melt into his arms, one hand slipping into his coat and the other resting on the hard line of his jaw. You always wanted to touch it, and as your fingers skate over it, wander over the skin that meets his neck, you feel his erratic pulse beating.

It’s good to know you’re not the only one ridiculously affected.

Aaron reluctantly pulls away when you both are breathless, his lips turning up into a grin at the sight of your dazed eyes. He leans in close and presses soft, gentle kisses on your lips—just to make sure they’re properly warmed up. 

You slip your hand into his hair and sigh—the cold has nothing on you now—just about to kiss him properly when his phone rings.

Aaron steps back and the biting cold replaces his warmth. You shiver as he digs his hand into his pocket and takes out his phone, your lips abnormally warm and your hands slowly returning to their once freezing state. 

“Yeah Dave,” he answers, his eyes still on you. You jut your bottom lip and he grins, his hand reaching for yours. He links your fingers together and softly runs his thumb over yours, making your cheeks flush again. “Sorry, we ran into traffic on the way. We’ll be there in an hour or so.”

Aaron ends the call and you laugh as he tugs you to the car, your fingers still linked. “What?” He smiles and you beam back.

“Traffic?” You raise your brows. 

He rolls his eyes. “What did you want me to say? ‘Sorry I got carried away kissing my beautiful subordinate’?” You reach the car and he opens the door for you, but you don’t get in. 

Your heart skips at his words. He smiles and you finally reach up and place your thumb into his dimple, your own smile spreading. “Yes,” you say simply, unable to believe you can finally do this. “You know they have a running bet on us.” You murmur, leaning forward to kiss the divot in his cheek.

Aaron’s skin warms beneath your lips. His hand falls to the curve of your waist and he squeezes lightly. “I know,” his voice comes out a little tight and you smile. He clears his throat and gently pushes you into the car. “The faster you get in, the faster we can collect. And we’ll use that money for our date, yeah?” 

“Deal.” You grin and get into the car, Aaron’s gentle hand guiding you into the seat. He can’t help but give you another kiss before he closes the door, your lips sweet and soft between his own.

You sigh as he climbs into the driver’s seat, your cheeks delightfully warm and your hands only slightly chilly. Aaron pulls out onto the road and his hand finds yours again. 

You thread your fingers between his and look out the window, feeling absurdly grateful for the cold woods you were in.

[stargirlrchive]

INVISIBLE STRING — CASSIAN!

pairing: cassian x morrigan (half) sister reader

notes: :3 hi hi this is so scary. i haven’t posted a full thought out fic in probably a year (crazy) and i would like to say i have not finished the series so if timeline is inaccurate and just plots don’t make sense w canon it’s bc im still on acowar :p but cassian has taken over my brain and i can’t get him out of it !!!! c: part two is already being worked on bc im so proud of her. i hope u all enjoy it <3 ++ i know mor is described as being blonde and fairly pale in complexion which is why i made reader her half sibling, and there are no descriptions of reader’s physical attributes bc i wanted to kept it as neutral as possible :3

cw: angst, hurt no comfort (yet?), azriel’s shadows being the biggest cassreader shippers ever, unrequited love but really it’s just idiots in love. also mentions (brief) of abuse from keir (gross!)

Your fingers nervously fumbled with the straps of your leathers. Heart pounding in your ears as you forced yourself to drop the nervous jitters, fingers balling into tight fist to stop their trembling.

It had been a long time since you had last seen your family. A long time since your gaze met violet eyes, or your nose scented cedar wood and night chilled mist. The lingering scent of sea salted water and citrus, and fresh paint and vanilla, and sweet wine and roses had nearly erased from your memory. But what you missed the most was the red gleam of siphons that glowed ruby red under certain light.

Truly, in an immortals life time half a decade was just a blip in time, minuscule, but you had never been gone this long from them. Especially not from Rhys, Az, Mor, and Cassian, with the exception of Rhysand’s imprisonment under the mountain.

You blinked away the burning in your eyes as you pushed open the doors of the town house. Soft chatter growing cold at the unexpected intrusion. You had barely enough time to register everyone seated at the table when shadows were zooming past their master to greet you excitedly.

Nuzzling into your hair and neck and arms. Azriel’s shadows had always been so fond of you. Whispering and singing in your ear in a language you could not understand.

They tugged you forward, until you were stumbling clumsily as they dragged you towards Cassian. An ache settled deep in your chest as you fought against them gently, moving between Azriel and Rhys. You missed the flash of hurt in hazel eyes as you avoided him.

Five years later and he still didn’t know the truth of your departure. Before your thoughts could send you spiraling, Rhys’ voice called your name. An undeniable smile in his voice before his arms were enveloping you, “Cousin, you’re back.”

“I am.” Your throat felt thick, tongue heavy as you fought back tears. His scent had always comforted you, Rhys had given you and Mor a chance. A lifeline in the sea that you were drowning in, in Hewn City.

Two sisters, both forced into a world that was cruel and unkind. Morrigan as rightful Heir of Keir had experienced the brunt of it all. From being stuffed into tight dress, to being pranced around in front of grimy men, and nearly forced into a life with a male whose family’s cruelty knew no bounds.

Your torment had been in forms of neglect and isolation. Your father had never much cared for you, being a product of affairs, his bastard, he left you alone. Barely acknowledged your presence when at the mere age of nine you were thrown into his arms from your mother’s father, stating you were no longer his responsibility since your mother’s death. Your father’s neglect, you now realized, had been a blessing.

You were Mor’s shadow. Clinging to her as any younger sister would. Always causing trouble until you learned to obey. Mor never let you experience the abuse from your father fully. Always taking the blame, always hiding you. You owed her and Rhys, your family, everything.

There was a soft clearing of a throat that pulled you and your High Lord apart. Shadows greedily pulling you to face everyone else. Azriel’s hazel eyes assessing you, looking for any injuries before his fingers were squeezing your elbow gently. A soft hello.

Your eyes flickered around the room, and you realized just how much had changed. Your High Lady, and dear friend seated at the head of the table, Rhys by her side. Besides him sat Azriel and then Elain.

Your throat tightened as you allowed your eyes to flicker to the other side, Nesta beside Feyra, and Cassian beside her. Amren had most likely skipped out dinner to enjoy the privacy of her apartment, and Mor was no longer around. Preferring to spend her time on the continent.

The golden thread that tied you to the Lord of Bloodshed sung loudly and happily in your chest. Five years since you had last laid eyes on him and the feeling alone nearly brought you to your knees.

Your eyes flickered away from Cassian, ignoring the way your heart and soul begged you not to. “Is my room still available?”

Feyra sent you a soft smile, sad really, as she realized how desperately you wished to find some peace and quiet. She knew of your affections for the General, and how you had never told him only to watch him fall in love with her sister.

“Of course it is, but you should join us.”

You swallowed roughly at Rhys’ words, unable to stop the gnawing pain in your heart and the cruel words circling in your mind. Cassian was not yours, he had never been and it was unfair of you to expect him to love you the way you had always yearned for him too. But it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, it always fucking hurt.

“I’m quite tired, maybe tomorrow.” Rhys didn’t push, just affectionately tucked your hair behind your pointed ear and let you go.

Your steps were quick, hurried and Cassian’s voice sounded like smooth velvet as he called your name. You didn’t stop, your knees nearly buckling under your weight as you forced yourself to keep walking.

Mumbling a quiet, “Goodnight,” before disappearing into the hallways in search of your bedroom.

During your five years away at Day the turmoil in your heart had eased, if only slightly. Cassian would unintentionally send his emotions down the bond, and it seemed it always happened when your heart had finally let you rest.

When you finally saw light at the end of a never ending tunnel of despair, the mating bond would reel you in, viciously and unforgiving. You were sure you were being punished.

How dare you ever try to question what the Mother wanted for you?

Being back in Velaris, being back home, felt so much worse. With the distance, even when his emotions poured into your very bones, it felt weakened. Less tethered to you.

But now? Now you felt his sorrow so deeply tears fell freely down your cheeks.

You had only been trying to sleep for a few hours, your rest had been fitful at best, anxiety prickling at your fingertips as you threw the warm blanket off of you. You needed air. You needed clarity.

Your feet moved on their own. From what you last knew there were no longer many residents here. You were careless in thinking so as your feet moved hurriedly through the house and out into the garden.

Filling your lungs with air as tears prickled at your eyes, the cold nipping at your skin as you sunk into one of the benches placed around the area.

You had only been in his presence for a mere five minutes and your heart was already waging a war against you.

Maybe you could convince Rhys to send you off once again. Your years away at Day had been filled with research and insight, maybe you could do the same at Dawn. Or any other Court that wasn’t here. Gods, you’d even take the forsaken libraries in the Hewn City if it meant not being here. You’d beg if you had too because this, this was too much.

You let out a shaky breath as your mind ruthfully plagued you with memories of the past. Of your utter devastation of hearing that Mor had slept with Cassian.

Of the guilt you felt after, when you avoided her in anger and utter jealousy and then told of the way she was savagely left to die.

You would never forgive yourself.

Remembering when you realized you were utterly and hopelessly devoted to your life long friend, and learning to live with just having a small part of him for you.

Hoping and praying to the Mother that he’d love you back. Hoping to see a spark of honeyed warmth, or a lick of jealousy when you found solace in the warmth of another. Anything, you prayed and prayed, but she never answered.

Not until you had pinned him down on the training matt, wings sprawled out beneath him as you stared at him smugly. A soft, primal, smirk on his face as he gripped your thighs. “You’re getting better.”

Your laughter filtered through the open area, “Only ‘better’? I just kicked your ass.”

He grunted, tugging you gently and in a quick succession of movements had flipped you over, pinning you to the ground. His thighs caged over yours, pinning your hands above your head as he sent you a toothy smile.

The wind that had been knocked out of you was not due to the fact your back had hit against the matt, but because something snapped inside of you. An invisible golden thread, darting from your chest to his, so visceral you could almost taste it, singing happily at finally being acknowledged.

But he gave no indication that he had felt the mating bond snap into place, “Yes, ‘better’. Because you should know not to let your guard down.”

Your speechlessness could’ve been a product of being bested in sparring, your mind racing with things to say but nothing came out.

The fog that had formed in your brain cleared at the bark of laughter that left Azriel, “If you two are done flirting, get back to sparring or leave the ring.”

You don’t remember what excuse you used to suddenly needing to leave but you did. Hope sparkling in your chest at what you thought was an answered prayer by the Mother. He was yours, just as much as you were his.

Only for the ember to burn to ash quickly, as two nights after Cassian had come to you looking for guidance on how to court Nesta.

You tried so hard, pushing down the mating bond that roared and screamed in utter agony as he spilled to you his affections for the eldest Archeron.

Your heart stuttering and begging for release of this pain as your mind caught up to you. He’d never see you. He hadn’t before, so what would be so different now? What would suddenly make you worthy in his eyes? The mating bond?

You realized quickly that you didn’t want that. Didn’t want him to love you just because fate decided to pair you together. You wanted him to love you, to yearn for you the way you had for him without something telling him to.

So with a forced smile you consoled him. Running your fingers through his hair and giving him advice on how to win her heart.

Some days you cursed yourself for that night. You wished you had been selfish and told him he was yours. But then the guilt would settle and you knew you’d never have the heart to force that onto your dearest friend.

In the end all you wanted was his happiness, if that was with someone else then you’d have to learn to live with it.

It had all led up to the night where you accidentally walked in on Nesta and Cassian in the kitchen at the House of Wind, lips and tongues tangled.

The mating bond felt like it was burning you alive from the inside out, angry and volatile as it blamed you for pushing him into her arms.

You’re not sure how you ended up in Rhys office, your face pressed into him as your fingers tried to claw at the hurt in your chest, “Make it stop, Rhys. Gods please, just make it stop.”

He had never seen you like this, never seen you in such despair as he tried to calm you down. He didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to help you.

Only held you in his arms and sang a lullaby his mother had always sang to the three of you as children. Your desperation and pain eased and numbness eventually coated your insides.

“Send me away.”

He hesitated, wiping your tears as Feyra’s soothing touch caressed your back. His violet eyes shining with hurt and concern for you, “What are you running from?”

Your thoughts were interrupted by the deep timber of a voice you were so familiar with,“Is it just me, or are you avoiding me?”

Heat quickly ran from your skull down to your spine at the velvety voice that belonged to Cassian. Your back tensing uncomfortably as you turned to look at him.

You refrained from letting your eyes glaze down his form. Bare chested and wings lazily held up as his brows furrowed when he took you in.

“Cassian-what are you doing here?”

You stood up from your seated position as he moved closer. His eyes never leaving yours, “Here as in the gardens or here as in my home?”

Your brows furrowed, were he and Nesta now permanently in the town house? It would’ve made sense, seeing as they were all here, having dinner earlier.

“In-in the gardens.”

His lips twisted up into a small quirk of a smile, his eyes lingering on your face as if trying to reacquaint himself with your features.

Your heart lurched to your throat as his gaze lingered on your lips before he looked back into your eyes. “I heard you walking around. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“How did you know it was me?”

His lips tugged into a proper smile this time, “Who else could it be?”

He couldn’t bring himself to tell you that he’d long ago familiarized himself with the sound of your steps.

Your brows pinched together, full lips tugging into a small frown, “Where is everyone else?”

“Elain is most likely off in Lucien’s apartment, Azriel is at the House of Wind.”

And despite yourself, you asked, “And Nesta?”

Your throat bobbed softly, heart already preparing itself to hear that she was tangled in his sheets in his room. A soft shrug came from him, muscles flexing deliciously at the movement, “Probably with her mate.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest at his words. Her mate? You were sure the confusion was evident on your face as Cassian laughed. “It’s a bit unfair isn’t it? She was made a measly six years ago, and she’s found who her soul is tethered to, while we’ve been around for centuries and have no luck.”

“Lucky her.”

He hummed, eyes glazing over your face and the look in his eyes was unrecognizable. Warm and honeyed. It made your stomach twist and turn into uncomfortable knots.

“I should go to bed, Cassian. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You made to walk away from him, but his rough fingers wrapped around your forearm in a touch that could only be described as gentle. When you finally looked up at him his brows were pinched together in confusion, and hurt.

“What’s with the full name?”

“It’s yours, isn’t it?”

His eyes narrowed slightly at your words, “You’ve used it on me twice in the span of a few minutes. I’m never ‘Cassian’ to you.”

A stretch of silence passed between the two of you, you didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know how to act around him anymore.

Gods, you had come around to the idea of seeing him tangled with Nesta. But you were back and he was single. Or at least not with her and you don’t know what you feared most.

That your heart would take this as hope and yearn for him, and watch him fall for another, or to finally tell him how you felt. If it would even mean anything to him, if he’d even want you.

You couldn’t do it, you wouldn’t. You refused to let hope spark in your heart when he had already tangled himself into your very being like overgrown ivy. You don’t know if you’d survive any more rejection.

His voice was softer this time, thick fingers cupping your cheeks and jaw, forcing you to look at him, “You were gone five years and I can barely get five sentences out of you before you’re running away from me.”

Tears stung behind your eyes as your throat tightened at the hurt twinging his voice. It took everything in you to not soothe the crease between his brows, your body tensing softly as his thumb caressed your bottom lip gently, “If I have offended you, or hurt you some how tell me how to fix it. I have been waiting for five years for your return and I cannot stand to think that this whole time you were away you were angry with me.”

You wished you could speak, but your tongue felt heavy. The hurt in his eyes turned to something akin to despair at your silence, his hands dropped from caressing your face to hang loosely by his side, his wings slumped against the floor.

You let out a shuddering breath, forcing yourself to look away from him, “I should go to bed.”

And this time he didn’t stop you.

Weeks had trickled by so slowly since your return to Velaris as you tried to find your place back in your home court.

You had never been particularly good at fighting, your strength came from your knowledge. Books and literature had been something you had clung to as a child and it never left you.

You digested text in a way the inner circle did not, memorized details and names and faces others struggled with. But that did not mean Azriel was any easier on you when it came to training.

The muscles in your abdomen ached painfully, your arms felt heavy and filled with sand as he squared up once more. “I need a break.”

“You need to focus.”

A whine ripped from your throat in protest, Az’s shadows peppering cooling kisses and caresses on your skin to try and comfort you. “Just a few minutes. Please?”

“You think if someone were to try and attack you, they’d spare you if you whined like a petulant child?”

At your silence and glare he continued, “Didn’t think so.”

Your fingers balled into fist as you readied yourself, your muscles heavy with exhaustion as you threw punch after punch his way. “Remain focused, let yourself do what feels instinctual.”

You were sure you would’ve passed whatever Azriel’s standards were had his shadows not wrapped around your legs. Tugging insistently and trying to drag you away.

You heard Azriel’s noise of protest as he tried to rein his shadows back but they refused. Your head turned towards the direction in which they were tugging you in only to be met with Cassian’s warm hazel eyes already on you.

With an accidental misstep you were tumbling forward, falling far too quickly to catch yourself. Your head ringing harshly as the side of your face smacked against the mat.

Someone called out your name in a panic, and you missed the way Cassian had roughly pushed Azriel away from you as he turned you around.

His eyes frayed with worry as your eyes remained unfocused, “Can you look at me, dove?”

You blinked a few times before a groan of discomfort left your mouth, “What the fuck happened?”

Azriel’s shadows sheepishly began to caress your skull, pressing kisses of apologies on your skin. You didn’t hear anything besides tiny wisps of whispers coming from them but you’re were sure they hissed at Cassian as he shooed them away.

It took you a few minutes but you were eventually able to sit. Your ears ringing and still a little dizzy but you were feeling better despite the throb on your temple.

Azriel’s shadows peered at you from behind him sheepishly, and it was only when you extended your hand to them that they swarmed you in a flurry. Rubbing against your neck and hair affectionately, being careful with the side of your face but caressing you softly.

“They say they’re sorry.”

Your lips quirked up at Azriel’s words, “They’re forgiven.”

They buzzed in excitement, before stilling softly as Cassian extended a hand out for the shadows. They treaded carefully, lightly caressing his arm as in apology as if they had also offended him.

A few swirled around your hand and fingers, tugging it much more gently into Cassian’s extended hand. Your cheeks warmed up in embarrassment but before you could pull away, he tangled his fingers with yours.

The shadows swirled around your intertwined hands as if proud of themselves before finally returning to their master. Azriel sent you a soft smirk, and with a shake of his head diseapeared into a mass of dark misty shadows.

“Are you alright?”

You nodded slowly, retorting in exasperation, “Just feels like I hit my head.”

Cassian’s lips tugged into a soft smile, helping you up and not dropping your tangled fingers, “Let’s get you to Madja.”

He pulled you along closely, walking you both towards the edge of the training area. Before you could overthink about being so tangled in his arms he wrapped himself around you. One hand cradling the back of your head to his chest, while the other gripped the back of your thighs.

Your heart pummeled to your stomach as he took off flying, it had been so long since you felt the breeze against your face like this. Your legs wrapping around him as a startled laugh left your mouth.

You felt his laugh more than you heard it, his chest rumbling against yours and for the first time in years, your heart felt at ease around Cassian.

No turmoil or anguish, just overflowing affection and happiness as he flew you carefully around Velaris. Your face tucked away from being so pressed to his chest to look up at him and your breath hitched.

He was truly so beautiful, rough and sharp features that looked like he was made out of stone carving. His lips the perfect shade of dusty rose and plump, his nose fit him beautifully too, slightly crooked at the slope from being broken over the years. White-raised scars on his beautiful tan skin. You were so close you could see the faintest of freckles that doted his skin.

“You didn’t pass out on me, did you?”

Heat bloomed on your cheeks at getting so lost admiring him before you tucked your face back into his chest, “No, I’m fine.”

His fingers squeezed around your thighs as he pulled you closer before he descended down to the Town House.

You were grateful for the hand he kept placed on your back as he walked you into the house. Your dizziness hitting you once again as you landed on solid ground. The warmth running down your spine at his heated touch had you suppressing a shiver.

Your bones ached in protest when he pulled away and sat you down in front of an amused Rhys and exasperated Madja. The elder lady frowning at the bruise on your temple.

“Cassian, I’ve told you not to be so rough when training,” Madja’s soothing voice chastised the General. Your lips tugging into an amused smiled at the noise of protest that left his mouth.

“It was Azriel’s shadows that caused this.”

Madja’s eyes narrowed softly at his words but said nothing more. A hiss leaving your lips as she pushed against the bump forming near your eye.

Cassian’s fingers twitched nervously at the sound of your discomfort. His eyes glued to you as you were looked over by the healer.

Something warm and comfortable hummed in his chest seeing you. The weeks you had been back were nothing short of torture for him.

In the five years you had been gone Cassian came to the devastating realization that he was utterly and unabashedly enamored with you. Cursing himself for the time wasted on pointless lovers, on Nesta, when you had been by his side for the better half of four centuries.

