#which is absurd he's MINE AND I KNOW BETTER

[yanderenightmare]

TW: angst, toxic traits, somewhat bullying, breakup

fem reader

You’re his first girlfriend. He’d never bothered with anything serious before—it seemed too messy to trifle with. He doesn’t know why he suddenly decided. Suppose he’d been feeling a little bored, and something within him saw you as a fool-proof opportunity.

It wasn’t because you were anything special. Actually, it was more the opposite. You didn’t seem like too big of a risk. You were just a normal, honest, nice person—a bit of a loser, too, if he was being honest. He could do a lot better and pick someone of the same caliber as him, someone with a cooler style and presence, but then he’d only get caught up in the competition.

You were more to his appetite—a dorky, blushy lil’ nerd who giggled nervously at everything he said. In other words, no competition at all. You’d never dare break his heart because you frankly couldn’t afford it. And he found solace in that imbalance—knowing he held all the cards and that you could only be grateful he’d chosen you.

At least, that had been what he’d thought. But then, here you are, holding his hands from across the table in a cute little sundae café, telling him how this just can’t work anymore.

He’s confused for a whole minute before it sinks in.

You’re breaking up with him.

He’s confused afterward, too.

You’re breaking up with him?

That can’t be right. You must be joking. He almost laughs, almost cackles, but ends up staying completely silent. Something about that pitiful look in your eye makes his throat tight, and he almost thinks he’s going to cry instead. 

You’re breaking up with him. You, with him. His foot starts to tap. Have you hit your head or something? You’re dressed in a hoodie, for crying out loud, with not an ounce of make-up on—effortless, as if his perception of you wasn’t any of your concern while you’re fucking breaking up with him.

No way. There’s just no way. You must be confused about something, is all. There’s absolutely no way you’re doing this.

“What are you talking about?” It comes angry. Louder than he’d intended, enough to make you jolt in your seat. A couple of heads even turn your way. You wait for them to turn back before answering.

“I just think we’re a bit too different. And… I don’t know…” You were trying to find ways of telling him you weren’t in love with him but ended up deciding it was unnecessary—it wasn’t exactly something he needed to hear even though you had a lot you could say.

You’re rude and arrogant and treat me like some rescue pet you’ve nurtured back to health. You act like you’re embarrassed to be with me even though you’re the one without any friends. You’re selfish and spoiled and—

“If you don’t know, then there’s nothing to talk about. Quit being silly.” He has a furrow between his brows as he picks up the pink menu between the two of you, scanning the different types of milkshakes you could share and forget all about it. After all, you weren’t breaking up with him—that would just be absurd. “Let’s get strawberry.”

“No—”

“Guess we could get mango if you want that instead—”

“I’m not sharing drinks with you—”

“What? You tryna lose weight or something? Not like anyone but me is gonna see you when all you wear are those baggy hoodies all the time. Speaking of which, you should wear mine instead, they’d suit you better—”

“Listen.” You stop his rambling. “I’m not sharing drinks, and I’m not wearing your clothes. I’m not being silly, either. I’m being serious. It’s over—”

“No, it’s not.” His fist bangs against the table—the look in his eye on edge and twitchy. “I asked you why, and you had no good reason—so it’s not, not until you convince me.”

You had wanted to avoid it, but it seems he wouldn’t allow you the grace to spare him. That being said, you hadn’t meant to be so brutally honest…

“You’re a narcissist. You don’t treat me like a girlfriend. I’m more like a charity case or some type of experiment to you. Half the time, it feels as though you’re just playing a game with everyone in your life like pawns for you to shuffle around the board as you see fit.” You’re the one with the furrowed brows now, unable to bite your tongue as you’d kept it in all this time. “I think you should seek help and get your controlling tendencies straightened out before having any type of relationship. Or don’t. In any case, I don’t think I’m the right girl for you.”

There’s a silence. The chatter of the café seems distant. You feel half inclined to apologize as you look at him and stare down the glassy tabletop as if trying to find his reflection for comfort—but then he beats you to the punch.

“You’re right…” he starts softly, mustering the words, and you’re almost proud to see him take it so well, but then there’s a viscousness to his next words. “You’re not the right girl for me.”

When he looks up again, his face is warped—callous and seemingly disgusted by the sight of you. Something about it even seems to lash out at you, seeking revenge.

“I can’t believe I thought I saw something in you,” he sighs. “Turns out you’re exactly what everyone warned me you would be—just a plane-boring old Jane. What a joke—wasting so much time on something so worthless. Forget breaking up with me, I should have broken up with you a long time ago.”

He gets up in a rush and bears over the table, both palms laid flat upon the surface.

“Charity case?” he seethes, then conjures a fake laugh and an even faker grin. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Enjoy sitting here alone like the loser you are.”

And even though you’re the one watching him walk away while ordering a chocolate sundae for yourself, you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy… 

That had been the most emotion you’d ever witnessed come from him.

Obviously, he doesn’t take it very well, stumbling through the café before bursting out the door, but even he’s surprised by how disheveled it had made him. He’s hyperventilating when the fresh air hits him, almost sprinting to his car so that he can lock himself inside it.

But the car only makes it worse as he’s far from alone in there. You’re everywhere. On the hood, waiting for him with a smile. In the rearview mirror, waving at him. In the seat next to him with a pout, asking if you can stay over. In the backseat, naked with a coy twinkle in your eye.

He knows! He has some of your underwear at home—he’ll threaten to pass them around campus unless you beg him to take you back. No, what’s he thinking!? You’ll never come back to him that way. Fuck, what can he do, what’s he supposed to do!? He just called you worthless—what that fuck was he thinking?!

The tears startle him as they drip down and splash upon his whitening knuckles, where he grips the wheel for dear life even as the car stays completely still—safe and sound in the same plot.

There’s a light pink lip balm on the dash. Yours. You must have left it there—maybe on purpose? No… you don’t play games like that. You’d been honest in the café. The fact terrifies him—his heart seems to want to reject it at all costs, the way it tears in his chest.

He picks the slim pink stick up and rolls it around in his hand, which can’t seem to stop shaking. You’d sat on his lap in this very seat, laughing at something dumb he’d said while applying the very same balm on his lip—kissing his forehead while saying something sweet. He knows it wasn’t, but he imagines you’d whispered that you loved him.

When he smears the balm around his lips this time, he imagines kissing you and your soft lips and that everpresent smile he never bothered telling you was pretty.

He’s such an idiot. The birds in the parking lot take flight at the jostling of his car, but no one hears the roar.

And as he sits there in the following silence, wallowing in his own self-pity and regret, he can’t help but feel like the lead of some angsty teen romance.

And like the lead in an angsty teen romance, he swears… whatever it takes… he will win you back.

You will be his again.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Gojo, Naoya, some young type of Sukuna, or Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[angry-geese]

The Weight - Sukuna x Reader

Warnings: smut//not osha compliant. arranged marriage au. blood/cannibalism mention. biting/size kink. unprotected sex, creampies. afab reader

synopsis: an arranged marriage au where the reader chooses sukuna instead of one of the men from her village

word count: 10.3k

a/n: this has been sitting in my drafts since probably last february and I finally got around to finishing it lol

jjk masterlist

As mid-afternoon turns to dusk, you realize you have nothing to show for your hours in these woods. You know, reasonably, you should cut your losses for the day, and return home. In a little over an hour, it’ll be dark, and navigating these woods will become a challenge. But winter has come and gone with a vengeance, leaving food stores low. The thought of fresh meat is too much for you to quit now.

Fresh tracks mark the once-smooth creek bed. Deer. At least three. They’ve bedded down here, as evident by the smell, and flattened patches of grass. For several meters, the tracks nearly overlap themselves, before heading off in separate directions. It's been years since you’ve traveled this deep into the woods, and those few times were accompanied by your father, or uncle. Your solitude has you jumping at every rustle of a leaf, and snapped twig. It's when the woods fall silent that you need to worry. That means a predator is near. As long as you can hear bugs, or birds, you'll be okay.

Further ahead—maybe twenty yards—is a buck that stopped to drink from the creek. 

You knock an arrow, lining the broadhead up with your target. Something feels wrong. The string feels too taut. It slips from your fingers prematurely. The arrow hits just behind the front shoulder, and—in theory—should puncture the heart. A shot like that—in theory—should drop an animal like this where it stands. Today it doesn't. The buck takes off running.

Between the footprints, and little droplets of blood, a clear trail is left behind. When you do finally come upon your prey, the crickets have fallen silent. The buck lays on its side in the grass, chest heaving. You ready your knife to put the poor thing out of its misery when something—someone—emerges from the treeline on the opposite side of the clearing. 

Your body is moving before you can fully process the situation. You flatten yourself out on the ground, hiding under the cover of some bushes. If the man does see you, then he makes no note of it. He draws closer, stopping to kneel beside the buck. It’s too dark to make out his face. Something about him has the hair on the back of your neck on end. He hauls the carcass up onto his shoulder, turning to return in the direction in which he came. 

The absurdness of it all has you frozen. You blink several times as if to make sure this isn't your mind playing tricks on you. Once reality sets in, you’re back on your feet, chasing after him.

“That's mine!” You say, hoping the volume of your voice is enough to scare off the thief. It isn't.

What you first assume to be another trick of the lighting becomes a horrifying reality as you notice the true size of the man. The man—being, or whatever he is—towers over you, completely dwarfing you in size. Mild annoyance is all that is visible on his face as he turns to you. From the deer, he rips out your arrow, tossing it at your feet. The broadhead has snapped off, as well as the shaft is bent. If you so desire, you suppose you could repair it. Not that you have any wish to. Sometimes it is simply better to cut your losses.

But you have more pressing things to deal with right now.

“And just what do you plan to accomplish, little lamb?” He asks. “A deer like this can weigh as much as a grown man. Do you plan to carry this back all by yourself?”

It’ll be tiring, but not impossible. Gutting and dressing it here would remove a lot of unnecessary weight, but would render plenty of valuable meat and organs useless. All that extra meat and skin could be used better elsewhere…

You are overcome with the urge to run, yet his gaze has your feet firmly planted on the ground. Your eyes fall to a small red splotch on his kimono—a blood stain. It can't be from the deer, it's far too old. It’s not until your knees knock together that you realize you’re trembling.

The action of him moving closer causes a cry of panic to leave you, unintentionally calling out for your father. 

“What—who are you?!” You ask as you scramble backwards. 

“I am Ryoumen Sukuna, the King of Curses, my dear,” he says. “Now, shall we get this back to your home?”

Fear threatens to overcome you. Even if you could draw an arrow in time, you doubt it would truly hurt him. Yet, in spite of your fear, you know he has no plans to harm you. Once you’re in sight of the village, he sets the deer down, and gestures for you to take the lead.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask. You’re certain the look on your face suggests you still expect him to eat you. 

“Why do you ask?” He says. “Maybe I wanted the location of your home. It seems there are plenty of sacrifices here for me.”

“Wait a minute!” You say, eyes widening with fear. A mix of panic and guilt consumes you. “You can't-”

A look resembling amusement crosses his face. “I mean no harm to your village,” Sukuna says, “but in five years, I will return to claim what is mine.”

The strange man would vanish upon reaching the outskirts of your village, and in the nearly five years that follow, you would not once traverse so deep into the woods. On several occasions, you would try to retrace your steps, but would never once come across that clearing. When you would bring it up to your father, or any of the other village elders, your concerns would be brushed off, or outright ignored. Years would pass and slowly, achingly slowly, you would forget about the man in the woods entirely.

The coming spring brings your twenty-eighth birthday, and the looming threat of being an “older” unmarried woman.

If you had any say in the matter, you wouldn't get married at all. Plenty of older women exist, happily unmarried, yet your mother insists that you must find a husband. Any attempts to convince her that you’re fine with the way things are, fail. Once it became clear you weren't going to seek a husband on your own, your mother took upon the task of finding a suitor for you. Over the course of several months, meetings were arranged with various men, and with each rejected one, your mother grew more desperate to find the perfect match. 

Your mother insists you're cursed. Your father thinks you’re simply unlucky. When you asked how marriage was supposed to fix that curse, she had no answer for you.

In the months prior to your birthday, your mother proposed a deal to you: meet with another man—the son of a wealthy merchant. That if this meeting went well, even if you didn't marry him, she would stop pestering you about getting married. Tired of her pestering, you relented, and agreed to meet him. And as the days draw closer, you only feel dread towards him. 

The outcome of tonight has already been decided by you: failure. Whether your mother knows this or not is hard to tell. Judging her tense nature, you suspect she knows your plans.

“I was already married at your age,” she says, tightening your obi, “I used to have a dress just like this.”

“The difference is, you knew him already,” you say, “and I am meeting a stranger.”

“I am simply doing what I think is best for you,” she says. “This is your chance to get out of this village—to live a better life! Don't you want that?”

Her eyes meet yours in one last pleading glance. It makes you wonder; did she have such a conversation with her mother? Did your grandmother go through such trouble to match her to your father? Or did this come easier to her, than it did to you?

You suppose he’s handsome. The silks he wears are clearly expensive, with threads like woven gold. His features are sharp—what one could describe as noble, but you find him truly dull. But he is scrawny—squishy, with hands that show he has never worked a day in his life. The little conversation he makes is dreadfully boring. His father is an older man, with a graying beard, and sagging eyes. His mother is considerably younger, dressed in blue, with a small scar on her chin. Her silky black hair falls down her back. The little conversation you do have is short, but polite. The typical small talk you would have with a stranger.

Your mother does her best to talk you up. She’s gotten pretty good at that over the past few years. Your father interjects here and there, but it's your mother that does the majority of the talking. 

“She’s strong. A talented hunter. Good with a knife.” Your father says. This time, you’re paying attention when he speaks.

Your potential father-in-law seems unimpressed with your father’s attempts to talk you up. Perhaps if you were a son, this conversation would go differently. If you were a son, your mother wouldn't be so stressed about you being married before 30. Your growing irritation mounts when you set down your cutlery, turning to look the old man in his eyes.

“And what about him?” You ask, motioning to his son. “Look at him—how is he supposed to give me a strong child?”

The energy in the room seems to shift entirely. Your father nearly chokes on his wine, but his eyes are firmly trained on your mother. She glares daggers at you, gripping her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“What?” You ask. “I am the one getting married. Don't I get a say in this?”

Are you trying to screw this up? Your mother’s face seems to ask.

“A good father controls his daughter,” the man says, “especially one with such a sharp tongue.”

“I can serve this village, or I can control my daughter, but I cannot do both,” your father says, “she’s not a child anymore, she can make her own choices.”

That earns a small smirk from you. Leave it to him to stand up for you.

“That is exactly why this is so grievous,” the man says, “my son will not marry an old maid with an attitude problem!”

“And I will not have in-laws as insufferable as you!” You bring your knife down on the table, narrowly missing his fingers. This little outburst of yours at dinner will certainly have consequences. Your mother’s wrath is only the beginning.

They don't leave in nearly as big of a hurry as you’d expect from a man who was just threatened with a knife, but they do hurry out, making certain not to look back.

“Maybe we should have offered to let them stay,” says your father, “it’s not safe to be out on the road after dark.”

“We’re lucky to not have them send guards after us for that,” your mother says, and for once, you agree with her. “Threatening a man like that is a new low, even for you.”

After such a disastrous dinner, you’re not particularly eager to go find your parents. You linger towards the outskirts of your village for as long as daylight allows you to. Once it grows too dark to stay out, you begin the trek back to your home, praying your parents—or at least your mother—have simply gone to bed. Maybe your father will forgive such a night, but your mother certainly won't. Over the past year you’ve done enough to earn her ire, this will not help your case.

Sitting outside is your mother, her eyes trained on a dying fire. Although she doesn't acknowledge you, you know she’s noticed you. Part of you wonders if you should speak first. Would that even improve your situation, or simply make it worse?

“You win.” She says. 

“What?” You ask.

“You win. I told you I’d stop after this, remember?” She asks. “Besides, I stopped liking him after that comment he made about your father.”

You still don't believe it's over. No tone of accusation clings to her voice, yet you can't help being suspicious.

“I don't get it.” You say.

“I just want what's best for you.” She says. “I want you to live a long and happy life. Are you really content to spend the rest of your life in this village? Stuck taking care of your brother and father?”

