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bg-brainrot · 3 months

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Failed Every Insight Check and Fell all the Harder (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Companion piece to: Failed a Dex Save and Fell for You

Summary: After a few months of traveling together, Astarion has begun to experience some new feelings around you. After one fateful day in Moonrise Towers, he finally figures out what those feelings are.

Tags: Astarion POV, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Awkward Fluff, tw: mentions of astarion's past and all that comes with it, tw: mentions of araj scene, Feelings Realization, Jealousy

A/N: here comes the awkward, fluffy Astarion figuring out his feelings Valentine’s special. He’s a hot mess, of course. (happy Early Valentine’s because I will be busy on Valentine’s) And thanks to everyone who voted for this one!

Word count: ~4.8k

Ever since your group entered the Shadowlands, something has been bothering Astarion. He hadn't noticed at first– or rather, had tried his best to ignore it. But, as time goes on, he’s finding it more and more difficult to brush aside.

It had started out small. An odd pain in the pit of his stomach.

What was that? he'd thought, holding a hand to his abdomen in concern. Perhaps he was just hungry, but it certainly didn’t feel like the ever-present hunger in his belly. No, that was a dull, continuous ache. This? This felt like something was weighing him down. Maybe I’m ill. I shouldn’t mention it to anyone, lest Lae’zel slit my throat in my sleep.

Besides, the pain didn’t happen often. He noticed it a distinct few times.

Once, when you first entered the Shadowlands. He’d just watched you bend down, hands plucking at something off the side of the cursed lands’ road. He thought momentarily that he ought to stop you, that none of you knew what could be lurking in its magical darkness. But that tinge of worry was promptly replaced by that same gods awful pit in his stomach.

Because there you were, presenting your party’s cleric with your spoils. You were gifting Shadowheart a night orchid– had remembered that she mentioned loving them. You bore the woman’s wretched joke with a smile. Disgusting, Astarion thought. No wonder my stomach feels uncomfortable, what a pathetic little exchange.

Like everything that had bothered him in the last couple of months since finding himself free of Cazador, he decided to forget the feeling. Life is his to take full advantage now, why let something like that affect him?

Or so he thought until the next time the feeling made its return.

You had just arrived at the Last Light Inn as a group, found shelter through the Harpers’ well-established safe haven. Astarion was quite happy to be rid of the shadows, content to cozy up in an inn. He figured, if he played his cards right, you may even let him partake in your blood or ask for a bit of fun.

Then your party found Dammon. Equipped with Infernal Iron and one blazing hot barbarian, Dammon made magic happen in a matter of moments.

Astarion was glad. As much as the group was a bit much at times, he understood Karlach’s struggle with her body all too well. She deserved this small victory in reclaiming her body.

His feelings of genuine sympathy were short-lived though because a moment later you were wrapping your arms around the tiefling’s body. It was a test, of course, to see if Dammon’s fusing had worked. But there it was again, the feeling in his stomach. This time it felt twice as heavy, a lead ball in his guts. Maybe I should let someone know, he thought. This can’t be good.

But the sensation was soon forgotten as your group settled into the Last Light Inn. Old allies were in some miserable new states– requiring even more help, gods– and new acquaintances were made. It was all rather dull for Astarion.

The one time Astarion perked up was when you went head-to-head with the head Harper. He chuckled under his breath when you outsmarted the old crone, Jaheira. That’s right, Harper. Don’t mess with my protector.

Your first night at the inn was capped off with a bit of revelry: a game of Truth or Dare.

Astarion could sense your reluctance to play. You’d been acting odd all day, stiff and awkward around him. He saw this as the perfect opportunity to tease you to the high celestial plane– in fact, he already knew what he wanted to ask you. “You are going to regret this so much," he'd said to you from across the table.

Then the game began, and the deep, uncomfortable feeling never left his core.

Each and every companion received your attention throughout the game, in one way or another. Even that damned smith, Dammon, was given a dare from you. And Astarion just sat there, not even earning a glance, his mood growing more and more sour.

When, at last, he was able to taunt you with his question, you were far too in your cups to give a proper response. He sat on your lap, placed there from one of Shadowheart’s dares, staring into your surprised, open eyes, wishing that he'd thought of an easier question for an inebriated version of you.

The group had shooed you both out of the game upon seeing your state, though Astarion didn't mind. He'd much rather leave the lot of them and tease you by himself.

Once you were alone, you answered his question. That he, Astarion, was your favorite and for all manner of incredulous, unbelievable reasons. He’d expected you to say him. He’d asked to hear your praise, confirm your attachment in the name of his plan to seduce you. All the same he was left uncomfortable, juggling the sudden and unabashed flattery. Being praised for his looks was one thing but for being… himself?

The feeling in his stomach grew. Suddenly his lungs felt it, his undead heart felt it. What in the sweet hells is the matter with me? he thought, as he helped lay your drunken, passed out form to bed later that night. He hadn’t felt a sensation like this before– he hated it.

Then you reached out to him in your sleep, and he froze. Something about the touch quietened the pain under his ribs, and so he extended his fingers, gently touching your brow as you fell asleep. See? I’m fine, he assured himself. I truly am just ravenous.

He continued this way for several days in the Shadowcursed lands.

One moment, he was perfectly fine, hacking and slashing at a Shambling Mound with abandon. The next, he would look over at you, see you laughing at something Karlach said, and it felt like an iron ingot had made its way into his insides.

Damned tiefling woman. I’m far funnier than her, you know, he thinks, resheathing his knives with a little too much gusto. The sound of your laughter rang in his head for the rest of the evening, as if he were being driven to insanity by it.

The next day, you had fought a horde of Meazels. At first, Astarion thought the fight was delightful fun– the tiefling woman and the cleric kept getting teleported against their will and after his recent annoyance with both of them, he found it quite amusing. That is, until you found yourself garrotted, teleported as far away from him as possible.

He was on you in mere moments, ripping the creature off of you with his blades. It was almost as if he’d reacted instinctively and, as someone whose instincts typically led him away from danger, he found the sensation quite off-putting. Nevertheless, he'd freed you, asking, “Are you alright, darling?”

Astarion couldn’t remember what you’d even said because once he saw the marks the creatures left on you, the pit in his stomach dropped. Where there had been a heavy pressure before, there was now a sharp feeling. His eyes carefully trailed over your injuries, trying his best to focus on you and not the phantom pain building inside him.

You had been fine, nothing that a quick heal from Shadowheart couldn’t fix, but that feeling stayed in his stomach the rest of the day. It’s simply the Shadowlands, he'd thought. They not only play tricks on the mind, clearly they’re playing tricks on my body.

It was a few days later, as you helped the Harper’s deal with their lantern problem that the sensation shifted again.

Astarion watched, eyes glued to your form, as you dispatched the hideous drider, your twin blades piercing the creature in its most vulnerable spots. He’d seen you kill many monsters before, hundreds likely at this point. But something about the way your body moved in the Moonlantern’s glow, the way your face lit up as the creature’s body crumpled to the floor, caused the vampire to stop and watch.

This time, he’d felt the heavy sensation move up, somewhere just below his throat. He tried against all odds to gulp it away, but nothing seemed to work. We need to finish our business here and get out as soon as possible, he thought now, convinced it was the shadows warping his senses…

But as your travel continues, the feelings never go away.

It’s a different pressure, it builds, it ebbs, it flows between his heart, his stomach, his torso– and each time he brushes it off. Stewing in these uncomfortable feelings, Astarion spends the week in a hazy mire, not unlike the shadows that surround you all.

Then your group finally infiltrates Moonrise.

Moonrise Towers, the seat of the Absolute and a once grand fortress.

Now, Astarion can’t help but think it seems rather underutilized. Your group is walking along the empty parapets outside, which are woefully missing any sense of grandeur or ornamentation. “Darling,” he says, leaning into you slightly. “Don’t you think we ought to just kill everyone now and take the place for ourselves. Might be quite fun.”