His heart cracking open and knocking him over one restless night as his mind tormented him with everything he had been lacking since you had departed to Day.

He figured that he had always loved you, had always cared for you. But the twisting of his gut in your absences alerted him that it was in a way that was different from Mor and Amren, and then Feyra. His obsession with needing you near, needing you safe stemmed from some thing else entirely.

It took four months of being away from you to realize that. Cursing himself at all the time wasted.

And it wasn’t as if he didn’t try to get ahold of you while you were studying and researching to your hearts content at Day. He had sent letter after letter, received few responses but he had figured you were busy.

His skin had only started to crawl with dread and anxiety when there had been reasons for the Inner Circle to attend a meeting, or some grand ball thrown by Helion, and you were never there.

Either whisked away to some other Court for extended research or taking time away to visit your sister.

The very last time he had stepped foot in Day while you had been there was about three months before your return. Rhys had granted him permission to seek you out.

And when he stepped foot into Day Court’s palace in search of you his hope dwindled as Helion informed him that you had just left a few days prior for a fourteen day tour at Autumn Court. But he swore he scented the soft jasmine and lavender cream that he recognized as your scent roaming the halls.

Resigned, he returned home.

Then you returned, so careful and tense in his presence he wished to turn back back to when things were easier between the two of you. When his face would nuzzle into your soft belly as you ran your fingers through his hair and consoled him after a nightmare.

Or how he’d find his favorite pastries wrapped up on the counter that he knew you’d gone out of your way to get him.

He missed when his feelings hadn’t tangled themselves so deeply into you and he could just be. Gods, did he miss you. He yearned and ached and burned for you while you seemed content at keeping him an arms length away.

The mother could be so cruel.

He barely registered Rhys pressing an affectionate kiss to your bruised temple and mumbling that he was taking Madja back before something so earth shattering was unraveling in his chest.

His eyes wide and chest heaving the second the two of you were alone and your eyes met. A deeply rich golden invisible thread darting from his chest to yours.

He had unconsciously poured all his emotions of recognizing the bond down your connection. A primal need to be closer to you bursting from his chest as he tugged on the bond.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t seem surprised he noted. Your side of the bond closed off tightly he could feel nothing from your end. He hated that.

Your eyes were wide in apprehension as you stared at him, tears lining your eyes as his emotions of love and devotion were so strong they brought him to his knees before you. Pleading and desperate as he called out your name.

“Don’t do this, Cassian.”

His brows pinched together as he reached for you, the bond screaming in agony as you avoided his touch and stood up to create some space between the two of you.

“Dove, listen to me. Please.” He was not above begging, still kneeled in the center of the room as his wings slumped to the ground. His eyes following your every move as you nervously ran your fingers through your hair.

“I feel it, I feel you.” His fingers and hands were steady as he pointed to his chest despite the feeling of anxiety creeping into him.

“You’re mine, my mate, dove.”

There was a beat of silence, Cassian staring at you as if you had delicately placed every beautiful star in the sky. But you had never seen him look at you like that before.

Never had he inclined he wanted you besides the bond. Gods, did it hurt. Your stomach churned sadly as your fingers balled into fist as you shook your head in denial.

“No. No, you don’t get to just suddenly want me because of the bond. I don’t want it this way.”

His frown deepened at your words, your emotions so heavily felt they started to crack the walls you kept up and pouring into the bond.

You had known for years. Five years, you had known and said nothing. “Gods, Cassian! I have loved you for so long. Prayed and begged to the Mother, to the Cauldron, to the Moon and Stars to have you return my affection and you didn’t.”

Cassian wanted to speak, to protest your words but the frustrated tears pouring down your beautiful face and the agony building in his chest, that was no longer just his, kept him quiet. “I’ve watched you pine and love others, and you have never looked at me that way. You had never thought me worthy of you in that way, and now that you know. It shouldn’t change a thing.”

“But it does,” His fingers itched to devote themselves to you. To memorize every curve and dip on your body. “It changes everything-”

You cut him off before he could continue, before he could tell you that he now felt worthy of loving you. That he now knew he could love you in a way you deserved if the Mother had blessed him with you as his wonderful mate. “Well it shouldn’t.”

You sniffled softly as you stared at him directly in his eyes, “I don’t want it to.”

[on-leatheredwings]

Second Chances 18+

Yandere! Older! Damian Wayne / AFAB Reader

> romantic, 18+ > tw/cw: dub-con, manipulation into sex, gaslighting(?) > request: Can we get damian gaslighting and manipulating a fem reader into sex when she tries to leave him please :? Like the typical "we've never talked about (insert issue) you know I wouldn't keep doing it if I knew it was upsetting you" and "let me make it up to you" > a/n: this reader is captain fix-a-hoe i can't > word count: 2187 > damian wayne is 21

You crane your neck away, but he takes it as an invitation. 

“Damian, I…” you struggle. 

His hands slide forward underneath your arms, kneading your chest. It does feel good, you regret to admit. 

“Okay, okay,” you sigh, trying to inch away but his hands drag you back once more. Not by force, just by suggestion. By pulling the invisible strings that play your body like a fiddle, and it seems this morning Damian wants it to play his favorite song. You shrugged on your flimsiest robe on your way out of bed this morning, and nothing else. So here you were, paying the consequences. 

“Mm, maybe later, Damian. I have–” you gasp at a wandering digit “–to run errands today.”

You hear a huff, feel an exhale hit the shell of your ear.

“Errands? Where? With who?” 

The questions, absolutely dripping with disdain and suspicion, make something in you snap. 

“Oh, that’s it– I want to break up!” you cry out, throwing your hands up. You bound out of his hold, whirling around.  

Damian flinches backward as if struck. He had snuck up behind you in the kitchen, peppering kisses along the column of your neck. A sweet gesture, but too little, too late. Fuck waiting until you were better prepared – better scripted – to break up with Damian. You just can’t take it anymore. 

Damian stares at you in disbelief.

“You... What?”

You sigh, annoyed at the squeeze of your heart at his dismayed expression. Life as Damian’s girlfriend had been great at first. Like, really great. 

Despite his surly exterior and sharp tongue, Damian proved to be nothing less than devoted, adoring, and awfully caring. He was giving and generous. During dates and every minute besides, he was a perfect gentleman. None of your exes had ever opened doors for you. Or pulled your chairs out. Or guided you gently through a crowd of paparazzi with a protective hand on the small of your back. 

Maybe it was his unique rich kid training that made him the perfect lover for you: the presence of a British butler in his developmental years paired with the strict assassin upbringing. Or maybe, as your friends claimed, you simply had standards below sea level and were lucky enough to fall for a man who could throw money around without blinking. 

You didn’t listen to them, didn’t question your good fortune. You had been glad Damian was in your life. You had been.

“I want to break up,” you say, nearly a whimper. You look away from his shell shocked face. He must have seen this coming, right? How could he not see this coming? You two seemed to barely be getting along these days.

You recall green eyes narrowing after a glance over your outfit. “... I never liked her,” from a sneered lip, when you mention you’re going to your friend’s birthday party. The guilt tripping that occurred once you got home. The unsaid accusations of entirely untrue infidelity. You recall many more instances identical to that. How draining it all was. How you rarely seemed to go anywhere without hesitation, a niggling feeling bidding you to see how Damian felt about it first. 

Without missing a beat, Damian’s jaw hardens. He folds his arms. 

“You want to break up,” he responds in a clipped voice. “Why.” 

‘Why,’ he asks. Though it was hardly a question. He was demanding you answer for yourself. Answer for your crime of daring to maintain agency in your life. How dare you dump him? You narrow your eyes.

“You… you isolate me,” you say, folding your arms and mirroring his stance. You wish you could get angrier. Damian could really bitch out in an argument when he wanted to. Fights felt more balanced if you decided to get angry too. If you didn’t let him kick you around. But any lingering fury has simmered into hurt at this point. Decayed into you prematurely grieving a good thing gone bad. 

“You accuse me of things. You don’t trust me! Or worse, you do trust me, and still want to monopolize me because I’m something you own. I… That’s not good,” you blurt.

Damian isn’t moved. He taps his foot, and your eye twitches. “Is that all?” he says.

Perhaps you did have enough anger, after all. Before you can curse him out, Damian takes a step forward, like a piece on a chess board. 

“If I had known I would have stopped. Immediately,” Damian presses, not looking very apologetic or thoughtful. He instead looks determined. He seems entirely like his old self, at the very beginning of your then-tenuous friendship. That was three years ago, and you liked to believe he had grown a lot since. 

You roll your eyes. “Okay. Good to know,” you return flatly, unsure what he expects you to do with that information. 

Another step, and he grasps your arm. Had it been anyone besides him, you would’ve felt fear. But Damian – for all his faults – could never hurt you. Even if he already has, you think drily.

His grip trails down to your hand, and brings it to his chest, above his heart. Your own heart skips a beat at the gesture. “I would have. You’re everything to me.” His heart beats under your palm. It beats for you, he always liked to say.

You cringe. Not at his words, but because of how they’re said. Damian wields them like a weapon. And they’re effective. You already feel guilt begin to fester.

You swat your hand away, scoffing and shaking your head. “It feels like half of the time, you say that to make me feel like shit. It’s… it’s manipulative.”

“Manipulative? So every time I’ve said I… care for you, you felt manipulated?” He looks at you, in a pitiful expression crossed between crestfallen and offended. You sigh, exhausted. That’s not what I meant, you want to interject, but he continues. “I feel… very deeply. For you.” 

Even now, sharing his feelings was hard for him. You feel proud that he’s trying. You feel angry that he’s trying. You feel angry that you’re the bad guy. The croak in his voice makes you want to reach for him, but...

“Feelings… feelings aren’t enough,” you say mournfully. You hug yourself, because you need one. And giving one wasn’t his place anymore. 

You two stand in silence in his kitchen, which you’ve shared together for a year now. You glance around. You spy your colorful cooking sets, the couple's aprons that hang beside the pantry, the photos of you two at Wayne family holiday parties stuck to the fridge, and other paraphernalia.

You haven’t even left yet, but already you can see the ghost of you that will haunt this house. The hollow chill of guilt sweeps through your body, but you ignore it. You instead tread to one of the kitchen barstools under Damian’s watchful eye and settle on the seat.

“I’ll… I’ll stay at a friend’s,” you say, fighting admirably to keep your voice from cracking. “And I’ll have all my stuff packed within a week.” And you can keep the cat, you want to jest, but you luckily were born blessed with the skill of reading the room. Damian blanches, as if realizing, finally, what you were saying.

“You’re leaving.” God, his utter shock was not making things easier on you. 

“We fight all the time now, Damian,” you reason, almost pleading with him. Why was he making this so hard? The entire situation seems so … undignified. ‘Unlike him,’ is what most people would say. But no, this is entirely like Damian. Always deceptively more delicate than what meets the eye. Always trusting you to hold his heart gently. Not rend it to pieces. Guilt swirls once more, while Damian’s shock yields to insistence. 

“We fight because we’re in love,” he asserts, confessing. You are in awe of his cheeks flushing - what a pure display to be had during a break up. “People fight when they’re in love. Sometimes.” You frown, knowing he’s referring to his father’s failed relationships. What great role models, you scoff inwardly. You had zero desire to emulate that dysfunction.

“... Don’t you?” he says, a desperate lilt in his voice. You bristle. “... Love me?” And the way he says it breaks something in you.

You respond, the words like ash on your tongue, “Of course I... I do love you, Damian. But–”

“I love you, too,” he says quickly. “... so please, don’t leave.” You start to get up from your seat, unable to withstand anymore of this, when Damian falls to his knees in front of you.

You fill with mortification that Damian may start begging. And you don’t know if you can withstand that. He’s Damian Wayne. He who does not beg. 

“... Please,” he begins, as if the word was physically taxing. For him, it probably was. Damian bows his head, dots kisses on the expanse of your thighs. Each kiss is loosening your resolve. Each a balm over bitter wounds. 

“You haven’t given me a fair chance to correct myself. That… that’s not fair. That’s cruelty,” he whispers, along with other such mutterings that drive knives into your heart.

How heartless you were being. Were you going to give up on him so easily? Had he not shown he could change? The guilt swarms into an evil, dark monster. One you know you cannot defeat. You throw back your head, trembling from his butterfly kisses.

“Let me… let me make it up to you,” he says after he finds you writhing under his lips. You don’t know what to say, mesmerized by the need in his eyes and the promise in his words. “I can be better. I will be better.”

No, your mind begs you to say.

Yet looking into those green eyes, lost in its dark forest, you can’t deny him.

“... Okay,” you condone. Your okay is barely audible, weak and helpless like pollen in the wind. But it’s enough for him. It’s going to be enough for you, too. It’s okay. He’s going to change. He knows if he doesn’t, you’ll leave. You’ll leave.

You sate yourself with these thoughts, numb to Damian’s continued affection. You finally do realize he’s still licking at you, when a pair of hands gently separate your knees. 

“Damian!” you exclaim, snapping your knees shut. Your robe flutters with the action as you look at him with disbelief. “D-Damian,” you say. His eyes flutter open at the calling of his name. You sharply inhale at the lustful glaze over his pretty eyes. 

“Let me show you how deeply I feel for you,” he requests. 

But you know this is … strange. Maybe even wrong, if the uncertainty in your gut meant anything. You had just agreed to mend your relationship. You didn’t need the throes of an orgasm to complicate and muddle your feelings.

“... Please.” His voice mutters into your thigh. You’re so close you feel the vibration of the sound, and your skin prickles over with goosebumps. That’s the third ‘please’ he’s said within the hour. It's usually three a day. “Unless," Damian says, brows pinched, "you do not want me anymore.” The look on his face makes you feel sick. 

You don’t know how you can ever leave him in good conscience. Damian’s grown, yes, but he’s still that confused, frustrated boy from when you met. Still searching for acceptance and belonging.

“Yes,” you blurt. “I want you, but–”

“Then, ‘but’ nothing. You are mine.” You fill with heat, from irritation as well as arousal. It’s not as though you’d stopped being attracted to him, after all.

“I–” am not yours, you begin to combat, when Damian licks a hot stripe up your cunt that makes your mind blue screen. 

“And of course, it goes back the same way. I am yours.”

Damian lowers his head, wasting no time in suckling on your clitoris. He knows exactly how you like it, after all. Your hands leave your side and find his hair. You pull on short raven locks, enough that it’s probably painful, but Damian doesn’t protest. 

Damian hikes your legs onto his shoulders, and he’s off to work as if you hadn’t been about to break up with him just ten minutes ago. You feel whiplash. It’s all back to normal. You’re together. He’s between your legs. And despite his administrations feeling great, amazing – it also somehow feels like punishment. 

He may need you, but you need him as well. Only he can make you feel like this. Only he has ever made you feel like this. The heavy tongue that’s probing into you, the hands whose thumbs draw circles on your skin – they’re his. The pressure building in your body, the pleasure being wrought from you – he causes it. The devotion, safety, security and love you have in your life – it’s due to him. 

When you eventually finish in his mouth, you come with a whimper, eagerly being lapped up by the boy before you. He's right. You do belong to him.

And a growing part of your mind is having a hard time finding that so wrong.

[thegnomelord]

CH:2 You Were Made For This At Least You're Good For Something

CW: NSFW, blood, gore, scars, cannon typical violence, dissociating, Mage reader, Monster cod AU, poly141, eventual poly141 X reader, reader isn't a good person, survivor's guilt, military inaccuracies. Heavy description of reader having scars, reader gets called 'sir' once but overall GN.

AO3: 13.7k words. Big thanks for @rodolfoparras and @princeguri66 for betaing for me, love you guys!

Magic is often described as a loaded gun, a double edged sword, a grenade with a missing pin, an unmarked minefield — and a thousand more little comparisons parents have come up with to frighten their children, to drill the dangers of magic into their heads. And, should their spawn unfortunately present with said aptitude, to teach them how to spend the rest of their lives vigilantly holding the leash on their emotions tight, lest the magic consume them the next time they throw a tantrum.

Your own parents spoke about magic like it was a beast sent by a vengeful God; a venomous insect hiding in your boots, a beautiful creature luring you to touch it's deadly skin, glowing eyes peering at you from the darkness, a handsome wolf stalking your red hood from the tree line. Something so desperate for a single chance to devour you. Famished. Ravenous.

What a load of shit.

—Ethereal mana rushes through your veins like water through a busted dam, your fingers forcing it to form into skin chafing ash. Large dark clouds swirl around you like a shield, stray cinders brush your feverish skin in a distorted attempt to mimic a lover's touch, smog curls around your head like blinders to focus your eyes forward so you don't need to notice if it's a combatant or a civilian your ash consumes—

If magic was half as unpredictable as people made it out to be, you would have never reached the heights you did.

—The thick disgusting scent of gas and burning human flesh tenderly presses down on your chest, sharp claws persuading you to breathe out by gently caressing the spaces between your ribs. Your breath fogs over the darkened lenses, steam rising from your chest as the generator inside churns out more mana—

What does that make you?

—Sparks nip at your heel when your body thinks of faltering, sharp needles pricking half dead nerves and commanding your limbs to move in order to evade obstacles and falling debris and whatever else is thrown at you, magic strengthening your muscles so you can rush through the streets like a forest fire—

A weapon? A fellow beast?

—Silent black flames devour the corpses your magic creates, leaving nothing behind. Stifling heat straddles your brainstem and burns away the weeds of empathy before they can spread the seeds of hesitation in your mind, isolating your heart so it remains too hot to harbor any mercy, regardless of how many lives you cut short—

Yeah, sounds about right.

—The roar of fire deafens the screams and sirens, the soft crackle of flames is indistinguishable to the crack! of breaking buildings and snapping bones. It makes it so easy to retain the single minded focus you were praised and cursed for. To remind yourself of what you are; a mage, a soldier, an Ifrit, a Red Right Hand—

What else are you good for?

You—

Breathe.

You need to breathe.

You need to think.

While you still can.

Your brain is a jumbled mess of puzzle pieces a frustrated child threw into the fireplace. Burnt edges and missing corners prevent your mind from its natural configuration and forces your thoughts into obtuse positions. It takes time and effort to open your eyes, needles of stagnated mana stabbing your irises and making what should be a pitch black room feel like you're staring into the sun. Your body feels light like you're falling, your vision swims with spots of blurriness and sharpness, the back of your throat tight in an attempt to get you to puke up your empty stomach. You only manage to cough, but the vestigial impulse gets some other thoughts to trickle from your mind.

You focus your eyes to one point and stare until the blurriness retreats to the edges of your vision and the tripling shapes solidify into one. It takes more time for your brain to understand what your eyes are seeing through the steam, but you manage to make out. . . your glowing hands. . . your knees. . . dark ash, muddied water, bathroom tiles.

Your vision improves the longer you keep your eyes open, the room steadily darkening and becoming more bearable as the stagnated mana is forced to recede.

You concentrate on what you feel; water pelts your naked body, only to sizzle and turn into steam after rolling an inch down your skin. Cool ceramic tiles brush against your spine every time you shift, rapidly warming up to your body temperature. A drizzle of discomfort nibbles on your nerves when the hot air you breathe out burns the corners of your dry lips. Your fingers feel like rusted pistons as you intertwine them and numbly watch your 'skin' bubble, and those bubbles 'pop', giving you a grim glimpse of your blackened muscle and sinew and bone before the surrounding lava covers them up.

You don't even notice the ringing in your ears until your slowly sharpening mind forces it to go away, replacing it with the sound of running water, of the ventilation fan uselessly trying to suck up the steam, of your own heart beating like a hummingbird against your ribs, woodpeckers drilling into your skull from all angles as the world becomes so fucking—

—Loud. The world is Loud. Nothing like the calm and quiet brought to you by the battlefield, nothing like the sense of safety that comes from familiarity. No. Now the world feels like a swarm of angry wasps are burrowing into your ears to build a nest in your skull, sharp pincers gnawing on your bones and flesh and nerves and—

No.

You got this far.

You're not allowed to fall back into panic.

You force your chest to expand and take in a deep, unfiltered, unrestricted, breath. Ash with the disgusting undertone of rotten eggs curls inside your nose and doesn't let anything else pass. But a small hint of you manages to register in your brain, light and calming; your body’s lackluster attempt at incense to cover up the stench of rot.

And you taste. . . a lot. Too much; morning breath, ash, smoke, blood, the peppery battery acid quality of your blood — all blended together into a disgusting cocktail tailor made for you by what's left of the butchered angel sitting on your shoulder.

You don't think when you reach out to grab the glass of whatever shit liquor past you had bought. 'Glass' is far too kind a word for the tin can you're using, but metal doesn't shatter in your burning hands like ceramic or glass.