“That sounds like the preferable outcome,” you say, “compared to having in-laws I can't stand.”

“Where does he get off calling you an old maid anyway?” She says.

A small smile crosses your lips. This is about the best she'll get, and she knows this, a grin crossing her own face. A moment that should be one of triumph—at least for you—seems to be more sorrowful. The older you grow, the further apart you drift from her, and with that comes a strange, aching loneliness. You long for a time in your youth; the days when she would play dolls with you in-between house chores. You miss the tiny clothes she’d sew for them. The furniture made of timber scraps she’d hand paint. Oh how long has it been since she last braided your hair? Or brushed it? Or helped you wash it? 

Did she have these same feelings about her own mother? Or was it easy for her? Does she too mourn those moments you used to share?

You don't remember her always looking this old. That’s not to say she isn't beautiful still—age does not nullify beauty. But she looks tired now. The dark circles under her eyes are more prominent than ever. The skin around her eyes crinkles when she laughs, or smiles. Her hair is littered with grays—like little silver threads. She looks like you.

From within the nearly pitch-black woods comes a scream; not that of an animal, but of man. When the scream rings out again, it’s much easier to understand. It’s a cry for help.

Emerging out of the treeline, and following the main road is a man, half hunched over and clutching his stomach. He makes it several yards into the village before collapsing. Enough blood pours from the wound on his side that you can smell it. A metallic taste lingers in the air, stuck to the back of your throat. Blood. 

You’re the first to run over, followed shortly behind by your mother. The injured, shambling figure collapses upon the road. It’s only as you draw closer that you recognize him, albeit barely: the man from dinner. His clothes at one point in time were yellow in color, but are now stained a deep brown in color from a mix of dirt and blood.

“We need a doctor over here!” Mother cries out, her voice echoing against the wall of trees.

Someone must hear, because eventually a group of men burst out of a nearby house. They make quick work of rolling him onto his back, granting you a better look at his wounds. Three long slashes across his stomach. From your mother comes a gasp, followed by her clamping her hand over her mouth. The young man succumbs to his wounds before anyone is able to help him. He’s lost too much blood. People don't come back from that.

“Was he stabbed?” One man asks.

“Looks like knife marks,” comments another.

“Not a knife,” the oldest of the three says, “claws.”

“Do you think a mountain lion got to him?” You ask.

The oldest of the men shakes his head. “Cats like that don't get this close to towns. They avoid people if they can. A bear, maybe; if he got in between a mother and cub. But even that seems unlikely…”

This is why you don't go into the woods after dark. This is why you lock your doors and close your shutters tight when the sun sets. Bad things lurk out there, but they are not bears, nor are they mountain lions.

Something about the height of a person bursts from the treeline. Atop the legs of a chicken is a head only humanesque in the way corpses are. Sunken eyes sit atop a shriveled nose, and cracked lips. Its skin seems to be hanging off bone. Still, it takes you a moment to register that it’s fear you feel. Your palms prickle with sweat, the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The urge to flee is nearly unbearable.

More of these creatures emerge from the direction of the nearly-set sun. They appear to come in all sorts of horrid shapes, and sizes, the smallest being no larger than a bird, and the largest about the size of a cow. Fear threatens to overcome you entirely. At least twenty of the creatures leave the treeline, although you suspect more remain hidden within it. The temperature must drop by ten degrees. It’s as if all the moisture has been sucked from the air. Those who dared leave their homes to look at the source of the commotion have now retreated, locking their doors behind them. 

The collar of your dress jerks backwards as your mother struggles to drag you back towards the house. “Get your father!” She says. “Hurry!” 

“What about you?!” You ask.

“Just get your father,” she says.

And you do so, running as fast as your feet will take you. The chilly night air renders your fingertips numb, and your face burning. He’s asleep in his chair, and wakes with a gasp as you shake him, motioning frantically to the door. The words that leave you are incoherent, but he must understand your panic. He retrieves his sword, telling you to lock the door behind him. You don't listen. You never listen, you can hear your mother say now. A sudden burst of light draws your attention—a nearby house has caught fire. Those strange, horrid creatures swarm around it like flies. Several neighbors have exited their houses, and begun throwing buckets of water upon the blaze, but the fire is too strong.

And from the treeline emerges that man from the woods all those years ago. 

In five years time, he has not aged a day. His cruelly sharp features appear the same within the flicker of the firelight. They fall before him on their hands and knees, heads bowed in fear. You only realize you’re shaking when you move closer to the window, peeking out through the crack in the shutters. 

The King of Curses, he called himself, all those years ago.

His mouth moves as if he's speaking, but you can only make out about half of what he says. The ringing in your ears is too loud to make sense of much.

“My offerings lessen, my shrine lies defiled,” he says, “and you humans sit here complacent. I gave you five years to make amends and this is what you do with it?”

You know, logically, that your father is going to die. He is no match for the creatures, let alone that strange man. You must do something. Even if it is beyond logic, or reason, you would not forgive yourself if you did not act.

“Then what is it you require of us?” Asks father, his hands trembling slightly. You can tell it’s more than just the dancing light of the fire. He is truly frightened.

“An offering,” says the King of Curses. “A sacrifice.”

“We have nothing to offer,” says father, “the river has run dry of fish—our crops have withered! We have nothing to offer, we’re starving regardless!”

The King of Curses eyes drift to your hiding place, before landing back on your father. “You said it yourself.” He says. “You’ll starve regardless. What difference does it make that you should give up one of your own? Won't there only be less mouths to feed?”

Your arrows rattle loudly as you pull one from your quiver, knocking it. From this angle, and sitting half crouched on the ground, you can't bring it to a full draw. Not only does that mess with your aim, but alter the power of the shot too. That can be accounted for. You adjust your angle to be a little higher—right above his head. When you release the string, the arrow gives way with a thunk! The shot is dead on; your arrow whistling towards the demon king’s head. He brings his spear up, knocking it aside. Several heads whip back towards you, their faces contorted in a mix of anger, and fear. 

You’re not quite sure who grabs you first—it must be more than one person. Several sets of hands are upon you, dragging you from the house. Any attempts to fight it fail on your part, there are simply too many people to kick off. They drop you in the dirt beside your father. You don't dare look at him. You know his eyes are filled with fear. 

“We’ll—we’ll put it to a vote,” says one of the elders. “All those in favor of sending this woman as an offering…”

Two other elders raise their hands. Then several of the men. Then, reluctantly, the mother of a neighboring family. Even more hands pop up after that. Although maybe a minute passes, it feels like hours. At least a dozen sets of eyes are on you.

“Out of all of you,” the demon king says, eyes following across the crowd that’s now gathered, “she was the only one of you to fight back, yet you punish such an action?”

Silence is the only response the crowd can conjure up. A groan so loud that the ground rumbles beneath it rings out as the house gives way, collapsing in on itself in a rain of ash and embers.

“Wait!” Your father cries out, “let me go in her place!”

Several more incomprehensible sentence fragments leave him. He pleads and pleads to no avail. The last view you get of your village is of the spirits retreating back into the woods.

It must be hours before your state of shock wears off. Dawn breaks bleak and gray over the horizon. The temple he brings you lies in ruin. You must be one of the first people to set foot in here in years. A cracked foundation gives way to walls overtaken by vines. Dust and ash layers the ground, and every surface imaginable.

Sukuna must not expect you to try to run. Nothing is done to prevent you from escaping. There are no doors to lock. No ropes or cages. The only real barrier of escape is the trek home through miles of woods. Should you wait until sunrise, the trip won't be impossible. It is the fear of what remains for you that prevents you from returning.

Would there even be anything to go back to? Is it even worth it after what they did? They did not hesitate as they offered you as a sacrifice. Whatever happens to them… they have it coming.

Such thoughts do little to comfort you. If anything, they make you feel worse. What little strength you have left goes into stopping the tears that threaten to spill down your cheeks. You manage. Barely.

Unable to find it within you to do anything else, you sit. Only a thin, woven mat separates you and the hard floor. Footsteps draw closer down the hall, the noise only amplified by the high ceilings of the temple.

Uraume. That’s what Sukuna called them. A strange being that looks human, but appears to be more than such. They enter the room, a shock a white hair visible before the rest of them is. They wear the kimono of an unmarried woman, in vibrant shades of orange, blues, and pinks woven in the pattern of flowers. Hooked around one arm is a pail of water. Under the other arm is a roll of cloth. Contained within the cloth is a mix of hygiene supplies; a sponge, comb, various vials of oils and creams. 

Uraume treats you like one would treat a frightened animal. They kneel on the ground before you, leaving about the distance of a foot. When you don't flinch, or shy away, they move closer.

“You’re covered in ash,” they say, “let me help.”

With the sponge, they dab away the bits of dirt and ash that have caked to your skin. Human contact like this should, in theory, be intimate, but in this situation it feels like anything but that. Uraume’s touch feels cold, and clinical. With them comes a strange, uncanny feeling, like you are not looking into the eyes of a human, but of a corpse. The reason behind their kindness is a mystery to you. It feels wrong to question them, but you can't help but think there is something sinister behind their actions. Their casualness suggests this isn't the first time they’ve done this. That thought does nothing to comfort you, so you quickly push it aside.

Next, they move on to your neck, then down to the exposed bits of your chest, and shoulders. 

“Such a beautiful dress,” they comment. You reply weakly, saying it belonged to your mother. Their response to that is little more than a hum.

They take your hands, scrubbing the dirt from under your nails with a small brush. After that, a comb is worked through your hair, taking great care to not pull on any knots that have formed. Once they can work their hands through your hair with no resistance, they stop.

Uraume leans back to examine their work, deeming you presentable. Gathering what they brought with them, they make their way towards the door, turning back once to say: “I’ll bring something to eat.”

The events of the night have left you without an appetite. You probably should eat something. It’ll be important to keep your energy up. The little adrenaline left within you has you jumping at any small noise, or shadow. Sleep feels like an impossibility right now.

About ten minutes pass before Uraume returns carrying a platter. Tea, pickled vegetables, a hunk of bread, a bowl of some kind of stew. It smells quite good, but you merely pick at it. Like your hesitation to sleep, you can hardly eat. Uraume sits with you, picking at their own food, but never finishing it. A million questions race through your mind, although you can barely bring yourself to ask them.

Would they even answer you? Or does this have a more sinister plan behind it?

Finally, you find enough of your voice to ask: “Where is…?”

“I’ve prepared a bath for master Sukuna,” they say, “he’ll be joining us shortly.”

Your attention turns back to the bowl in your hands, which soon slips through your fingers, breaking upon the floor. What little appetite you had is soured entirely. This is it. You’re nearly certain you’re going to die here.

Your attempt to clean up the mess is stopped by Uraume. They insist upon cleaning it themselves, taking great care not to cut their hands on the shards.

“Why are you helping me?” You ask, shocked at how small your voice sounds.

“Master Sukuna likes to play with his food before he eats it,” they say.

Uraume leaves shortly after, taking the leftover dishes with them. You remain seated, eyes moving between the two exits of the room. One takes you to the entrance of the temple; you’re not certain where the other leads. The first is almost guaranteed to be guarded, though. Trying to run now is a bad idea. But when will you get another chance?

You will not sit idly by as death draws closer. Like the previous night, you feel as if you must do something. It was your own foolish actions that got you into this mess, says a small voice in the back of your head.

Trapped under your heel is a small pottery shard, left over from the shattered bowl. It’s small enough to conceal in your palm. Sharp. Better for stabbing than it is slashing, but it will be good enough at either. Once Sukuna returns, you’ll get your chance.

The rush of adrenaline has started to wear off now, rendering your arms weak, and your legs shaky. If you were to sit down now, you’re certain it would be a while before you get back up. It is the body fighting itself; fight or flight mode mixing with exhaustion. If you do not stop and rest, your body will give out on you eventually.

So you stand there and pace, clutching your shard of pottery close. Maybe thirty minutes pass in the time it takes Sukuna to enter, but it feels like hours. Adrenaline turns into fatigue.

Tears burn at your eyes again, but you’re able to blink them back. A mix of shock and betrayal has left you nothing short of exhausted. Sukuna’s towering stature only helps to make you feel like a lamb about to be devoured by a wolf.

“I trust Uraume has been of assistance,” Sukuna says. 

Unsure of how to respond, you simply nod.

“What now?” You ask. “Is this the part where you’re supposed to eat me?”

That earns a laugh from him, although it’s strange sounding, as if the very action is foreign to him.

“Many decades ago, the people of your village—among others—would hold a festival during harvest season,” he says, “it was meant as a sign of peace. An offering in return to not raze their homes,

“The people of your village have grown laze, and complacent. They have forgotten their place as humans, and needed to be reminded of it. You are simply another offering. Something to tide me over.”

Sukuna draws close enough for you to feel his breath across the back of your neck. You shudder. Adrenaline courses through you once again.

This is it, you think, you are going to die. 

In one last attempt to preserve your dignity, you aim for his jugular, and swing the shard of pottery towards it. A hand wraps around your wrist before it can make contact. A second set of arms are trapping you against his body before you can even register it. His breath is warm against your cheek, teeth inhumanly sharp in the dim light.

“You are entertainment.” He says. 

That same set of sharp teeth drag up your neck. Some sick sense of pleasure runs up your spine at the feeling: being a little lamb in the jaws of a predator. It would take so little effort from him to render you lifeless that it’s almost comical. Adrenaline turns to delirium in your mind. 

What happens if he finally grows bored of you? It’s not a matter of “if” in this case, it’s a matter of “when”. You have an idea of what will happen once he does.

You don't hear him leave, so much as you notice his lack of presence.

Sukuna is gone for most of the following day. In that time, you explore much of the temple in an attempt to gain your bearings. It’s sparsely furnished, and dilapidated for the most part, but there are some signs of life. On a lower level of the temple is a bedroom, where the bed alone is as big as a room in your home. Must be Sukuna’s. Another, smaller room appears to be Uraume’s quarters. A small kitchen branches off the hallway not far from this. 

The later half of the day is spent trying to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Thick woods surround the structure, spreading out for what must be miles. To the North is a creek. If you followed it, you might possibly meet up with the river by your village. Whether you could do so before nightfall is another question entirely. Finding yourself stuck in unfamiliar woods past dark may prove to be a death sentence.

Even if you could go back, would you want to? Their lack of hesitation towards sacrificing you still rings clear in your mind.

Sleep seems to be the best way to pass the time. There isn't much else to do around here. In the hours before dusk, you manage to drag yourself out of bed, and into the woods that surround the temple. You justify it by saying that fresh air will do you good, not that anyone asks you. The only person around to do so would be Uraume, though you don't see much of them.

Heavy fog settles upon the trees, causing the day to take on a quiet, sleepy nature. Little cream-colored mushrooms pop up through the layer of moss and dead leaves that blanket the forest floor. Carved out over years of use is a dirt path, barely wide enough for a person to walk through. Following it for about ten minutes brings you to a pond. At one end, the start of a small creek leads downhill. Little fish are visible just under the surface. Leaving your socks and shoes at the shore, you wade out into the water. It’s cool, but not chilly. The mud feels soft underneath your feet. Being outside helps settle your nerves a bit. Outright terror is replaced with uneasiness now. While not entirely better, it’s an improvement to your previous mood.

From the treeline opposite of the path you took, a figure enters the clearing. Sukuna. Adrenaline spikes through your body at the sight of him. Your pulse quickens, and fear prickles in your palms. Every cell of your being is telling you to run.

Sukuna motions with his hand for you to follow him. It is not an offer, so much as it’s a command. Following a short walk on a stoney path, you find yourself overlooking a rock cliff-face, and a small wood hut. Scattered about are several steaming pools, which bubble up from the ground, layering upon the cliff-face like stairs.

Sukuna undressed at the wood hut, leaving his clothes hanging upon the rafters. Your gaze remains firmly on the ground. You should not be seeing him like this. This feels far too intimate. You try not to let your gaze linger too long, but can't help it. The sight of his back alone is hard to tear your eyes away from; the muscles, the tattoos, the curve of his spine. There is a strange, supernatural beauty to him. You eye him with caution, yet curiosity. 

Why has he brought you here? What does he want? Is this simply a ritual before he eats you?

Certainly, if you were to scream, no one would be nearby to hear you. 