You bark out a laugh, which he feels proud to have produced, and reply, “Maybe later. This is an infiltration mission only. Besides, once we defeat the Absolute, I’m sure there will be a vacancy.”

Astarion laughs back at you. Gods, he enjoys this. The way that he can say something that others would balk at and you will miraculously not only appreciate it, but also play along with it. Having fun with them is so easy, he thinks. And look, I’m still wearing all of my clothes! What a novel idea.

The thought is cut short when your group walks through an outside doorway into a room that can only be described as grotesque. Whoever works here clearly has some knowledge of arcana, if the ingredients and alchemical tools are anything to go by, but it smells utterly foul to Astarion.

It’s when you spot the drow woman hunched over a table in the corner that he realizes where the stench is coming from. Hells below, that woman reeks of something truly awful, he thinks, recoiling. He’d grown used to following behind you closely, but as you step forward to speak to the woman, he finds himself taking a step back instead.

The woman introduces herself as Araj Oblodra, a trader of blood– a rather poor trader, by the smell of it. She takes note of Astarion, who shuffles back instinctively, before you and her go about some kind of business with your blood. Astarion contemplates speaking up, shooing you away from her, but decides to stay back, as far away as he can remain without arousing suspicion. They can handle themselves.

Then, after the woman looks back toward him one too many times, he hears you snap, “And why are you so interested in my pale friend?”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps there’s one more thing we could discuss,” she begins, her voice a dangerous drawl. “He’s a vampire, no? Or one of their spawn at least.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Astarion says, all-too-ready to fill his role. “We’re all friends under the Absolute. I won’t bite.”

“Oh, I’d prefer if you did,” she’s quick to respond. Her eagerness picks at Astarion’s nerves, and he raises an eyebrow at her. Araj doesn’t deign to give him another moment’s look though, as she turns back to you. “I assume he belongs to you?”

“Excuse me?” Your voice sounds offended– on his behalf, Astarion wonders? “He’s his own person.” Your words cause the feeling in Astarion’s stomach to flip, and, as much as he wants to come to his own defense, he finds himself quite content to hear you do it for him.

“I’m sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable,” she says with a snide chuckle.

Adorable? he thinks, but he’s unable to interject before the woman continues to barrel forward.

The blood trader turns back to Astarion, face wrinkled with distaste as her tone changes to something a bit more confrontational, “Do you have a name, spawn?”

Her sudden shift in attitude, the proud tilt to her head, it all throws the vampire off balance as he goes to answer, “Astarion, b-but hold on!” Astarion holds up a hand to try to slow this woman’s tirade, all to no avail.

“Good. Now, Astarion, I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl,” Araj begins, laying out the scene for her request.

Too bad that the scene sounds quite ridiculous to Astarion. Surely he heard her incorrectly? “I’m sorry, you want to be bitten?”

The woman goes on a new insane diatribe– something about dancing with death– but Astarion can hardly be bothered. All he needs to know is that she’s offering some measly potion for being bitten and, gods, does he not want to bite this woman’s disgusting neck. Or wrist. Or really any part of her. “I will have to decline,” he says, with a gracious little bow. Your group is still infiltrating the towers, it wouldn’t do to tell Araj exactly how horrid she smells.

It’s entirely more grace than she deserved, that much is clear because she presses him again. Again, he refuses. “I gave you my answer.”

The drow scoffs, turning back to you once more, “Can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?”

You, for your part, look confused. There’s a line of concern in your forehead as you look between the woman and Astarion, wondering what it is that you’re missing. “I’m surprised, Astarion. I thought you’d enjoy an opportunity like this.”

What?! he thinks, a sudden, sharp spike of anger shooting through him. He tempers his immediate rage and speaks to Araj with that same, false pleasantry she doesn’t deserve, “I’m sorry, but could you excuse us a moment?”

Astarion, not waiting for her response, pulls you aside, away from the drow’s nosy eyes and ears. Once you’re alone, he turns to you, his voice a hiss, “Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some-some-some potion?”

“What’s the matter? Why would she be different from any other enemy?” you ask, leaning toward him.

Your voice is full of genuine worry, and some of his anger abates as he meets your eyes. Of course, they don’t know what they’re asking. How could they know? “Because there’s something wrong with her blood. I can smell it from here. Ugh, it’s rank.”

Now your brows furrow, and a sharp edge enters your eyes as you ask your next question, “What do you mean? What’s wrong with her blood?”

“I can’t say. It just smells… wrong. Unnatural.” His words sound pathetic to his own ears.

Of course that’s not an excuse, Astarion laments. What am I even thinking? The potion is clearly useful. They are going to make me do this, and I may as well prepare myself. I’ve put up with worse after all.

So, he stands straight once more, ready to put on the performance of a lifetime. His tone takes on a resigned tone as he continues, “Drinking it wouldn’t kill me, but it would not be pleasant.”

You both hear a sigh from behind you. “I don’t have all day, True Soul,” Araj calls, impatiently.

Your eyes remain focused entirely on him, ignoring the woman’s irritated sigh, her entitled words. “Astarion,” you begin, and he takes a breath in preparation for your other foot to drop. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. And if she refuses to take no for an answer again, we’ll simply have to start our assault on the towers a bit early.”

The breath leaves him.

"Alright. Uh, thank you,” he says, feeling the tension drop from his shoulders. He’d been prepared to acquiesce, to do exactly what you’d asked of him. But this? This is something he hadn’t been prepared for.

In a daze, Astarion makes his way back to Araj, putting on as polite of a facade as he’s still capable of making, “It's still a ‘no’, I’m afraid.”

“How very disappointing,” the blood trader says, shooting you both a disgusted look. She turns away in a huff, leaving your group alone to recover from the exchange. And leaving Astarion floundering in another new sensation.

Because once more, the feeling in the pit of his stomach has reared its ugly head– only this time it shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He's not sure what it is, but it's stunned him into slipping off his carefully crafted mask. He turns to you once more, voice soft around its usual edges, "Thank you. I… appreciated that.”

"You have no need to thank me. It was always your choice, Astarion."

Huh.

The feeling sinks into him, settling deeper and deeper as you continue through Moonrise.

That night, you go to bed in your own bedroll, leaving Astarion to his meditations with a smile and a wave. It has been a long day for all of you, and it's clear from the way you take a glance back that you're worried about him.

Gods, he's worried about him.

After dealing with that vile drow woman, you'd all continued about the tower, ingratiating yourselves with even the most repugnant of creatures to appear faithful to the Absolute. But Astarion paid attention to almost none of it.

He'd stabbed when you told him it was time to stab, he'd joined your side when you called him to you, but his mind had been wholly preoccupied.

They didn't make me do it, he'd thought, as he unlocked some chest.

Well, isn't this exactly what I wanted? he'd thought, following you down some stairs.

Clearly they just fell for my charms, my masterful seduction, he'd thought, flanking a prison guard for you.

So why do I feel like this? he'd thought, staring at your back as you led the way before him.

Now, he lays here in his tent, staring at the fold of its ceiling in a rapt fascination he doesn't feel. The feeling in his stomach has stayed all day, tethering him to his thoughts with its continuous pressure.

When did I get to the point where I would follow them anywhere? Is their lack of self-preservation contagious? he asks himself, eyes narrowing in frustration. I shouldn't have gone into that horrendous tower in the first place. Then I wouldn't feel like this.

But he had.

And you'd not forced him to do so.

You'd not forced him to do anything.

They're a fool, an utter fool. I could have bitten that drow, as easy as breathing, he thinks, rolling his eyes at the thought. Close your eyes and push through, that's what I always say.

But did you want to? something in the back of his mind asks.

Of course not, but when has what I wanted ever mattered–

It may not have mattered under Cazador's grip, but it has always mattered to you. You're nothing like that evil man. You'd always been there for him, had managed to find trust in your heart for him, and had been genuinely kind to him.

The now-familiar feeling in his stomach seems to spread to the rest of his body, a warmth that doesn't quite feel warm. It bleeds all the way to his face and his lips curl up into an involuntary smile at the thought of you.