Your head thunks against the wall as you throw it back to gulp down the alcohol before it can boil, swallowing in big gulps like it's water. Your stomach cramps, the devil's finest piss would taste better going down your throat than the booze, but it's as effective as it is disgusting and bleaches your mouth until it's the only thing you can taste — sweet relief wrapped in thorns.

You don't revel in it.

The tin can bends like playdoh as you squeeze your burning hand, quickly reddening metal molding to your palm before you crumple it into a small ball. You flick it into the corner where it becomes another piece of the small pile that's been steadily growing there over the months.

Breathing in deep makes your ribs creak and groan like rusted hinges, your lungs burn and complain as you keep the air trapped in them until they're forced to function properly and a shuddered breath escapes your parted lips. The water feels nice and a part of you wants to stay under the stream forever, a part of you would be content growing moss and listening to the soft apologies your mana murmurs as it nibbles on your blood vessels.

You would hit that part of yourself if you could.

The thinning steam urges you to move. Shifting to your knees is difficult with Atlas's burden weighing on your shoulders, forcing your fingers to find purchase in the scorched grooves previously melted in the wall. Pulling yourself to your feet causes them to grow a few inches deeper, your burning hands leaving singed handprints on the ceramic walls.

The weakness in your knees forces you to spend a few seconds just standing, watching your magic slowly start to slumber. The once runny lava consistency of your 'skin' shifts to that of cooling magma, the vast excess of loose mana still in your blood slowly coagulating atop your 'skin' in the form of large chunks of volcanic rock, little cracks remaining between them to simulate blood vessels.

Washing yourself isn't a relaxing affair in general, but it's made worse by the heavy duty soap and rough sponge you have to use in order to scrub away the grime and ash stubbornly clinging to your skin. You try not to look at your body more than you have to, your eyes transfixed on the way the dirty water carries the signs of your violence down the drain. You never get any blood on you, your fires burn too hot for that, and you don’t know if seeing the water turn red instead of black would make you feel better or worse.

The most painful place to wash is the sharp transition between mage marks and living tissue at your shoulders; magic cares little for appearances, volcanic rock abruptly transitioning to soft skin that boasts spiderweb cracks — a tell tale sign of your mana intending to spread further. The nerves there are partially eaten away too, turning your skin into a minefield of zero sensation and absolute hell when one of those nerves is prodded.

You get out when the water runs clear, the residual droplets turning to steam the second you turn off the shower. You stumble as take a few steps, bracing against the small sink next to the shower, staring at the tap to keep your gaze from doubling again.

Something gnaws on your heart as you recognize that you're standing naked in your small safehouse. You should have recovered by now, gotten your shit together and went off to carry out whatever other massacre your employer wanted to commit. Your mind, ever the problematic thing, chimes in: How improper.

Your eyes skirt to the dog tags sitting on the sink, those little plates of steel chastising you "Fuck's sake firebug, this isn't a nudist beach!" like their owners did before. . . before.

Just thinking about it gives you the phantom taste of blood and something acidic, makes you feel a ghostly ache in your bones as if your chest had been ripped open one rib at a time. Invisible glass digs into your throat as you swallow, fish hooks tug on your skin. The mirror hanging above the sink calls for you, mocks you, dares you, orders you to look at the horrid thing that replaced a sweet young child.

Burning flames greet your gaze, swallowing up every last bit of natural color in your eyes just as the hungering beast devours those stupid enough to enter its woods. And you were that fool. The raised bumps of veins and arteries snaking across your chest and throat like creeping ivy attest to that, each inch of your blood vessels meticulously, painfully, pulled from the safe depths of skin and bone to heal on the surface of your skin (or bleed and rot. You could never tell when torture turned into intended murder.)

Your body tells a tale of your survival (for whatever that's good for), most of your scars old and healed, created at a time when you didn't know how to heal yourself. Dimly glowing lines of hardened mana occasionally stretch across your skin, spiderwebs of deep cyan peek beneath your hair on one side of your head and pulse across your throat, glittering amber swirls across your side — small and pretty testaments of wounds so horrendous only magic could keep you in one piece.

An eternal flame burns in your chest, its steady unfaltering glow outlining your sternum and each rib in such clarity it's like you're a cadaver in a morgue, a textbook example of a person slowly spiraling towards lichdom. The light emanating from within you makes the jagged dark ink curving along the space of your ribs stand out like a sore thumb, D.O.D. 2016.01.01. Your fingers ache to trace the little shaky messages of not Today, Guess again, yuo wish, NO, just one more day that circle it, but you can't bring yourself to do it.

You can't sully the last few things you have left of them, you can't, you can't you can't—

Crack!

You realize you've broken the mirror when you pull your hand back and see large shards stick out between your knuckles. Little reflections of yourself continue to mock you as you pull the pieces out. It doesn't hurt, it hasn't hurt since the mage marks first cracked the pads of your fingers, though you're still unsure if it's a gift or a curse —"leave it for the scholars to bicker about" as your Commander loved to say.

A shadow flickers in the corner of your eye, almost like a silhouette of someone you think you knew. Glowing lines of a magic circle burst into the air before you can physically react, mana simmering beneath your skin as magic comes to you easier than breathing.

The hallway lights up to reveal nothing. The thing you saw was just the shadow of a tree branch moving in the wind. You unsummon your magic before it can burn anything, the dwindling sparks nipping your fingers before they’re snuffed out as a way to show your mana is not pleased by the false alarm.

There is nothing there.

You are alone.

Again.

Your phone rings, the factory setting music grating on your ears. The phone is a piece of shit Nokia brick that belongs in a museum, but it works fine as far as burner phones go. Archaic technology like this plays better with magic than the flashy electronics people use nowadays, and the fact it doesn't connect to wifi helps make you harder to track.

You use the back of your knuckle to answer the phone, luckily not needing to pick it up as your mana enhanced hearing is a lot better than human. You manage to force a rough "Yes?" out of your throat.

"Nicely done my friend." Khaled sounds pleased with the death you brought, "You put on a very nice show." The eloquent Arabic he speaks makes the praise sound even nicer to your ears, like a balm of milk and honey to soothe your mind after what you went through. You can see how he's amassed as many men as he has, you could see yourself joining him full time if you were younger and dumber.

Your thoughts sit on your tongue like hot coals, but you swallow them down. "Thank you sir." You say instead, politely. Respect for your superiors was beaten into you years ago, yet exhaustion makes your words sound far rougher than his. Thankfully you're able to keep the accent of your mother tongue from deforming the fragile vowels.

"Ever the modest one." Khaled's chuckle is deep and just at the edge of mean, the subtle change in tone making the fine hairs at the back of your neck stand on end. "I need to pick up some more toys." And by 'I' he means you.

Toys — guns, bombs, other weapons intended for mass destruction; you're not surprised he's using slang instead of saying it outright. Your employer may be an overgrown murderous warlord, but he's not dumb, there's no doubt heavy surveillance has been put on both of you and Al-Qatala as a whole after your stunt.

It makes sense why he'd want to send you for the weapon's deal instead of going himself, there's no telling when some military group or pmc will try to bushwhack them in hopes of body bagging Khaled. Hell, you'd be disappointed if the CIA wasn't already in the final stages of planning a counter terrorism measure. Nosy fucks.

"Understood sir. Send me the shopping list." You feel your brow twitch with irritation when Khaled abruptly cuts the call. A sigh escapes you; your stomach feels like a witch is using it for a cauldron, all sorts of nastiness bubbling into a disgusting brew — your body's trying to warn you of something you can't see.

Not like you listen.

Dropping the last of the mirror shards into the sink you reach over to grab the dog tags and slip the cold chain around your neck. The metal warms up quickly, becoming indistinguishable from your skin. You rest your hand over them. If you try hard enough, you can just about sense the last remaining dregs of their magic— cool water, nibbling ice, soft soil — but the rest blend together into senseless mana, nothing but whispers of the past.

16 other tags rest against your skin, your own nestled somewhere between the dead.

You should have died instead.

You tear your hand away with a scoff, shaking those thoughts off and go get dressed. You slip on your helmet last, the tension in your shoulders evaporating when your face is hidden. Your lungs stutter for a second before adapting to breathe normally. You throw a glance at the shattered mirror and this time it's the helmet that greets you; just another soldier, just a mage.

Yeah. . . that's you alright.

Your phone vibrates, telling you you've received a message.

Right. You have a job to do. Here's to hoping this one isn't your last.

You're not holding your beath.

. . .

The briefing room is silent as Laswell goes over the census: 200 confirmed dead, hundreds in serious condition, thousands more who will be affected in the coming weeks and months when the seasonal storms wash the toxins into water sources and pollute the earth. And that's not talking about the long term effects, who knows how many will be lost in the coming years trying to neutralize the poisonous magic and rebuild.

Toxic gas itself is problematic when they don't know what specific kind it is, but when it binds with loose particle magic like ash or sand it can linger for decades, eroding concrete and skin alike. A whole generation will be born in hazmat suits.

Kate finishes speaking. A minute of silence follows.

Soap takes the time to try and visualize the dead as people rather than just a statistic, but his mind falls short. His tail twitches with irritation, fists clenching by his sides; he just can't understand how one person could do all of that without rockets or explosives.

His brain births a grim thought — fire hot enough to burn through concrete wouldn't leave behind any bodies, so he can tack on several more hundred deaths to the census, ones that have no way of being confirmed, leaving families without a body to grieve over.

"As far as we know." Kate begins again, her face grim, deep dark shadows stretching beneath her eyes. Only caffeine and determination have helped chase away her exhaustion. "This was a terrorist attack organized by Khaled Al-Asad," She pulls up two pictures on the interactive board, one of Khaled, the other — the same featureless helmet they'd seen on the news. "And carried out by a mage mercenary called Ifrit. True identity unknown."

Soap's ear twitches and he tilts his head at Ghost. "Bet yeh he's an ugly focker."

Ghost's dark eyes flicker to him. "Didn't think that 'bout me did you?" He mutters, eyes returning to the screen, staring at your picture as if it'll reveal some deeper meaning; an insight into a murderer's mind. Soap holds off on doing the same, he doesn't want any of the sludge on him.

“Could also be a ‘her’.”

Their gazes turn to the two women sitting at the front, the captain and lieutenant of another pmc the US has contracted to help them deal with this problem.

The one who spoke is a woman in her late 30's, brown hair pulled in a tight bun, green eyes occasionally flickering with whisps of unnatural blue; Captain Roberts – if Johnny remembered her name correctly from orientation – continues. “Women are better at using magic, and control it with the finesse required for more complex spells.” She explains with a dismissive look, absentmindedly waving her gloved hand like they’re just insects buzzing around her head.

Yeah, Johnny doesn't like her. And it's not because she smells like sweet lotus mixed with the stench of rancid fish rotting under the sun. It's because she's as hoity-toity as every other mage he's met (thankfully he's only met a few).

The shorter woman sitting next to Captain Roberts shrugs, black hair pulled into a similarly tight bun. "A little biased there captain." Lieutenant Martinez says, her black eyes flickering to look at the monsters. "Though, I can't say it's unwarranted." He hears her mutter.

Johnny notices striped patches velcroed to their arms, 2 icy blue ones on Martinez, 3 deep blue on Roberts. Distantly he remembers them to signal the power level of a mage on the international power scale, though he's blurry on the finer details.

Johnny’s ears twitch as he hears Ghost mutter a “Fuckin’ ‘ell.” under his breath before the wraith gruffly speaks up loud enough for all to hear. “Nail Ifrit and you’ll get the chance to check for bollocks.”

Roberts turns her head to look at Ghost. Her eyes look him over and the initial scowl (which Johnny's sure she was born with) turns into something that makes Johnny's fur stand on end and gums itch with the need to bare his teeth. She opens her mouth to speak—

A low rumble wafts through the air as Price blows out a puff of cigar smoke, the soft cloud escaping through the open window but the strong scent remains. "Hush." Price's pupils are thin like needles, shutting up Roberts with one look before he looks at Kate. "What do we know about 'em?"

Kate frowns, "Not enough." She pulls up a map of the world, a red dot placed somewhere in Libya. “Ifrit first appeared on our radars 2 years ago under the employment of a Libyan warlord called Ahmed Saleh.” Next she pulls up a video, playing it. The camera work is shaky, but Soap's able to make out said warlord speaking in a language he doesn't know, Ifrit standing by his side like some freaky statue. The camera shifts to focus on the row of men behind them, all bound on their knees with bags over their heads.

Johnny knows immediately what this is.

He still flinches when glowing circles spring beneath the mens knees, violent flames shooting high up into the sky as if Ifrit just used their personal key to open Satan's backyard. The camera flickers like an old TV, catching the last few seconds of glitched dying screams and magic burning away skin and muscle before the the video ends.

"Jesus." Kyle mutters next to Soap, his clawed fingers carding through the black feathers on his other forearm in a self soothing motion. "Just. . . Jesus."

"Ah dinnae think he’ll help." Soap mutters back, nose wrinkling as if he can already smell the burning bodies.

"A few weeks after this video was taken, Ifrit went into hiding before resurfacing again under a different employer." If Kate's bothered by the public execution, she doesn't show it. "Cross referencing the attack in Uzrikstan we’ve found over 50 arson attacks with the same M.O.” More red dots spread across the world map haphazardly, seemingly with no rhyme or reason. “As well as indication of Ifrit's involvement in numerous organized crime groups. Khaled is just their latest employer.”

Ghost lets out a low whistle. "Our arsonist's been busy."

"So what?" Soap's fur bristles even more, "The torcher just pop oot like a weed aw o'a sudden an' immediately jump intae terrorism?"

"Maybe?" Kyle scratches the back of his neck. "If they're a late bloomer and unbound then it makes sense why some crime rings would want them," He turns his head to look at Captain Roberts, "Right?"

She doesn't spare him a look, chewing on her words like Kyle had put something foul in her mouth. "I suppose developing strong magic after adolescence is possible." She begrudgingly says, "And unbound magic is stronger than bound, making Ifrit look like an appealing attack dog." She crosses her arms over her chest, stroking her chin in thought.

"But unbound magic also damages to the body." Lieutenant Martinez pipes up. "And that type of mage marks would take more than just 2 years to develop even if they used magic 24/7."

"You're correct." Captain Roberts finally glances at Kyle, giving him a look as if he had asked the difference between a pug and a werewolf. "It's more likely they had magic for a while. Not to mention received training for it."

Another low rumble escapes Price's chest, the sound reminiscent of construction machinery. "How come we didn't know about the firebug earlier?" His voice is calm, making the sharp edge underneath it cut deeper.

Kate sighs, "I hate to say it, but Ifrit is good." She says solemnly. "Their magic destroys electronics, they never show their face or leave witnesses, and they manage to cover their tracks up so well that we can't find even a partial mana-cule signature on the arson attacks, the most recent one included."

Her words make little sense to him, entering Johnny's ear and exiting through the other. He remembers taking a few classes on the types of magic that can mimic explosive materials when he was doing his demolition course, but all the jargons had made his head hurt and wasn't needed in the end. His tail tucks closer to his leg. "A what?"

Captain Roberts scoffs, but her Lieutenant speaks up. "A mana-cule detector picks up the way magic that's left in a victim's body refracts light. It's specific to every mage, so, like a magical fingerprint." She holds up her gloved hand to give visual to her comparison.

Soap feels Gaz's feathers brush against him as the man folds his wings closer to his body, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at the screen. Kyle's eyes wander back to the starting image of the video where you're standing behind the warlord, mentally comparing it with the brief glimpse of you he got on the news. Something about you screams 'professional' to him, like you've done this so many times you got used to it the same way he got used to pulling the trigger of his gun.

"Ifrit doesn't look like some gang banger Khaled or some warlord picked off the street." Kyle finally says, and though he knows Laswell probably had the same thought, he still asks. "Could they be ex military or part of some pmc?"

"We're operating under this assumption, but we can't confirm anything." Kate frowns. "We're still trying to find any personal information about them."

"Getting to the important information." Captain Roberts says, giving them a pointed look. "What even is Ifrit’s level? With destruction like that I can’t imagine anything beneath L3. L4 if they’re 3 seconds away from becoming a lich or just high on Magnus dust."

"Fuck what dust?" Soap asks, but Captain Roberts just waves him off like his question is too stupid for her to answer.

"Magical crack." Ghost shrugs. "Makes the magic stronger, but also turns the mage into a firecracker."

Kate rubs her brows, a headache starting to pound behind her eyes. "By our calculations Ifrit falls into the L5 category." Her words make the rest of them go silent, but Soap just looks around confused.

"Preposterous." Captain Roberts huffs, "I can count on my fingers how many L5's there have been since Christ was born. Ifrit being one is just impossible." A deep scowl etches across her face. "At best, Ifrit is just an L3 high on Magnus dust with no regard for their body. They'll be a lich in a couple months."

"Regardless of what Ifrit is," Price speaks up, stubbing the cigar butt on the window sill and throwing it out the window. "What do we do about them?" A small bit of smoke escapes the corner of his lip, dragon fire burning hot in his chest in response to his well masked anger.

"An insider in Al-Qatala claims a weapon deal will be going down in a day." Kate swipes away the previous pictures, putting on a bird’s eye-view map of a shipping dock. 5 large warehouses circle an empty concrete space bordering the ocean, clearly long abandoned. "From what we know, Khaled has Ifrit secure most of his weapons because they’re careful. If a buyer’s even a minute late they call it all off."

"So punctual and paranoid?" Gaz sumarrises.

Ghost hums to himself. "Quite the work ethic." He side-eyes Johnny. "You could lean som'thin' from 'em."

Soap just huffs, his tail bumping against Ghost's leg in retaliation, his snagglefang showing as his lip quirks up into a small smirk when Ghost's dark eyes flicker to him.

"You’ll need to be tight, there's no telling when this opportunity will present itself again." Kate continues, ignoring them. "Team Alfa," A dot pops up on one side of the docks, Price's and Lieutenant Martinez's faces beneath it. "you'll be going in from the north. Bravo—" Another dot appears on the opposite side with Ghost's and Captain Robert's faces. "—the south."

The dots move to indicate how they're supposed to approach the position, ending up with them completely surrounding the docks. "We don't know Ifrit's full battle capabilities, so you'll need to be careful. Isolate and tire them out before attempting capture, but kill if you must." Laswell looks at them all. "We can only assume ifrit's magic is short ranged so under no circumstances do you get close to them, understood?"

"Crystal ma'am." Captain Roberts shrugs, throwing a look at the monsters at Taskforce 141. "Just let us take care of the mage and keep out of the way so you don't become collateral. I would hate to waste my time healing you." Her eyes linger on Ghost, bits of bright blue mana flickering in her eyes. "Well, most of you." Soap feels Ghost subtly stiffen next to him.

That woman's charming as a train wreck; Soap can feel himself prickle with irritation, more and more strands of fur rising to stand straight on his tail the longer he has to stay near Roberts.

Luckily they're let go early to go rest up and prepare while the two mages stay with Price and Kate to iron out the finer details of which mages which team is taking and what spells to use. Apparently everyone but Price and Kate are too stupid to understand the 'complexity' of their spells.

Soap would be insulted, but he takes the opportunity offered to him. He glues himself to Ghost's side as much as he can 'professionally', his tail curling around his leg as Johnny throws a smug look over his shoulder at Captain Roberts.

Johnny catches her looking back at him like he’s a flea ridden mutt and that just makes his tail wag. He forgets about her the moment the door of the briefing room closes, busying himself by subtly rubbing his arm against Ghost's, spreading a bit of his scent on the wraith's jacket. It's one of the few times he's glad wraith's don't have a scent — makes it easy to smell himself on Ghost.

"Someone's territorial." Gaz chirps as he joins them on Ghost's other side, feathers brushing against their backs to throw his own scent into the mix.

Ghost just looks at Soap bemused, his thick paw of a hand coming up to cradle the back of Johnny's head, gloved fingers gripping his skin like he's a puppy. "You bettah not piss on me."

Gaz breaks out into laughter and Johnny feels his cheeks grow warm. "Dirty bastard." He huffs, but stores the idea for later. "Are all mages like that?" He tilts his head back at the door.

"Uptight?" Gaz asks. "Snotty?"

"Wankers with their heads shoved up their arse?" Ghost helpfully adds.

"That's putting it brawly," Soap lets out a breath, amusement tugging at his lips as his tail wags.

"Yeah, I think it's like a requirement to be a military mage." Kyle chuckles, holding up his hand like he's judging someone's height. "You've got to be this much of a twat to join." He grins, passing them as he goes to get ready.

Soap wants to say more but Ghost's hand on his neck demands his attention, tilting his head up. His breath catches in his throat as Ghost bends down until their foreheads bonk together softly, the cool metal of the mask tickling Soap's skin. "Don't go doing anything dumb pup, olright?"