It strikes you just how easily his teeth could tear through your jugular. How his sharp nails could shred your flesh to ribbons. Sukuna is far faster and stronger than you, outrunning him is not an option.

Following his lead, you undress, and leave your clothes folded neatly upon a rock. Next comes the task of taking down your hair, and combing through it with your fingers, finding it still knot-free from the events of the previous night. Only then do you approach the largest of the three pools, and wade into it. At its deepest, it's a little above your waist. You could walk all the way across and never once have your feet leave the ground.

You settle upon a rock towards the edge, half submerged in the pool. The hot water feels nice upon your sore muscles. Your eyes trail ribbons of steam as they curl off the water. A wave of self consciousness rolls over you. You sink further into the water, crossing your arms in front of your chest. It’s up to your chin now. Sometime during this, it starts raining. The droplets leave little ripples across the surface of the water. Fall brings the smell of damp earth, and decaying leaves with it. Something that should be comforting only makes your stomach turn.

“You look frightened, little lamb,” Sukuna says.

Is it so obvious? 

“I still don't believe this isn't some attempt to eat me.” You ask, though you’re not certain you want the answer.

“Had I wanted to eat you, I would have had Uraume make preparations.” He says.

You still don't believe him. How many people met their fate at his hands before you? There is no reason why you would be lucky—why you would escape your fate.

“Then what is it you want from me?” You ask.

His expression softens, shoulders lowering with a sigh. The space between his eyebrows is not so harshly creased anymore. 

“I am not like the typical curses you have met,” Sukuna says, “I require your permission.” 

“Permission for what?” You shrink back as he draws closer, stopping mere inches from you. He’d tower over the tallest man, let alone someone like you.

A kiss. Hungry, and overbearing, but a kiss nonetheless. Sukuna has to lean down, and you have to crane your neck up to complete the action. His movements feel stiff, clinical, as if he hasn't done this many times before. The action causes warmth to bloom in your chest, and spread out to your limbs. The hands that cup your face are nearly large enough to encompass it entirely. He tastes like wine, and something vaguely metallic. The thought that it might be blood crosses your mind for only a moment. You’d much rather think about other things. 

“Will you devote yourself to me, completely and entirely?” He asks.

Funny, you think, had a human man asked you the same thing, you would have laughed in his face. Yet you find yourself bewitched by the King of Curses. Curious, and cautious all the same. This is not a feeling of love. It is something else entirely. You are a sacrifice, you remind yourself, this is the fate of a sacrifice.

“I devote myself to no man,” you say, “I don't see how you'd be any different.”

He hums in amusement, circling around you in the water. He stops behind you, slightly to your right. Sharp teeth graze across your shoulder. Large hands trace their way up your hips, then your body, coming to rest just below your breasts. You squeeze your thighs together in an attempt to relieve the strange pressure that has built up. Your heart rate picks up in pace. Sukuna must be able to sense this. A low laugh leaves him as he pulls away.

“Well then,” he says, “do I have your permission to continue?”

Continue what? You wish to ask. As if against your mind’s wishes, your head moves in a nod. “Yes,” you say.

You can only imagine the look on his face as you have your back to him. He’s close enough you can feel the warmth radiate off his body. Is he pleased? Amused? Smug that all it took was a kiss to make you let your guard down? 

Hands that should be calloused and rough are quite gentle with their touch. One comes to rest upon your hip, before trailing down to the space between your thighs. Seconds in and your knees seem to give out, your body supported only by him. One finger presses into you, then a second. You sigh at the intrusion. There’s little resistance as he presses into you. You’re too wet. Sukuna’s fingers are much larger than your own, though the stretch you feel is pleasant, not painful. Your thighs squeeze around his hand, drawing a low laugh from him. You can feel it rumble within his chest, which your back is pressed flush to.

Being so close to another being feels odd. The only intimacy you know is a platonic one. A familial one. This is different. Stronger. More intense. He finds the spot that makes you squirm and abuses it, toying with you like prey. It must be a game to him, you think, like cat and mouse. With one of your hands over your mouth, you try to muffle the lewd noises that spill from you. It’s a losing battle. All sorts of pleased sounding noises—from both you and him—echo through the clearing. Secretly, you’re glad this place is so remote. Should someone hear the lewd noises you’re making, you wouldn't recover from the embarrassment. He brings you just to the edge, but refuses to let you cross over. Frustration turns to desperation as you grind against him, chasing your own release. Sukuna doesn't appear opposed to your actions. He lets you work yourself up to—and through—your own release, the noises you make growing gradually more obscene until they come to a head in the form of an orgasm.

You remain in the water for a while afterwards. The layer of fog overhead makes the day take on a lazy, sleepy nature. His hands comb through your hair as you lay against his chest. Such a moment feels uncharacteristically tender for him. While you expect them to be sharp, his nails feel nice against your skin. The mouth on his stomach resembles a smirk, although the expression on his face is flat. Unreadable. A slight pang of disappointment shoots through you. You know it’s unreasonable of you to expect humanity from someone inherently inhuman. He does not—he can not—process things the way you do. Humans must appear so small and fragile to him.

You’re uncertain of how much time passes as you lay there, your limbs tangled with his. It doesn't feel like long enough. No time would feel long enough. You crave the touch of another being whether you want to admit that or not.

“It’s getting late,” he comments. Without another word, you watch as Sukuna dresses himself, and leaves.

You follow him as quickly as you can. You’re not quite fast enough, arriving back at the temple long after him. Dusk follows soon after. 

You find no sign of the King of Curses upon your return. Finding yourself with not much of an appetite, you head straight to bed. Uraume stops by once to offer tea, but you decline, insisting you’re tired, and just wish to sleep. Whether or not they believe you, you can't tell. That’s about the extent of every conversation you have; polite, but short.

Sukuna must not need to sleep. Not in the same way you do. You dress down into your underclothes, leaving the rest folded neatly upon a chair. They’re not dirty, just slightly wrinkled from the events of today. You crawl into the bed much larger than you, and attempt to sleep. When he crawls into the bed beside you, you do nothing to protest.

As time passes, you grow used to his presence. Falling into a routine takes mere days. In that time, you don't see much of Sukuna, or Uraume. Maybe it’s for the best. You’re not certain what you’d say to either of them. You figure it best not to question what Sukuna gets up to in his free time. If the events at your village are anything similar, you figure it best to pay them no mind.

The longer you spend here, the more curious you find yourself. At least twice you find your way back to the hot springs. Familiarizing yourself with the surrounding woods has you growing more confident when navigating it. Animal tracks and trails reveal themselves, bringing more life to the woods. 

Fall turns to winter. Rain gives way to snow, bringing in a bitter stormfront. It’s hard to tell how many days pass as the storm hits, rendering the three of you confined to the temple. Sukuna doesn't appear bothered at all by the cold, but you spend many bleak nights huddled by a fire. Sukuna approaches you on one of these nights; perhaps the bleakest and darkest one before the storm finally breaks. Your inability to leave the temple has you ready to claw out of your own skin. Never were you one to stay in one place very long. 

Days have passed and you haven't spoken much to one another. Not since the day at the hot springs. You find yourself especially longing for them on a day like this, where the cold makes your joints ache, and your lips cracked. Winter is among your least favorite of the seasons. A hot and sticky summer day was always preferred over a day like this. Sukuna must sense it. He finds you curled by the fire, wrapped in an assortment of quilts and fabrics. You can't tell if it’s morning, or evening. Snow has rendered midday as dark as dusk. 

You know you should get up, and toss more wood onto the fire. Should you let it die any further, it’s unlikely you’ll get it started again. Sukuna joins you in the room, sitting on the mat to your left. Finding yourself searching for warmth, you move closer to him. It’s an unconscious action at first. Once you recognize it, you can't find the willpower within you to stop.

You offer the edge of the blanket to him, basking in his warmth as the quilt is wrapped around both of you. One of his hands comes to rest upon your knee. Your gaze is trained on his face, while his remains on the dying fire. 

“I don't suppose you do this to every sacrifice you get,” you say, not expecting an answer.

The corners of his lips twitch into something that resembles a smile. Much life his laugh, his smile is stiff, and rather foreign feeling. Like he hasn't done such a thing in centuries.

“You are different from the sacrifices I have received in the past.” He says. 

You get the impression he is still figuring out what to do with you. Such a thought doesn't inspire confidence on your part, though you assume your situation could be worse. 

You're nearly in his lap now. The hand on your knee soon moves upwards onto your thigh. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as he palms himself through his clothes. Some sick part of you wishes to taunt him. To tease him in the same way he has done to you. You part your legs just enough to encourage him. There must be something wrong with you, you think, no normal woman would enjoy the company of the King of Curses.

This is not your typical virgin sacrifice. It is little more than that. Pleasure for the sake of pleasure. To fuck without the intent to procreate.

“I always assumed you wouldn’t have these… urges.” You say.

“Many things lost their potency,” he says. “Food was never enough to satiate, drink was never enough to quench thirst. Sex has remained the same. Primal pleasure never loses its potency.”

So he was human. At least at one point in time…

“Like I said,” he hums, “I am not like the typical curses you have met. I require your permission.”

“You have it,” you say. 

Oh how dearly you wish to recreate the event at the hot springs. To feel the same build-up of emotions, and the following release. Such mindless pleasure has remained in your head, unable to be stifled by your own hands.

Off comes your kimono, guided down your shoulders by his hand. Your nipples stiffen when exposed to the open air. It is not the cold that has you shivering, but the expectation of what’s to come. His size, and calloused hands suggest his touch would be harsh, but you find to be the opposite. Sharp nails graze down your sides as he moves to kneel before you. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better look at him.

His own clothes are left among the growing pile on the floor. He pumps his stiffening cock in his hand, the head of which weeps across his palm. A different kind of heat blooms in your stomach.

 Sharp teeth graze across your jaw, down your neck, before eventually nipping at your shoulder. A sting both painful and pleasurable radiates from the bite. Blood beads from the two points where he managed to break the skin, quickly lapped away by him. Part of your brain is telling you to push him away. The other part is telling you to expose your neck further. You’re not certain which to listen to as you lay under him, caged within his arms. Your breaths grow ragged, turning into quiet moans as his knee nudges your legs apart. This is different from the day at the hot springs. Sukuna is seeking something more—he is seeking his own pleasure this time.

A hand finds its way into your hair, gently tugging at it. Guided by his hand, you expose your neck further to him. He laps at the droplets of blood that form, sucking dark marks into the skin of your neck. Pain and pleasure overlap in your mind. Your thighs are a mess of your own slick, and the precum that leaks from the heads of his two cocks. It’s almost comical how you work yourself up in knots at only the slightest provocation by him.

You taste yourself on him as he kisses you. The bleeding from your neck has mostly stopped now. What remains will barely leave a scar. His lips trail down your neck, through the valley between your breasts, and down your stomach, before eventually stopping just shy of your cunt. The look of him alone has you growing as wet as a virgin; his hair disheveled from your hands running through it, the muscles in his shoulders appear more prominent now. His arms hook around your thighs, although he doesn't need to bother holding your legs open. You’d do it without prompt by him. Eager for your own release, and worked up into a soaked mess, you’d do anything to please him.

You shouldn't be enjoying it as much as you are. You know you should be afraid. It would take no effort from him at all to tear through your femoral artery, and let you bleed out. You would be helpless in the matter anyway; you’re nothing more than a little lamb trapped under a big bad wolf.

The feeling of his tongue is strange. With him on his knees, bowed in what resembles worship, has your stomach in knots. The lewdness of it all has you more worked up than anything else. A strange, pleasurable tension builds within you. He is not toying with you this time, but working you over. When you do finally cum, you cum hard, riding out your high on his face. The noises he’s making suggest he’s enjoying this almost more than you do.

He must be painfully hard now. The head of his cock is an angry shade of red, and leaking precum. Using his hand to guide him, the head of his cock presses into you. You’re too wet from his previous actions to notice much of a stretch. What little pain there is crosses over with pleasure in your mind. He groans as he sheathes himself within you fully. His expression softens just enough for you to take in the features of his face. He’s quite handsome now that you’re close enough to appreciate his looks. It makes you wonder what his life as a human was like. Was he royalty, or a commoner? What was his job? Did he ever have family?

You won't get an answer out of him no matter how hard you try. This is the most human the king of curses will ever appear. 

His thrusts are slow at first. Lazy. More like grinding, not proper fucking. With as sensitive as you still are, this doesn't make much of a difference. You’re still a writhing, moaning mess beneath him. Judging by the noises he’s making, he’s not far from cumming himself. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and that seems to only encourage him. The muscles in his arms and shoulders gradually grow more tense before he shudders, then visibly relaxes. A warm sensation in your cunt follows soon after; he’s cum inside of you.

You lay like that for a while: limbs entwined, bodies curled around each other. He lets himself soften inside of you until the desire to pull out hits. You can tell your hips will be sore in the morning—whenever it decides to come. What little of his seed spills out of you is forced back in by his fingers. You assume it ties into his possessive nature. It must be a way of marking you as his. The fire has long since died out, though you find the warmth from his body adequate enough. 

“I don't think I can walk,” you lie, “carry me?”

Sukuna feigns annoyance, but relents, carrying you to the bed too large for any human. You quickly find your way under the covers. He finds himself in the space beside you. Fatigue hits you soon after, yet you find yourself unable to sleep.

“You were human once?” You ask.

The mood in the room seems to shift entirely. Sukuna is not one for conversation. You expected no different from a man like him. He looks at you with mild annoyance, as if deciding on his answer.

“I was. Once.” He says.

Your fingers trace across the tattoos on his wrist. “Do you miss it?” You ask. “Being human, I mean.”

“I am far stronger now than I was when I was a human.” He says. “I no longer need to eat, nor drink. I have the gift of eternal life so long as I am smart with my actions. I do not miss the fragility that comes with humanity.”

His words almost irritate you. So much more exists to humanity than what he says, from little things like sharing a summer even with a friend, tearing into ripe persimmons. Spending an evening hunched over a stew pot helping your mother. Kisses shared between a lover in the woods, or out in the fields. Stories exchanged by firelight. Intricately woven fabrics and paintings that might as well be indistinguishable from real life. So many beautiful things exist within humanity. Maybe he’s been away from it so long he’s forgotten the extent of it.

Would the King of Curses even admit he’s lonely? Or would he be too prideful to admit such a thing?

“You're sad. Why?” He questions.

“Was just thinking about my mother. That's all.” You say. “She wanted me to get married before I…”

You’re mad at her. More mad than you’ve been at anyone in your life. Yet you wish for nothing more than her comfort in this moment. A wound exists that time won't heal. Anger is not productive in fixing it. Anger only makes it worse.

This time, you are the one to initiate the kiss. You wish for it to distract you, but it only amplifies the ache in your chest.

“If you were to lose what little fight you had left in you, then this would no longer be fun,” he says.

You grow used to the ever-present shadow that is Sukuna, talking to the space beside you as if he is there because hell, sometimes he is. He is more than a mere man. He exists on a level different from you or anyone else. Your existence at this temple feels less like confinement and more like living. 

“Will you join me?” He asks one day by the river. 

The two of you sit upon the riverbank, watching as the water swirls below you. Spring snowmelt, combined with a recent storm, has stirred up the river bottom, turning the water murky. What was meant to be a fishing trip has proved unsuccessful.

“I would be lying if I said I haven't grown used to your presence.” He says.

“Don't be getting soft on me,” you say, half joking.

The most emotion you get out of him is an amused sounding huff. 

“I want you to join me,” he says, “not in life as human, but in eternity as a curse.”

“I will,” you say. 

No thought is needed for your answer, nor is there any hesitation on your part. Sukuna simply nods. That is what love is to him. Devotion. Worship. Throwing away your humanity means nothing if humanity is so quick to reject you. 

Gifts begin appearing around the temple after that. Priceless jewelry, and expensive dresses. Hair pins and cosmetics. Seasons pass in what feels like no time at all. Before you know it, your third fall here is quickly approaching. Winter comes and goes—uncharacteristically bitter this year. Spring brings a sense of rebirth. The ground thaws slowly, and plant life is in full bloom. Animal life returns to the surrounding woods, showing signs in every trail around the temple.