You– you, who had only ever been meant to play a bit role in the tragedy that is Astarion’s life. You, who had transcended your part, leaving Astarion contemplating every aspect of you in the stark solitude of his tent.

Your beauty when you're covered in blood after a battle, the mischievous glint in your eye when you're teaching a child a sleight of hand trick– even when anger pulls your brows together and you're yelling at him for saying something particularly naughty. Each and every one makes his smile grow wider.

You, his chosen protector, are so much more than just that.

They are incredible. The thought comes to him unprompted, truly as easy as breathing.

His eyes widen in alarm, staring blankly at the tent above him.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t an illness. Nor was it hunger. No. It was guilt. It was jealousy. It was…

Oh fuck, Astarion curses to himself. Am I in love?

Now that he has a word to the sensation, that the feeling is in his grasp, he knows he's right. He doesn't have a lot of experience with love, if any– he'd never had the luxury under Cazador's cruel gaze and he can't recall much from before that– but he knows he's right.

And hells does he wish he could crush the feeling in his hands right here and now.

Gods, you complete and utter imbecile, he thinks, hitting his head against the floor. You have things to do, goals to accomplish. They were only supposed to be a means to those goals, not a – a–

Astarion’s mind blanks as he thinks of you again, your charm, your wit, your damnable caring.

Not a companion. Not a friend. Not a lover. When did those late night trysts turn from an obligation, a part of his simple, perfect plan, into something more?

Even now, as he thinks of those nights, he brings a hand to his lips, recalling a night where you had simply stayed in his bedroll. You had kept all of your clothes on, as had he, and simply held each other as you fell asleep. Their kiss that night was delectable, he recalls, tracing the line of his lips, as if he could still feel the ghost of yours on them.

Fuck, he thinks again, dropping his hand in frustration. How could I have been so blind? How did I not nip this in the bud before it got to this disgusting pining?

But he hasn’t nipped it in the bud. The feeling has grown, unfettered, quick as a druidic plant growth, all unbeknownst to him. It has been nurtured by your attention. It has been watered by your kindness. It has become unruly in the safety of your arms.

Now what? he thinks to himself bitterly, wiping a hand across his face with a sigh. What use are these feelings when everything they were built upon is a lie? You are, after all, still playing the role he set out for you.

He considers overlooking the feelings, just as he has inadvertently done in his ignorance. It wouldn’t be of any use to tell you, of course. You could hardly feel the same way about him as he does you, and he’d rather not add another nuisance in the fight against the Absolute.

Besides, if he told you, he would have to fess up, explain his entire plan to you. What would even be left of the two of you after that?

But, he thinks to himself. Let’s say I did tell them. What could they possibly say…

“I was pretending all along too.” – gods, that would break him. That much is all too apparent from the way his undead heart aches at the thought, with a pain he couldn’t possibly feel.

“I like you, but not like that.” – maybe this was worse. Actually, it was definitely worse. He may never recover. His ego would certainly never recover.

“I have someone else that I love.” – honestly, reasonable. What did he have to offer you after all? A bloodthirsty master and the occasional snarky comment? He wouldn’t be surprised to find you in Karlach’s tent at this very moment…

“I hate you.” – he might be able to take this the best. You should hate him. He’d done nothing but lie and manipulate his way into your bedroll. Hate, well, that he understood.

“I love you, but…” – every single 'but' cut like a different, jagged blade. But we’re in danger every day? An excuse, surely. But you come with too much baggage? True, but not something he would be able to resolve. But I don’t want to be with a monster? Again, reasonable, but out of his control.

Astarion runs through scenario after scenario, each one playing with his own emotions in a new and horrendous way. In the end, he all but slaps himself out of it.

No, I cannot tell them. I absolutely must take this to my second grave, he determines, shaking the thoughts away with a few hard blinks.

But the feeling in his chest is more persistent than ever. As if giving it a name and meaning has given it a new, annoying life. He laments to himself aloud, "I may never feel like myself again.”

If this is what love does to a person, he wants no part of it.

The vampire didn't have a restful night's reverie, that much is apparent. His mood is foul, his body tense, and his eyes are trying their damnedest to avoid yours.

No way, he thinks as you all set off for the day. I spun myself into a frenzy last night. Clearly. I feel absolutely nothing–

Then you turn back to him, concern lining your eyes as you address him. What had you just said? He had found himself somehow lost in your eyes, your lips, the turn of your nose…

Shit, he thinks to himself. No, get back in control. You have only just reclaimed yourself, you can't lose yourself to something as cruel as love.

But, try as he might, his eyes can’t avoid you.

All morning, he continues to sneak glances your way. Despite his roguish nature, he finds hiding his stares to be impossible. After all, you are the group’s leader. You are at the front, you are at his side, gods, you are everywhere. This feels like some kind of divine punishment…

You catch him looking, of course. And each time, he curses himself, gods, you idiot. You may as well broadcast your feelings to the world. And hells, how long have you felt this way?

Astarion tries futilely to act normal. This is just another day with the group in the Shadowlands. He’s not thinking about holding your hand in his. He’s not thinking about the way you look when you sleep. And, above all else, he is not thinking of your lips or the way that they move when you say his name.

Despite his inner turmoil, the world moves on. You lead the group through the Mason’s Guild, and you all manage to clear the place out easily enough.

The vampire thinks he’s finally reaching some sort of peace. Yes, this routine work he can do. No problem at all.

Then, you say something kind to Karlach, that infernally charming woman, who continues to support you at your side. Who, for all intents and purposes, should be the person who warms your bedroll at night, now that you can touch her. Not him, the man who can only make your bedroll colder. Who, even now, is avoiding your every glance.

Oh hells, he thinks, face dropping. The realization that he’s right is too much for him to bear.

Astarion stalks off, annoyed at himself and his thoughts, needing a moment to recollect himself. I can do this, he thinks. I can do this. I can–

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath once he knows he’s alone. “You’re supposed to get over this, you stupid fool. Shit. Gods dammit.”

He hears your familiar footfalls approaching and freezes, his shoulders tense with anticipation.

You find him in a pool of shadows away from the others, and he can’t help but feel like a beast that’s been cornered. He’s certain his face reflects that, reflects every bit of emotion he’s feeling as plain as could be, but your patience with him has apparently worn thin for the day. Your voice is less kind than usual when you say, “Do you need to talk?”

Seeing the anger in your face, the way that your hands are placed on your hips in annoyance, he knows he can’t keep his feelings to himself. He’ll only continue to push you away, into the strong, red arms of another.

No, he thinks, in a panic. I should– I need to–

He needs to do something about his feelings, unwanted or not. Really, he needs to tell you, regardless of what your response may be. If not, he may regret it for the rest of his undying life.

Now that he is in control of his own choices, he supposes that means all of them, for better or worse. That means even the most difficult ones. This is one of those difficult ones, isn’t it?

So Astarion swallows his pride, his anxieties, his insecurities, and settles his fate.

“Later,” he says, barely getting the words out. He blinks, and tries again, pleading with you with his eyes, “Please, just come by my tent later.”

Later, I will tell them. Everything.

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mellowsadistic · 3 months

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Alison sulked on her time-out stool, wondering how long she'd been sitting there. There were no clocks in her nursery, but it felt like hours since her husband had dragged her inside, changed her into one of her punishment diapers, and sat her in the corner with that stupid tiara on her head.

She squirmed a little on her seat and winced. Her bottom was still sore from the spanking she'd received earlier - her husband hadn't been at all pleased when he'd found out how much she'd spent on his credit card, and she'd had to endure almost twenty minutes kicking and crying over his lap before he'd let her up. It wasn't fair! She'd been on a shopping spree with her girlfriends! Was she just supposed to have tagged along, not buying anything? She was sure her friends had spent just as much money as she had... but she was equally sure that none of them were sitting on red bottoms right now, nor would they be wearing diapers, and not one of their houses would have a nursery in it just for them. No, they had husbands who treated them with respect, or who at least saw them as adults.