Dark eyes meet his own, a shiver runs down Soap's spine, his mouth dry as a desert when he tries to swallow the rock in his throat; Soap can't even begin to define the strange thing that was born between them on that one night in Las Almas, he can still remember the way Ghost's deep voice had kept him sane and his wolf's demands to blindly rush the enemy and get back to his pack quiet.

Johnny certainly can't define the late nights spent sharing that dog piss Simon likes drinking, nor the rough touches and hickeys they leave on the other, though they never have time to get further than that.

This feels nice too.

His hands sneak to Ghost's hips, thumbs hooking under his belt loops to pull their bodies closer, pressing his chest against Ghost's. "When have I ever done that?" He smirks, lips ghosting over Simon's masked ones.

He feels Ghost's chest rumble as the man chuckles, his other hand roughly gripping Johnny's arse. "You want a list?"

Johnny's tail wags more, "Well, I reckon I'd be up fer-"

"Oi, I’d hate to break the snogfest but we’ve got things to do!" Kyle’s chuckle breaks them up before they can do anything else. Soap turns to flip the bird to the bird, but Kyle's tail feathers have already disappeared into the changing room.

. . .

 The night is calm.

Mellow waves break against the well worn concrete walls of the docks, tree leaves softly flutter in the mild breeze, crickets and frogs sing their songs into the night air. The world itself doesn't care about you or the soldiers guarding the docks. Absentmindedly you track the movements of the men Khaled gave you, the barely noticeable crumbs of magic you stuck on them flickering at the back of your mind like dwindling coals.

All are accounted for. The night is calm. There is nothing out of the ordinary.

And yet your nerves are on a razor's edge. The relative silence scratches down your spine with long crooked claws, the calmness crackles beneath your skin like electricity. Your fingers itch with the need to tap them against your thigh, to do something; waiting has always been your least refined quality regardless of how often you needed to use it. Your body, your magic, Hell — the very essence of what you are — craves the heat of battle, the sweet lull of adrenaline's song to put your nerves at ease.

You resist moving too much. Years of training make hiding the signs of unease and nervousness easy as breathing, your body so still you could be mistaken for a statue if your chest didn't steadily rise and fall.

Taim doesn't possess your abilities. You can feel his nervousness on your tongue, like licking an old battery. His hands shift to re-adjust the hold on his gun for the 6th time in the past 10 minutes. You doubt he knows you're watching him from the corner of your eye, so the tenseness of his shoulders must be from you just being near him.

It doesn't surprise you — many countries that have had Russian or Soviet influence consider mages more monstrous than actual monsters. Mages like you are perversions of God's template, thieves who possess power not intended for you. Urzikstan is no different.

You don't point out how Taim flinches when you raise your hand to look at the time, the watch face strapped to the inside of your wrist; some habits are hard to break.

The deal is supposed to happen at 3AM, and it's 02:57 already. "The seller's taking their sweet time." You say under your breath, lowering your hand. You have half the mind to call it off and tell Khaled to teach his suppliers punctuality. Hell, you've done it before when you had less surveillance on yourself and your employer. This just feels like tempting luck.

Taim looks at his own watch and glances your way. "I understand your frustration sir, but- but we just need to wait a bit more." He absentmindedly holds up three fingers to indicate the minutes left, starting the count from his thumb.

It wouldn't be so odd if middle eastern countries such as Urzikstan didn't start counting with the pinky finger. Americans count with the index. That just leaves the entirety of Europe. You hum a low sound at the back of your throat.

"They-" Taim quickly puts his hand down and grips his gun in both hands, apparently thinking you hadn't noticed his blunder. "They should be here any min- minuta." Another slipup; the hint of a different accent softens and shortens the last vowel of the Arabic word. It narrows down a couple countries, but nothing specific.

Taurus would have made you run around the base for days if you had ever made the same mistakes, provided you survived the consequences of getting caught.

What a fucking amateur.

But Khaled isn't paying you to get rid of vermin, so you let it slide. You catalogue this moment in case you'll need it later, concentrating on the present.

The radio inside your helmet sputters to life, a rough voice speaking quickly in Arabic. "Ship incoming."

Your gaze falls on the dark ocean, mana flowing to your eyes without even having to cast a spell. It's not the same as using a mana sensing spell, those leave your head feeling like you'd volunteered it to be used as a church bell in exchange for perfect clarity of the world around you. But your sight becomes significantly brighter and sharper, enough to see the ship sailing towards the docks. It's a medium sized fishing vessel, the lights inside turned off so as not to attract too much attention, but it meets the specifications Khaled had given you.

You reach up to activate the voice receiver of your radio, pressing the button hidden on the inside of your helmet just behind the gas mask portion. "Our seller's incoming. Get the truck, secure the perimeter and keep tight." You order into the radio, cutting it off again.

You motion for Taim to follow as you walk out from your cover. You had hidden yourselves between two warehouses, their roofs extending to the sides enough to hide you from the sight of drones.

You stop a few feet from the edge of the docks, listening to the truck back up behind you as the boat slowly sails up to the edge of the dock and drops it's anchor.

You don't recognize most of the men on the boat, except for one. "Ah, Ifrit, long time no see," Victor Zakhaev greets you in Russian as he steps off the boat first. You notice a new scar across his face, but otherwise he looks good considering last you've heard of him he'd gotten himself shot and left for dead by some monster taskforce. "I am not late, yes?" He asks in English, offering you his hand.

"Right on time." You say and take his hand in a firm handshake. You try to ignore the way the touch of another human, regardless of the fact you can't really feel his touch, makes your skin crawl.

"Good, good, from you, that is a compliment." He smirks and steps to your side, giving room for his men to unload the heavy weapon crates from the bowels of the ship onto the dock. "I assure you, you'll find the garden hoses and other peashooters are all accounted for." Zakhaev makes a motion with his hand, making his workers put a heavy box onto the ground beside you. "But I know you well, you want to check the goods, yes?"

Needles prick your skin and your mind kicks itself for becoming so predictable. But Zakhaev has known you since your stint with that warlord in Libya, it's only natural he would learn a few of your habits after so long. "You would be correct." You say, your voice betraying nothing.

Zakhaev just chuckles, his workers undoing the crate's top board with his company logo printed on top of it. Inside, nestled between a sea of white packing peanuts, lies one of many M134 miniguns Khaled has been keen on getting — people of your ilk call it the garden hose for the ridiculous amount of ammunition it can spit out in a minute.

Say what you want about the yankees, but their weapons are top notch. Having once been on the receiving end of that weapon, you know first had how useful it can be; both for tearing enemy combatants to shreds and for decimating their morale.

You look over the weapon, unable to find anything wrong with it. Zakhaev takes pride in the guns he sells, you've never had any problem with them. "Looks good." You nod your head at Khaled's men and stand up. "Load them up."

You reach into your pocket and pull out a flash drive. Khaled had paid half of the price up front, leaving you to deliver the second half. Inside the flash drive are wallets with thousands of dollars worth of crypto currency. This is a smart play on your employer's part; you don't need to lug around suspicious briefcases full of cash, and there's no wire transfer some nosy agent can trace back to Khaled.

"Rest of your payment." You say simply, handing the inconspicuous flash drive to Zakhaev.

"Thank you kindly." Zakhaev slips the drive into his pocket. You watch the men carry the heavy weapon crates and put them in the truck.

Zakhaev shuffles through his pockets and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, some Russian brand. He taps the bottom of the carton on the back of his hand, offering you the stick that partially sticks out of the box. "Care to join me?" He asks, taking it in stride when you don't react. With a shrug, he puts the cigarette between his teeth. "Help an old friend, yes?"

You don't particularly like being the personal lighter for anyone, but you acquiesce — powerful and resourceful men with fragile prides are better as friends than foes; The task is so simple you don't even need to form a magic circle, a single thought making the end of the cigarette smolder before vestigial flames spark up from nothing, catching on the tightly packed dried leaves and setting them alight.

"Impressive trick." Zakhaev compliments and breathes in the nicotine, unbothered when he receives your silence again. You expect the rest of the weapons exchange to pass quietly, you and him watching from the sidelines as the men load heavy crates into the back of a truck. Your presence here is only as a guard dog.

Zakhaev surprises you by speaking up again. "Ah, there was another thing I wanted to speak to you about."

Another crate is set by your feet. You tilt your head to look at Zakhaev before your gaze flickers to the worker who pries the top board open. Inside isn't a minigun or an automatic rifle Khaled had ordered, but a sniper rifle.

"What is this?" You ask, just about keeping yourself from tensing; This is unexpected, a surprise, and surprises can get you killed faster than playing patty cake with a landmine.

Zakhaev, as if sensing your unease, waves you off. "A gift, my friend." He says in Russian, the words easy to understand. "And a. . . taste, shall we say, of what I can offer you in the event you decide to seek other employment opportunities."

Ah. So that's what this is about — he's trying to bribe you.

Now that you think about it, it isn't too surprising. He knows what you're capable of, and mages of your abilities don't grow on trees. "Is that so?" You ask in Russian, playing along as you kneel down and pick up the gun.

Your fingers move with life of their own, gliding smoothly and confidently over the metal as if you'd been born with it. The barrel is straight as an arrow, the butt fits comfortably against your shoulder, the magazine locks into place with a soft 'click', the bolt moves back with buttery smoothness and gives you sight of the live round before it's loaded into place with a second satisfying sound. It tickles your brain, that violent thing in your chest stirs with interest.

"You like it, yes?" Zakhaev chuckles, the sharpness in his eyes momentarily lost as he observes you as one does a child opening gifts on Christmas morning. "It’s a .50BMG, semi-auto, 5 rounds every 1.6 seconds, 1,800mile range, 1,319 m/s velocity, and has a 5-round detachable box mag with a muzzle brake." He details, and you mentally whistle to yourself; guns like these cost a fortune. "It's a nice gun, no?"

It is a very nice gun.

Something at the back of your mind tingles; a smoldering coal is quenched, a string snaps and sends a single needle through your amygdala. Foreign mana, as subtle as a tank, traipses at the edge of your consciousness — a fly unknowingly vibrates the threads of a spider's nest.

It is a very nice gun.

And you just found a target to practice on.

. . .

"What is Zakhaev doing here? I thought we buried him in Verdansk?" Sergeant Garrick’s voice chatters quietly over the coms as Captain Roberts makes her way through the swamp, muddy water up to her knees and insects buzzing around her head. A few of her best mages trail behind her, the rest of her team mingled between the monsters on the other side of the docks.

"Turns out our matchstick's just a magnet for wankers." Sergeant MacTavish’s voice crackles. She doesn’t stop the scoff that comes to her lips. He just has a voice that’s easy to dislike, then again she never did like mutts.

"Our mission remains the same, get Zakhaev if you can but Ifrit’s a more dangerous target." Captain Roberts wants to argue with Price. Hell, she did for nearly an hour after the briefing was done just on the subject why everyone but him and the wraith had to wear gas masks. Captain Price is too paranoid in her opinion; after the terrorist attack there's no way their target's mana reserves aren't depleted to shit, Ifrit probably couldn't put up a fight tougher than wet tissue paper but nooo, Laswell just had to pick that lizard over her own kind.

"Took care of a straggler." The deep rumble of Lieutenant Ghost’s voice sends a nice shiver down her spine. He had broken off to go ahead, briefly giving her a nice look at his ass. At least there’s one sideshow in that freakshow of a taskforce that’s easy on the eyes. She bets he would look even better without that ugly mask, all those big muscles on display and quivering beneath her…

"Alfa team in position." Price speaks into the radio.

Roberts shakes her head, refocusing on the task as she kneels in the dark water. She's partially hidden behind a rotten tree stump, but the night is dark and there's enough critters and insects in the swamp to make sensing them with mana difficult. "Team Bravo in position." She says.

"Good, stand by, we only get one chance at this." That's probably the only thing she and Price agree on. Opportunities like this don't fall into their laps often, maybe she can even nab herself a promotion if she captures both Ifrit and Zakhaev.

Curiosity tugs on her mind as she watches the weapons deal go down. She doesn’t know what she expected but this isn’t it; The last time she had seen someone capable of similar destruction, it had been a teenager in the late stages of lichdom— mind eroded, body nothing but skin and bones, magic rotting the poor girl from the inside out until all that was left was an animal in human skin.

She expected something similar, maybe worse, not for Ifrit to look no different than every other criminal piece of shit she's seen.

Unable to hold back her curiosity she hunches her shoulders and takes off her gloves. Her mage marks are extensive and ugly; reach to the first knuckle of each finger, the dried coral like texture scratching her skin as she places one hand on her face to peer between her fingers, another resting over her chest.

Captain Roberts can at least feel proud for being so magically gifted she can shorten a 40 something word incantation to just 13 measly words: "Sister of steams, daughter of oceans, give me sight to see the hidden." She can feel her mana leisurely crawl through her veins as she murmurs the spell, like squeezing honey through a cheesecloth.

The world lights up in an array of colors like a broken kaleidoscope, shapes and outlines flickering in and out as the mana inside every living creature mixes and twirls with the dark backdrop of dead mana without rhyme or reason. The sight is something humans were never meant to see, and it stabs at her eyes for even daring to look, but she can stomach it long enough to catch sight of Ifrit's mana.

Captain Roberts is disappointed to see the mana surrounding you is nothing to write home about; orange mana cleanly outlines your entire frame, barely a couple of inches thick, not too bright and not even the barest flicker in the even surface to indicate mana suppression.

The disappointment morphs into relief as she deactivates her spell — at the very least she won't need to waste her time with this monster and terrorist nonsense longer than she has to. Shame, she had been looking for a challenge—

A violent shiver runs down her spine, her heart lurches and bashes against her ribs with the feral panic of a prey animal trying to escape, cold sweat breaks out across her skin and pain blooming in her arteries as mana rushes to her fingers—

A bullet strikes the rotten stump she's hiding behind.

Magic explodes on contact.

Violent flames race to devour those still living.

. . .

You count 5 seconds between the bullet hitting it's target, the magic you imbued it with exploding, and it all going to shit.

You throw a hand over Zakhaev's shoulder and force him to the ground as the first hail of bullets comes your way. You drop to your knee just in time to avoid receiving a lead injection, the concrete behind you exploding in small puffs of dust as the high caliber bullets hit the ground or bounce off Zakhaev's boat to tear through the meat shields that are Khaled's men. You try to take a few potshots, but your position is bad and you can't tell where the shots are coming from.

You catch large elongated sticks fall from the sky and clatter to the ground. You immediately screw your eyes shut, bending at the waist to put your face parallel with the ground and pressing your hands to your ears. You avoid the flash as the stun grenades go off, but the following bang! rattles inside your ears and makes you stumble as you straighten out.

But you know this is just a distraction: beneath the whizzing bullets and echoing shots you can feel the world groan, the air shivering with disgust as magic slowly gathers at the fingertips of enemy mages. They take every precious second given to them to build and strengthen their spells, the average cast time around a minute.

You need no such preparation.

The moment you feel their spells release, like a rubber band snapping against your skin, you summon your own magic. You have neither the time nor space to produce a proper counter spell when you haven't seen your enemies casting circles, so your offence becomes your best defense — glowing circles spark across the air to shoot out violent flames, burning heat and freezing cold colliding in the crisp night air. Your magic is far superior, turning the balls of ice and water into steam.

The boundless steam floods the area and rushes at you like a stampede of frantic beasts. You pull Zakhaev close to you, shielding his fragile body from the blistering mist as it washes over you, nothing but a mild inconvenience. Your stomach feels tight, as if mocking you for not listening to your body.

At least you can be certain this isn't just some group of Khaled's enemies or gangsters that stumbled on you. The fact they're using water and ice spells means this was preplanned, they have a specific target — you.

The thought makes something inside you stir. You feel your heart begin to beat a little faster, a little harder, a little louder, banging against your ribs in the slow start of a war march to rouse the slumbering beast in your veins. Enticing it with what it you craves.

You hear Zakhaev say something but his words fail to reach your ears, not that you'd be able to respond with how your tongue feels like it's made of lead. Your body always does this; jaw tensing to keep you quiet, muscles relaxing in preparation, the lingering vestiges of nervousness evaporating to clear your mind so you can focus. Something in that fucked up brain of yours makes you switch to the first language you ever learned — violence.

Your grip is ironclad as you throw Zakhaev over your shoulder like he's a sack of potatoes, summoning more spells for cover instead of listening to his cursing. Even more steam blankets the ground, joining alongside gunfire and magic to create a disorientating shroud you're very familiar with. You easily duck and weave through Khaled's men, catching glimpses of enemy bodies moving beyond the steam as you head to the truck, hoping to use it for momentary cover.

Throwing Zakhaev into the back of the truck with the weapon boxes you skirt to the front of the vehicle, the sharp bang! of your fist knocking against the metal door scaring the shit out of the driver. You meet the man's eyes through the darkened lenses of your helmet, giving a hand gesture for him to drive.

Hummingbirds peck at the back of your skull, giving you ample warning to jump out of the way even before a circle spreads beneath your feet. A shard of ice erupts from the ground where you'd just stood, thankfully avoiding the car and giving the driver further incentive to get the fuck out. Ants crawl down your spine in another warning, and you saw enough of the previous circle to disrupt the one that appears behind you, a few orange lines springing up in the neat blue circle to make it fizzle out and send the half built spell right back at the caster.

With the primary targets secured you can turn your full attention on the attackers, your gloves smoldering as hot mana rushes to your fingertips. You hear pebbles crunch under a boot while you summon your own magic circles, the return of that tight feeling in your stomach making you break concentration just enough to catch sight of one of Khaled's men in your periphery.

You notice the gun aimed at you a second too late.

Bang!

Pain flares through your shoulder, your body moving on its own as you throw yourself to the side to avoid another round. You don't need to think for your flames to burst beneath the feet of your attacker, using the distraction to retreat into the space between two warehouses, giving yourself better cover. Mana rushes to the hole in your shoulder, drops of molten metal leaking from your wound when you lean forward, your clothing greedily drinking up your mana saturated blood and sticking to your skin.

Your magic repairs your body as quickly as you're injured, pain rapidly fading away until only the dull sting of betrayal remains. Like a sacrificial lamb, it catches the deadly attention of the thing slumbering in your heart.

It wakes up angry and feral and oh so hungry.

Fangs of freezing heat tenderly grip your heart, ravenous nothingness once birthed by your desperation now begs and demands for your will to give it shape. How can you refuse?

Flames spark at your palms, burning away the thick material of your gloves to free your hands. A freezing chill gnaws on your burning fingers and harkens the arrival of something that slinks out of your heart like crude oil, bulging and molding itself to your veins as it crawls to your palms. Darkness consumes the orange glow of your magic, leaving behind little pitch black candlelight flames burning at your fingertips. 'Flames' is a bad word to describe them when they suck the light around them; it's like looking at black silhouettes in the approximation of fire, painted straight onto reality by a child's hand.

A magic circle spirals beneath you, glowing bright blue and stinking of enemy magic. You can just about hear the chanting of spells near you, more circles appearing on either side of you, trapping you.

"Beelzebub," You mutter under your breath, not out of need — you've long since mastered the art of wordless magic — but out of respect. "Devour."

2 measly words is all it takes for the black fires to shoot straight up like the fangs of a beast, leaping off your fingers in wide arcs and creating a quickly expanding perimeter around you, circling like sharks as they rush outwards. The meticulously crafted circles shatter like glass, hundreds of little shards of visible mana fluttering around you for a second before they're swallowed up by the black fires.

Beelzebub is a ravenous spell, lashing out at everything around you with the sole intent to consume, to devour every little bit of mana in an endlessly fruitless attempt to sate its hunger. Regardless, if said mana has already been made into a spell, of it's still inside a person.

You don't see it, but you know the exact moment Beelzebub finds the enemy mages, screams of horror and pain filling the air as black flames descend on them like bloodhounds. You can feel Beelzebub's freezing claws tear into them, leaving the flesh unharmed but tearing their mana out bit by bit, devouring it, syphoning the power back to you.

Once, long ago, the acrid rush of foreign mana through your system would have knocked you on your ass, now it just forces you to sway and lean against the warehouse wall. Long ago, the way stolen mana gnaws on your veins and claws at your chest for escape would have left you writhing on the floor, but now you can barely feel it. Your stomach cramps, the urge to vomit still as strong as it was back then, your senses registering all the rot; people don't think about how many forms rot can take — decaying kelp, festering flesh, acid rain, gangrene, moldy wall paper — hundreds of little deaths making up the very essence mages depend on.

Your body begs to use magic before you explode, muscles tensing, chest fluttering, ribs squeezing down on your lungs in an attempt to keep the stolen mana imprisoned. Sweet relief floods your mind as the searing heat of your own magic pushes the stolen mana through your veins, herding it into your palms where you can easily reshape it into something familiar to you: Ash.