A hunting trip brings you further out into the woods than you’ve traveled before. You don't realize you’re nearing a human settlement until you’ve stumbled upon it.

The village has changed drastically in the time you were gone, so much so that you almost don't recognize it. A full blown mill has sprouted up along the river. At least twice as many houses stand now. Years ago this street was little more than a dirt path. Sometime over the years it has been paved over with river stones. Children play in the streets. Men walk home with pails of fish slung over their shoulders. These strangers notice you and pause, returning to their homes quickly. 

Your house remains mostly the same. Age has not been kind to it. One corner of the roof sags, and the wood trim has grown bleached with time. The path up to the front steps is overgrown. Sitting outside, hunched over a wash bin, is your mother.

Her hair is mostly gray now. Wrinkles mark her skin, and her joints are knobby, but you would still consider her beautiful. The face of the woman she once was is still there. The clothes she wears are of rich fabrics, suggesting your family has not hurt for money. Her sturdy figure suggests they never lacked food either.

When she sees you, her eyes grow wet with tears. And it’s as if the weight of the world has lifted off your shoulders. You want to be angry at her. You want to unload years of anger upon her. You want her to feel just a fraction of the fear you've felt. But you can't bring yourself to do it. The look in her eyes tells you she’s felt all the emotions you have.

Her movements are laced with hesitation, as if she’s deciding whether or not you're real. One of her wrinkled hands takes yours. 

“I love you,” she says, “and I am so sorry.”

“I know,” you say.

She invites you in for tea, setting the table up with the nice dishware—the kind she only uses for guests. The interior of the house hasn't changed much. Your room is eerily the same, as if it hasn't been touched since the day you left. Your father’s boots, and hunting coat remain by the door, although they look as if they haven't been moved in years. Makes sense, you think, hunting is a task that grows difficult as you get older. There comes a time in every hunter’s life where they grow old, and it becomes their turn to stay home and tend the fire.

“Where's…?” You never get the chance to finish your question, the solemn look on your mother’s face is enough of an answer.

“He passed,” she says, pausing to think, “two springs ago now? Maybe three.”

Believing you would never see them again, you grieved your parents long ago.This particular grief is like an old wound to you.

“The village looks prosperous,” you comment. A bitter tone clings to your voice.

“Yes,” she says, “the past years have been kind to us. I suppose we have you to thank for that?”

She sits across from you, her eyes still wet with tears. It feels like you are holding a conversation with a stranger. Your mother regards you with a certain weariness she only reserves for strangers. Maybe it would hurt more if you had more room within you for grief.

“He never stopped looking for you, you know,” she says, setting a cup of tea in front of you. “Even after the village held a funeral for you. He never wanted to believe it. Until the day he died, he was out in the woods thinking he could bring you home.”

“I was under the impression I wasn't wanted here.” You say.

“You know that’s not true,” she says. “What happened that night was a result of fear. The elders did what they thought would preserve the safety of everyone.”

“Except for me.” You say.

Fear. Right. To them, you were simply a sacrifice. You drain the last of your tea, standing from the table. Your mother stands as if to stop you, but freezes before she can.

“Does he treat you well?” She asks.

“Yes,” you say.

“Better than any human man?”

“Yes,” you answer, although you can tell she doesn't believe it. 

“Do you love him?” She asks. “Does he love you?”

“I suppose so.” You say. “As much as he is capable of loving something.”

“But do you love him?” She asks again.

“As much as I am capable of doing so, yes.” You answer.

It is not the answer she wants, but the one that is the truth. With her hands folded in her lap, she nods solemnly.

That following night you leave your village not as a human, but as a curse. 

Enough time would pass that the story of a young sacrifice would be forgotten by its people; what would remain, is a tale of a love so infamous that it survived centuries.

[noideasforausername]

crumpled letter.

description: sirius black x literally whoever (self-insert or existing character, anything works)

word count: 0.7k

warnings: angst? (basically all I write is angst are we even surprised at this point)

───────────

Sirius was used to being on the receiving end of an absurd number of letters – written confessions – on the regular. It had been admittedly entertaining at first, grown rapidly concerning and ended up becoming quite bothersome. By his sixth year, he’d taken the habit of simply throwing them away: the dizzying shades of pink an eyesore, particularly first thing in the morning.  

Blue, black, red and occasionally gold ink, all conveying one clear message through their various deviations from the boring “I like you” (that is, of course, with one singular and minuscule heart over each individual i). 

That particular morning, things were about as outwardly ordinary as possible: the nauseatingly colourful pile dropped next to Sirius’ goblet a testament to this statement.  

It seemed that the owls’ brief period of strike was over – for Hogwarts had seen this rare phenomenon earlier that year, the animals having reached abnormally high levels of annoyance with the repetitive act of carrying the garish mail to a less-than-grateful black-haired student. 

Sirius had half a mind to leave them there. Maybe that would give his faceless – and nameless in some cases – admirers a hint. But he didn’t. Instead, he crumpled them all up with a flick of his wand, a motion he knew by heart, and stuffed them in his pocket (the waiting room before they’d inevitably find their home in the depths of the nearest trash can.)

Amongst them, a white envelope. One so ordinary it should have stood out from the pile. Black ink on a standard piece of parchment.

 

“Here it goes. I have tried writing this with flourish and charm, but this is my last piece of parchment and I fear I will chicken out if I do not send this now. 

I’m aware the chances of you reading this are slim. Perhaps that’s why I decided to write you in the first place. But I have tried everything. And being a small speck in the sandstorm that causes that frown to appear on your forehead every morning seemed a fair price to pay.  

Let me start, or better yet continue, by clarifying one thing: this is not a love letter. I am not writing to beg for a chance of your eyes meeting mine in anything more than a passing coincidence. Instead, I hope that this will end up at the bottom of your pocket, and that the rage I hold will burn a hole right through that expensive black silk, setting the rest of the letters aflame and silencing the voices you crush daily with the barest swish of the wrist. 

You, Sirius Orion Black, are infuriating. Your face is irksome. Your grin is positively maddening. The curve of your cheekbones, the angle of your jawline, the glint in your eyes, the way you so effortlessly carry yourself – as if taking up space is what you were born to do. I’ve come to believe that you are taunting me indirectly.  

And I wish you would stop. Or maybe what’s even more aggravating is that I can’t picture a life in which you do. It is unfair, that we are unable to look at the sun for too long without being blinded, and yet no matter how long my eyes rest on you, my vision stays intact.  

I have made it my mission to ignore you. But not only has this proven impossible, my stubborn nature has blown this situation out of proportions, resulting in a pair of invisible, unmovable binoculars that constantly seek you out having replaced my eyes.  

I have no explanation, no enchantment ever recorded matches the effect you seem to have on me. This slow, torturous, pit in my stomach knowing that somewhere between these walls, your chest is rising and falling in rhythm with my own.  

I have many more insults to throw your way, but I am running out of paper. All that to say, though you may believe you dispose only of devoted admirers, there is someone in this very castle whose life has been thrown off its axis for no apparent reason other than your very existence. I hope that getting this off my chest and sending it your way will break this unbearable cycle. If not, this is my formal way of telling you to fuck off Sirius Black. Fuck off and put my life back the way it was.” 

[besamehyuka]

The Ending Of A Phone call

Warning: This post contains smut, which means sex. if you don't like this type of content then I suggest don't read it! 18+!!!!

Soobin looks down at you as he's on a phone call, his gentle but firm hands roam throughout your hair as he lets out a sigh. He tilts his head to the side, acting as if he doesn't know what you're doing, but he senses it, and it drives him crazy, the lust evident in the way he looks down at you.

You look up from under him and wink, before pulling his shorts down, kissing the head of his cock so gently, Soobin growls. Your lips open slowly, almost as if to tease him in the most cruel way you can, and he knows this all to well, which is why he's guiding your head down eagerly.

Soobin grunts, lifting his lip, trying to get away, after his mind head been cleared, mainly because this call was a very important one and he can't waste all his energy trying not to moan and cum deep inside your wet godly mouth.

A giggle erupts from your throat as you finally take him all the way inside your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks flattening your tongue, humming and moaning, deliberately sending vibrations throughout his whole body. You can tell Soobin is trying too hard, from the way his eyebrows furrow, and his head hangs low, his breathing now ragged.

With one teasing deep throat, he bucks his hips, moaning softly causing his hand to tug a bit harsher than intended on your hair.

"SHIT!" Soobin grits out, hanging up the phone call so he can ravage your throat without being caught. His large hands on both sides of your head so he can thrust better.

It doesn't take him long, due to the absurd wetness that is your mouth, to cum harshly. He wipes the corner of your mouth with a satisfied smirk.

"Well, then. Since my baby wants to act all bold, shall I show you the consequences of your actions?" He smirks. "You're all mine tonight you little slut."

[red-riding-wood]

I’m so sorry about what happened to you and so many others. Disgusting misogynistic behavior. You all deserve so much better ):.

Also sending this bc I do believe he has made two new accounts. Drcranessweetestdoe and monsterfromthewoods. I have no proof these are him ,but it just strikes an absurd resemblance to his writing and he seemed to interact with both of them a few weeks ago. The first one hasn’t blogged in weeks either. Just seems strange. Once again though, I could be wrong. Just something for everyone to stay weary about. Stay safe ❤️

Thank you for the well wishes, anon! I really do appreciate you reaching out. <3

From my conversations with @drcranessweetestdoe, she does not behave like Kill (nor does her writing style compare to his), and I am pretty positive he is incapable (or at least very bad) at taking on different personalities since I believe I witnessed his attempt with the second account you mentioned. Aurora is very sweet, and she used to be a fan of Kill's writing and mine. I don't want people to be suspecting her of foul play because I do believe she is genuine. Kill has a pattern of reblogging fics as a way of seeing what victims he can latch onto and I see that as a coincidence with his reblog of Monster's.

As for @monsterfromthewoods... I was hesitant to make a callout, mainly because no one has actual solid proof that he is Kill. But, there is too much evidence for me to ignore, and I wanted to give my honest opinion and observations. Monster, if you are not this person, feel free to reach out and vouch for yourself, and if I am wrong, I am deeply sorry.

Fuck that. As I was typing this message up, I decided to check my DMs and noticed that my friend had said that he gave her the same name that, as of this morning, was revealed to me as his actual name along with his real picture and Facebook profile. That really sealed the deal for me. Here is the rest of my evidence to prove that this is "Kill":

Monster followed my friend around the same time that she blocked Kill.

Monster followed me the same day that I sent Kill a confrontational message, calling him out for his lies and pleading with him one last time for medical treatment and answers.

From the posts on Monster's account, and the one comment I know he made on my friend's post, his personality exactly fits Kill's. This is why I said I do not think he is capable or likely to be able to craft a believable persona.

Monster made a post about suicide, and a pro-Palestine post, the former of which Kill discussed with me a lot and the latter my friend pointed out as suspicious since Kill was also very strongly pro-Palestine. Seeing as Monster doesn't have that many posts yet on his blog, this isn't irrefutable evidence but it is very coincidental.

Lastly, I actually did my best to analyse and compare Kill and Monster's writing, since I had recalled a few things that stuck out to me when I read Kill's writing. Him and Monster share many similarities with their writing habits/consistencies. They are as follows (the examples listed are from 18+ content so please do not view if you are a minor):

Use periods and exclamation marks -- but never commas -- as punctuation to end dialogue tags.

Starter dialogue tag always facing outward. Like: ”So... Tight”

Tend to each use a snapshot style of writing, favouring incomplete sentences with frequent use of periods. Examples: K: "His mind, usually so sharp. Focused and organized like the most expensive machines. A killing machine, that worked in perpetual motion, living off killing, adrenaline used like a drug." M: "Your dear, understanding doctor. Doctor Jonathan Crane, who laughed out loud suddenly a couple moments ago. The dark colour covering his exotic looking eyes as he revealed his real nature to you."

Similarly, they both tend to avoid using possessive pronouns and determiners. Examples: K: "_ Pale, little pussy peaked from between her thighs." M: "The scars covering _ man's pale skin," _ = absence of "her, that, the," etc.

Often use adverbs after verbs in a way that feels out of place.

Capitalise after ellipses, always.

"Y/n" always has a lowercase "n".

Sometimes use three ellipses, often use only two.

Use "pants" but never "trousers".

Yeah, so, I may have spent way too much time on this. And I think most of this is redundant, now, especially after the name revelation, but still, I put work into it and didn't want it to go to complete waste lmao. I also had no idea until I was tagged today that apparently there are programs that do this sort of thing for you. Oops.

[purplecoffee13]

‘Heaven’s On Fire’ - thin lines pt. 1*

“I want it all, give me what you got. It’s hunger in your eyes. I’m getting closer, baby hear me breathe” ~ Heaven’s On Fire by KISS

Summary: “You meet the infamous rockstar Harry Styles after your opera performance. He is an arrogant and self-centered prick, but you can't help but feel incredibly attracted to him.”

Wc: 4.6k

Tropes: rockstar!Harry X opera singer!MC

Warnings: smut (fem!receiving), Harry being a cocky asshole, degradation, dirty talk, mention of exhibitionism, dom & sub, slight age gap (19 & 23)

A/N: Hey! Welcome to this new series of mine! This will include a little bit of darker Harry, so don’t expect a lot of lovey dovey things here. Isn’t proof read so sorry for mistakes. Also be sure to check every chapter’s warnings before u go on with reading

************************************************

The Opera.

Of all places, that's where Harry's team had decided to send him to give him some 'good press'. It was absolutely ridiculous. He wasn't even allowed to bring a date. They knew he'd run off with them.

In a black suit, Harry stood outside in the common room of the theatre, waiting for the dreadful announcement that the two hours of high notes and absurd costumes could commence. He ran his hands through his now long hair, which he had spent a year growing out. It was freshly washed, and parts of his curls were still damp.

A guiding hand was put on Harry's back by Rob, his manager, and he was led to their seats. Harry was still being a grump to his manager, but Rob was used to it by now.

Harry had tarnished his image enough over the past two years, and he was in dire need of a clean slate. The media would only be so nice before sales started to decline.

It was a difficult job, what Rob had been put up to. While Harry's band mates knew how to keep their antics hidden from the public eye, Harry reveled in being in it. Mikey, his drummer and lifelong friend, had once called him a proper psychopath after two consecutive nights in a sex club somewhere deep in Hollywood.

There was no denying it, Harry had completely changed from the moment he came into the public eye. He wasn't the sweetest kid, but he'd always been pretty decent. But the flash of the cameras, the whiskeys and the lines of coke were enough to change a man. For the better, he thought. The people around him had a different opinion about it, but he didn't care. As long as he delivered on stage, no one batted an eye at him.

And he did deliver, both on stage and off of it. More than half of the bands' songs were written by Harry, whose impeccable songwriting proved itself time and time again.

But over the last few months, there had been one too many brawls at clubs, where paparazzi would catch a coked out Harry trying to beat up some local guy. It was also becoming difficult for the media to keep track on the amount of women he was fucking, and above all, his outspoken, atheist outlook on live didn't help much either.

So, Rob had sent Harry to a few socially acceptable events, where he'd have to make small talk and be nice, and look like he was actually dressed for the occasion.

Harry hated it, and he despised Rob for thinking going the opera would be a good idea. Nevertheless, he sat down, slightly slouched, and tried not to sigh too hard as he waited for the lights to dim.

It'd be a good way to get some sleep; he'd need it.

Harry had already closed his eyes for a few minutes when all of a sudden an angelic voice hit his ear drums, your voice. His eyes softly fluttered open, and he was met with the sight of an actual angel. Well, at least he thought.

On stage, you singing with such adoration and love in her voice that Harry could feel it, and despite not knowing what the play could've possibly been about as he had not informed himself, he knew your character was supposed to be in love. 

From that second on, Harry's eyes were wide open. He'd rest them whenever you were not there, and was wide awake as soon as you, his little nightingale, would bless the room with your presence and your voice again. As the opera slowly worked its way to its climax, Harry leaned over to Rob.

"I need you to get me backstage."

"Why?" Rob turned to his client, a frown on his face.

"She has a beautiful voice. I want to tell her in person." He turned to his manager, who was eyeing him skeptically. Of course he thought Harry was getting in there for a quick fuck, and while those were exactly his intentions, he didn't need Rob to know. "What? You were the one who wanted me to have respectable acquittances."