Alison felt herself going red as she imagined what her friends would say if they could see her now, being punished like a naughty toddler. She knew she ought to put her foot down and insist that she wouldn't let herself be treated like this, but it was just so hard to protest when her husband spoke to her in his authoritative voice, with that stern look in his eyes. For all her feminist ideals and principles, she never managed to do more than whimper when he told her off like a child and announced that she was getting a spanking and a stint in diapers to teach her a lesson. The little plastic tiara was the cherry on top. Her husband called it her "princess potty-pants" tiara, and she had to wear it whenever she wore her diapers. It made her feel like a stupid little girl playing dress-up, and no doubt that was exactly how he wanted her to feel.

Alison scowled around at her nursery with its stupid playmat and its mind-numbing baby toys and the dumb stuffed animals lying around everywhere. She particularly despised the oversized baby blocks sitting on the shelf that held her diapers. She did not love diapers. In fact, she hated them more than anything else in the whole world. She hated how they pushed her legs apart, she hated the way they crinkled with every movement, and most of all she hated what they were for. Alison squirmed again and pressed her thighs together as close as they would go, then let out a quite moan of distress. She needed to pee badly. She was no stranger to this kind of punishment, as the full diaper pail in the corner could attest, but somehow, no matter how many times she was forced to wet herself, it never got easier.

After another minute of increasingly desperate wiggling, she gave up. With a deep breath, Alison clenched her eyes shut and relaxed her bladder. The stream began at once. "Eww..." she whined under her breath, winkling her nose in disgust as she felt the thick padding between her legs start to swell up with pee. "Ew, ew, ewww!" Warmth spread from her crotch, but the knowledge of what she was doing rid the sensation of any pleasantness. She was peeing herself. She was wetting her diaper like an overgrown baby. Tears filled her eyes as her thick baby pants became soggier and soggier. The smell of urine reached her nose and she sobbed. She fell so small, so stupid.

Then came her husband's voice. "Alright, baby girl, time-out is over."

She looked up through her tear-filled eyes to see him walking into the room, looking highly satisfied at the sight of her desperate expression.

"Uh-oh," he said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, "I think someone's had a little accident. Have you wet yourself, baby?"

Alison sobbed again and nodded. She lifted her fists to her eyes to wipe the tears from them, so she didn't notice her husband's hand until it was already sliding down the front of her diaper. She let out a squeal of protest, but it went ignored.

"Oh my, you're absolutely soaked!" he said, feeling the sodden padding in her diaper. "You really had to go, didn't you, princess potty-pants?" He withdrew his hand and tapped her on the nose. "I guess that tiara's not just for show, is it?" He straightened up. "You can stand up now, baby."

Alison got shakily to her feet, cringing as her diaper sagged heavily between her legs. It was so wet that she could feel the warm, swollen padding brushing against her thighs, and it was drooping down almost to her knees. A whine rose involuntarily in her throat, and she couldn't help flapping her hands in revulsion. It was so yucky!

"You don't like wearing wet diapers, do you, Alison?" her husband asked.

Alison bit back her retort. Of course she didn't! "No, Daddy," she said, unable to bring herself to look him in the eyes.

"And you don't like being spanked either, do you?"

There was a pause. "No, Daddy."

"Do you know why Daddy has to spank your little bottom and make you wear diapers?"

Alison clenched her fists. Now was the time. Now was the moment to tell him she wouldn't put up with this anymore.

"Because I'm a silly little girl," she said meekly, staring at the carpet, "and it's the only way I'll learn."

"Good girl. You can stay in that wet diaper for a few more hours to really drive the lesson home. I'll change you into a clean one at bedtime. Now take Daddy's hand, soggy-britches. Let's go and have a cuddle, okay?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

#mellowsadistic

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fairyhaos · 7 months

Text

How To Fucking Write: a guide by fairyhaos

[masterlist]

this post details:

DIALOGUING INTERESTINGLY

hi gays and gals! the first post on starting and pacing a story did really well, so "how to fucking write" is back, with yet more advice and tips for everyone ^^ please feel free to let me know if there's something you want me talk about, because i'll be more than willing to see if i can help. also a reminder that i have a taglist for this series as well, and please reblog if you find this helpful :)

# - HOW TO DIALOGUE.

.. bullet point one : grammar

okay guys, as a native english speaker, i'll be the first to tell you that this language fucking sucks in terms of its grammar, but when it comes to dialogue, understanding how it works even to some extent will help you branch out and vary the way you write dialogue, which makes it so much more interesting.

with dialogue tags (said, asked, etc) if the punctuation mark in the dialogue is not a ! or ? then it should be a comma.

example : [junhui + castle]

as you can see in the first line, a comma is used rather than a full stop, because the sentence hasn't been finished yet. there's a dialogue tag, ('you correct'), that comes after it. and since the pronoun 'you' isn't a proper noun (i.e. a name) then it shouldn't be capitalised, because, again, the sentence hasn't been finished.

with action tags however, (he smiled, he stood up, etc) then it should be a full stop.

example : [i just made one up bc i don't use this a lot lmao]

"I disagree." He stood up, and walked over to close the door. "This isn't safe. You shouldn't go alone."

and now, since there is a full stop, it indicates that the speech is a sentence all by itself. that means the next word ('He') ought to be capitalised.

but the key part when grammar-ing dialogue in order to make it interesting depends on where you put the action and grammar tags.

if you constantly have lines that are just:

"dialogue," he said.

"dialogue," she said.

"dialogue but a bit longer," he said.

... then it can get repetitive, and annoying. by varying your dialogue structure, it can create more interesting dialogue.

example : [minghao + password]

there's a variety of dialogue and action tags being used with each line of dialogue, preventing everything from sounding too repetitive.

the first line starts with a normal sentence, and an action tag. the second is a standalone line of dialogue with no tags. the second has the action tag in the middle of the dialogue. and the last has a dialogue tag in the middle of the dialogue.

by varying the ways in which you write your dialogue, it makes everything a lot more interesting.

.. bullet point two : verbs and adverbs

the easiest way to make dialogue interesting, though, is to use fancy words.

this can be by replacing 'said' with a range of other dialogue tags (see this really comprehensive list for a whole variety of different words), but i'd advise against overusing these. 'said' is your friend! it's the invisible dialogue tag, helps your reader read through your dialogue in comfort, but of course, if you wanna add a nuanced way of describing the dialogue, then replacing 'said' is the easiest way to make your dialogue interesting.

but don't overuse these. for me, i'd focus on action tags and adverbs.

use interesting adverbs that add description to how a character is saying something can go miles. and using action tags that break through what could have been a long section of characters just talking? it helps so much.

i'd recommend having onelook thesaurus open as you write. you don't have to type in just words: phrases, the overall vibes of the word you're thinking of, all of that can be typed into the thesaurus and they'll provide you with pretty good results each time.

it also really helps when you've forgotten a word and can only remember vague bits of what the word should feel like.

.. bullet point three : voices

the best way, however, is ultimately to create a character. write a personality for them, bring them to life, think about the way in which they would talk and then put that down onto paper.

it's difficult, perhaps the most difficult to do, because it's also so tricky to advise someone on how to do this. it's all about the character you want to create, the personality you envision for them, and the only person who can fully write that is you.

however, i would find a few 'ticks' of theirs and use them as indicators in your writing.

for example, in my seoksoo long fic, seokmin's tick is that he always "chirps" what he's saying. and beams. a lot. this identifies his character, makes him unique(ish), and establishes his personality and differs him to the other characters.

but ultimately, it comes down to word choices, when you're writing a character voice.

like, your character describing something with elegant, floral language vs them going "this is so pretty". or perhaps making them stumble over their words when they're panicked vs them simply just going silent when they're flustered.

it's about being specific. about making choices with your words that would have english teachers analyse and unpick your writing, hundreds of years later.