Pushing off the wall you rush into the open, using Beelzebub's flames to burn the lines of the attack circle into the ground. The thinning steam lets you catch sight of enemies rounding the warehouses in front of you, likely human or monster since Beelzebub would have taken mages closest to you out of commission. You don't ponder this further, the second the final line is drawn you use Beelzebub as a transition point and push all the stolen mana out.

The docks erupt in a puff of disorientating ash. You don't waste time waiting for someone to fire the shot needed to ignite your magic, falling to your knee as you punch the ground. All it takes is for the chips of volcanic rock along your knuckles to scrape against the concrete for a spark to form.

The resulting explosion is never pleasant.

The sudden surge of light and the loud bang! leaves you disorientated for a few seconds, your skin dry yet clammy as if you has just got sprayed by a flash flood of boiling water. Tiny chisels pick at your bones as you stumble to your feet, trying to sculpt you into something holier than what you are.

But you can't complain when the same explosion tears through soldiers like they're paper, not even leaving behind blood to stain you when the harsh heat cremates the bodies closest to you. Your lungs struggle to get in a good breath, the stench of smog and burning meat passing through the filter and clinging to your tongue. You can hear your enemies coughing, you can feel them moving through the smog in search for you, but your ash is so thick it completely hides you, giving you a few seconds to think.

Thousands of thoughts roll around your skull, but one stands out — Khaled finally betrayed you.

Fire shoots out from beyond the ash at you. Your body moves instinctively as you throw your hand up to guard your head and turn away. The hot flames lick harmlessly over your skin, too similar to the heat inside you to harm you, so all it can do is burn your outer clothes until your shirt and bulletproof vest peek out beneath the large smoldering holes.

You get a second to catch sight of sharp curving horns and predatory blue eyes staring at you from the ash, the smog shifting around a rapidly approaching figure. Next thing you know something hard hits you right in the stomach, fast and unyielding like a truck.

Your skin and muscles ripple under the fist, you feel and hear your ribs crack! under the immense strength right before the punch flings you back like a ragdoll.

You crash into a warehouse wall, the metal denting in the shape of your back as more bones crack. Pain flares through your body, your tongue, caught between your teeth, bleeds peppery acrid blood into your mouth. You gasp for breath as much as you're able to, chest weakly fluttering like a butterfly's wing as you find yourself unable to take in a deep breath.

Then a sickening crack! rings right behind your eardrums as your magic pulls out the rib piercing your lung, pushing on it until it fully expands and you can breathe again. Heat slithers through your body to glue together broken bones and torn muscles, repairing you as if nothing ever happened. You're on your feet in seconds, the ripple in the ash giving you enough warning to lunge out of the way before another stream of flames can wash over you. You send your own in return, a magic circle forming in front of you before spewing out a beam of concentrated flame. The force behind it causes the lingering ash to disperse, giving you better sight of your opponent—

Dragon.

Of course your luck has to be so dogshit you'd get a fucking dragon sicked on you. What's next, a damn stone-skinned goliath? Maybe a leviathan to really fuck you over?

You bend your knees as you summon a magic circle beneath your feet. The ash erupts with such force it sends you careening through the air, launching you into the ash free air above you. You're close enough to a warehouse to grasp the jutting out metal sheet of the steel roof, your muscles tensing as you haul yourself up.

Quickly wiping away the ash stuck to your helmet lenses your eyes instinctively look up to search the sky, the bright spotlights of the docks making the night so much darker. If a dragon's after you then there's a high likelihood there are more monsters, and those rarely come without at least one flyer in their team.

The subtle, unnatural, flutter of distant stars across the dark sky gives you enough incentive to throw up a fiery shield, retreating further back onto the roof. Feathers sharp as knives burn to cinders in your flames, some stragglers imbedding themselves near your feet, easily slicing through the steel roof; Harpy.

You can't tell what kind it is, probably a common variety, but it doesn't really matter so long as you can clip the bird's wings.

Mana floods into your eyes as you use a mana sensing spell. The sky lights up like an aurora borealis, the ground below explodes in all sorts of nauseating colors that makes a headache pound against your skull. But it's worth it when the body of the harpy lights up like a lightbulb, contrasting sharply against the sky, it's wings making for the perfect target.

You know harpies are fast fliers. It forces you to give up some firepower in exchange for a homing ability. Changing a spell is an easy thing to do, mentally erasing and adding a couple of lines in your circle before you summon it. You disable your mana sight so you don't blind yourself and let your magic loose, firing off 4 tightly packed balls of fire in rapid order.

You don't stick around to see it try to dodge your magic, turning to your heel to race across the roof after you flood the earth bellow with even more ash. You need to escape; you could try to kill the monsters, you doubt they have anything worse than that dragon, but you have bigger problems — you can't let an enemy like Khaled live.

Something catches your leg like you're a rabbit in a snare, an unforgettable cold creeping up your skin to gnaw on your brain. Ethereal shadows curl like ropes around your ankle and pull you down before you can burn them away. You tumble to the steel roof and blindly summon flames around you, rolling to your side the moment you get yourself free and just barely managing to avoid your own shadow trying to skewer you.

You burn away the shadowy spikes sticking out from the ground, flames flaring up around you to momentarily distract your opponent as you get to your feet. Your eyes settle on the one that tripped you; big fucker, tall and wide, half wreathed in shadows, a skull mask peering at your from the darkness. Your spine feels like it wants to crawl out of your back, the silence of the grave ringing in your ears when you go to sense his magic and pick up nothing.

The same nothing that makes up Beelzebub. Furious. Hungry. Dead.

Wraith. You are facing a Wraith.

Not a goliath, not a leviathan. Worse. Much, much worse.

You have no shot at outrunning that thing when your own shadow can betray you, not to mention the wraith's range is far larger than yours in the dead of night. You have no choice but to charge at him, a circle forming beneath your heel and ash bursting out to launch you forward, your magic burning hot and bright to produce as much light as you can in an attempt to limit the shadows he can use.

Flames wreathe your fist as you throw a punch to his side, your sudden advance taking him off guard just enough for you to hit him, fire eating away at tactical gear to gnaw on the dead flesh. It forces a grunt out of him before shadows spew out from where you hit him to engulf your arm, leaving you open for a sharp knee to the gut. Your hands flare up, volcanic stone melting into active lava to burn away the shadows holding you. A pillar of flame erupts between you two to force him back, but whips of shadow shoot through the fire in quick retaliation. You duck and roll, adrenaline rushing through your veins like a feral hound as you charge at him again.

Shadows and flames are both volatile and taxing, making you two employ similar tactics: rush and overwhelm your opponent. You have to admit, the wraith is fucking good; he's not an oaf despite his size, using it to his advantage and giving you no reprieve from the constant jabs, trying to bully you into a position where you'd be open for his shadows to pierce your flesh.

But you're faster, ducking and weaving between his blows, mana pulsing through your blood and strengthening your muscles when they think of failing you down. You can almost hear Jackal shouting at you for being too slow.

Your flames are an extension of you, you trust them to clash with his shadows so you can focus purely on the Wraith. You can tell he's getting annoyed when you duck under another swing and jab your elbow into his ribs, the un-melted rocks covering your joint much more painful than actual bone. And that's before magic shoots out from your elbow, flames burning away both of your clothes and creating a sizable blistering wound on his side.

"Fucker," His shadows flare out to put out your flames, "Stay still." You catch a hind of a British accent in his rough voice, unable to get any more as liquid shadows roll of his shoulders and shoot out at you. You're forced to stumble back in an attempt to avoid the shadows trying to claw your face off, your heel ending right on the edge of the roof.

There's a small space between the edge you're standing on and the start of the roof of the warehouse adjacent to this one, the space big enough for you to fall through if you're not careful. The fall itself wouldn't be pleasant either. Your jaw clenches harder and you swing your arm down in an arch, summoning dozens of palm sized circles and shooting out bolts of concentrated flame through the shroud of darkness. Some of them hit him and force black smoke to fizzle out from the wounds you inflict on him, his shadows repairing the walking corpse the same way your magic does to you.

That's not good. While you could go hours, you'll run out of the mana you'll need to take out Khaled if you continue this attempt to put the wraith down. Beelzebub's cold flame simmers in your heart, begging to be set free. You'd rather not use it again when the closest mana source is a wraith — a dead thing full of unfiltered rot — god forbid it triggers the only spell you've sworn not to use, but you don't think you have many other options.

Just as Beelzebub readies to crawl from your heart something else grabs your foot, sharp claws digging into your skin and jerking you down. You buck forward and nearly fall face first, throwing your head to look at the thing that's caught you. A man has half hoisted himself up on the roof, clothes torn and barely hanging on to his frame, a gas mask obscuring his face, one clawed hand gripping the steel to keep himself up as the other has your leg in an iron grip that leaves your bones groaning.

You notice the man's elongated ears and gleaming blue eyes as those of a werewolf. Those blue eyes widen to the size of dinner plates when you summon a magic circle point black with his head, the reflective orange glow of your magic swallowing up all the color his eyes.

Shadows shoot out into the space between his head and your circle, devouring the ball of flames you shoot out so the worst the wolf gets is a face full of smoke and singed hair. You turn your body back to face the wrath, throwing up both hands to summon different circles to take both out, but you're too slow. Whips of shadow shoot out and hit you dead center in the chest. The force sends you crashing back, the dumb wolf holding onto your leg pulled down with you.

You crash through the window of the other warehouse and straight down to the ground. The fall forces a loud wheeze from your lungs as large glass shards embed themselves into your back and shoulders where the bulletproof vest doesn't reach. Your ribs crackle like popcorn as magic heals them, but the pain from constantly getting them broken and repaired is starting to linger.

Dark brown fur flickers in the periphery of your vision, the sensation of a heavy body bearing down on your own snapping you back to action. You throw your arm up, the sharp fangs meant for your throat biting down on your forearm. You don't feel pain there, but a sick sense of satisfaction bubbles in your stomach as you get the first row view of your assailant registering the blistering head of your mage marks against the tender flesh of his mouth.

He yelps like a kicked dog as he releases your forearm. With a grunt you grip his shoulders, the patches of fur there smoldering the few brief seconds it takes you to gather enough strength to throw the heavy mutt off you. You stumble to your knees quickly, forced to dampen your healing abilities. The glass shards dig deeper into your muscles as you move, but the threat of them exploding from the heat of your magic prevents you from doing healing your wounds; the best you can do is dull the pain.

The warehouse is dark, but the mana in your eyes gives you a rudimentary night vision, letting you see the werewolf scramble to his own feet, spitting saliva and curses at you, "Aw ye fockin' bawbag! I-"

The rest of his words fail to reach your brain as you register the ignited remains of your ash blanketing the ground, making it impossible to see your feet bellow your knees. The scent of melting steel and smoke invades your nose, your mind taking this as the most opportune time to replace the metal ceiling high above you with hundreds of feet of rubble. Your chest tightens, the wide walls of the warehouse closing in until you feel like there's no space to move.

You're trapped. Again.

Your eyes flicker around in search for an escape, flames sparking from your fingers to burn all the way up to your shoulders, your mage marks burning hot and bright in the darkness. There! — at the very back of the warehouse you spy a motorcycle, your way out. Only a werewolf stands between it and you. It's true what Taurus used to tell you: freedom is a rope and God wants you to hang from it.

Steeling yourself, your hands reach out to grasp the knives you keep strapped to your shins, a subtle shift of the handles in your palms letting your magic flow freely into the steel.

Let him try to stop you.

. . .

Soap 's hackles raise, his fur feeling like it wants to leap off his tail. Such a deep and strong stench of rot permeates his senses his mind thinks he's the one decaying for a second. His eyes focuse on you as flames coat the knives in your hands and artificially extend the blades to give you better reach. Laswell's voice replays in his mind, telling him not to get close. Hell, he swears he can he can hear his ma's voice call him a bloody idjit for thinking of rushing at the fucking demon.

But his body still shifts further, bones snapping and reforming, muscles growing and the tattered remains of his shirt snapping off his torso as his body doubles in size. He can see his glowing eyes reflect in the tinted lenses of your mask before he rushes at you, body low to the ground before he leaps, claws bared.

You sidestep at the last second and raise your arm, the artificial blade of flames licking a blistering cut across his side. Pain shoots up his spine, his blood literally boiling as the fire both cuts him and cautarizes the wound.

"Focker-" He yelps and drops to all fours to dodge a second slash, leaping up and swinging his arm in an uppercut. His claws cut into the Kevlar as they scrape against the bulletproof vest instead of your skin, snagging on something around your neck and pulling it with him as you lean down and duck back to create distance.

Johnny doesn't get to check what it is when you immediately retaliate by throwing your knife at him. He quickly pockets what he got off you and tries to avoid the weapon but it still hits him in the shoulder, hot flames burning at his skin to let the metal slide in deeper. "Bastard-" He snarls but before he can do anything you're next to him, ripping the knife from his shoulder as you duck past him to slash at the back of his knee.

Soap yelps from the pain as he tumbles forward, turning his body as he falls to roughly swipe at you with his superior reach. The force behind his swing makes you stumble, giving his body the few seconds it needs to regenerate. He rolls to all fours, muscles tensing to lunge again— a sense of wrongness shoots down his spine, forcing him to pause.

A pillar of flames erupts from the ground where he would have been had he lunged at you, the bright light blinding him. When he can see again, he catches your form on top of one of the shipping containers, magical circles appearing as you run across the container to pelt him with balls of concentrated ash. The balls explode in large puffballs of ash as they hit the ground, his mind urging him to move to avoid getting a face full of ash. "Aw no yer fockin' not." He mutters under his breath, taking a few quick and wide steps before he leaps onto the shipping container to escape the suffocating smog, racing after you on all fours.

This proves to be a mistake as you suddenly turn around, thrusting your hand out to cast a giant circle right in front of his eyes. Claws digging into the metal Soap throws himself to his side just as a beam of flames shoots out, singeing his furry tail and forcing a strangled gasp out of his lips as a bit of his thigh gets caught in the blast of fire.

He crashes to the concrete ground, the scent rot curling in his nose as the ash swirls over him, but can't reach his lungs thanks to the gas mask. Johnny's leg muscles twitch, his though skin blistered and red like a tomato, the tattered remains of his pants partially burned into his skin. He struggles to get to his knees, pain stabbing his skin as his body tries to heal, watching through blurry eyes as you reach your target — the motorcycle.

The engine revs to life and you get on it without wasting a second. A violent sensation rushes down his spine as you summon another circle, this one so big it stretches across the entire back wall of the warehouse. In a second the metal heats up to the point it's glowing, solid steel turning into molten slag and dropping to the ground like melting snow. Soap's mind stutters when you flip him off before racing away, shouting and gunfire audible but quickly growing quiet as you get away.

Fucking Bastard.

"So- Soap! H-ghr!- ow co-kghr-ppy?" Price's voice crackles through the radio, barely understandable thanks to how much magic is floating around him.

He groans, sucking in a sharp breath. "Still alive." He grinds out. Rapidly approaching footsteps make him stumble to stand, a threatening growl erupting from his throat.

"Just me." Ghost's voice makes him instantly calm down. His body presses against Johnny's and Soap lets himself put his weight on Ghost. "You broken?" Ghost asks, slipping Johnny's arm over his shoulder and gripping his waist, easily holding him up despite Johnny being nearly twice his size currently.

Johnny tries to breathe in deep with the gas mask restricting his lungs, "Just me pride." He glances down to his leg, the wound glistening with clear fluid and still blistered, his healing factor not even making a dent in it. "Fucker got me good." His ears twitch,

"We'll track 'em down." Ghost grunts as he helps Soap limp out of the ash filled warehouse, safe from the magic as he doesn't need to breathe. "I stuck a tracker, they're not getting far."

"Fockin' hope so, ah got a score to settle an' the bawbag flipped me off for fuck—" A thought comes to him. The tattered remains of his pants have pockets high up so he doesn't tear them when he transforms. He reaches into the pocket and pulls the thing he'd accidentally nicked off you. Johnny lifts it up so both of them can see the chain hanging off his fingers, a little more than a dozen dog tags dangling from it.

Even with the gas mask obscuring part of his face, Ghost knows Johnny's smirking. "Bet you Laswell will love this."

Tag list: @resident-cryptid @diejager @lovingtyrantkitten @lieutnt @lilpothoscuttings @krystiannng @crankyweasel @ashy-kit @fyolaizs @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aldis-nuts @whoislucas @birdiiiiiiiiiii

Masterlist; Chapter 1 <- Chapter 2(you are here) -> Chapter 3

[konigsblog]

THAT LAST PRICE THING DID SOMETHING TO ME. Price x pregnant reader....... omg

i'm assuming you're talking about the forced pregnancy, john price x pregnant reader post... i have some more thots™️... (with a different theme, not a breeding kink !!)

cw: forced pregnancy, tampering with contraception, baby trapping.

dead dove: do not eat - dark content. mdni.

john price could tell your relationship was on the edge of falling apart. with constant screaming matches and arguments over silly things, never getting resolved ‘til you two fucked your frustration out on one another. price couldn't fathom the idea of being alone, in a world full of isolation without his significant other. it didn't matter how he'd yell at you for being useless, he truly didn't mean it at the sound of your relationship falling apart.

how could he save his relationship? any normal person would go to couple therapy together in the hopes to resolve it, or maybe talk it out... but, john wasn't normal; he was someone that found joy in getting revenge on his enemies. that's not considered normal, or at least by anyone other than john himself...

so, he decided he'd have to trap you, convince you to stay with him. after an argument, he'd wait for you to come crawling to him, angry and horny, wanting to fuck the aggressive out of each other instead of talking about the problem to properly fix it. he'd begun tampering with the condoms, hiding your birth control, distracting you, etc... and soon enough, he had you on the bed, legs spread out, taking every fat glob of his hot load.

he did feel remorse when he saw your eyes glistening, shaking and putting on a fake smile after showing him the pregnancy test. he knew this was toxic, but seeing your stomach swell and grow each day, watching you hide your pathetic frown, finally having you trapped, it was all enough for john to treat you like an actual human, and not just a puppet on strings, his pet to toy with and tease...

[iicheeze]

Genshin SAGAU except Reader is a lore fanatic

cw: lore dump, archon quest spoilers, side quest spoilers, etc

“ guys did u know that the Sea Ganoderma is actually souls of children who died young trapped and is forced to spend generations absorbing elements from the sand and sea as the form of punishment?? ” “ what the fuck your grace. ” Tighnari muttered.

“yelan, i know where u got ur jacket. ” “ o- oh, really, Your Grace? ” Yelan stuttered, sweat dropping. “ Yeah, i know u stole it from a Fatui Harbinger that was supposed to be a gift for the Tsaritsa and made some 'adjustments' to make it fit your style. ” you stated with a smirk, while yelan tries to hold in her cries because you rlly are a Divine Being, knowing everything about Teyvat.

Archon quest spoilers down ahead

“ Guys, I have a theory that the upside down Statue of the Seven and city the Traveler and Paimon saw are actually the correct way and that proves it because when I took a walk at Spiral Abyss when I went down I expected it to be pitch black but instead I'm met with the galaxy sky and a moon and possibly, Khaenri 'ah and Enkanomiya are the ones that are actually in the surface, while Teyvat is underground and yknow what? Scaramouche is RIGHT. The stars are fake the sky is fake everything is fake as we know of HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA ” your maniacal laughter echoed through the Akademiya as many Researchers are baffled by this amount of information

“ Alhaitham, do you have a second? ” “ Of course, Your grace. What is it? ” “ Are you the Scarlet King ” “ ........ excuse me ”

“ WELL i noticed that the color of your eyes matches the Scarlet King's eyes, and your boots matches the color of the buildings of the Scarlet King's Civilization. A blue gem appeared when the Scarlet King sacrificed himself and it kinda looked like the gems at your back. And when you do your burst it looks REALLY similar to the Primal Constructs’ attacks, and the Primal Constructs are what's left of the Scarlet King's civilization. And at your chest it looks like it has the wings of an eagle, and your name literally means young eagle. What does this have to do with the Scarlet King? Well, at the Dunes I've ventured, I've seen murals and a figure with a bird head and it could possibly be the Scarlet King but it strangely reminded me of you!!! Plus, you know how to use the devices made by the Scarlet King, whereas the books and researchers at the Akademiya shows no information on how to properly use them. Pretty suspicious...... ”

and then theres alhaitham sweating his balls off on how the hell did you get that information.