"Right... you're right. I'll be back in a minute." He said before getting up and tasking care of Harry's commands.

Harry couldn't do anything else for the rest of the play other than think about his little nightingale in all the ways he wanted to have you.

(((|)))

Opening night was the most nerve racking thing you had ever experienced, but despite your fears, the opera had played out wonderfully. The overwhelming amount of applause at the end made you tear up, and the first few minutes back in your changing room consisted of nothing but staring out into the distance, thinking about how lucky you were to have ended up where you had.

You had always wanted to sing, ever since you was a little girl. You had always had the gift, but your parents didn't really believe in the unstable career that came with singing as a profession. That was, until you were accepted for the role of Liesl von Trapp in a sound of music musical held in the region's biggest theatre and ended up being scouted by your current manager, Reece.

This role was your ticket into the business, he'd said. After this, you would be able to work your way to what you truly wanted to do. Write songs. It was all you've ever wanted to do, but your operatic voice was the gateway into record deals.

'You need to be heard first, then you can write your story'. That's what Reece had told you, and you trusted him. Your succes was money straight into his pockets, so he would do what was best for you and your career, at least you assumed.

Your rattling mind was interrupted by a knock on your door. You watched through the mirror as the door opened, and Reece popped in.

"Good job, Y/N, truly." He said as he walked over to you. You turned around to get up and gave him a hug, your stomach tingling at the smell of his perfume. Reece always smelled very good.

You had slowly started to develop a slight crush on your manager. At first, you weren't attracted to him at all. In fact, you knew he had a girlfriend of a couple years so the thought never even entered your mind.

But then, one night, after a business dinner, Reece offered to get a drink at the local bar. You agreed and together you took off the a dive bar near the restaurant. It was a very fun night and you both got quite tipsy, and barriers had slowly faded. His hand lingered on yours very long, as did his gaze. And he knew just what to say to make you blush, then outwardly admitted he liked to get you flustered.

Since that night, Reece has been a confusing push and pull game for you. Some days he is extra touchy, others he acts like you're not even close to being friends. He doesn't like it when you talk to other guys, he'll act very distant and walk around with his jaw clenched, but at the important events he always brings his girlfriend. It's excruciating, but the second he touches you, all the bad parts of him fade into the nothingness.

"There is someone who wanted to compliment you in person." He says with a smirk on his face, and you tilt your head at the twinkle in his eyes.

You had to try your hardest not to let your mouth fall open as none other than Harry Styles walked through the door. His tall frame, dressed in a black suit, strolled into the room with his hands on his back. His long hair fell over his shoulders and you didn't think you'd ever seen a prettier man in your life.

"Harry, this is Y/N Y/L/N. And Y/N, this is Harry Styles." Reece introduced you two as you walked towards Harry to shake his hand.

"I know— I mean, nice to meet you." You corrected yourself quickly in hopes of not seeming like too much of a fan girl. Harry and his band had made some awesome songs and you had always been fascinated with his songwriting. You felt like you were in a dream.

"Nice to meet you too." His low voice made your cheeks heat up, and he caught it. The corners of his mouth tugged up, and then he turned to Reece. "My manager wanted to talk to you. He's outside."

Reece nodded, but stayed put. "I'll contact him."

Harry's nice gaze turned a bit cold. Could that guy not take a hint? Or did he not want to? Nevertheless, Harry didn't like not getting his way. Then, as if the gods had decided to favor him, Reece's phone rang. He silently excused himself as he slowly walked towards the door.

"Hi baby... yes, I'm in Y/N's dressing room right now— no I'll be right down there." He said, looking at you the whole time. You tried to ignore the pang in your chest at the sound of him talking to his girlfriend, who he of course belonged to. "Come on, babe, you know— okay, okay, fine."

He hung up the phone and put it in his pocket, a sigh leaving his mouth. "I'll be back shortly."

Then, Reece was gone. Open field, Harry thought.

He didn't miss the way you looked at Reece, but he didn't give two shits about that. Harry could make you forget about him in fifteen minutes, if you'd let him.

You were standing in front of him, not very sure of what to do or say, so Harry decided to be the one to talk first.

"You did a really great job on that stage." He complimented you, and you looked down at the floor, a sweet smile on your face while you fiddled with your hands.

"Thank you." You replied, forcing yourself to meet his eyes as you didn't want to be rude. "I... uhm, I really like your music. Your songwriting is amazing."

"Yeah?" Harry smirked, taking the smallest step towards you, and your eyes widened like a deer in headlights. You were very nervous for a multitude of reasons, and his raspy voice didn't make it any less scary to talk to him.

"Yes, I can always feel your lyrics, even if it isn't a necessarily familiar experience for me. I don't know how you do it." You beamed as you turned around and walked towards your vanity desk, grabbing the pitcher on it and pouring some water into an empty glass. "Would you like some water?"

When you turned around with the glass in your hand, Harry was standing in front of you, leaned against the back of the couch behind him. You extended your hand out, and he took the glass from you.

"Thank you." He said, and you nodded.

"Was it not too boring? The opera, I mean." You couldn't help but ask. You'd always felt like they were a bit of a yawn, but being on stage was so thrilling that it wasn't half as boring as it might've been for the audience. Harry raised his eyebrows.

"With you in it? Absolutely not." He shook his head before taking a sip from the water, and you couldn't contain the smile that crept onto your face. Harry thought it was adorable, how much his words affected you, the rose colored cheeks that came with it. Your doe eyes that looked up at him with a desperation to please, to be liked. It was innocent, and that was dangerous, for the both of you.

Harry just wanted to take you right then and there and show you all the ways you could please him, then reward you with a string of orgasms for yourself. But he had a feeling that was a bit of a foreign concept to you, something that only made him want you more.

You were leaning against your vanity desk with your hands leaning on the table, when Harry got up and stalked towards you. Just the way he walked was so intimidating and a bit scary; you felt like you had to run. Your heart began to beat faster with every step he took towards you until finally he stood in front of you, way closer than necessary. He leaned forward and you felt your breath hitch in your throat, the smell of his aftershave making you a bit dizzy. A thud on the desk made you jump ever so slightly and upon looking down you saw the glass back on the table.

When your gaze met Harry's again, he had stepped back, knowing exactly what he needed to now. It was evident in his face; he knew you were attracted to him.

You tried to steady your breathing, gripping the desk until your knuckles turned white. He caught you off guard, and you were feeling so many things at once, but somehow it was overruled by the ache between your legs.

"Are you a virgin?" He asked, and at that very moment, you felt like pleading the earth to suck you under.

"What?" You asked, offended by the question. Not because it was necessarily insulting, but she didn't like to think she had the word 'virgin' written on her face. It couldn't have been that obvious, could it?

"I'll take that as a yes." He tilted his head. "So you're not fucking your manager?"

What the fuck?

You were flabbergasted by the rudeness of Harry. You knew he wasn't exactly the sweetest guy around — you didn't miss the news articles about him — but you thought he'd at least be decent in conversation.

"What?! N-no!" Your eyes were wide and you didn't know what to say. If Harry would tell people that you were sleeping with your manager — which you weren't —, Reece would never look at you again. He'd drop you and then your career would be destroyed.

"How old are you?" He went on, not paying attention to the quiver in your voice and the stressed out look on your face.

"Harry, why would you—"

"I asked you a question." He stepped in front of you, towering over you now. The low growl was extremely stern and the sheer sound of his voice made your stomach turn. Whether that was in a good way or bad way, you didn't really know.

"Sorry." You looked up at him, too scared to take your eyes off of him and accidentally pissing him off again. "I’m nineteen.”

Harry’s cock strained in his pants at the way you immediately obeyed him. Your age did explain your virginity though; he thought you were older. Four years was not a very big age difference, but your sexual knowledge did differ a lot. But that didn’t matter, he’d teach you.

“Good girl.” Harry whispered as he took your hand and stepped backward until he could sit on the back rest of the couch again. You slowly walked with him, it only seeming fit if he was holding your hand. He wanted you to follow, and you wanted to follow him. He was unprofessional, and rude, but you still wanted to do everything he said.

“How is it that a pretty girl like you has never been touched before, huh?” He asked, the sweet tone of his voice distracting from the vulgar question that had your eyes nearly pop out of your sockets. When you didn’t answer him, he decided to make up some theories himself. “Are you waiting for your knight in shining armor, hmm? Or are you waiting for your manager to dump his girlfriend and decide to fuck you instead?”

That hit you like a slap in the face. You knew you wouldn’t be able to deny it with a straight face, so you turned around. But upon trying to get away from him, he pulled you back by your wrist until you were standing between his legs, your back against him. He snakes his left arm around your waist to pull you into him, and your eyes widened when you felt something you knew you shouldn’t be feeling.

You did not want to get in trouble, and your heart was racing at the awareness that the door was not locked, but you panties were ruined anyway. If confused you, why the knowledge of this being bad, forbidden or even risky, was making you all the more hot for it.

“It’s okay baby, your secret’s safe with me.” He purred, mouth on your ear after stroking your hair away from it. You spotted the sight of you two in the mirror, and you had to restrain yourself from letting out a whimper.

Harry was good at body language, and thus he knew you wanted him to touch you, even if you were too afraid to admit it yourself. There wasn’t an explicit yes yet, but there wasn’t talks of a ‘no’ either so Harry would carry on.

“You know, baby, I can teach you a thing or two.” He spoke up again, his fingertips stroking over your thigh as he talked to you. You swallowed, not being able to think straight with his breath in your neck and his hands on you like this. “Have you all prepared for when your little manager makes up his mind.”

That piqued your interest. You were quite insecure about the whole situation with Reece, especially because he was so much older and more experienced. You had never even seen a cock in real life, and while you had watched and read a thing or two, you didn’t have any actual sexual experiences — vibrator excluded.

You had always been quite the introvert, and no one ever sparked the desire in you to have sex. You were also the one to run away when things got too real or too intimate, and the unattainable part when it came to Reece is what made your attraction turn into a full blown crush. You could want him from a distance.

But what if the day indeed came, and you were unprepared? Then what? You didn’t want to disappoint Reece. You wanted it to be worth it for him, if he’d ever leave his girlfriend.

“What do you say, baby? Will you let me show you?” He asked, and then started kissing your neck. Involuntarily, your eyes started to roll back, and you felt yourself starting to relax in his hands, but that was only for a second before you came back to your senses.

“Harry… we— I don’t want to be unprofessional.” You squeaked out, trying to pull his arm off your waist, but you weren’t nearly strong enough.

“Weak excuse.” Harry scoffed, his fingers nearing the fabric of your black mini dress, now dangerously close to your soaked underwear. You shut your eyes tightly, trying to think of a better reason not to do this, but your mind wasn’t helping you at all.

“The door is unlocked.” You sounded out of breath, and it made Harry grin. You were trying so hard to resist, it would be easier and more enjoyable if you just gave in.

“That’s true.” Harry agreed, and you sighed, not sure whether it was out of relief or disappointment. “But you like that, don’t you? The idea that you could get caught any time.”

Harry’s fingers were grazing your panties, and he chuckled at the feeling of drenched fabric against his hand. He let you out of his grip and moved you until you were standing straight. He waited for a few seconds, but you weren’t moving. You were waiting, for him. The smirk on his face reached from ear to ear as he reveled in how right he was about you. He hiked up your dress a bit and pulled down your panties, letting them fall to your feet.

In a swift move, he pulled you back against him again, your bare ass now pressed against his jeans. He groaned at the sight of it, but focused back you. Then, he caught it, the way you were staring at you and him through the mirror. He met your eyes through the glass, and feeling like you’d been caught, you quickly looked away. In a matter of seconds, Harry’s hand was on your chin, directing your head back to the tall reflective glass.

“No, no. Watch yourself.” He ordered, before grazing his fingers over your slit. You gasped at the contact, and your head tilted back ever so slightly. Harry took it as a sign of full compliance; he knew better than to wait on a verbal answer by now. He knew you wouldn’t admit it, because it would be easier to pretend like it didn’t happen afterwards.

From that moment, Harry begin to suck on your neck as he rubbed circles on your clit, and held you in place with his free hand.

“You never answered my question, love.” He said lowly. “Tell me, do you like the idea of getting caught?”

“Yes.” You whispered, the confession feeling to scandalous to say it in anything other than a hushed tone.

“That’s what I thought.” Harry said proudly, fingers nearing your entrance. You whimpered in slight pain when two of his fingers slid inside you at the same time. It was easy, because of how wet you were, but it besides your vibrator there had never really been anything in there before, and it had been a while since your vibrator.

“God, you’re fucking tight.” Harry groaned in delight, mostly to himself. His fingers curled inside of you and your entire body jerked up. He held you into place with his other arm, but the devilish smile on his face wasn’t missed by you. You were still watching his every move through that mirror. “And so reactive.”

“Harry… what if someone walks in?” You tried to argue, and you weren’t even sure why because if it were up to you, his fingers would stay inside of you forever. But you still felt like you were breaking the rules, like you were betraying Reece. Which, you instantly realized, was absolutely ridiculous because he was currently with his girlfriend.

“I think we just established that you wouldn’t care very much about that, and I don’t either.” He rasped, his fingers pumping in and out of you at a lazy pace. “And you’ll do whatever I tell you, won’t you?”

You sighed. “Yes.”

“Exactly.” He planted a few kisses in your neck. “So even if someone would walk in, I wouldn’t stop until I have you cumming all over my fingers.”

You let out a soft moan at the sinful image he created with his words, and he let his free hand travel to your clit as he started fingering you faster and faster.

“Yeah? You like that, baby?” His voice was becoming more strained with every second, because he was trying his hardest to keep himself from cumming inside his pants. Especially when you hummed in agreement.

He didn’t have this problem with other people, but then again he didn’t take this much time with others. You were different, in this sense. Harry knew that he needed to ease you into this, otherwise you’d never agree. And there was something about you, he guessed it was your pure aura, that made him want you more than he had ever wanted a girl before. He needed to fuck you, so he wouldn’t mind taking a detour.

“Can you see it yet, him walking through the door and seeing your little pussy getting wrecked by my fingers?” He knew you were getting dangerously close to your orgasm. “Tell me.”

“Shit— yes!” You cried out, not being able to think straight with that vision clouding your mind.

“But you wouldn’t stop me, would you? You’d let me fuck you with my fingers until I’ve had enough, right?” He asked, but you knew these were all rhetoric questions. Harry knew you were completely at his mercy, and somehow he had found out how much you got off on that too.

“Yeah— ah! I… would.” Your legs had began to shake and you knew your high was just around the corner. Harry wasn’t slowing down, and neither were the gasps and whimpers that left your mouth as he worked his magic on your clit with his other hand.

“You’d even let me fuck you in front of him if I wanted to, wouldn’t you? Fuck you stupid against that mirror while he watches you fall apart for me. You’d get off on it.”

“Harry!” You begged. You just wanted a release at this point, and you were on the brink of it. He rubbed your clit harder, and you began to see stars.

“Go on, you can cum now, knowing you’re nothing more but a desperate slut, just begging to be my personal fuck toy.” He said, as you came all over his fingers with a string of agreeing words leaving your mouth. “There you go, you wanted it so bad, huh? Good fucking girl.”

You panted as Harry’s fingers worked you through your high, and you had let your body lean against him, too tired to hold yourself up. You were extremely out of breath, but barely had time to recover when there was a knock on your door. You stepped forward, away from Harry, and pulled your dress down. Turning around and leaning against the vanity just like you were before Harry decided to give you an orgasm.

In the mean time, Harry had leaned down and grabbed your panties, quickly stuffing them in his pockets.

“C– come in!” Your voice sounded hoarse, but you acted like nothing happened as an unfamiliar head peeked around the door. Harry turned around to see who it was and smiled at the man who had knocked.

“Hey, Rob!” He said, sounding way too smug and casual for your liking.

“Thought I’d find you here.” Rob said, sounding a little bit disappointed with Harry, and you crossed your arms, feeling too naked, still. It felt like this Rob guy could see right through you and Harry’s antics, and you were feeling very exposed at the moment. Harry got up and winked at you before making his way towards the door.