(even if it's fanfic. especially if it's fanfic: because who knows how many fans may join your fandom in the next few years?)

... and that's it ! if anyone has anything else they want advice on (how to structure, how to write dialogue, how to plan etc) then just shoot me an ask, because i'd love to help however i can :)

tagging (comment/send ask to be added!): @selenicives @stqrrgirle @weird-bookworm @eternalgyu @blue-jisungs (tough luck guys btw but youre gonna be tagged in this entire series ehehehe)

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tojivu · 6 months

Note

would u do satoru who actually has six eyes with the reader scenario? it could be anything, like the reader going through his baby pictures and cooing at how cute he looked with one set of eyes open, but the other two werent. or comforting him cuz people think they're freaky. anything fluffy :D

# SIX ‣ GOJO SATORU

✰ — author’s note stop this is so cute.. i changed the prompt a bit i hope u don’t mind. hope this isn’t too long for your taste as well zzz

✰ — cw / tags satoru with literally six eyes , sfw , gn!reader , use of pet names ‘baby’ etc , briefly proof read ( i tried )

✰ — playing n side by steve lacy.

✰ — word count 1.2k

✰ — part two click here.

it was a lazy sunday morning when you decide to wake up early. it was unusual of you, because you usually woke up later than your boyfriend—but you remembered the state of your shared apartment and knew something had to be done.

it was a mess. a complete and utter disarray.

moving in week was finally done, at least technically. some of your stuff was still in cardboard boxes. you knew gojo had some unpacking to do as well, but you figured it wouldn’t hurt to help him—you knew about the long hours he endured.

you’re still groggy when you make your way down the stairs, holding onto the railing for support. you rub your eyes until the sunlight doesn’t hurt anymore—but you glance into your living room and see the piles of tiny boxes, full of trinkets from your previous house and it hurts your eyes all the same.

you yawn and sit yourself down on the couch, scissors in hand and ready to take on the workload. you meticulously cut the tape sealing a particularly damaged cardboard box, deciding you would eliminate the smaller stuff first; gojo would wake up sooner or later and you certainly weren’t going to carry the bigger boxes by yourself.

you turn the flaps over and the sunlight spilling in through the living room windows help visualise how dusty it really is—you don’t think it’s yours. the box must’ve not been opened for quite some time.

it’s a photo frame you find in the box, but there’s way too much dust for you to really see anything. you bring the frame to the kitchen, grabbing a wet rag and wiping the plastic film to the best of your ability. you think this must have been hidden from you on purpose, you’ve never seen this photo in your life—no picture of satoru escapes you, after all. he must’ve not wanted you to see it.

it’s your boyfriend as a child, at a strawberry farm. he’s wearing a sunhat and a basket of berries are being shown off to the camera; his smile undoubtedly huge, and his eyes are glistening in the sunlight the hat failed to deter—all six of them.

you’re wondering why he ever ought to hide this photo from you. you knew about his eyes, and you’ve made it clear that you loved them. though, you can’t really speculate—gojo’s told you briefly about his childhood, but not really in detail. “i didn’t really like showing them when i was young,” was all you got out of him when you asked about his middle school days.

you’re startled when you hear a yawn coming from the stairs, and you shift your gaze from the photo to gojo—adult sized gojo with only one pair of eyes open—who’s making his way towards you. quick reaction time enables you to hide the photo behind you, just as gojo enters the kitchen.

“good morning baby,” he says while rubbing his eyes. he plants a kiss on your forehead, then blinking slowly at you in an attempt to wake himself up completely. “what’re you doing up? it’s 8 a.m.”

you scoff at him, jokingly. “what, am i not allowed to wake up at 8 a.m?”

gojo lets out a chuckle, his voice still raspy. “didn’t say that.”

you smile up at your boyfriend, who’s eyes are still not fully open yet. the slits on his cheek and forehead from his other two pairs of eyes further intrigue you—perhaps, if you dig a little more… would you be able to find photos just like that one?

you feel sneaky, looking through your boyfriend’s things without his permission. of course, you couldn’t help yourself—how could you? his smile looks priceless.

and so, something in you is determined to find every single one.

your mental scheming is stopped, though, when gojo makes a loud gasping noise. you’re snapped back into reality, and you realise he can see the photo frame you’ve hidden behind your back. “y/n!”

gojo is fully awake now, his expression a mix of shock and embarrassment. “how did you find that? i swear i put all those boxes away in my office. . .”

you point a finger at him, accusingly, with your eyebrows furrowed for dramatic effect. feeling offended, you gasp as well. “so you did try to hide them from me!”

he lets a laugh slip through his lips, much too flustered that this is how you discover his childhood photos. he shakes his head, “i’m sorry, y/n. didn’t think it would matter much.”

“why did you hide them? is it because of your eyes?”

gojo nods his head, taking a closer look at his younger self. “they were a bit weird for a six year old to have, no?”

you gasp again, hurt by his statement. the first thought you had when you found the photo was how adorable his eyes were, the different tints of blue shining in the sun—and the missing teeth which were shown so proudly in his smile. how happy he must’ve been to smile like that.

“i love them, ‘toru.”

it was always heartening to hear that coming from you.

when gojo satoru first met you, he was unsure if you’d be weirded out—like how everyone else was when he was younger. he’d learned how to keep the pairs on his forehead and cheeks closed in his teenage years, so it was muscle memory by the time he knew you.

the first time you saw them was a few years ago, an unremarkable tuesday morning: at least that's what you thought, but to satoru—it was everything.

you awaken next to him, and gojo's perplexed. why you were staring at his face so intently? was his bed hair that bad?

“i didn’t know you could open all of them.”

gojo internally cursed himself, thinking it was game over—you’d probably tell him you’ve got to go and never call him back; but you did.

you called him and told him you missed him the following day. that sweet voice of yours he was so relieved to hear.

as a child, people would often call gojo strange looking—his piercing blue eyes already made him intimidating. people would barely look at him; so when there were six of them, it was even harder to make conversation. you guessed a long time ago that that was why he started wearing shades.

people could never look at him directly, but with you—it was a different problem altogether. you just couldn’t stop looking, always telling him how pretty his eyes were. he would find it hard to believe with the way he’d grown up, but it’s undeniable he feels comfortable showing it to you; sometimes feeling all right to go out without his sunglasses on.

“yeah, i know.” gojo’s smile is soft. he leans down and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his jaw on your shoulder and swaying you left to right. “you tell me that all the time.”

it’s cheesy sunday mornings like this you look forward to.

it’s been an hour since you’ve woken up and gojo insisted on helping you finish cleaning—it’s pointless, though: because you two end up on the couch, looking at childhood photos of yourselves—with the occasional embarrassing story time.

at the end of the day, nothing is clean and you two are still on the couch: except gojo is snoring and you’re on top of him with your face buried in his chest, trying to fall asleep despite the inconsiderate noise—photo albums sprawled out on the coffee table.

211023 — this is so bad i’m sorry… TT

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dutiful-wildcraft · 3 months

Text

Pack 141 - Fae!Soap Headcanons

Tags: monster au, Fae!Soap, poly 141, sfw, fluff, general lore, Soap's mom? for a minute at least, fae lore I roughly researched.

-Soap's mother was a stubborn and superstitious woman. When her baby boy was born with a caul over his face, her heart seized with dread. She had been told stories, how it was lucky to have a child able to see beyond the veil. How the caul signified a great power, coveted by the people of the forest. Her only babe, marked as Fae.

-They would come for her child, steal him in the night and replace him with another. And it would be a cold day in hell before Jill Mactavish let anything touch her son.

-She slept with the bundle clutched tightly in her arms, refusing to sleep until she left the hospital. Left him wrapped snugly to her front as she hammered iron railroad spikes into the corners of her property; hung horseshoes above her doors, sprinkled fine lines of salt around every doorway and window of her home.

-She thought it had worked. At least for a while. But the Fae are persistent if nothing else. Jill began to notice strange flowers pop up around the foundation of her home, odd tapping rhythms heard in the night. Would she know? Would she know if the lamb in her arms was replaced with another?