“ guys, did you know that when Enkanomiya was plunged deep into the ocean, they created a fake sun called Helios to survive, right??? But actually, the nobles wanted more power. They wanted a puppet or ruler that they could easily control or manipulate. And WHO WOULD MAKE A GOOD CANDIDATE??? THAT'S RIGHT! A CHILD. AND THUS, BEGIN THE REIGN OF THE SUNCHILDREN. They were young and ignorant, obviously easy to be deceived and lied to. They were manipulated to commit heinous deeds. The first Sunchild was deceived to imprisoning his role model for life, aka isolated from everyone. The sunchildren were DESPISED by their own people, EVEN THE CARETAKERS ARENT ALLOWED TO SPEAK TO THEM. Knowing that the Sunchildren could realize that they were being manipulated, the nobles then introduced Rite of Solar Return. Now what the hell is a Rite of Solar Return??? Basically, when a Sunchild hits a certain age, they will be taken into the inner sanctum of Helios. The artificial Sun's high temperature could AND WOULD incinerate them alive!!!!! AND SOMEHOW, SOME HAVE SIMILARITIES WITH OUR CURRENT ARCHONS!!! Orupeusu had a talent for the lyre, aka the Anemo Archon. Risutaiosu made lifelike sculptures, like the Electro Archon. And Isumenasu would roam his country, AND EVEN HAD A SPEAR LIKE THE GEO ARCHON AT HIS GRAVE!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA I AM A GENIUS ”

the fact that people would still listen to your rants about Teyvat but still be concerned about your mental health is hilarious

if you werent the Divine Being of All, they would've locked you up where no one can find you, you know

Dottore would like you tho

so that's good

[cometkenji]

the warm spot at the bottom of the stairs

Pairing: Ghost!Spencer Reid x Chubby!Fem!Reader CW: Fluff, Mild Angst, Soulmate AU, reader has dreams, mentions of sex/masturbation, mentions of death, cursing, reader feels like she knows him but they've never met, let me know if I missed anything please! Summary: After inheriting your grandfather's estate, you fall in love with the man from your dreams. He just so happens to be in your house, too. Disclaimer: Reader is always written with a chubby/bigger person in mind but in this she's literally not described aside from the fact that she has hips, a stomach, and legs on her body. WC: 9k (this is what happens when you let a man cook) This fic is genuinely my baby. I love soulmate aus with all my heart and soul and also love the dynamic of falling in love with a ghost. Enjoy this please, I tried <3

You swore the heat radiating off the sidewalk was enough to melt the soles of your shoes down to liquid. The sun was unforgivably angry today, glaring down at the world like it had a score to settle. You were less than thankful, as the death of your grandfather had stolen any desire you once held for warmth. The brutal dichotomy of the cold pit sitting in your stomach and the burning heat of the day only added to the sour taste in your mouth.

This house was fucking huge. 

You had no idea how your grandfather managed to hide such an enormous investment from everyone in his life but he’d managed the task seamlessly. Nobody even knew what he was giving you at first. The reading of the will and testimony left nothing but confused relatives until they had found the address that marked the estate. Some were jealous of you, some were confused, some even asked if they could come live with you once you got settled in. You had been absolutely floored when you learned he’d given you a house. Being fresh out of university, you were moving on to grad school while simultaneously preparing yourself to live with your mother until you could afford anything besides student debt payments. 

Now though, you had a castle, with no clue why a house this big was given to you of all people. You were your grandpa’s only grandchild and were by far one of the least deserving of such a generosity. Sure, you were close, but never abnormally close. You talked once a week on the phone and were glued to his side at family gatherings - but he saw your aunt everyday, and spoke with your mother much more than he ever did you. Was it pity? Maybe he saw this as the only plausible way of you escaping the fate of leeching off your mother. Hopefully he didn’t think of you so lowly. 

You mentally cursed at the dull ache in your legs that persisted even after stretching. You had been driving all day with a car packed full of stuff that needed to be hauled into the house, and only yourself to move said stuff. You said a short plea in your head to not let the pain hinder your speed and began walking into the house to view the inside. The estate was isolated, huge fences of greenery surrounded the place, adding to the pleasant sight of budding flowers throughout the front yard. Even without the towering hedges, though, the nearest neighbor was miles away. Great, you thought. Any concerns of your car being robbed while you were gone were extinguished as quick as they came, but you locked the car regardless. Force of habit. 

The heat was only lessened slightly when you reached the interior. You made a mental note to get the A.C. turned on, no way a temperature like this was a liveable one. You’re sure the numerous floor-to-ceiling windows were the culprit. They were excessive. Beautiful - of course - and you were thrilled at the amount of light they let in, but you could basically see the heatwaves permeating through the stained glass. Your eyes caught on the odd choice. The slightly colored glass making the mansion feel mildly like a church, the thought coming to you quickly and stripping any of the minimal comfort you held moments prior. That’s weird, you thought. Your grandpa had never been particularly religious. He was a man of faith - said grace before dinner and thanked Jesus for every day he lived, but never to this extent. He was rather progressive for a man his age.

The kitchen could have easily fit a team of 12 and you wondered if there had been staff at one point. There was no sign of any employees, and you prayed there weren’t any left working. The last thing you wanted was more responsibility in your life. You took your time walking the house, marveling at every painting and polished chandelier that was now an asset of yours. The house was gorgeous, you’d give at least that much to the old man. The centerpiece, of course, was the large spiral staircase leading to the second floor. As large as the house was, it held only two stories. Getting it’s square footage from length, rather than width. It was equally as glamorous as the house it resided in, however it filled you with a certain devastation you couldn’t place. As though your most primal self rejected the idea of it. That’s silly, you thought. You wanted to go upstairs, you were definitely not avoiding half of your house because a couple of your neck hairs stood at attention. The only real peculiarity was the heat pooling at the very bottom of the staircase. The kind of heat that seemed to thread itself into you, intertwine itself with your very being. The rest of the house was cold and accusatory, if your grandfather ever did live here, any of his warmth was flushed out by his death. This was the only spot in the whole house you felt calm, cared for. You could bask in it, weirdly fascinated with the little pocket of humanity that sat there. 

It was more difficult than you’d expected to pull yourself out of it, and you could have sworn you felt arms trying to pull you back in. Ten minutes into your new life and you were already on edge. Negative feelings didn’t seem to penetrate the spot at the bottom of the stairs, so you physically felt the wave of unease when it struck you upon exiting. The upstairs was creepy. The abundance of windows was apparently only a trend on the first floor, as the second floor held dark, dim hallways. The whole thing, it seemed, was lit up by ancient lamps that lined the walls. It reminded you of the Shining, and you wondered briefly if maybe your mother would let you move back in. There was a bedroom right near the staircase, and you decided it would be yours. It could have been the smallest one for all you knew, the only thing you cared about was a quick escape if such a thing was needed. Something about the house put thoughts like that at the front of your mind. 

You don’t recall ever being a paranoid person, nor a believer in the supernatural, but this house was watching you. The feeling of eyes on you was simply too strong to write off. What a warm welcome. 

—

It had been a week, but the nights so far had been sleepless ones. The people you called on day one were just now getting around to starting the A.C. so you were hoping for a decent rest tonight. The fridge was stocked, your things mainly unpacked, and the house started feeling a little more like you with each day. Although, your friends were more or less convinced there was a ghost living with you. You spoke of the feelings you had, plus the fact it was an old and mildly creepy house, and they were off and running with theories. One of the tamer ones consisted of the house being an old church - given the windows - and that the eyes you were feeling were perhaps an old priest who died here. You were less than fond of that idea, but you would take it any day to the other propositions of old mental hospitals and certain death. You made a mental note to never again let your friends speculate on situations you couldn’t get out of.

You argued that a malevolent spirit wouldn’t invoke such a comforting sense within you. You felt watched - yes - but it wasn’t as though you felt stalked. It was much worse, actually, you felt lonely. Loneliness was never a battle you fought very hard in. You had hobbies, and you had friends. The desire for a romantic companion usually took the back burner if it was even a thought at all. People questioned the topic - you were pretty, smart, capable - what more could somebody want? They asked if you were insecure, if you liked girls, told you that you were wasting your “prime years” and needed to find someone - but it was never that simple. You just didn’t get it. The feelings others spoke of were unfamiliar ones to you. You held your breath for a long time before realizing that it probably just wasn’t for you, that you were built a little differently.

Needless to say, you were uncomfortable with the sudden sensation. It felt like seeing the moon in a glass jar - something unfathomably beautiful but something you were unable to hold. Lord knows it wasn’t from a lack of desire, though. You’re sure you reeked of longing, able to suppress the lot of it but unable to stop some from slipping through the cracks of your fingers. And with no obvious direction to cast it, it just clung to you and seeped back into your skin. 

–

“No, dude, I’m telling you shit’s fucking weird.” You shoveled popcorn into your mouth as you spoke with your friend. This was the third call since you moved in. “Every night I wake up at like two in the morning and just for a split second I feel it. It’s like I'm lying on someone’s shoulder or something. And - oh my god - the amount of times I get stuck in that fucking warm spot on the stairs is gonna drive me crazy.” 

You could hear her laughing at your frustration on the other end. “What do you mean you get stuck? Y/n I'm getting worried about your mental state.” 

“No I’m telling you, I walk in this one - like - warm spot and I enter some kind of trance. Like I want to leave but I can’t - Jesus!”

“Are you alright?” Your friend was quick to ask, hearing you cut yourself off mid sentence. 

“No! This shit is haunted I swear. My kitchen lights just turned off for no reason. If I die here I’m blaming you and Kelly for not getting me out.” You were being dramatic, you knew that, but it was starting to feel justified. You don’t remember a time in the last week you felt truly by yourself.

“Hey don’t blame us for your own choi-” She started speaking, but you lost her. 

“Hello? You there?” You tried calling her again but the usual buzz of the dial tone was dead silent, the lamps that were illuminating the house followed soon after. Phone lines were the first to go in a power outing. No fucking way the power just went out. You felt around in the dark for the drawer of the end table. There had been a flashlight on the counter when you’d first arrived. You threw it in the end table because you had no clue why it was there - you were thanking God you’d done so while also praying the thing had batteries in it. You wrapped your hand around the object and said one more plea to the stars you wouldn’t have to be without light until tomorrow. Somebody must have been listening, as the room lit up when you hit the ‘on’ switch of the flashlight. 

You’d seen the fuse box towards the south end of the upstairs hallway, sitting between a Da Vinci replica and a mirror taken straight from a movie star's wet dream. I’m gonna die was the only thing you could think at a moment like this. You were for sure going to see glowing red eyes at the end of the hall and die a horrific and bloody death. Thanks grandpa. The warm spot was a welcome refuge from your journey to certain death, and you embraced the sense of  peace it brought you at a time when your heart was surely beating too fast. You held the light in front of you as you ventured up the stairs. The top of them seemed cartoonishly haunting, you thought momentarily that you would fit perfectly into a Scooby Doo episode. It was vast and dark, having multiple pathways you could walk down, but you set your sights on the south hall and did your best to disable your peripheral vision. It was right there. You just had to reset the power and you’d have your precious light back. Who puts a fucking mirror above a fuse box? 

You held the flashlight between your teeth as you focused on your task. Open and reset. Open and reset. It was truly as simple as that and then you could be done. Go watch a midnight rerun on TV and pray that the spirits would leave you alone. Open and reset. The switches were flipped off - you didn’t think that was normal but what did you know - so you flipped them back on and heard the hum of life returning to the house. Thank God. Your nerves dissipated almost immediately. You were alright, no ghost had it out for you. It’s an old house, and would probably experience things like this a lot. You could do that again if you had to. You looked up, though, and ate your words. There was definitely a man behind you. If you had been trying to look at him, you would have seen he was young, tall. You probably would have thought he was attractive, but you had no time for that. You whirled around, yelping at the sight of him and mentally preparing to defend your life. It proved futile though, he was gone as quickly as he came. There was nowhere he could have gone that fast, so as much as you were certain he was there, you settled for him being imaginary. It was dark upstairs, and you were scared out of your mind. Surely your eyes were overcompensating for the paranoia that was racing through you. You walked back to the couch on guard and decided to call your friend back tomorrow. It was nearly twelve, and you knew she had work tomorrow. You could cope using TV and proper lighting to comfort you until sunrise. What’s one more sleepless night?

“You boys let me know if you need anything.” You heard the words in your own voice as if listening to a stranger. 

“Sure thing, doll.” All the men were in uniform. Gray fabric covered their bodies, adorned with hats of the same color. Soldiers.

You walked back behind the front counter as the bell above the door continuously chimed at the arrival of new guests. Orders were being shouted to the cooks. You stared at the bold letters painted on the large graffiti piece decorating the wall, “Cathy’s Cooking.” A greasy apron covered the light blue dress beneath it - waitress attire. The smell of fried eggs clashed hard with the scent of sanitizer you were using to wipe down the counter. Bells rang to signal orders were ready to be taken out to guests, and you discarded the rag you used to mop up spilled coffee. 

“Thanks, Benny.” You nodded to the chef as you took the food plates to table two. He nodded back at you before returning to flipping bacon. 

“L/N!” Your manager barked at you. “Take your break. Be back in thirty.” He was a friendly man, though he got a bit hostile under pressure. 

You couldn’t be more thankful for the break. It was hour 6 of your shift and you were beginning to think he might never let you off. You removed the apron as quick as possible and excused yourself out the back entrance to cool off in the alley way. It got hot as hell during rush hour, so the way the slight breeze nipped your cheeks felt like heaven. 

“Tough shift?”

“Jesus!”

He started laughing as you startled, turning to face him. “‘Fraid it’s just me, honey.” He walked towards you as you grinned at him.

“You scared me, Spence.” 

He shook his head, mocking you. “I’m so sorry.” Drama queen. “How ever will I make it up to you?”

You giggled at that, and wrapped your arms around his neck as he got closer. He put his hands on your hips, leaning you against the brick wall of the alley. You could feel your lungs open up when he kissed you, always feeling like you could breathe better when his lips were on yours. He was your God given destresser. He still donned his uniform but had opted for taking the hat off, he knew you hated when his hair was hidden.

“That’s not very nice, Reid. I thought you were a gentleman. What would your boys think of you being so mean to a lady?”

He smiled a bit at that. “You like when I’m a little mean, Y/N.” 

Fuck. He had you there. 

You looked to the side for a second to snuff out some of the tension. “How long are you here for?”

“We’re in town for two weeks. Gotta catch a boat up to base 14 on the 20th. Supposedly they’re preparing for a big fight.”

You frowned as you made eye contact with him.“I get so worried about you. About all of you. I don’t know what I’d do if - you know if something happened.” He’d been a soldier for a little while now, joining when he turned 18. He’d kept his hands on your hips, and you started to run your hands through his hair, a nervous habit you picked up when the two of you first got together.

“I know, honey. But by the time it’s done I’ll be off my leash. I do this and we can run away together.”

You looked at him the way you always did - with such admiration and love that he often had to look away before it went to his head. He swore he looked at you the same, but you knew deep down nobody could love anyone as much as you loved him. You laughed a bit at the elation you got from just his presence. 

“I got lucky with you, Reid.”

He just shook his head. “Give yourself more credit, L/n.”

Your consciousness hit you like a truck and you realized before long that sun was shining through the windows. You’d fallen asleep sometime between ultimate terror and fleeting hope of your survival. And that dream - dear lord what the fuck was that dream. It was more vivid than you thought possible. You always forget most of your dreams when you wake up, but this time it felt like forgetting would be a betrayal. You could recall word for word every single thing about that dream. It was as though you saw a movie of your own life. A feeling so familiar you could taste it but just far enough to escape your grasp - and boy were you reaching. Not to mention the man. You didn’t know if this was some sort of coping mechanism you were inventing in your head but that was definitely the same man from the mirror last night. An imaginary friend. You had an imaginary friend as a grown woman. Terrific. 

–

“You’re never going to attract a suiter with such a tragic expression, my dear.” This had to be the third time your mother had roused this point in the past hour. 

“These dances are dreadful, idiotic nights of captivity that do nothing but mock the existence of genuine companionship.” The irony of you saying this while patting your cheeks with rose pigment was not lost on you. “Let me scrub myself raw and willingly restrain myself in hopes a man will see me and fall in love.” You spat out the last word with enough vitriol to hopefully drown yourself in. “Maybe he’ll like me so much he’ll lay claim and I can live on to be his housewife and half a person. How I've always dreamed of letting a man decide how much value I have.” You were flustered by the end of your spiel, looking at your mother through the large vanity with the tentative hope of a child asking for sweets. 

“You read too much, darling. Those little romance books of yours are nothing but nonsense.” She was a professional at writing you off by now. “You know plenty of women who are perfectly satisfied with their lives. This is how we do things, Y/n. I don’t understand why you insist on fighting it so intently.” 

She was never truly angry at your defiance, only tired. You could never tell if she was tired of you complaining or if she, like you, was tired of living this way. Your mother had married young - even for the times - and you knew your father left much to be desired in her life. They were basically repulsed by each other, only joining in union to produce a child. Your mother had been thrilled to have a daughter. Your father would trade you if he could, but he made do. The ultimate lack of affection between the two of them made you ill. You weren’t much older than your mother had been, you could very well end up trapped and child-bound in a loveless marriage.

“I would rather die alone than end up with my father.” You spoke, she sighed. 

“I know.”

You stared at her through the mirror for a moment longer, then you rose from your chair. Your makeup was done, your look now complete. You noticed your mother’s eyes start to well up at the sight of you and she started to walk closer. 

“My beautiful girl.” She smiled, forbidding the tears to venture down her cheeks, and held your shoulders. “You deserve a man who will worship you. Your future husband will be the luckiest man on planet Earth.” A gentle prompt, but a prompt nonetheless. You knew she loved you, but she carried more shame as you got older. Having only a daughter was something frowned upon, but having only a daughter hellbent on avoiding marriage was something that weighed on her. 

“I’ll see you in the carriage.” Then she was gone, kissing your cheek and taking her exit to go talk with the director of the communal ride. Carriage was being generous, it was more like a one-way wagon to the local suiter’s ball. You watched her leave with a sense of grief so intense it nearly toppled you. She deserved a man like that too. 

-

This was your third ball of the month. The pool of potential partners diminished with each one. People would often take whatever they could get, meaning less and less people even needed these nights anymore. You walked in with your mother, hand resting gently in the crook of her extended elbow. Your father stopped attending with the two of you a while ago. You believed he’d given up hope of a man ever choosing you - Lord knows he wouldn’t. Scanning the crowd, you saw little to look forward to. The music was pleasant, you would dance with a couple men who seemed bearable at best and criminal at worst, indulge in some of the enticing pastries and teas, and then you would leave. Back home until your mother dragged you out the following week for another one. With your current rate, you assumed you would end up marrying the vagabond that perused your neighboring streets. Taking another look around, you thought you might prefer that. 

You made your temporary home in a corner chair, letting your mother excitedly drag prospects up to you and watch dejectedly as they ruled you out as an option. You felt bad for her, considered caving in and finding a man to give you a child, but you remember swiftly how long the years take to pass when you’re miserable. The chair gave you a good view of the room, you could see the entrance and the dancefloor filled with enticing women waiting for men to notice them. You could feel the sweat start slicking your skin beneath the corset you wore. It was too hot in here. 

If you hadn’t been so determined to ignore the occasional advances of bored men, you would have missed the small group entering the area. Two women and two men, you wondered briefly if it was two couples, but discarded that thought. This wasn’t a place for couples. You felt your heart physically lurch at the sight of the last man in the row of four, as though your heart was running to greet an old friend. Had you seen him before? Surely you would have remembered such a visceral reaction. You averted your eyes before he could notice you. You don’t remember ever wanting to be noticed by a man - especially not this badly. You allowed yourself the escape of your own thoughts, getting lost in your head to pass the time and focus on anything other than what was probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. 

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

You looked up, he was standing above you. The chair next to you had been taken all night, the same woman had been sulking in her seat, and you found comfort in the fact someone else was unhappy to be here. She was gone now. Someone was definitely messing with you. 

“Not at all.”

Your mouth was drier than it had ever been. You wondered if your lips remained stained from the color you applied earlier. You’d done nothing but sit all night and yet you were praying nothing had happened to your makeup. 

“Why are you alone in a corner?” 

“Men tend to be repulsed by my pessimism. I also happen to hate it here. Serves for a less than desirable combination.” You refused to let your sudden attraction diminish your stubbornness. You hated the self-consciousness racing through you, no man had the right to take your assurance in yourself. 

“Why do you hate it here?” He wasn’t being mocking. He seemed - genuinely - a little sad at the thought of you being unhappy. 

“Well, sir, I am of the belief that these dances are nothing but congregations of people settling for lives that won’t make them happy. They trade excitement for safety as though the presence of security has to mean the presence of misery. I don’t think anyone can know the true meaning of love in our current state as a society.” You didn’t look at him as you spoke, instead staring out at the people dancing. “I hold no desire to settle. I am capable of making happiness on my own. Most men don’t like the thought of me not needing them.” 

You were almost positive you lost him. You were betting on him not being there when you looked, preparing yourself to bite the bullet and cope with tonight’s losses. Maybe your mother would agree to leave early. 

You heard him chuckle softly. “Sir.” He repeated your words, finding humor in the formality. “My name’s Spencer.” He added. “And I also happen to hate the purpose of these events. I’ve never actually been to one before, but I’m new to the city, and something about tonight was begging me to come out.” 