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N. See you soon.” He said, earning a frown from both you and Rob. Harry didn’t look back as he walked out the door, Rob following him as he said his goodbyes too. You awkwardly waved, feeling extremely confused, turned on and fucked out at the same time.

You sighed, exhilaration coursing through your veins. You jumped when Reece’s voice sounded from the other side of the room all of a sudden.

“Hey, you alright?” He asked, suspicious with the look on your face. You faked a smile, and nodded.

“Yeah, just… overwhelmed.” You shrugged. Technically you were telling the truth. You were overwhelmed, just with the orgasm you just had rather than the show of tonight.

“Let’s go to the party, I need to introduce you to some people.” Reece said, sending that there was something with your answer that didn’t make it entirely truthful.

“I’ll meet you out there in a minute.” You smiled innocently, and he nodded before walking out the door. You sighed the moment the door shut, and leaned down to grab your panties, only to realize that they weren’t there.

Bastard!

…..

Masterlist

[octuscle]

Hey there! A good friend of mine gets recently a wrong suitcase from the airport and suddenly disappeared. I never got a text from him anymore. It seems like he has forgotten his real life - I hope he's alive! My problem is that I get a strange suitcase too now. It's from SBH. Maybe I should bring it back?

Really a strange suitcase. You could have done more with a decent hard case from Samsonite. You've been wanting one of these for 30 years. But this? A pretty ugly bag for your taste…. Seems to be from France, the name has an accent on the second e in any case. No idea how to pronounce it now. You take a picture of the bag and let Google Lens see if you can get something for it on ebay….

WHAT THE HELL! 8.500 EURO! For a bag. You get out your reading glasses. You need to take a closer look. Okay. You've made a mistake. It's 85,000 euros. You're getting dizzy. Are the zippers and the lock made of white gold? What justifies this absolutely absurd price? For a company that nobody knows. At least you've never heard of it… Now you are curious about the contents. The lock hangs only decoratively on the bag. It is not locked. It would be better if it was. The contents are two sets of underwear, two pairs of silk boxer shorts, a couple of T-shirts, a toilet bag, which you assume costs a fortune… Everything is incidental… Most of the space is taken up by bundles of hot-off-the-press 200-euro bills. There must be several 100,000 euros in there. What the hell!

Take the bag and run? Seems like a shitty idea to you. The shipment went to your address. Whoever owns it (and it's not you) knows who you are and where you live. None of this makes any sense! You search the side pockets. An airline ticket. First class. From Paris back to Saint Barth via Saint Martin. And a booking confirmation for an overnight stay in a suite at the Pullman Paris Roissy CDG Airport. Tonight. All in your name. Fuck, you can't just fly to the Caribbean with some underwear and two swim shorts and an incredible amount of money. But if you do, you have to hurry. Shit, you'll regret it. But you buy a train ticket to Paris, put on your best suit. And you're on your way.

On the train, everything was still okay. But in the lobby of the airport hotel you get a lot of looks. Yes, first of all you don't fit into the elegant frame. Your suit is enough for a customer appointment as a representative of construction machinery. But here all the people are slimmer, more elegant, prettier…. You look like a slightly overweight piece of dirt. With a 15-carat diamond in your hand. At the reception, the lady smiles at you briefly. Then her eyes fall on the weekender. And just breathes a "How beautiful!" Then she apologizes that they can't offer you anything better than the Superior Suite. There were other VIPs here besides you who had received the very large suites. As an apology you would receive a bottle of champagne in your room. And they would be very grateful if they could invite you to dinner. Your luggage has already arrived, they were so kind to bring it to your room. If you need help unpacking, you can reach the butler service at extension 940.

You thank her and ask for a discreetly placed table at 8:30 pm. The champagne gladly with your meal. In fluent French. You beam at the young lady, she blushes and smiles back.

It's a good thing your suitcase wasn't checked in directly by the Air France service. You would like to change again for dinner. The suite is okay for one night. In the bathroom, you look in the mirror. Why did you put on that cheap suit? You must have been really mentally deranged. Were you trying to disguise yourself? Silly! You jump into the shower. While drying off, you think to yourself that you are actually quite firm for a man in his late 40s. Yes, a little more exercise would be okay. But otherwise… You open the Hermès suitcase, take out a black suit and a black shirt. And you change your clothes. You find the Royal Oak to match. And as a statement, the crocodile sandals. Let everyone see your freshly pedicured feet.

There's hardly a pair of eyes that don't turn to you when you enter the restaurant. If your ego wasn't bigger than the Eiffel Tower, you might be embarrassed that the entire staff looks after you first and then the other guests. You see people whispering. Everyone wonders who you are. The problem is: you don't know yourself… For a moment, you look at your manicured fingernails and wonder what's going on. Then you take a sip of champagne. Veuve Clicquot. Well… It's a gift… It's okay for that…

After dessert, the waiter asks if you would like to have coffee and digestif with a cigar at the bar. Normally you think this is a good idea. But not today. The flight to Martinique leaves quite early. Before that, you would like to get some sleep. So you decline with thanks and put a 100-euro bill on the table as a tip.

A message on your cell phone wakes you up at 4:00 in the morning. You are supposed to take some courier goods with you. You can get it at the hotel reception. Fuck! What is this again? Anyway, you are awake now. Then use the time at least. 100 situps, 100 pushups. You like the picture in the bathroom mirror afterwards. The hair on your chest is jet black. Just like your beard, there's not a gray hair to be seen. And sweat drips in the grooves between your six-pack. You get a hard-on like you haven't had in years. You can't help it. You have to jerk off. And boy, there was real pressure on your balls. Your cum runs off the mirror like someone threw a cup of yogurt at it. It's just before 6:00 now. You call 940 and ask Yves to pick up a package at the reception desk, which would be deposited there. Until he arrives, you do another 100 push-ups. When the knock comes and you open the door, your eyes fall on a turquoise package in Yves' hands. Yves' gaze falls on the package between your legs. Shit, you are naked. Yves asks if he can help you in any way. He still does not look into your eyes. You pull him into the room and throw him on your bed.

Two hours later Yves serves you breakfast in your room. You are ready for departure. Airfrance has already picked up your luggage with the package, which is probably not from Tiffany's, and your boarding pass is in an envelope on a silver tray on the breakfast table. In half an hour, someone will pick you up and take you directly to the plane. Security checks are something for people who have to travel in business class.

Flights with Air France are orgies of champagne and foie gras. The nine hours fly by. The fuck with the purser in the bathroom certainly played its part. The guy thought you were in your late 30s and asked if you were flying on your dad's credit card or your own. For the impudence he had to blow you unfortunately. Whereby he was not so wrong. Somehow you fly with daddy's credit card. But you still don't know who Daddy is. The pilot of the private plane who meets you in Saint Martin directly on the tarmac and flies with you to Saint Barth doesn't tell you that either. You have never been here before. But you feel right at home. This is how you always imagined the Caribbean. There is a Maybach on the tarmac. When you get off the plane, the driver comes to meet you, takes your suitcase and weekender and puts both in the trunk. Wordlessly. And just as wordlessly, he gets into the car and speeds away.

Shit! Now you're standing at the airport. You don't even have an ID card. You have the clothes you wear on your body. Okay, the watch you're wearing on your wrist could get you back home if need be and feed you for a year. That's where the Maybach comes back. The chauffeur gets out and asks you for the watch. Fuck!

At that moment, an open jeep rolls up to you. At the wheel is a young guy, maybe in his mid-20s, waving at you. Damn, you know that face… He reminds you of your lost buddy. Did he have a son who is a personal trainer in the Caribbean? That's definitely what the man looks like. The guy jumps out of the car, hugs you and welcomes you to Saint Barth. "Come on, get in! The boss wants to meet you!" You drive around the island for half an hour. Everything is incredibly beautiful! A gate opens in front of you at the end of a dead-end street. And your buddy steers the car through a tropical park. He parks the car in front of a palace, grins at you, says "Not bad, huh" and tells you to follow him. You walk through the house for what feels like a kilometer. There is a pleasant coolness here. Your buddy knocks on a door, waits a moment and opens it. A wave of autotity hits you. The whole room literally reeks with authority. You almost feel like falling to your knees and kissing the man's hand. "This is the boy from Paris?" Your buddy nods mutely. "Good job," says your boss. And extends his hand to you. With a dry mouth you say that you would do anything for him. He laughs and says that for now you should enjoy the island for a few days. And with a twitch of the corner of his mouth, he tells you that you can say goodbye.

You had hoped a little that you would be allowed to stay in the palace. But your buddy runs back to the jeep. And drives with you to a far less pompous house. But the beach is close. Your room is spacious. Your closet is well sorted. And you have a few days off on the island of the rich and beautiful.

03:30 the next morning. Message from the boss. Have you ever been to Abu Dhabi? Be at the airport in an hour!

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 92

Panicked voices swirled around me—talking to me, at me, about me. Anger, fear, worry, and the faintest hint of relief laced their words as I sat there, the rough blanket they threw over me scratching at my skin. "She's cold," they muttered, as if warmth could somehow fix me. But nothing in this world will ever make me feel better again, not with the gaping hole where my child was supposed to be.

I should be cradling my baby, not tending to the wounds they left on me. I sob and scream, hands holding me down, voices spilling hollow words that mean nothing. The engines hum in the background, each second taking me further from the only place where I still had my baby. I want to go back—back to that cage, back to sleep, to find dreams where I can still be a mother.

"Call me if you need anything." She leaves after a gentle touch on my shoulder and a tight hug, the sound of the door closing behind her.

"Sweetheart," he calls, his voice broken, yet somehow still steady. He can speak, but I can’t. I try to move my lips, to find words, but nothing comes—only silent sobs as I curl into myself, hugging my knees.

Eventually, I drift into sleep, into dreams of being a mother. But even there, there is no solace. Grief twists my dreams into nightmares—ugly claws snatching my baby away, and I wake, empty, in a bed that feels far too cold.

I glance around the room—it feels unfamiliar, small, and run-down. "Steve?" I call out, my voice raspy, like I haven’t spoken or had water in days.

"You’re awake!" He rises quickly from the chair at the foot of the bed. Sitting beside me, he looks me over before handing me a glass of water, which I gulp down in an instant.

"Where are we?" I frown, feeling an overwhelming exhaustion despite just waking up.

"In a motel... somewhere in Alaska," he says, his voice heavy. His eyes are puffy and red, worn down by something deeper than just lack of sleep.

I stared out the window into the darkness, letting the silence settle around me.

"How are you feeling?" he asked. I scoffed. It felt absurd, asking that amid everything.

He reached for my hand, gently caressing it, but I pulled away. I didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want to be seen. I just wanted to disappear, to rot away.

"I know you’ve been through horrible things, but..." he began. I turned sharply to face him. "But what? At least I’m alive? Is that what you were going to say?" My voice rose, fueled by anger. Good, I thought. Anger was better than the numbness.

He flinched at my words. "I know you’re hurting," he said, his voice trembling. "And if you need to lash out, I’ll take it. But... I lost my child too..." His voice cracked, tears welling in his eyes.

I didn’t want to consider his feelings—how dare he compare his pain to mine, I thought bitterly. The urge to scream, to unleash something we might never recover from, boiled inside me. But I held back because deep down, I knew I couldn’t survive this without him.

"Where’s Nat?" I asked instead, steering away from the anger threatening to spill over. I hadn’t seen her in so long, and the ache of missing her gnawed at me.

He wiped his tears and cleared his throat, trying to steady himself. "She had to leave again. She said she’s trying to find them, but it’s complicated. We’re still on the run... She’s reaching out to her sources, but it might take time."

"So what are we going to do? Hide from the government and let that madman get away with this?" I snapped, the heat rising in my voice again.

"The minute we show ourselves, they’ll arrest us," he said, his eyebrows raised in frustration. "We have to be careful." His tone was firm, but I could see it—he hated this as much as I did.

My heart raced at the thought of my child in that man’s hands. What was he doing to my baby? I couldn’t breathe—grief wrapped around my throat, choking me as I clutched the sheets, trying to hold on to something, anything.

"So I’m just supposed to wait it out? I feel like I’m dying!" I yelled, my voice cracking under the weight of it all. "Do you understand?"

"I do!" he shouted back, his voice rising with mine. But his words only fueled my anger. Without thinking, I grabbed the empty glass from the nightstand and hurled it at the wall, the sound of shattering glass punctuating my scream. "No, you don’t!"

Despite the anger I hurled at him, he looked at me with nothing but love in his eyes. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me into a tight embrace, even as I struggled against him, tears burning in my eyes.

"I do," he whispered softly into my ear. And with those words, I crumbled. The fight left my body, and I slumped into his arms, letting the overwhelming grief wash over me.

I spent days, maybe even weeks, lying in bed, only getting up when we had to switch motels. We kept moving, never staying in one place too long. It made little difference to me; the beds were equally uncomfortable, and I barely slept. Steve and Sam brought me food, enough to keep me from starving, but little more.

In my dreams, I was haunted by the cries of a baby. I would run endlessly, only to wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. Steve, too, was restless. He tossed and turned beside me, his own sleep disrupted. Over time, the anger I initially felt toward him slowly faded. He was the only anchor keeping me from losing myself entirely. There was no hope left, but the thought of the Doctor paying for his crimes was the one thing that kept me going.

Natasha joined us at some point, though I had lost all sense of time. According to Steve, we had been on the run for nearly two years. Natasha brought no news on his whereabouts—only a file labeled "Asset 3.0," detailing their twisted version of a super soldier.

The file contained information about me and Steve, but it was the final sheet that made my heart stop. It read: "Subject was extracted from the female on the 12th of March. The boy is healthy and strong, just as expected."

A boy. I had a son. They were going to use him for their sick and twisted plans, and I had no way of finding him. The realization hit me with crushing force, leaving me paralyzed by a sense of helplessness. My son was out there, caught in their perverse scheme, and I was powerless to reach him.

I sat there, gripping the edge of my seat, when Steve’s phone rang, jolting me out of my daze. He stepped away to take the call, returning with an even grimmer expression.

Natasha raised her eyebrows, her gaze sharp. "What’s going on?"

Steve crossed his arms, his face a mask of concern. "That was Bruce. Something’s happening in New York. They need us."

My heart skipped a beat. Bruce had vanished years ago, disappearing with the Quinjet after Sokovia.

"Bruce? They need us for what?" Natasha’s voice trembled slightly, her nervousness barely hidden.

Steve glanced between us, his tone firm yet laced with worry. "They need our help against Thanos."

Next Chapter

[roalinda]

another very late entry for @prongsfoot-microfic 💀 but it's better late than never. 😭

☆☆☆☆

March 14 + May 27

Study + Hedonism

☆☆☆☆

"Tell her that your lap is mine." 

Sirius looked up from his Herbology book as a childish whine echoed through the common room. Accompanied with the saddest doe eyes, James sounded like either Sirius had just committed some absurd crime against humanity or had murdered all the strays in the neighbourhood. Either way, this fake pity fest of his was not going to work because James' acting skills were as poor as his eyesight. Right now, he was just jealous, not sad.

"My lap is his," said Sirius with such a poker face that could have put the most professional gamblers into eternal shame to Lily who was unabashedly lounging on the said lap and went back to reading or at least tried to.

"Tell him that sharing is caring," hummed Lily lazily before rolling her eyes, because in all honesty dating James meant dating Sirius as well. Obviously, James disagreed, unamused by her playful approaches towards his best friend.

"Sharing is caring," said Sirius monotonously, already resigned to his fate of being two overgrown children's favourite toy and being fought over and put his book aside. Not that he could read with those two bickering anyway.

"Tell her that I don't care! Your lap is off limits." James stomped his feet and Sirius snickered. "How old are you again?" 

His reply was a cushion in the face which only made Sirius laugh harder as he turned to Lily.

"He doesn't care, my lap is off limits," he parroted.

"Tell him not any more."

"Not any more," this time Sirius' eye twitched as he repeated Lily's words. 

"Tell her…"

"Can you guys just bloody admit that you want to shag Sirius and be done with it? Some of us here want to study." A frustrated voice cut in and everyone gasped.

'Great job Lupin.' 

Sirius thought sarcastically as he glared at Remus who had just presented Lily and James with unnecessary sexual fantasies as if he was shoving a handful of candies down a pair of annoying kids' throats to shut them up. 