-She was so exhausted, worn thin from paranoia. Yet Jill Mactavish was no quitter. Under the light of a pale full moon she marched to the edge of her property. Her blue eyed bundle cooing and gumming happily at his fingers as he wriggled against her chest. With a final look to the boy she faced the forest with a stern resolve, “You won't take him! But I'll share him! Leave us be or help me raise him right!”

-The winds rustled, branches creaking ominously. Leaves gathered and spun into a tornado of color in the chill autumn air. Jill would freeze in place as the leaves fell away, revealing an ethereally beautiful creature before her. All high cheekbones and sharp eyes surrounded by inky black sclera.

-Ordinarily the Fae would swap out changelings, snag the babe once it was the right size and replace it with one of their own. Considering the wee one was already Touched….perhaps a swap would be unnecessary. Human mother's were coveted. The milk of human kindness and all that, and the babe was truly beautiful, destined to be strong. The fae had looked Jill up and down with a calculating look. Yes. A deal could be struck. They would raise the baby together.

-And thus Soap spent his time in equal parts amongst the Fae and humans, learning to socialize with both, though he didn't completely fitting in with either. Soap was hell on wheels. Rambunctious and equally curious, constantly nosing or getting into things he ought not have. Not that he was ostracized by either group he was just..*odd.* Unable to find his footing or close friends.

-You could say that Soap has many siblings, though this term is used liberally. By human technicalities Soap is an only child (his mum's baby boy). His mother, through the nature of her bargain, was brought into the fold with young John. Helping to raise and nurse her own gaggle of fae children of differing bloods. Other children Soap would call family.

-Fae don't have strict family dynamics, it's certainly a community effort to rear little ones. Fae children can be produced in a myriad of ways, with no one way being seen above another, p in v? that works. Born from a flower? Sure why not. Throw some herbs and intent together until a wailing babe sounds from the cauldron? That works too.

-Soap naturally inquired about this, as any kid would. “Ma? Did I come from a flower?” “You came from my belly wee one” Soap had squinted at her, eyeing her belly incredulously, "but how?”

-It took several conversations to get the toddler to understand that the other children in his human primary school were not in fact his brothers and sisters.

-As humans are fascinated with the Fae, the Fae are equally as fascinated by humans. As John grew into a young man he would see the differences. The Fae courts had long fallen into a peaceful rhythm. The humans? Hardly. With a powerful knack for chaos, among other abilities. Soap threw himself into the army. Keen to help as many as he could, and perhaps even find his own way.

-Soap is a marked child. He is more resilient on average than most Fae, and shows no obvious limitations in what disciplines he can learn. However, as marked he does have particular dispositions toward the following.

-Tongues, the ability to speak any language at will. Sometimes without thinking about it. For Soap this isn't automatic, but after a few days of listening or studying he's fluent. (Albeit with the accent). This gives Soap a peculiar edge when working with varying communities, elements, and other critters/creatures.

-Glamour, a sophisticated illusion, these may allow for invisibility or changes to appearance for a brief time (upwards to an hour but possibly longer depending on the severity of the change). Living amongst the Fae made permanent changes to his body. The sclera of his eyes had shifted inky black. His teeth and nails razor sharp. There is an ethereal beauty to all Fae as well. Naturally Soap uses this ability to cover some of the obvious issues.

-Soap knows he's distracting. He's a proud thing, and rarely bothers shifting that. He's damn good at what he does and looks damn good doing it. Hshows off his muscles/skills/looks without shame.

-Shapeshifting, self explanatory, but only works proportionally give or take a few inches. He may take on the appearance of another person or creature, briefly. But once again, only appearance. Mimicking voices is another skill.

-Sight or Clairvoyance, this ability's range depends on the court or bloodline. In Soap's case, his visions will occasionally come to him in dreams, these being more sophisticated visions or events far in the future. These visions are generally more detailed. He is typically privy to smaller prophecies, glimpses of events happening minutes before him. These are typically vague, but have consistently been enough to save his and his teammates asses numerous times in the field. The Infamous Mactavish Intuition ;)

-Soap is one hell of an alchemist, and can make due with most natural items at his disposal. Poisons, potions, explosives, you name it, Soap can make it. He excelled remarkably in the maths and sciences in school, and it’s why he was also quickly assigned to demolitions so long ago.

-Soap has a very noticeable smell. One that isn't exclusively detected by other supernatural beings. Any human standing beside him would notice it. Lemon and shortbread, with a warm curl of rose. Clean, green and vaguely sweet. People wonder if his callsign was from this fact rather than his prowess on the field.

-Nudity has no taboo with the Fae. Raised as such, the man has literally no shame. Soap Mactavish has been naked since he was a child in the woods, and will continue to proudly do so. Does not understand why everyone else is so uptight about it. Will bust in on someone in the shower without a second thought. “Stop screamin’ it’s just me”

-Fae are very partial to music, and Soap is no exception. He is so easily captivated by the sound, swaying slightly, almost as if hypnotized. Soap isn’t as in tune with artists and genres as Gaz is, but he keeps a hoard of songs on his phone. Gaz is his main contributor, keeps him well fed with playlists he makes. Playing new records for Soap as they bop around the kitchen together, playfully dancing or headbanging together. Soap was once pretty proficient with piano and guitar at his mam’s encouragement. His singing however, nearly got him killed in basic.

-Many animals are the watchdogs of the Fae. Soap has been seen having conversations with himself, unknowing to onlookers that a little frog or squirrel was sitting beside him. Someone swears they saw a mouse crawl out of his tac vest once. He whistles with the birds, scoops up bugs and plops them back into the weeds. He unfortunately doesn’t know the language of the shower spider. He doesn't bother to learn, he thinks he prefers the silence in this instance.

-Soap can be attracted with a myriad of things just like any other fae. Music as mentioned above is one. He is also partial to pretty chimes and bells, running water, shiny and/or colorful displays, as well as anything sweet, candies or sweet creams/milks/liquors.

- Too much contact with iron on his bare skin will poison him. Fortunately most weaponry constructed now is made of more synthetic material. It can be noticed that Soap is very particular about his gloves, and is rarely seen without them on. Iron on properties or above doors won’t exactly stop him, but it is incredibly uncomfortable and will lead to sickness if he is trapped within such a ward for too long.

-Fae, like crows, are enamored with jewels and other shiny objects, less of a weakness really and more of a distraction. Soap, prior to his enlistment had several piercings, such as his ears, and brow…among other things. He was very fond of the adornments, and easily captivated by the shiny displays on others. (This also extends to his intense love of blowing shit up and watching the sparks fly, big ole hearts in his eyes as the colors dance) In the event the team goes out for something special Soap will throw on a few pieces for fun~

-Soap can not lie, at least not directly, however Soap is a very sharp lad, and has learned to cleverly navigate around this by either not telling the whole truth, letting others assume, or simply not correcting misconceptions. He is a Fae afterall, being clever is his specialty.

-Customs of love and marriage vary among the Fae. Many Fae interpret strong love as variations of servitude, especially towards human mates. Soap has gotten himself tangled between both of these versions of love. For Soap love is servitude. Not something to be expected of his lovers, but from him. Soap gives himself to his lovers willingly, He wants to be good, give them anything they want and let them take what they need. Love is worship, and Soap is a very devoted man.

-Soap and Gaz had bro’d up as soon as they spotted each other. Having seen through each other's glamours, they became fast friends. Two oddballs fighting side by side. Which would turn into playful banter, and kips on the helo leaning against one another. Then to wandering hands and desperate kisses, having found comfort and fondness in each other after years of hiding themselves among humans. Soap and Gaz are the most cuddly. Johnny likes to lay sprawled in his Sphinx’s nest, his arms curled around his middle, face buried against Gaz's stomach. Both of them absolutely hate to sleep alone.