You were absolutely bewitched by him. “I’m Y/n.”

“Fitting.” He smiled, a smile directed at his own thoughts, as though something in his mind had clicked. “Will you dance with me?”

The music had slowed severely. You scoffed at his proposal, but you were taking his hand as if you’d been waiting on this. Maybe you had been. You were grateful for the ballad that was playing, never having been one for upbeat dancing. He led you gracefully, and for once you felt yourself relinquish power. With a mind like yours, a man’s company was almost never wanted. With this one, though, you laid your heart at his feet as if you’d done so a dozen times before. The heat of his hands was seeping through your dress, and his eyes were locked with yours. 

“I feel like I know you.” A confession. He had an effect like that.  

“Maybe you do.” 

–

Two in the morning. Everyday you’d woken up at two in the morning from a different dream involving the mysterious ‘Spencer Reid’. You friends had kindly dubbed him the “Man of your dreams” following the stories you told them. You’d been a housewife, trying to welcome him home from work before he laid you down and made an altar of your dining table.You’d been the daughter of a king, at one point, falling in love with his favored knight. Shamefully, that one haunted you. Reappearing in your mind during intimate times when you needed a spark. You’d never been one for desire either. When your friends started preaching the wonders of sex to you during your highschool days, you felt no pull towards the act. Just another it you didn’t understand. Now, though, this house served as an aphrodisiac. You lost count of your streak by day 13, and were now just begging whoever put this apparition in your home for the strength to keep your hand out of your pants. 

Spencer had become more like a roommate rather than an unwanted guest. You saw him in most reflective surfaces around the house. You felt him everywhere. He sat at the table with you, watched TV with you, he would wait by the door when you got home from work. Sometimes, your hand or your shoulder would run hot. Physically hot, like he was putting his hands on you. You wondered if he was around during those times, but if he was there he made sure you didn’t know it. You were gaining a sort of intuition for him. The thought Spencer would like that struck you numerous times when you were window shopping or when you tried on an outfit. You were starting to think maybe you were just crazy. Perhaps a ghost who seemed to be your soulmate and made you incredibly horny was how all psychotic breaks started. 

Weirdly, through your bizarre dreams and inconsistent sleeping patterns, this was the most well rested you’d felt in a while. Waking up at two am was routine now, sometimes you managed to fall back asleep afterwards but most times you were up dwelling on the images your mind had shown you that night. You thought maybe your body was just adjusting - surely it was nothing supernatural giving you energy - just the adaptivity of the human brain. One persistent thing you couldn’t adapt to, though, was how much you missed him. The increasing number of times you woke up to being the only occupant of your bed was starting to wear you down. You feel like you’d spent lifetimes with this man and yet he was someone you never knew. You'd seen the two of you fall in love countless different ways except the one that actually counted - the present. 

“I genuinely don’t know how much longer I can do this.” Another phone call, another conversation about your rapidly declining mental state. “I have fallen in love with a figment of my own imagination. Surely this is some demented form of narcissism.”

“I don’t think it works like that, Y/n.” Your friend was terrible at comforting people. It probably didn’t help that you hadn’t been fully honest with her about the severity of your situation. From where she was standing, you had learned to lucid dream and now that was bleeding mildly into your real life. Not the biggest deal, maybe you were just lonely. 

“It’s a ghost, dude, I’m fucking telling you. There’s no way I’m imaginative enough to conjure all this shit up.” 

“You know his name right? Go down to the library and look him up. If he’s a ghost then surely there’ll be something to find.”

Holy shit. She was a genius. “Oh my God you’re so smart. I love you. You just saved my life. You’re God’s gift to the planet. Who would I be witho-”

“Jesus Christ will you just go? Stop kissing my ass and start driving. I want details when you get back.” 

You don’t know if you’ve ever been so eager to get to the library of all places. If you could snag a computer spot then you could put an end to all of this. He wasn’t real, realistically you knew that, but you had a fool-proof way to check. If he was real you were going to have to come to terms with the fact you could see dead people. Well, a dead person. You had never seen any before Spencer. You’d never seen Spencer either, not before the house at least. They say you can’t make up faces, that if you see someone in a dream then you’ve seen them in real life but you were incredibly doubtful of that by now.

Spencer Reid. Thankfully the man didn’t have a particularly common name. You hoped there would be limited matches, less to look through. Pretty soon you could accept your own mental insanity and maybe ask your mother to spot you for some therapy. Well, moment of truth. You watched each letter be typed in with baited breath until his full name was in the search bar. Even just looking at his name brought that sense of calm. You were hopeless. Until, apparently, you weren’t. 

Brilliant Dr. Reid dead at 26

Former FBI agent Spencer Reid found dead in his home

Spencer Reid co-workers speak out on his legacy. Where to go from here?

You scoured every article you could find, analyzing every pixel of every image available. This was your guy. Same Spencer Reid from your dreams. Same Spencer Reid that stands behind you in every mirror of the house. Holy shit who was this guy? He was a little older than you, died last year in the summertime. Each article painted a brutal picture of his death, speculating on how the doctor died but never comfirming anything. Only that he was dead when paramedics got there, the sight of his covered body being extracted from his home was one that would stick with you. His home. It was the same house you were living in. It’s possible your grandfather was renting it out. That’s probably why nobody ever knew about it - he wasn’t living there. You didn’t know when water started pooling in your eyes, you only realized them as they started falling down your cheeks. You didn’t even know him. You didn’t even know him but you felt like someone just sucker punched you and were about 60% sure your lunch was coming back up. Jesus. 

There was no way you could tell your friends about this. The majority of your brain was pleading with you to rationalize this. Maybe you’d seen one of the articles before. Maybe your grandpa talked about him. Holy shit he had known your grandpa. Every individual thought you had was identifiable and that was far too overwhelming for your brain to handle. You signed out of the computer and went to go sit in your car. Could you even drive like this? Your hands were shaking so bad there was a good chance you’d crash the car before you got home. It’s twenty minutes, you thought. You had to go back. Staying away from the house any longer felt like a punishment. You can make it twenty minutes.

–

“No, no. Like I said it was just some old guy who wrote a book. No sign of my Spencer.” You were lying straight through your teeth. You figured it didn’t truly matter. If you sat here and told the entire story of finding exactly who you were looking for online, you think she’d have checked you into a facility. 

“Maybe if you believe hard enough you can manifest him.” 

“Wow you’re hilarious. Remind me again how I ever lived my life without such a humorous presence.”

“I question that same thing everyday, Y/n.” You could hear the smile embedded in her words.

“I’ll let you go. I know Dylan is probably waiting on you. Thanks for checking up on the Spencer chronicles.” You felt slightly bad. She was on her honeymoon currently, and instead of spending time with her new husband, she was listening to your stories of fraternizing with a ghost. 

“I’m sorry you’re going through this. I’m sure it’s weird as hell. Call me up if you need to, yeah? Hotel has unlimited calls so I can talk all night if you need to.” She was an angel in this world.

“Thanks, same goes here. If you get sick of your husband you know where to find me. Remember to use protection.” 

“Alright, nevermind. You may suffer by yourself for all I care.” She laughed while she threatened you.

“Bye, honey. Love you.” You should have felt alone, but you never did. He was most likely here with you. 

The exhaustion had well and truly crept up on you. You planned on getting home and calling your friend immediately, but you ended up needing a good few hours to cry and pace around the house. You weren’t scared - it was essentially the opposite. The complete lack of fear bred so much confusion that you didn’t know how to cope with the amount of frustration on your shoulders. You paced the house hoping to find him. You wanted to be near him. You harbored the immature hope that knowing who he was would grant you the ability to see him. Did you even know who he was? He was a doctor, an agent, but who was he to you? Is that what you needed to know in order to see him?

Now, sitting on your bed, you felt like you’d been through the ringer. The mental gymnastics of the day weighing heavily on your body. You needed to go to sleep. You wanted to go to sleep. In the last week or so you’d noticed a certain excitement regarding the promise of another tale, another dream. They were so extravagant, not even in the details of them, just in the consistency of pure emotion. You could have been fighting dragons or sitting on the porch in rocking chairs. If he was by your side, there was always this certain euphoria surrounding the two of you. A feeling reserved just for you and him. God you missed him.

– 

You woke up slowly to a familiar bed beneath you, this was your house. The window was open, curtains blowing cautiously as the mild chill of the Fall breeze wafted in and dusted over your collarbones. It wasn’t this cold last night. You felt the breeze again on your whole body, and realized you were lying naked on top of the ruffled comforter. Had he pulled the blanket off you?

“Are you cold? I didn’t think to shut the window when I got up. I was kind of rushing to get my stuff.” You noticed then that he was sat behind a canvas, angled so he could glance between you and the task at hand with ease. He noticed you furrow your eyebrows, and even managed to catch the minuscule tense of your muscles as you prepared to sit up.

“Stay still for me, honey. I’m almost done.” He was adding feather-light brushstrokes to the piece, a finishing touch of his you now recognized from watching him paint so much. 

“This isn’t a very good pose, Spence. You know I’m not the most photogenic.” You referred to the fact you had been sleeping as he painted, limbs not organized and environment chaotic. Notoriously unfavored things by the man. Maybe he was hoping to capture a candid version of you. 

He exhaled a laugh. “How rich coming from you.” His lips quirked upward as he continued adding touch-ups to his art. “Something about you this morning…I don’t know.” He shook his head like he was talking to himself rather than you. “You just looked…mesmerizing.” He shrugged, brushing off the sentiment. “Felt wrong to just look at you.”

Dumbfounded was the only word you could think to describe yourself. He’d painted you before, mainly from the neck up for practice with faces, but this was different terrain. You were nervous to see the piece. You thought of your hips, your stomach, your legs. A silhouette he’d sworn time and time again was worthy of worship. One he wanted to treasure. You hoped you’d see a glimpse of yourself through his lens, hoped all that adoration would show on the canvas. Once he was finished with it, he turned it so you could see. It was breathtaking. His talent never failed to leave you speechless. 

“I feel like I should be paying for this.” You joked, but still felt as though something should be given in return. He stood from his stool and joined you on the bed.

“I assure you, I’m well compensated.” Your face ran hot. “Can I hang it?”

“Spence, I’m naked-”

“Not downstairs, Y/n.” He chuckled. “I’d put it there.” He nodded to a vacant wall space on the right side of the room, entirely visible from his side of the bed. 

“You want me watching you sleep, Reid?” 

He grinned at you, shaking his head slightly at your remark. “Just wanna be able to see you.” He held your eyes. “I’m hoping looking at you before I go to sleep will give me good dreams.” You hummed in sarcastic agreement, your gaze falling soft a moment later.

“You can if you want to.” He looked relieved. 

“Thanks, honey.” He looked stunning in the morning light. The sun hadn’t risen too long ago, and he was only covered partially by a pair of joggers. He was practically luminous, the bare skin of his chest looking golden in the sunlight. You stuck your hands out to feel him, and you felt as though you were trying to touch heaven itself. He leaned down to be closer to you, he always said you felt magnetic. 

“You should let me paint you like this more often.” 

“Is that right?”

“Mhm”

And, just like before, you could breathe again when he kissed you. Truly breathe. It was times like these when he felt like your oxygen, like pulling away should be sin. Lord knows you would suffer any version of Hell for him. 

–

Your frustration seemed to have doubled in your sleep. Two am. You were gonna find that fucking painting. It wasn’t in the spot he left it - you would have noticed a giant painting of yourself naked on the walls, but you double checked to be sure. You threw up every light switch you came across and started scavenging through the upstairs. There was a certain tug in your body - when you didn’t find it in a room, you knew it wasn’t there, something internal telling you to look elsewhere. It was only when you were halfway done with the downstairs raid that you remembered the storage room. You’d found it when you first moved in, a room full of dust and white tarps covering furniture and other indecipherable shapes. It had to be in there.

You wrecked havoc on the tiny room. Tearing off layers of fabric quickly, leaving little thought to where you were throwing them, completely tunnel visioned on finding the painting. You came across a covered square the same size as the canvas had been. It was coated in so much dust that the covering looked ancient, and you were begging any conceivable being to be merciful, to let you have at least this if you couldn’t have him. You unveiled the shape to find the same vibrant pigments you’d seen just hours before. It was you, draped over the comforter and basking in the hue of the morning. This was it, you thought. Holy shit this is real. You had no grounds to deny this anymore. Spencer was a real guy, clearly he’d died in this house and clearly the two of you had lived enough lives together to fill months of sleepless nights with. 

What did this mean for you? Were you a clone? Were you and Spencer both clones? Were you living in a simulated reality and all of this was actually a ruse calculated to induce reactions in the brain that could then be studied? Oh my god - were you a ghost too? Had you died and were now stuck in some form of purgatory?

You felt sick with it. You didn’t know you were capable of bearing such intense metaphorical weight. You needed to see him. Maybe if you went to sleep, you would realize you were having a dream and could figure some things out. That’s so stupid. You mentally scolded yourself for even thinking of such a dumb idea. You needed to speak with him. You needed him to tell you what was going on. Of course him and everyone in your life who could have known him were six feet deep. A seance, maybe? Perhaps  just buy a ouija board and wing it. You’d seen the most of him when you were asleep, that had to be the key to figuring this out. Please dear god let it be the key to figuring this out. You took the painting and headed back upstairs. Maybe it could serve as a medium, you thought. That’s a thing, right?

You don’t think your bed had ever seemed so uninviting. You remember how grateful you’d been to finally sleep on your first day here. It was a pain in the ass hauling a mattress up a spiral staircase and the moment you realized you were done was a relief to say the least. Now you stared at it and your mouth ran dry. What if this didn’t work? What did you even want to happen? Were you going to rummage through your dreams and play detective to piece together what might have happened in your past? No degree of mental antagonizing could push you off course by now. He was real. You know he’d been a real man, and surely the painting of you meant you’d known him as something other than a ghost. You were simply praying this would work out how you wanted. You needed a semblance of closure, even just a small one.

–

The room was dark, making you double check if you opened your eyes in the first place. You hadn’t had a dream. This was the first time in months you had fallen asleep and woken up without having lived a different life. You felt tears forming in your eyes. The disappointment you felt was so immeasurable that your brain practically short circuited trying to find a way to process it. You knew it was a long shot for everything to be fixed overnight, but you’d expected something. Like he was reading your mind, the bed dipped down, him now occupying the space next to you in bed. 

You were worried your head might fall off your neck with how quickly you turned to look at him. The moonlight came beaming in through the window, like she was your secret ally, giving you enough light to finish your battle. It lit him up, practically shining through him like it would a crystal. He was ethereal. You stared into the same brown eyes you’d been looking into for months and felt your resolve give way from within you. You could have looked at him forever, you wanted to look at him forever, but you crashed hard into him. You would have fused your soul to his at that very moment if you were able to. Nobody had ever drawn out such a reaction - you needed to feel him. It was the proof you had been begging for, he was here, he was tangible. You could finally know what it all meant. 

You felt his chest jolt as he chuckled at you. “I missed you.” You could hear the smile in his words. 

Choking on a sob, you spoke your response so quietly you could barely hear yourself. “What the fuck is going on?” You knew tears were probably soaking through his shirt but he just held you against him. “Please tell me you know what’s happening.” You were muttering your words quickly, sharply inhaling between your sentences as air refused to stay in your lungs.

He ran his hand up and down the length of your forearm, a motion so familiar and so comforting you’re sure your knees would have buckled if you weren’t lying down. “Just relax, honey. I can explain everything, ok? I just need you to breathe right now.”

It was hard to maintain your oxygen through the sobs begging to get out of your chest but you were nothing if not stubborn. You needed an explanation. If that was his condition then so be it. You took a deep breath, regaining your ability to inhale and exhale at a regular pace. You could see the room better now having been awake in the dark for a while, so you tried to focus on anything that might help. The painting. You stared holes into that thing and forced your breathing to even out. 

“I was really proud of that one.” His words held an instinctual twinge of fondness, still smiling as he spoke. Like now that he had you, he could describe any horror of the world and still be happy with you in his arms. He looked back at you, tracing his thumb along your jaw. “You seem to get prettier with every lifetime.”

Even as the overwhelming confusion wrecked your brain, your body was completely in tune with him. Warmth seemed to spring to life in your stomach, his words bypassing any guards you had to root themselves within you. He regarded the situation so lightly, so casually. He wasn’t worried about slipping away, or running out of time. He would have given you a decade to calm down if you needed it. He seemed content with just calling you pretty, as though he’d waited a century to touch you again. 

“My dreams, were they -” You paused. You didn’t even know what to ask him. “What were my dreams?” Were they real?

He took a moment to just stare at you. The smallest, knowing smile on his face and a look of pure adoration in his eyes. He knew what you were asking. “They were us.” Fucking obviously. If you were any more on the edge of your seat you would fall off. “All the lives we’ve lived together.” Jesus.

“How long ago-”

“Two thousand years, 5 months, 27 days, and-” he leaned up slightly to check the clock “14 hours.” Giving you the cutest tight-lipped smile when he finished talking like he didn’t just say you’d been in love for two millennia. 

“So we’re soul mates?”

“Essentially.” He nodded. ‘Soulmates’ was close enough. 

“But - is everyone like this, then?” Did all your friends have this too? Everyone in the world? “Everyone has a soulmate?” Your friend’s on her honeymoon right now. 

He laughed a little and shook his head. “No, no. It’s just us.” What was so special about the two of you? “For all I know of at least. Your uh…your husband-” He hesitated for just a second, fingers digging into your skin just a fraction harder. “He found out about us. Had his mother cast a spell. He thought he was punishing us, I think. Figured we’d get sick of it after a while. Poor guy, all he did was condemn us to eternity together.” He held no genuine pity for the guy, more amusement at the thought of his plan actually succeeding. 

“How long have you been here?” You hadn’t bothered to check when the articles were from, too busy trying to keep your head on straight to look for the publication date. 

“A year.” A year of him alone in this house. God, you couldn’t even imagine. “I started having dreams of you. Everyday I just felt, like, something pulling me away from where I was. I knew your grandfather from an old case I worked and everything just seemed to happen.” He reminisced fondly, like the memory didn’t hurt him. “I don’t even really know how I died. I just remember having a party one night, and how the hallway looked from the bottom of the stairs.” Oh my God the warm spot.

“When you moved in I was thrilled but - fuck, honey, it was torture.” He delivered the line like it was a joke but his eyes were watering. “I couldn’t talk to you, I couldn’t help you - I couldn’t fucking touch you and it was unbearable.” His hands hadn’t left you since you woke up. Making up for lost time, you guessed. There was one question you were brutally aware of, something that persisted in your head even as you tried to enjoy the moment. 

“Why can I see you now, then?”

He sighed, so full of devastation that it was clear he’d been preparing for this. “You can’t.”

“What?”

“You’ve seen all our lives, Y/n. This is the only one left.” He was so delicate in his explanations. His palms soothing over your face as if trying to physically soothe the sting of his words.

“Wait what does that-” What was he talking about? “I don’t understand.”

“To be honest, I don’t really understand it either.” He exhaled at his own ignorance, the words unfamiliar in his mouth. “For the first time, I don’t know what’s gonna happen when you wake up.”

“Wake up? What do you mean wake up - Spence I’m awake.” You held onto his wrist that was near your face for emphasis, his hand still caressing your face. “I’m awake.” 

His eyes were definitely watering. “No, Y/n, you’re not.”

“Spencer.” You’d never said it so sadly before. Tears were in your eyes for the second time that night. You would have done anything to carve this moment into stone. Sit here in his arms until time forced you into your next life. 

“It’s ok, honey.” He was always reassuring, always safe. “We’ve done this for two thousand years, Y/n. You’re bound to get a little unlucky sometimes.” His optimism in the face of such a crushing development almost made you sick. Some things never change. “I finally have you back, alright? Just lay with me for a while. Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out. We’ve got plenty more lives to live.”

You halted the tears in your eyes, sniffling once to reign yourself in. “Ok.” You laughed, a little tearfully, and kissed him with all the love you had to give. 

Plenty more lives to live.

[sleep-deprivedracoon]

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x f! reader

word count: 3680 Summary: Satoru doing his best to get you out of your downward spiral. He failed Suguru but he won't fail you. Author's note: based on this prompt. I think I speak for most of the fandom when I say we all need some extra fluff and love from Gojo after the week we've had with the anime and manga. So this one is for all of us Gojo wives. Ngl, I am literally shaking right now as I dare to post this. I don't know if y'all will like this or if this just flops. CW: depression, food habits, angst, implied relationships, patterns of isolation, fluff, angst to comfort, helplessness, mentions of smoking

Satoru Gojo stood before your door, an unusual sense of foreboding gnawing at the edges of his normally self-assured demeanor. It was a feeling he wasn't accustomed to, one that clashed against the confident façade he typically wore like armor. He couldn't shake the nagging sensation that something was terribly wrong with you, something that went far beyond the physical injuries. It had been weeks since you returned from that mission, and something had changed in you—It was as if something was tearing you apart from the inside.