James gaped like a fish out of water and Lily's eyes went wide. Well, at least they both had the decency to blush and while Sirius found it amusing he couldn't help but to plan Remus' penile amputation. 

"You want to shag Sirius?" James asked carefully, staring at Lily with wide hazel eyes.

"Who doesn't?" answered Lily casually, voice steady despite her flaming cheeks.

The radio silence would have been funny to Sirius if he was not the main subject of this preposterous erotica.  

"Don't tell me you have not shagged him because I won't believe it, James." 

It went without saying that Sirius was already developing a migraine.

"Actually Sirius shags James. James prefers to bottom," said Remus - the ever helpful - Lupin and James turned the same shade as Lily's hair, hiding his face into his hands. 

'Wanker.'

"Shut up. How do you even know that?" snapped Sirius.

"You guys usually forget the silencing charm and James is loud," Remus raised an eyebrow as if he was talking about tomorrow's weather.

James looked pathetically embarrassed at this point and Lily's amused gaze was making it worse. Sirius sighed in defeat at last. He should have stayed in the library today.

"I'm going to the dorm to cast silencing charms. You two come up whenever James is done with strangling Remus," he told Lily and smirked in satisfaction as James cursed Remus with a stinging hex. 

"Will the show be hot enough to compensate for my boyfriend cheating on me with his handsome best friend?" asked Lily shrewdly, green eyes shining with mischief.

"You have no idea how hot your boyfriend is when he is prettily begging for it. People would pay Galleons to see," Sirius winked cheekily.

"Black, you slut," smirked Lily suggestively. 

"So is your boyfriend. Now, go grab him. My N.E.W.T.s schedule is tight and there are two of you," Sirius laughed merrily in response, persuasive and warm.

[soupthatistohot]

BSD: An Absurdist Analysis - Chapter 6

The Absurdity of Ranpo Edogawa

[Masterpost]

This chapter focuses on introducing Ranpo Edogawa to Atsushi and the reader, as our protagonist is forced to accompany this quirky yet mysterious agency member on a mission to solve a murder case. 

Ranpo is presented as blunt and childish, and ridiculously so. He goes around telling everyone about how he’s the greatest detective and is better than them, yet Atsushi has to assist him on a case simply because he doesn’t know how the train system works. 

The only thing I’ll say about the murder case itself is that it’s BSD’s earliest example of governmental and police corruption, a theme that will appear multiple times throughout the manga, especially in the Hunting Dogs arc later on. Corruption of this sort is in of itself an absurdity of life, and a very common one — and an organization like the Armed Detective Agency is a force that pushes back against this absurdity. In this chapter, Ranpo serves as the rebellious force doing so. 

Detective Minoura is very dismissive of Ranpo and the agency, claiming multiple times that Ranpo basically an immature hack who couldn’t possibly solve the case. He’s clearly very frustrated by Ranpo’s presence and is very quick to assume the worst in him just because of his childish demeanor. This is played up for the sake of dramatic irony, but I also think it’s representative of Minoura’s (and the institution of police as a whole’s) tendency to overlook those who don’t hold power over them. 

Dazai joins the gang once he’s pulled from the river, claiming to have been “enjoying the current” and seeking a woman to enact a double suicide with. I do believe this is a front, though, and he just needed an excuse to be a menace and to be involved with the case so he could point out to Atsushi later that Ranpo does not, in fact, have a special ability at all (although this is just a theory of mine). 

The fact that Ranpo doesn’t have an ability but pretends he does is extremely important to his character. While I have not read the Untold Origins light novel, I did watch the adaptation in season 4 of the anime, and although I understand the anime adaptations of the light novels leave a lot out, it did emphasize Ranpo’s struggle to connect with others. He referred to himself as a “monster,” and was unable to relate to the people around him after his parents died. I bring this up because it's the reason he pretends he has an ability, it gives him an excuse for being different from others. 

What absurdists often do in their storytelling is exaggerate something absurd about our reality in order to bring the reader’s attention to said thing, and the presence of abilities in BSD allows for that to happen. Those with abilities are often outcasts of society, and abilities are also the catalyst for conflict in the BSD world. Akutagawa in chapter 3 was a great example of this — because random violence does exist in our real world, but it was exaggerated and made even more horrific because of Rashoumon’s destructive power. 

Ranpo’s non-ability ability is an absurd paradox, then.

Up until the end of the chapter, we’re made to believe that Ranpo is an ability user. While the idea that someone can simply solve a mystery in mere minutes because they have a magical superpower is already absurd, you know what’s even more absurd than that? The person in question just pretending to have a superpower and solving the case solely by use of their intuition.

Ranpo’s masquerade of having an ability is his way of combating an absurd reality because if he’s not an ability user, he’s a freak. But because he gets to pretend to be an ability user, he not only has an excuse for his crazy intellect, but everyone has to at least tolerate his odd personality. It makes him feel less othered. 

Is it convoluted and a bit insane? Perhaps. But that’s kind of the point of embracing the absurd. The ways in which characters often revolt against the absurdity of life is by being somehow even more absurd, by doing something even crazier. 

So why does Dazai make a point of allowing Atsushi to believe Ranpo is an ability-user for the whole case, only to reveal afterward that he is not? He could have told Atsushi from the get-go, or he could’ve not told him at all, so why do what he did?

Apart from the fact that it just makes for more suspenseful storytelling (remember, this is only the sixth chapter, Asagiri is trying to keep the audience engaged right now as he builds his character and world), I think that Dazai is teaching Atsushi to not take everything at face value. Ultimately, he’s training Atsushi to be a detective, and that means that he should be questioning everything, considering every possibility. 

This idea lends itself to absurdism because if you don’t question the supposed truths of reality, you’re essentially giving in and allowing the absurdity to control you rather than pushing back against it. To Dazai, this is a way to train Atsushi to look at the world differently — he presents him with an apparent truth (Ranpo is an ability user) and then forces him to bring that into question, to expose the absurdity (that Ranpo is just ridiculously smart).

[Previous] [Next]

[shawnflowers]

shawn michaels headcannons <3

gonna get my writing game up 😤 so this is how you and shawn meet (this was an idea i had for a long one shot but i turned it into this instead (if you want a full story i always can do that hehe))

: ̗̀➛ warnings: fluff! hint of smut!

*ahem* so, i’d say this starts with you being a new photographer for the wwf

yknow you’re around the ring, capturing all of the exciting shots but you also dabble in backstage activities and snapping candids of the wrestlers

welllllll shawn spots you in your second week there. you’re walking around backstage with your camera, readjusting the shutter speed and the exposure levels you would need once you head out to the ring. you hardly notice anyone blatantly staring at you as you’re stuck in your own little world.

he’s perhaps a little starstruck

he wonders why he hasn’t seen you around before. because fuck fuck fuck that body of yours is absurd (and you’re also gorgeous)

he happens to spot you with hunter right next to him so he asks him, “who’s she?”

hunter turns to see who he’s talking about, spotting you in the distance as you’re making your way to gorilla. “oh that’s y/n i believe, she’s new. a photographer.”

and that’s all it took before he went sailing over to you, one thing set on his mind. i gotta make her mine

the rest was history as they say

you were completely smitten by him

you saw through his heartbreaker persona almost immediately, instead falling for the man that would hug you from behind and place his chin on top of your head

shawn most certainly would open every door for you, and makes sure to open your car door every time as well

you were really timid when you first started working there — feeling completely out of place with all of these incredible athletes that were also incredibly intimidating. but he was your gateway into a great experience at the company.

once he took you under his wing and introduced you to the rest of his little goon squad, everyone wanted to get to know you better and wanted you to get great pictures of them.

but of course shawn wanted you to get the best photos of him while he was wrestling which wasn’t hard to do because he’s incredibly photogenic

“when I jump off the top rope, can you make sure you’re on my right? I think that’s my good side.”

“every side is your good side, shawn.”

“even my backside?” *smirk*

“especially.”

and i mean, do we even have to talk about the sex? yes

he loves loves loves when you praise him. “no one touches me like you, baby.” “god, shawn, you’re stretching me so good.” “you looked so hot tonight. it took everything in me not to jump you in the ring.”

and in turn, you love love love a little degradation. “you’re my slutty baby girl. isn’t that right?” “look at you, crying those pathetic little tears. i know you can take more.” “does my baby want her release? gonna have to try a little harder than that.”

also. yeah. the camera is definitely involved. sometimes you get pictures of him, but shawn is adamant on taking your photo too. both in cute ways and in incredibly intimate ways. there was almost a mixup of those photos and work photos once

and so on and so forth 😮‍💨

but love is in the air nonetheless. you’re the best thing to happen to each other.

that kinda scared shawn at first ngl. he wanted to make you his yet he wasn’t exactly ready for full commitment. but once he got to know you he realized he never wanted to separate from you again. he couldn’t possibly think of you spending time with another man without getting all sorts of jealous. so, he decided he was yours as much as you were his and that was the best decision he ever made

he broke you out of your shell while you managed to keep him under control. it was the perfect balance

: ̗̀➛ nose boops to you

[immortalmint]

Child Philip - Frog Journal

Entry Eight, April 4th, 1615

Upon discovery of my frog drawings, Caleb returned with a most peculiar shaped rock. I dare say, his insistence that it resembled my drawing proved true. With a bit of coal and a sharpened stick, I made a charming little fellow to introduce to my dear friend Peepers by the creek.

Caleb made a second rock friend, and I must say, I was pleased with the result. It was a darling set of frog brothers, well on their way to becoming witch hunters, defenders of the village!

But my dear brother is senseless at times, and made an unnecessary third. He insisted the little frog should have a mother and a father, in that wretchedly sentimental voice he uses when he prays for our departed parents’ souls. He asked me if I remembered the time Mother walked us along the river collecting brambleberries. I felt such pity for Caleb that I lied. Yes, yes, we ate so many berries and oh, I do remember being the voracious little devil that ate both mine and half of Caleb’s basket! But in truth, I hardly remember our parents from before the sickness took them. I pray the memory of their passing should fade as well.

Honestly, I believe we are better off as Caleb and I. There are fewer mouths to feed, and fewer adults to find fault with our diversions. Caleb is all the family I require. But as Caleb made a third frog, I commit ‘the three frogs amongst the brambles’ to my journal:

Caleb’s happy vision of the three-frog family was lacking a sibling. I informed Caleb of his oversight, and he returned in the afternoon with a fourth offering for our rock family. Distressingly, he had not made a brother frog, but a brother bird! He was adamant that the red rock was meant to be a cardinal. I know he fancies the birds, but oh, God is testing me with this foolish brother of mine!

What games would a cardinal and frog play together? What unnatural union would produce frog and bird siblings? I do not approve, but in my love for Caleb I shall commit ‘the unholy bird amongst the frogs’ to my journal:

I find myself questioning where Caleb secured the pigment for the white of the cardinal’s eye. He would not reveal his sources, so I am left to conclude it came from the droppings of widow Alden’s hens. On our walk home, Misses Alden’s chickens flocked to Caleb, as birds are apt to do. Though he attempted discretion, I observed Caleb removing grainseed from his pocket to entice the hens closer. He made the most absurd clucking noises at the birds, as if he were a member of their flock. The birds investigated our frog family as well, much to my dismay. ‘The pale, brown-eyed hen’ reminded me of Caleb:

However, the ‘demon yellow-eyed bird’ was insufferable, glaring at me with ill-intent:

She attempted a peck at the frog rock, to which Caleb mistook as, “but a kiss!” At times it seems I am the only one keeping our family safe from such corruption. Despite the birdly intrusion, the visit to the brambles was lovely. And I do so look forward to seeing Peepers the next time we play by the creek. I think he will like frog Philip.

~ End ~

I thoroughly enjoyed @a-magpie-in-gravesfield’s frog rock memory celebration. Here are a couple of bonus pictures of the rocks. Details are in charcoal (pencil) and I used white pastel (not bird droppings :D) for the white of Flapjack’s eyes. In modern day, Flapjack’s left eye is scarred. But it likely isn’t during Caleb’s time.

Happy rock decorating to all!

[maoam]

I not know if Sasuke asking Naruto in their fight 1 why he cared is romantic or asking for confession. He asked that question after Naruto said he was like a brother. It would be awkward timing. If he disagreed he would have said so before asking again to get a different answer. Or there will be more empasis on why. It looks like he just wanted him to explain why he said he was brother in detail and not asking for something else

Yes keep thinking that if it makes you feel better.

Sasuke keeps asking "why do you go so far for me/why do you care about me so much" because he doesn't fathom why Naruto's feelings are so strong. Even other people don't understand it. And Kishimoto highlights it all the time via other characters how absurd Naruto's feelings towards Sasuke are.

And I don't think Sasuke was asking for a confession during Vote1. But the weight of their relationship started to really sink in for him.

This is why Sasuke becomes more aware. The tenderness under violence.

Then Naruto stopped calling Sasuke a brother and switched to 'friend' instead. But Sasuke feels frustrated with it.

How convenient to leave this on it's own panel before you add friend to safe face.

And how peculiar to have Naruto drop the friend part here completely. (Which is the correct translation from Japanese line that doesn't have friend part here). 'I know your feelings for me and you know mine' indeed...

Amusing how people still try to gotcha me about narusasu. Kishi wrote shinju for Narusasu, paralleld them to another gay couple, had them steal Sakura and Hinata's moments in their ship, had Naruto feel sexually excited over Sasuke...it's just one massive cope to deny narusasu.

[pedroschka]

Hi! May I request Joe proposing?

It's quite vague but I trust you how you'll write it. Your writing is amazing!

The marriage proposal(s)

Joseph Quinn x reader

words: 1,1k

A/n: MORE FLUFF

big thanks to @icallhimjoey for helping out, again <3

"so I brought a wig " your muffled voice informs him, Joe furrowed his brows as he leaned against the wall beside the closed bedroom door, waiting

"ok?" He answered

"And then I brought a complete outfit to match the vibe of it "

"of course you did " he chuckles and drags his hand over his face

"so I don't know where to wear this so you have to be the judge for it, are you ready ?"

"don't know if I'm the best choice to judge your clothes babe when you criticize nearly all of mine, but I'll try my best "

It was nearly ten in the evening and Joe just came back from filming and was greeted with a locked bedroom door and your off-key singing behind it before you told him to wait there because you have something to show him.

The lock of the door clicked and you slowly opened the door before going into a dramatic model pose, leaning with one hand against the doorframe and the other placed on your hip, legs crossed

"wow" he breathed, it was a lot. His eyes trailed over your body, trying to take it all in, from the big fluffy wig on top of your head, the deep red lipstick to the floor length nearly shear dress, high slit showing off your leg, and your feet clad in high heels.

You watched in satisfaction as his eyes grew bigger and his lip parted, tongue poking out before dragging his hand over his mouth again and muttering a" bloody hell " before taking your hand and dragging you to the front door " I have to take you out to dinner now"

" we're not going out now you just came home from work " you giggled and slapped him jokingly on his shoulder

" I can't have you looking like this and not do something special for you! " he exclaimed and gestured with his arms at your outfit to get his point across

"well...I could still eat" you shrugged at him

A few minutes later you and Joe sat opposite to each other at the dinner table, candlelight flickering in the middle, illuminating both of your plates with the leftovers from lunch, spaghetti with simple tomato sauce and beside it, on Joe's insistence, fresh garlic bread

Except for the wig, which Joe snatched right off your head again saying he liked your own hair better, you still wore your 'blame insomnia, 2am online shopping spree' dress, now covered with napkins so you still had the opportunity to return it again.

to match your fancy appearance Joe insisted on changing too and now wore his most expensive suit, the only thing that busted the whole play-along were the fluffy slippers dangling from both of your feet.

Joe watches as you picked up a chunk of bread before covering it with the spaghetti and taking a huge bite, ending with one sticking on your chin and tomato sauce covering your cheek and he's suddenly overflowed with a wave of adoration and love for you and the absurdity of your appearance mixed with your questionable eating habits, like a toddler in disguise.

"Please marry me "

You furrow your brows at him, looking at him like he's crazy and if he needs his glasses again. Taking it as a joke you answered him mid-chew

"Can I eat first?"