- Soap had a knack for getting into trouble. Disregarding orders to do what needed to be done. Had nearly been kicked out had his skills not saved his skin (and countless others). It was Price who sniffed him out, offered to take the man on loan for a bit. Soap's former CO was happy to be rid of him and hopeful that the notoriously stern Captain would knock some sense into him. Price, however had no such plans, he cut Soap loose, full authority, and watched the man bloom. Price did not anger at Soap’s decisions, didn’t flinch at his savagery in the field. In fact, Price had looked upon him with fondness (and a fair amount of exasperation). He kept Soap warm with lovely praises and a regular morning coffee, plus a heavy splash of sweet cream, for good measure.

-Simon had been more difficult, adamant on giving the Fae a hard time. Having seemingly been put off by Soap ever since he bounded off the truck and fist-bumped his arm on the tarmac. But Soap was determined, chatting and teasing, unphased by the lieutenants' icey behavior. They fell together in no time. Soap nestled to his chest, lips brushing over Simon's slow beating heart. Soap would never admit it. Never admit that he knew it would be like this all along. That Soap had seen him in his dreams.

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radio-writes · 23 days

Note

For the event, would something like this work?

"You won

I didn't deserve any of this

This will be the last time you lie to me"

But There's Something Latching Onto My Throat

300 Followers Event

Warnings: Cannibalism, minor character deaths, blood, manipulation

Tags: Alastor x reader, gn reader, relationship can be read in any way

MDNI

"Oh don't you look so cute down there, my dear. Green really is your color." It was hard not to miss the mockery in Alastor's tone as he looked down at you from the bed.

You kept your head down, hands balled into fists as you glared at the glowing green chains cuffed around your wrists.

"You really ought to know your limits, dear. And I say this for your sake, of course!" The demon continued, a red claw coming down to play with the chain. "I mean, did you really think you had a chance in the first place? You really are so cute, I could almost eat you." He laughed at his own sick joke.

Your gaze followed the chain as it swayed lightly; from the cuffs around your wrists, to the bedpost it was tied to, to the red finger it wrapped around.

You finally meet Alastor's gaze, his smile calm and mocking as he lied on the bed, feet kicking childishly in air. You could feel your blood boiling as you tried to hold your tongue.

"But no, I couldn't possibly do that to you, my dear." He didn't really seem to care that you just sat there glaring at him from the floor. "Besides, I'm still quite full, you know, having just eaten your little friends and all."

Your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palms as you tried to hold yourself back. You tried hard not to think about them. How they heard you were still alive, how they spent months scheming to try to help you escape.

How they struggled to their last breaths as this horrid man dropped them into his mouth.

"Oh, their screams of terror made such perfect tunes to accompany my meal." Alastor sighed contently. "And don't get me started, on how crunchy their bones were. Except for that heavier fellow, no, he was rather chewy—"

"Enough!"

The sound of your own voice surprised even you.

Your body had moved almost on it's own. You had stood up, yanking at your wrists. The chain pulled Alastor forward by the link he played with.

"You won, Alastor. I get it." You hissed at him, glaring down at the demon that held you captive with as much fury as you could muster.

Alastor's eyes were wide for a moment, before he started laughing just a second later. He moved to sit up, "Now, I don't see what you're so angry about. You're the one that put your friends on the line, not me."

"The bet was if I lost I'd never see them again! Not that you would—" You tried to fight back the bile that rose to your throat, "eat them!"

Alastor rolled his eyes as if he found your outburst to be far too overdramatic. "You weren't specific enough, that isn't my fault, my dear."

"You're sick." You snapped at him.

"And you're being unfair, my darling." Alastor said.

"I haven't ever done anything unprompted. You're the one that came to me to sell your soul. You're the one that snuck out. You're the one that insisted we make a bet, instead of just accepting your punishment." Each time he blamed you he gave the chain he held a harsh tug. "And you're the one that placed your friends' lives as prizes."

Alastor remained sat on the plush bed, seemingly as relaxed as ever as he continued to play with the chains in his hands. "If anything, I have been more than fair to you, my dear."

You were far too close to him than you would have ever liked to be. At this distance, you couldn't even try to hide the tears that stung in your eyes as he spoke. You weren't sure anymore if it was from anger, indignation, or just the sheer overwhelming grief over all you've lost to this man.

"Fair? You've been fair to me? You sold me out to fucking Valentino, I had no choice but to beg for your protection!" You didn't even care anymore that your voice shook as you spoke.

Alastor waved a hand in your direction, as if physically brushing off your words. "I'm sure you had plenty of other options besides begging me to take your soul, but we can agree to disagree, I suppose."

You almost snarled at him.

"You've locked me up in this god forsaken radio tower for decades!" You yanked back at your hands, standing up straighter as you looked down at him.

"For your protection, of course." Alastor only smiled wider—and it sickened you.

You felt like the room was getting smaller, the air a little thinner.

"You've kept me from everyone I cared about, half the people I knew thought I was dead!" Your voice rose in volume, your heart pounded so loudly you swore you could hear each beat.

"I thought if I behaved, if I just did what you said, if I just followed you, you'd let me go already! But I- I—" You could feel the hot blood rushing through body, every nerve on edge, every cell singing.

And then it was quiet; you couldn't feel anything at all.

Your shoulders slump and your eyes fall to the glowing green cuffs that bound your wrists.

"I don't deserve any of this." You said softly.

A hum cut through the silence, soft static coming back to life.

"You are correct to some degree, my darling. You don't deserve any of this pain, this suffering." Alastor said, bringing your attention back to him.

There he sat, just as he was, unbothered by your shouting.

"You don't deserve scum of the earth pretending to be your friends while they try to lure you back into Valentino's well...office." His fingers playfully danced up the chain he held. He didn't meet your eyes as he grinned down at it.

"What?" You felt just a tiny bit unsteady, his words hadn't fully sunk in yet.

"Oh, you know I'd do anything to protect you, my darling. Plus, it's my half of the bargain after all, to keep you safe and away from that stupid moth's hands." Alastor met your unsure eyes. He finally stood up, the chain clinking in his grip as he closed the space between you.

"When I heard that a group of lowly sinners planned to con my dear partner into a new contract, I didn't worry much." He leaned down closer to your height so your dazed watery eyes can see him more clearly.

"After all, I thought better of you. You had to be smart enough not to fall for something so dull. Something so poorly planned."

He slowly walked behind you, circling around you in a familiar way that almost made you want to shrink away and hide.

"But no, I suppose that was a mistake on my part. I hadn't taken into account how desperate you had gotten for company. You'd even cling onto whores who called you every insult under Hell's hot sun."

You see your friends, smiles wide, relieved, when they first saw you again. The rumors were true, you were alive. They could free you.

"They'd never." Your voice spoke out on its own, but it was soft. So soft that you doubted Alastor even heard it.

"Oh, what was it they called you? A bimbo, a slut, a whore?" He counted off on his fingers as he went on. "I'm pretty sure they said something about you being just an entertaining hole at some point—"

We'll get you out of there. We'll keep you safe.

"They would never say any of that." Your voice was louder now, just a little bit surer.

He finally stopped walking when he was in front of you again. He brought his hand up, knuckles gently caressing your cheek, barely grazing your skin.

The touch almost snapped you back to life. His soft touches, almost loving, had never once been genuine.

He was lying.

"Oh, but they did! Believe me, I was as shocked as you were. The vulgarity of it all—"

There was a sound of metal clinking, a struggle, bodies hitting the floor.

"This is will be the last fucking time you lie to me, Alastor."

You glared at him below you, the green chains tangled and wrapped around his neck as his claws gripped at it.

"I will not let you turn me against the few people I cared about. Double dead or not." You yanked your wrists back, causing the chains around Alastor's throat to tighten.

"Why you ungrateful little wretch." Alastor snarled, his eyes had gone black and you stared down defiantly at radio dials.

"Do you really want all of Hell to hear you begging for mercy?"

Static prickled against your skin.

The room was steadily growing darker, shadows creeping around you as you kept the demon pinned down on the floor. His antlers grew as he smiled wickedly up at you.