He'd delved into the mission reports, scouring through the details, looking for any signs of what might have transpired. The mission had been a success, technically flawless, with only a handful of unfortunate bystanders caught in the crossfire. You'd managed to take down a first-grade curse with no fatalities—by all accounts, it should have been considered a triumph. So why had it left you so shattered?

As the door creaked open, revealing you on the other side, his sharp eyes caught the flicker of a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

Your smile, once a beacon of light that never failed to brighten his day, now seemed a mere shadow of its former self. It was as though the spark within you had dimmed, leaving behind an empty echo of what used to be.

"Toru," you greeted, your voice a little too forced, a little too brittle.

Gojo pulled you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you with a desperation he couldn't quite put into words. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, a gesture that had become second nature to him, a silent declaration of affection. “Hi, sweets.” he murmured, his voice tinged with concern.

As he held you, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, that the ground beneath him was unstable. He hoped beyond hope that he was merely overthinking, that you were stronger than he feared. But deep down, he knew. He knew something was fundamentally wrong.

You gently pulled away, and he followed you into your apartment, his senses immediately assaulted by the disarray that greeted him. Sure, you were a chaotic person, but there was usually an organized chaos to your living space. Books strewn haphazardly on shelves, art supplies scattered on tables, and the comforting scent of incense in the air—all elements of your usual environment. The chaos was familiar, a reflection of your vibrant, unpredictable personality. But this... this was different. There was an air of neglect, a sense that even your usual disorder had lost its usual rhythm. He took in the scene—the scattered papers, the toppled books, the forgotten articles of clothing strewn across the floor. Each item seemed to whisper a tale of neglect; a story of a mind too preoccupied to care for its surroundings. He saw the remnants of a once vibrant spirit, now muted and worn.

He followed you into the kitchen, concern etched into his features. "Have you eaten yet?" he asked, his voice laced with genuine worry.

You mumbled a half-hearted "yes," but he wasn't fooled. He opened your fridge to place a few drinks, and his heart sank at the sight. It hadn't been stocked in a while; the shelves almost barren. It was a stark contrast to the usual assortment of ingredients and snacks he was accustomed to stealing. He glanced at you, silently noting the tired lines etching your face, the weariness in your eyes that belied your attempt at a smile

You stood beside him, trying to deflect his concern with a forced smile and a weak excuse. "I've been lazy, just ordering takeout."

He glanced at the trash can, noting its emptiness. He saw right through the lie, but he didn't push it. Instead, he turned his gaze back to you, taking in the disheveled state of your hair, the dullness in your eyes, the weight loss that had left you looking frail. It was a familiar dance—one he had witnessed before, with someone else he had cared for deeply. That smile you offered him, that empty, hollow smile with closed eyes, it hit him like a tidal wave of dread. It reminded Gojo of Suguru after Amanai's death—their once lively friend reduced to a mere shell, hiding behind a facade. The parallels between you and Suguru's descent sent a shiver down his spine.

The weight of helplessness settled like a leaden anchor in Satoru Gojo's chest. He cursed inwardly, the bitter taste of regret mingling with the dread that had consumed him. How was it happening again? Why was it always the ones he cared for the most? The memory of Suguru, his once-vibrant friend reduced to a mere shadow of himself, haunted him. He had failed Suguru, and that failure still weighed heavily on him.

The mantra of his own strength echoed in his mind, a bitter irony. He was the strongest, but in this moment, he felt powerless. Weak. Useless. Helpless. As you stood before him, offering a smile that barely masked the turmoil within, you felt so distant, so far away. It was as though an impenetrable barrier had risen between the two of you.

It had started weeks ago, with your return from that fateful mission. Even then, something had felt off. You had been fatigued, weary, and Gojo had been there for you, trying to help you unwind and recharge. But you barely spoke of the mission, your words guarded, your gaze distant. In the ensuing weeks, he had watched as you withdrew, not just from him, but from their students. He noticed how you declined Nobara’s invites to go shopping, how the playful banter with Megumi had all but disappeared. Even your calls with Yuta who was overseas had become brief, the once-lively conversations now reduced to strained exchanges.

He caught a whiff of smoke around you one evening, a scent that hung in the air like a lingering secret. He knew then, without needing to ask, that you had turned to cigarettes for solace. There were signs, always signs. The subtle shifts in behavior, the hollow looks, the moments of silence that stretched on longer than they should. But he had chosen to give you space, believing that time would allow you to heal and find your way back. It was a mistake, one he deeply regretted now as he saw the signs he had missed piling up.

Gojo's gaze settled on you once more, his heart heavy with concern. You had lost weight, your eyes dulled, your once-lustrous hair now a tangled mess. It was as though a part of you had withered away, leaving behind a hollow shell. The pain in his chest intensified as he realized that he couldn't afford to stand by and watch you slip away. He had to act, to break through the barrier you had unknowingly erected around yourself. But how? That was the question that haunted him as he searched your eyes for a way to reach you, to pull you back from the abyss you seemed to be falling into.

He turned to you, his eyes tracing the weariness etched into your features, the fragility in your frame. "Sweets," he murmured, his voice laced with a mix of concern and determination. "We can't keep going on like this. You don't have to face this alone.”

As Gojo's concerned gaze bore into you, he couldn't help but notice the immediate defensiveness in your body language. Your chuckle, dry and forced, cut through the air like a fragile attempt to push his worries away. "I'm okay, Toru," you insisted, your voice wavering just slightly.

"(Y/n) …" he urged; his voice gentle but firm. "You don't have to pretend with me. I can see that something's eating at you. You can rely on me, you know that, right? I'm here to shoulder whatever burdens you're carrying."

You met his gaze, eyes guarded, and shook your head, a hint of stubbornness in your expression. "Toru, really, I appreciate it, but I'm okay. You're worrying unnecessarily.”

You remained closed off, a wall of resistance that he couldn't breach. Your insistence that everything was fine felt like a dagger to his heart, but he understood that pushing you further at this moment could risk you shutting him out completely and he couldn't bear the thought of losing you to the darkness.

So, he accepted your words, even as they left a bitter taste in his mouth. "Alright, sweets. Just remember, I'm here whenever you're ready to talk."

Ordering takeout seemed like the most rational thing to do, a glimmer of normalcy in the midst of the storm. He chose a spicy Chow Mein with Gyoza on the side, knowing it was a combination that never failed to put a smile on your face. As the two of you sat in silence, he couldn't help but notice how you toyed with your food, pushing it around on the plate rather than really eating.

He teased gently, "You know, you're starting to remind me of a kid being forced to eat their vegetables. Come on, at least take a few bites for me."

You glanced up, a faint glimmer of amusement in your eyes, and complied, taking a few bites to prove a point. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. It was through these small steps, he realized, that he needed to slowly guide you back from the darkness that threatened to consume you.

After dinner, he bid you farewell, his footsteps heavy as he walked away from your apartment. Once out of your sight, he clutched his hair in frustration, a tumultuous storm of conflicting emotions swirling within him. He couldn't bear to see you like this, not again. He couldn't let another person he cared for slip into the abyss.

With a determined exhale, he removed his shades and reached for the black blindfold that he rarely wore when it was just the two of you. He tied it securely and looked back at the window to your apartment. In that moment, he vowed to himself that he wouldn't let you slip away. He would fight for you, even if it meant stepping into the darkness alongside you.

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

In the days that followed, Gojo remained steadfast in his determination to pull you out of the suffocating depths of depression that had ensnared you. He knew he couldn't do it alone, and admitting that fact was a monumental step for someone as self-reliant as him. It surprised even Shoko, who had known Gojo for years, to witness his newfound vulnerability.

He started with small, manageable gestures, well aware that overwhelming you would only push you further away. Slowly, he began to tidy up your apartment, one step at a time. He organized the scattered papers, straightened the toppled books, and restored a sense of order to the chaos that had overtaken the space. He did it in small iterations, so as to not catch you off guard.  He knew that even the semblance of cleanliness and organization could bring a sense of calm. Another day, he arrived with a bag of groceries, quietly slipping into your kitchen to prepare a meal. At times, he found himself sneaking food into you, taking advantage of moments when your mind wandered elsewhere. He'd feed you, offering fruits and treats while you mindlessly chewed on it, lost in thought. It was a silent promise that he was there to support you, to ensure you took care of yourself.

Then came the day he dragged you out, insisting that you join him and his students for a shopping excursion. It was an attempt to remind you that there was still joy and fun to be had, even in the midst of the world's worries. He made sure to bring his students along, Yuji and Nobara, who shared a single brain cell with their hairbrained schemes, and Megumi, who often found himself the target of their antics. As you wandered through the bustling market, you couldn't help but be drawn into the silliness that surrounded you. Yuji and Nobara's playful banter, Megumi's exasperation, and the way his students relied on you for the silliest of things slowly began to chip away at the darkness within you. There were moments when you couldn't help but smile, caught up in the absurdity of it all. Watching Yuji and Nobara embark on their ridiculous plans, seeing Megumi squirm in embarrassment, witnessing the camaraderie among his students—it all served as a poignant reminder that life held moments of levity, even in its darkest corners. Gojo reveled in these small victories, each one a testament to your gradual recovery. His approach was slow and deliberate, mixing moments of genuine concern with his signature goofiness.

"Hey, sweets," Gojo said, nudging you playfully as Yuji and Nobara attempted to outdo each other with their ridiculous purchases. "You see what I have to deal with every day? They're a handful. Why do I always end up taking care of brats?” He sighed in exaggeration.

The sound of your giggle was a melody that resonated in the depths of Satoru Gojo's being. He couldn't help but be drawn to the warmth in your laughter, a glimmer of the vibrant spirit that still lived within you. Your fingers brushed against his cheek, a gentle caress that sent a jolt of electricity through him. He leaned into the touch, his heart leaping at the connection.

"You know," you teased, patting his cheek affectionately, "you adopted these brats yourself. You're such a mother hen, Toru."

His lips curled into a playful smirk. "Well, what can I say? I've always had a soft spot for the misfits." He took your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. "And I'm glad that this mother hen has you as my favorite rooster to come back to whenever I need a break from these rascals."

Your laughter, though still fragile, filled the room, a welcome sound that eased the weight in his heart. He was getting closer, step by step, to uncovering the vibrant spirit that resided within you.

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

Several days later, the Tokyo Jujutsu High planned a retreat to an Onsen resort in Gunma. The students shared rooms, and Gojo, in his usual annoying fashion, had managed to finagle Yaga into assigning you to share a room with him. After all, you were both teachers and adults—it shouldn't have been a problem.

Gojo sat on the tatami floor of your room, dressed in a yukata, having just returned from the baths. He sipped on cold coffee milk, enjoying the tranquil atmosphere of the traditional inn. When he heard the sliding door open, he looked up, and his heart skipped a beat. You looked ethereal in the Yukata, the fabric draping gracefully over your form. Your hair was still damp from the baths, strands clinging to your skin in a way that made his heart race. There was a newfound fullness to your cheeks, a healthy flush to your complexion that spoke of progress.

In that moment, he realized just how far you had come. The bags under your eyes were still there, but the overall transformation was striking. He clicked his tongue several times, pulling you gently to the tatami floor in front of him. He reached for the towel that hung around your shoulders and scolded you gently, "Sweets, you need to dry your hair properly. You'll catch a cold like this."

His fingers moved through your hair with a soothing touch, the room enveloped in silence save for the rustle of fabric and the soft hum of the night outside. He was meticulous, his actions deliberate as he dried your hair strand by strand. As he continued to pat your hair dry with gentle strokes, he noticed that you were trembling. Frowning, he stopped, his concern growing. And then he heard it—the soft, muffled sniffle that escaped your lips. In an instant, he turned you around to face him, his eyes widening as he saw the tears welling up in your eyes.

Before he could say a word, you began sobbing, your shoulders shaking with the force of your emotions. You buried your face in his chest, and he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as you cried. He didn't brush away your tears or offer empty reassurances. Instead, he let you cry, allowing the dam you had built around your emotions to finally break. He could feel the warmth of your tears soaking through his yukata, the shudders that racked your body, and the tremble of your hands as they clung to his robes. It was a raw, vulnerable moment, and he was there to bear witness to it, to share in your pain and offer his silent support. Gojo's touch was gentle, his hand stroking your back in a steady, rhythmic motion. He didn't speak, understanding that this moment was about you and your release. His heart ached with each anguished sob that wracked your body, but he remained a steadfast anchor, giving you the space you needed to let it all out.

As your sobs began to subside, your words spilled out in a torrent of emotion. You spoke of the mission, of how it had torn open old wounds, making you confront shadows from your past. The cursed technique of the first-grade curse had exploited your own memories, forcing you to relive the pain and uncertainty.

Gojo had been privy to your painful past, as you had confided in him long ago. He understood the emotional scars that had marked your journey, and now, he could see why you were descending into darkness.

Your voice trembled as you confessed your fear. You longed to return to the person you used to be, but you were terrified that you had lost yourself in the process. The fear that in losing yourself, you might also lose him gripped at your heart.

Gently, Gojo cupped your cheek, his sky-blue eyes locking onto yours. He removed his shades, allowing you to see the sincerity in his gaze. "No matter what version of yourself you present to me," he said, his voice soft but resolute, "I will love you. Whether you're happy, sad, angry, or anything in between, it doesn't change a thing. If you somehow turned evil, I'd love you. If you don’t want to be a sorcerer anymore, I’d love you. Even if you transformed into a worm, I'd love you. I will love every version of you that has been and that is yet to come, (Y/n). " He couldn't help but inject a touch of his signature playfulness into the moment. "Well, unless you turn into Gakuganji," he added with a mock shudder, "then you might be pushing it. But hey, I'll even love you if you morph into that old fart. Just… just don't test me on that one." He kisses your trembling lips gently. “I don’t think my heart could handle that.”

A small giggle burst from your lips, and you playfully swatted his arm, the sound like a gentle chime amidst your tears. It was a moment of relief, a brief respite from the weight of your emotions. Gojo couldn't help but chuckle in response, his grin boyish and goofy. “I will always love you (Y/n). Even if you lose yourself, I will walk with you to help you rediscover yourself. I am great at helping people find things. These six eyes are here for a reason, you know?”

You gently shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips as you leaned in to kiss Satoru Gojo on his lips, your gratitude and affection evident in the tender gesture. "Thank you," you whispered against his lips, "for being you."

His lips curved into a soft smile as he returned your kiss, savoring the warmth of your affection. "It's been my pleasure, (Y/n)," he replied, his voice filled with sincerity. “After all, nobody is best at being Gojo Satoru other than Satoru Gojo himself.” He winks.

You continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "I know what you've been doing, Toru. All these days, you’ve been taking care of me, helping me even if I didn't want to admit it to myself. But I needed it, and I needed you."

Gojo's eyes softened as he gazed at you, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "If the roles were reversed, you would've done a far better and more efficient job," he admitted, a hint of shame coloring his voice. "I should've seen it sooner, (Y/n)."

You silenced him with a gentle finger against his lips, his mock pout making you smile. "Don't blame yourself, Toru," you murmured. "I didn't want you to find out, and it's not your fault. I feel lighter now than I have in days, although I am still struggling to cope.”

In response, Gojo spoke with unwavering determination, "I'll be here beside you, sweets. However you want and in whatever form you need.

“Whatever I need huh?” A wistful smile tugged at your lips. "Maybe turning myself into Gakuganji would help," you mused, a playful glint in your eyes. “won’t it, Toru?”

Gojo groaned dramatically, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His fingers danced along your sides and ribs, eliciting giggles and laughter from you as you squirmed beneath his touch. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. His fingers attacked your sides and belly, evoking peals of laughter from you. The tatami floor beneath you seemed to come alive with the sounds of your giggles and Gojo's playful laughter. As he tickled you mercilessly, Gojo's thoughts were clear—he would do anything to keep that light in your eyes, to see you smile, even if it meant turning into Gakuganji himself. Anything at all. And with every joyful laugh that filled the room, he knew he was one step closer to bringing you back to him.

Taglist - @hiraethsdesires Note to @hiraethsdesires: thank you, Hira. I thought I'd never be able to get back into writing again. I thought I had lost it. But it felt so nice to dive right into this again. The first character I had ever written for in this blog was Gojo. It feels just right to get back into it with him again.

[peachdues]

Phantasmagoria (Part I)

Tell Me to Stop (Sanemi’s Version)

Sanemi x F!Reader, Modern AU

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

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

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

For the playlist, listen here.

Without further ado!

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

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

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

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

Love was dull and harsh and all-consuming.

Love was black.

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

And for a while, they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you, Sanemi. With all my heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wished her mother had taken her with her.

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

(May)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sanemi.”

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

————————————————————————-

Sanemi liked to watch her while she danced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—————————————————————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sanemi snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[pavosnoctua]

cw: yandere, dark themes, obsessive behaviors, forced marriage, possessive behaviors, controlling behaviors, implied isolation, implied non-con touching, implied forced starvation. afab reader. mdni, minors dni! i do not condone the behaviors in this fic.

my first time writing a yandere fic. please lmk if i am missing a tag or warning!

You don't know why but Diluc one day tells you that he is giving a few more freedoms - slightly begrudgingly but you won't be alone outside. The winery is well staffed, Adelinde will be nearby so be good.

(Maybe Adelinde felt a twinge of sympathy for you, hearing you cry every night when Diluc would get too rough with you. You delude yourself into thinking this)

Be good is what you repeat to yourself as you step outside into the sunlight since he brought you here - it feels like ages ago, unreal to you, with the way the warmth of the sun hits your skin and you have to initially squint at the brightness. The Manor is so dark in comparison - it's windows always covered and the lighting so dim.

Adelinde watches you with the same hawkish look Diluc does, and you're not sure who you'd rather have following you like an unwanted storm cloud.

So, you meander around the property within the limits given to you. You soak up the sun, take in all the smells - everything you've missed for the last six months. All that can be taken away on a whim.

You're smart - you like to believe you're smart but you find a path that hasn't been used and Adelinde is currently distracted because of Hillie and Moco, you consider. One foot in front of the other.

Liyue is only a half a days walk from here.

Just follow this path while everyone is distracted - your heart hammers in your chest as you stand, frozen.

"Is everything okay?" Diluc startles you, you quickly turn to face him and look down, hoping that act appeases him. "Are you ill? Let's get you back inside-"

"No!" You shout, jerking away. He looks unimpressed and you clear your throat. "I mean, no, I'm fine. Just...spaced out."

Diluc makes a noise and you wish he'd go away so you could plan your path of escape.

"Come. Let's eat outside today for lunch." It's an order. You obey, glancing back at the path longingly - hoping it'll still be there in a few days if you are allowed back outside again.

Mercy comes through the sake of the woman who serves as Diluc's eyes. You are allowed outside on a weekly basis, you've been good and sweet and obedient. You sleep with Diluc, kiss him without crying - go along with his whims and delusions.

And one day, when the staff is too busy to watch you, you slip away. The path is overgrown and unseen. You step forward.

And again.

Further into the forgotten bushes and trees until you come to a clearing. The Winery is still in view and the path is vaguely there.

Liyue is a half a days walk, you tell yourself - looking at the shitty shoes you're wearing. The delicate clothes.

And as you turn and walk, vaguely remembering the map - a hand grabs you and jerks you back. Red, hot. You scream.

You swear at him, tell him how much you hate him as he looks at you with hurt and betrayal. He yells orders for that area to be blocked off, says doors are to be locked down as he drags you back because you won't walk for him. You claw at him and more words tumble out. Adelinde simply watches.

"You got greedy." Diluc snaps as he shoves you into your shared room. You cannot cause a scene anymore - watching his Vision glow with his growing emotions. You do not wish to deal with burns on top of the scrapes and bruises you just got. And whatever punishment he'll inflict on you now. "I never should have agreed to let you go outside. I could have lost you!"

"That's the point." you mutter. His eyes burn.

"What?"

You cross your arms over your chest and look at him in the eyes. "I said what I said."

Diluc is quiet for a moment - as if thinking. Finally, he turns to Adelinde, who only looks at you with pity and disappointment.

"They are to not receive a meal for the next two days. No one but me is to see them."

"Yes, sir."

"I'm doing this because I care about you." Diluc tells you but you only just stare at him. He considers many things in that moment but chooses to leave instead, door half slamming behind him.

You don't wince anymore.

"You should have been grateful for what you were given," Adelinde tells you as she goes to work to make your bed, pick out different clothes. "Do you understand that I had to convince him to allow you such a freedom?"

"I'm sorry." you say, automatically. She does not answer, opting to leave you alone with nothing more to say.