—

The next time, he sits beside you on the sofa, giving you a side eye when you keep snickering collectively with the fake laughing on the sitcom, which is currently playing on the tv after he lost the battle of which show you're gonna watch today

You on the other hand realized after a few minutes that it just wasn't as funny when you don't have someone to share it with and the fake laughing every two minutes started to become annoying, you looked over at Joe who looked equally bored so you paused the show and turned fully to him " let`s watch your show instead "

he looked at you surprised but then lit up and an exciting smile spread across his lips as he quickly searched for his show of choice

you cuddled up into his side and his arm wrapped around you, hand stroking your back, both of your attention on the screen in front of you, laughing together.

"We should get married" you looked up at Joe, not the answer you expected after you made a comment about the acting in one scene

"Let me think about it" you joked again

"How long?"

"Maybe two years" you laughed as he pushed a pillow in your face, annoyed with your sassiness

—

It quickly turned into an inside joke between you two, him fake proposing after the most mundane things you did and you jokingly rejecting him, confusing your friends and family when he asked you at a family celebration after you were able to bring the whole table in roaring laughter over a funny story you told and answered on his "I really think we should get married" with a " no thank you" or when you were cooking with a friend together and the jar of sauce went around and you were the only one able to open it with a bang on the kitchen counter, impressing both your friend and Joe

"Please marry me" and you looked at him with a glimmer in your eyes "what's in it for me?"

The downside of it was that you didn't take the question seriously anymore, doesn't matter how serious he meant it, so he has to make it extra special for you to believe him.

—

You sit with a frown beside Joe in the car after he talked you into it for a surprise, refusing to give you any hint with a cheeky smile

"you know I hate surprises, I like to be prepared" you whined after another failed attempt to get some information out of him

"I do know you and I know you're gonna love this one" you huffed but trusted him for now, closing your eyes and slowly drifting off

the bumpy and sudden halt jolted you out of your nap and your sleep-clouded mind needed a minute to recognize your location before jumping out of the car and running up the sand dunes, perfect view of the sea

Joe took your hand and led you to the beach before spreading out a picnic blanket and laying out fairy lights around it and you watch him in horror

" shit did I miss our anniversary again? "

he snorted and shook his head in amusement "Nope, not this time" before padding the space beside him "come on, sit"

you plopped down, eyes on the sea again " should've told me to bring my bathing suit, now I have to flash every-" you turned to Joe again and stopped abruptly as he kneels beside you, holding a ring between his shaking fingers

"Do you want to marry me?"

you blinked at him, face blank before leaning forward and examining the ring

"I think we should stay friends"

Joe looked at you annoyed and you started to cackle

"just kidding! of course!" and hold out your hand excited

"I hate you so much" he chuckled relieved before sliding the ring on your finger and kissing you so hard that you both fall over, laughing

"so about the skinny dipping?"

(reblogs and comments are very appreciated additional to your likes)

[nrdmssgs]

Hi! I'd like to request something about my OC and Ghost if it's alright with you and you're still taking requests. No pressure and absolutely no rush. If I missed that you're not taking requests at the moment, I'm sorry.

I'm writing a fanfic about my OC, and to know her better I'll link my headcanons of her https://www.tumblr.com/gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot/718834905462751232/sergeant-christine-riot-vega-task-force-141?source=share

I'm feeling a bit down with life and my fic so I thought I'd request something about them to cheer me up. Of course feel free to not answer or not do it, it's perfectly ok!

If you decide to do it, I'd prefer something fluff/smut (smutty fluff? fluffy smutt? :D ) or just fluff/comfort, whatever is fine, really. My fic is a slow burn and although there are signs (and I have their first kiss already written), I'd love to see something with them already established. In my head, although both are deeply traumatised (both having undergone torture and lost their families) their relationship is surprisingly healthy.

Again, should you have other questions, or just discard this completely, it's completely fine. Thank you for reading!

Masterlist Fluff with a sprinkle of smut in the end Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley x OC of @gamergirlbones

Summary: Just a quiet evening with a silly game.

TW: A bit of smut under cut

Authors note: I hope, this makes you smile for at least a minute. I really wanted to keep things fluffy and comforting. This all is taking place long after their first kiss (and maybe confessions).

One of those evenings

“Your turn, Lt.” 

Ghost blinked and looked around. If it wasn't for his mask, all others would see his puzzled expression right now. “Where were we?” Ghost voice is calm and steady, as if he wasn't desperately trying to remember, at what point of discussion his mind drifted away somewhere far. 

“Ehm, we are all captured and sentenced to death. Each of us gets a last wish. No limits, but no cheating like ‘i wish for a 1000 wishes’ either.” As Gaz was reminding him of what were they discussing, Simon silently looked from one face to another, trying to guess, who came up with such an idea. Ghost was mentally betting on Johnny, but deep inside he knew that Riot could also offer such a grim game theme at the end of the day.

“So what would you wish for?” “A gun.”

A collective sigh of disappointment swept over the campfire around which they had all gathered. “We agreed to not cheat,” groaned Gaz. “Hey, I'm ok with that answer. It means, mine is still the best!” Soap is shining with pride, but Riot protests. “Hey, that's just not fair. We were competing to find the funniest of us - not the most strategic-minded. Ghost deserves a second chance on this one.”

“You want my last wish to be absurd?” Simon scoffs. “What am I supposed to ask for? A fucking cup of tea?”

“Na-a-ah, the parade in my honor is still funnier.” Soap winks at Riot and adds ‘Ok, Lt, last chance. Give us your best shot’.

Ghosts eyes travel down to his side, where Riot sits, but he stops himself. “I'd wish to relive one of those evenings.” Silence reigns around the campfire. Everyone seems to be waiting for him to elaborate.

***

Simons mind drifts to one of the memories, he values the most. That time, he managed to sneak her from the base, keep her to himself for some time. It was a dream come true: a few days of peace in her loving hands. From the moment, she exited his car and stepped into tall grass, coming closer to his remote cabin, till the moment she kissed him goodbye a few days later - this was heaven. On the first evening they made a bonfire, just like the one, they were sitting around right now. Only that time there were just the two of them.

The crackle of burning logs mingled with the din of crickets at sunset. He crawled over to her chair, hugged her from behind, and rested his chin on her shoulder. 

"It turns out I needed it." Her voice was tired and soft. “Of course you did. You've been burning that candle at both ends for too long.” Ghost felt, he should have made her go on this brief vacation earlier. “I know, how stressful it can get. Mission after mission, then obstacle courses back on the base, advanced weaponry, physical training…” Ghost reached for her hand, held it lightly, and barely touched his lips to the top of it. “And at the end of the day, you are left with a shittone of paperwork.” Christine winced. 

“Oh, don't get me started on that one.” His croaky voice left a tingling feeling somewhere deep inside her chest. As if they communicated now not only verbally, although his touch was still pure and undemanding. Her body was exhausted, her mind - drifted to sleep. “Come on, let's get you to the bed,” Ghost whispered, not wanting to distract her peaceful state of mind. But when she refused and asked to ‘leave her right on this chair under the stars’, he rose without letting go of her hand and added: “Make your lieutenant proud: get up.”

“So many ways to abuse your rank, Lt. And still, you choose the most innocent one…” Christine murmured, but stood up and let him lead the way. It was only when she was undressed, bathed and nicely tucked with a cozy blanket, when Ghost finally answered her: “I'll use and abuse my rank in every most unholy way once you get a nice sleep, love.” Maybe it was banal fatigue, or maybe it was a burning eagerness to find out how he could ‘abuse his higher rank’, but she felt asleep quickly enough in his arms, catching the last seconds of her waking moments as he softly kissed her temple.

***

“One of those evenings?” Someone around the campfire finally vocalizes the question, that hung up in the air, since Ghost made his ‘last wish’. 

“Ahem, how about we all agree that Soap won and call it a night?” Riot looks around and, without waiting for their answer, gets up and moves away towards one of the small shacks that served to 141 as temporary shelters before the start of the operation.

Ghost waits for a while, he always does. Just to stand up a bit later and disappear somewhere in the woods, tangling his traces. Their bond with Riot may be obvious to others, but he still keeps it all low.

He comes in to her cabin so quietly, it's almost impossible to hear his steps. But Riot always knows, when Simon gets closer to her, as if she feels his presence with some kind of the sixth Sense. So when he stops before a small sink to freshen up, it's actually her, who surprises him, sliding her fragile palms under his shirt.

“One of those evenings? Care to elaborate?” Simon practically hears her smiling, as she asks that. His hand covers hers under his shirt. “Go wait for me in bed, love. I'll be there in five.” Their voices are muffled, his fingers sink into the rye-gold of her hair, the other hand cradles her body in the most careful loving embrace. “Evenings, when I can steal you for myself alone.” His lips are brushing against her jawline. “Evenings, when you can feel safe in my hands.” His body is radiating with heat, making her pull off her shirt after a short time. “Evenings, when you don't need to be strong and composed, and can lose yourself under my touch.”

Eventually her pants are too so warm and uncomfortable. Simon helps her out of them. They stay snuggled as he keeps describing her his last wish, his chin resting on top of her head, his fingers slowly drifting up and down her spine. Christines mind slowly drifts as he purrs his most treasured memories of them two into her ear. At the back of her mind, she questions herself, how many of those evenings are there left. But his heat and the hardness beneath Christine make her forget those fears. The way he, a hardened soldier, a living breathing legend of the battlefields frowns under her touch… The way his breath hitches every time her fingers casually slide up the inside of his thigh… This is all too much to still count their coming evenings. Simon too eventually stops reminiscing on the past and concentrates on what is important right now: her in his hands. His fingers slowly caressing her through the underwear, his lips forming the most beautiful, yet unspoken words along her ears and neck. Christine - not Riot, but his Christine looses her quiet and a tad bitter demeanor the moment his mouth slants over hers, pulling her into his lap, her panties pulled to the side. He makes her forget that stupid game, forget her doubts and pains with a first solid thrust. Rolling her over, cradling her body underneath his, dragging small whimpers and moans from her lips - this is another night to remember. Another night, he'd wish, he could relive again and again. 

After her first release Simon lowers his mouth to her ear and asks “Any particular wishes for your second round, dear?”. Her eyes are wet, darkened with a thick veil of desire. “You were so gentle… I'd love you to be bolder this time.” “How much, love?” His smile is loving, but his voice grows somewhat sinister.

She grits her teeth and exhales. “I want it rough. I want to feel every vein, every single inch… But not your mercy this time.”

His chuckle is low, and dark, and not at all soothing as his palm slides up to squeeze her breast. “Is that all?”

She shudders a breath, realizing what a deep void she has just discovered.

[isleofair]

Tiger & Bunny Week Day 5

Fan Theories and/or Predictions

I've been wanting to make this meta post for a long while, but since there was no way to reach any truly solid conclusions, I always ended up setting it aside.

But since today's prompt is fan theories... I figure I might as well give this the best go I can!

Today on "Aria fixates on scraps of collateral canon in an attempt to better figure out the Tiger & Bunny timeline, since the authors just will not give us the info straight up, dammit": when did each of the characters debut as a hero?

(under a cut for length and screenshots of actual excel spreadsheets lol)

So, we know the answer to that question for sure for about half of the heroes: Wild Tiger debuted in NC1967, Barnaby in NC1977, and the three new kids in NC1980 (at least in Stern Bild; Subaru worked for a little while as a hero in Panjourney before joining Hero TV).

(Yeah, the hero card of himself Kotetsu picks up in the pilot is technically for the '76-'77 season of Hero TV, so maybe it saying he's got 10 years of experience means his debut was actually in NC1966... but nothing says the cards don't get updated as the season goes on, and this isn't too relevant to my number crunching, anyway.)

As for the rest of them, we can make at least an attempt at (vaguely) guessing by analyzing the experience data on the Hero Cards, which you can see for Season 1 and The Rising here on the amazing Merch Wiki (shoutout to @tnbscans 😘), and for Season 2 here in an older post of mine, or here on Twitter (both courtesy of @Kazuko_01 over there).

This is a chart of the experience values in all the available hero cards:

The reason Barnaby's values are in yellow is that they really, REALLY tried to throw off all of my math 😅

See, the experience values seem to only take into account how many seasons of Hero TV (or an equivalent of it) you've appeared in, however briefly. (At some point I thought maybe becoming the King of Heroes would grant you bonus exp, but Karina doesn't seem to get a boost from the '79-'80 season, when the CD dramas tell us she tied with Keith and became the Queen of Heroes.)

Barnaby took essentially all of NC1979 off, spent a quarter of NC1980 in the Second League, and his score during the Rising is still an absurd 3/5. The only possible way that can even remotely work is that the time off is discounted entirely AND that the exp values aren't strictly proportional to your years of experience, but more along the lines of a curve (stretched every time to accomodate the longest career, Kotetsu's) where having been a hero for at least a season before, as opposed to being a rookie, gives you an additional point on the scale, and each subsequent point requires more years of extra experience.

(This would make a certain amount of sense: there's a lot of difference between being a total rookie and someone who's been on another season, or two, but not that much difference between having worked 9 or 10 seasons before.)

The crucial facts to make this work, and the reasons I had to discard a lot of other possible ways map the years to the exp values, are:

The cards, in spite of having 5 possible scores in S1 and The Rising and 6 possible scores in S2, really only ever have a baseline plus four extra values above it, since the 1/6 or 0.5/3 score in the S2 cards is unused (hence me counting the scores as "out of 3"). I initially thought maybe it was because all the S2 kids had some prior experience, since Subaru used to be a hero before coming to Stern Bild, but the manga tells us Thomas for sure did not, so it's not that (RIP Subaru for them ignoring your days as Hello Goodbye);

Bunny skips ahead two notches between his debut in the 1977-78 season and the 1979-80 season in The Rising;

Antonio goes from having max 5/5 experience along with Kotetsu in S1 to having a score of 2.5/3 (or 5/6), along with Nathan, Keith, and Ryan, in S2. This means he definitely debuted after Kotetsu, but before Nathan and Keith (and almost certainly Ryan).

With all of that in mind, this is the best possible thing I could personally come up with:

I marked down the two most likely ways to map the years to the exp values for each set of cards that still somehow work at the bottom (with blue being min experience if you debuted that year, and red being max). The fully grayed-out years are downright impossibilities (again, not counting Subaru's time as Hello Goodbye, since the cards don't); the softer gray is "very unlikely", the mid blue is "possible", and the deeper blue is "most likely" (thin border) or "sure" (thick border).

I didn't really try to come up with an arrangement that would let any of Ivan, Karina or Pao-Lin debut any earlier than NC1976, because a) both Ivan and Karina have conversations with their bosses in the pilot episode that really make it seem like the just-concluded season was their first, and b) as it is Pao-Lin already became a hero at TWELVE YEARS OLD and that's enough of a headache for me, thank you very much.

The riveting conclusions, assuming this makes any sort of sense at all (and that I didn't put way more thought into this than the people who made the cards did):

Antonio almost certainly debuted in NC1969 or NC 1970, two or three years after Kotetsu;

Ryan (whose experience outside of Stern Bild seems to be fully counted, sorry again, Subaru) doesn't appear in the S1 cards, so it's a little harder to narrow his debut down, but since he's apparently younger than Barnaby, which would make him a teenager for most (if not all) of his possible range of debut years, I'd very personally tend to put him more around NC1973 than anywhere else;

Nathan and Keith most likely debuted in either NC1971 or NC1972... but I would strongly argue that the only really viable year out of these two is NC1972. That is the year Tomoe died, and Nathan and Keith, before episode 1x09, had no idea at all that Kotetsu was ever even married, let alone a widower with a daughter. I simply cannot imagine Nathan, especially, witnessing a colleague she sees pretty much every day go through the loss of his wife, and not prying enough, either with Kotetsu himself or with Antonio (who is not terribly good at keeping Kotetsu's secrets, see ep 1x09 again), to eventually find out what was going on. If Tomoe died before October, when the 1972 season of hero TV started, Nathan and Keith, debuting that year, would have met Kotetsu only after the fact, which seems a lot more plausible.

(Yes, that last thing does support my cute headcanon of FireSky being almost polar-opposite rookies together, but to be fair, the headcanon itself came directly from this math, and not the other way around.)

If you read all of this, we are true siblings in T&B nerdery and ILU forever. Especially if you have any ideas on how to make the data make more sense, lol. 💚