"Try it." You dared him, unwavering.

"And I will use every last breath to tell everyone in Hell about that pretty little collar around your neck."

You swore you heard him growl at you, felt his chest vibrating beneath your body.

You pulled at your restraints again. Alastor's claws scratched at his own skin as he grasped at the glowing metal, trying to keep it from crushing his throat.

You matched his stupid grin with one of your own.

Sure, you absolutely might die tonight. But seeing the great Radio Demon brought down to the floor, his own leash choking him, was just the perfect parting gift.

You leaned down closer, the tip of your nose brushing against his as his warm breath washed over your skin.

"Green, is absolutely your color too, Al."

#tw: cannibalism #tw: minor character deaths #follower event #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin alastor #hazbin alastor x reader #alastor #alastor x reader #gn!reader #vien writes #Alastor being an absolute glutton is another fave gender of mine #of course his bougie ass is a foodie of course it is

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silkscream · 4 months

Text

CHAPTER 2: HEAVEN CANNOT WAIT FOREVER

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He feels you shake. Earth-shattering, the feeling of you. Like you’re breaking the sky for him. It roots something deep inside him that wasn’t there before. Something blooming between violence and gauzy ecstasy. It knots his stomach until he breaks, too.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: smut (18+ mdni), virginity loss, protected sex (yay!!), fingering, satoru is annoying

ੈ✩ wc: 4.4k

ੈ✩ a/n: SMUT TIMEEEEE! one of my fav chapters just because it's so sweet. title is from the first taste by fiona apple. i'd love feedback <3 if you just comment about updates i will summon mahoraga on you.

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

July, 2008

In front of you, the Gojo estate sprawls out. It's oversized and sukiya-style, adorned with gardens full of hanashobu. When you were younger and more naive, you daydreamed that your wedding ceremony would happen in such a place. The idea makes you feel silly now.

You now find the gargantuan display of wealth a bit repulsive, despite growing up here.

The emerging summer heat makes the back of your knees feel sticky already. You had opted for a simple shirt dress, light and linen, and robin’s egg blue, thinking Satoru would like the color.

God, this was stupid. He wouldn’t be paying attention to the color of your dress — he’d be much more concerned with what’s underneath. The thought makes your stomach flip, birds and wasps flurrying in your diaphragm. The kiss you’d shared hadn’t left your mind for days. You wonder if it was the same for him.

You're surprised that he's there to greet you himself. Otherwise, you would've let yourself in. He smiles at you, looking unfairly handsome in a black t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s not wearing his sunglasses.

“Look who decided to show up.”

You hum in greeting, brushing past him to move toward the stairs.

“Eager, are we?” he teases. “You didn’t even get me flowers.”

“You have a whole garden of them outside.”

“They’re much prettier when you arrange them, Twigs.”

He cocks his head to the side, eyes lingering on an ikebana sitting on the foyer table. You had arranged it last week. You sigh, immediately regretting your decision until he pushes you lightly on the small of your back. His cologne is sharp under your nose. Has he always smelled this good?

It didn’t occur to you that Satoru would ever wear cologne. He’d always smelled like plain soap, white musk. Boyish sweat after he’d play in the courtyard with you.

You follow him up the long staircase and into his bedroom. It’s plain as it always was — neutral colors and traditional paintings on the walls, courtesy of his mother. The only difference is that a king-sized bed replaces the tatami mat he’d preferred as a child.

You try not to look at him, instead, inspecting the bookshelves. You'd read half of his stack by the time you were twelve. Since then, it seemed that Satoru didn't continue an interest in reading the same way you had.

There’s a small photo peeking out of a book — you recognize the top of your head. As you pull it out, you see the two of you grinning in front of a lake. You are eight years old, freshly toothless, and your pigtails are unruly.

“I miss your braids, you know,” Satoru murmurs. He laughs when you jump a bit at the realization of his presence. The coolness of his palm settles on the nape of your neck. You used to tease him about that — how he’d stalk the hallways like a cat and catch you off guard. You thought he’d ought to wear a bell.

“You just liked tugging on them to piss me off.”

“You’re cute when you’re pissed off,” he shrugs.

You wonder if he can hear the echoing brag of your heart. You can’t blame the heat for how you feel, with his house being the perfect temperature of all times. He’s so casual in his T-shirt compared to you. You’re briefly self-conscious about whether your dress is tacky or garish. Too feminine with its floral pattern. You hadn’t worn the thing in years.

As if he’s read your mind, he calls your name and tells you that he thinks you look pretty today. He beckons you into his lap again.

This time, you sit next to him, too anxious to touch yet. He smiles at you again, cat-like, but sweet. Not teasing in his usual manner.

“You can kiss me, you know.”

“I— I know,” you frown. “I don’t need your permission.”

“Then what are you waiting for, Twigs?”

You close your eyes, pausing in front of his face as you notice his breathing get uneven. A subtle push forward makes you stop against a wall.

“You did not just use your Infinity—”

“Sorry,” Satoru laughs. “Still a little mad that you lied about your technique to me.”

You look at him with wide eyes, bottom lip trembling. Something between shame and self-effacement.

“I’m messing with you. Promise. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Despite that, there was never really any hiding from him. Even though you aren’t as close as you used to be, Satoru is somehow still intuitive to how you feel. It’s why he touches your jaw and curls a lock of your hair in between his fingers. He knows his gentle touch would make a shiver run down your spine.

He kisses you, finally. The way your mouth immediately parts to welcome him makes his stomach stir, a spark to ignite a fire. It’s curious and soft, and when he hears you mumble please when he pulls away, he succumbs completely.

His hand settles on your waist, then your thigh. The crux behind your knee. He doesn’t want to move too quickly despite his desperate desire. Your sweet sounds are making him boil over. It’s all so delicate, hanging on by the thinnest thread, and he doesn’t want to scare you away like a timid animal.

You melt into him, grasping the front of his t-shirt with enough eagerness to surprise him. It occurred to you that you liked surprising him this way. You enjoyed getting him flustered. As you feel his warm palms smoothing the flesh of your thighs, the skirt of your dress is already bunched up.

The sound of him groaning in your mouth is addictive. Even more so when it’s your name between his lips.

“Satoru,” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“I–I want–”

Want you to eat me. Want to stay in your lap.

“Gone speechless already?” he teases, brushing your nose with his despite your glare. “You don’t have to be all shy with me.”

You’d imagined being in his lap like this before, warm and fervid. Dream-like. But it’s more real than anything else, especially when you can feel his hardness underneath you.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

Satoru’s voice is strained, raspy. There’s an unsung hymn inside of you somewhere, some cruel and divine power deep within that wants to tear him apart. Hearing him like this makes your pulse quicken.

“I want to,” you whisper. His eyes widen, snowy lashes flickering in surprise as if he wasn’t the one to invite you over. As if he wasn’t the one who had beckoned you into his lap and kissed you first. He’d argue that you’d tempted him if he had the strength to tease you again.

You have the urge to hide inside of him, consume him. There’s a question in the flicker of your eyes when you touch his inner thigh. Your eyes are wide.

Satoru makes a sharp inhale. He’s nervous – more nervous than he’s ever been in this kind of situation. It isn’t like he does this often despite his reputation. With you, it’s something entirely unprecedented.

“Kiss me again,” he says. You do. For a bit, you let the feeling of him wash over you, and then you try something new. Your teeth are at his neck. The nip of your incisors against his throat makes him groan, the sound inciting something wild in you.

“Do you want me to touch you?”

You nod.

He doesn’t undress you, not yet. He merely snakes an arm in between your thighs, gasping at the wetness that’s gathered at your core. Fuck.

“You can lean into me,” he rasps into your hair. “Make yourself feel good.”

You mewl – a helpless sound. A small rock of your hips grants you friction against his hand, but it’s not enough.

“You’re teasing me,” you whine.

“But you like it, don’t you?”

He smiles. Devilish again, like his usual self. He knows you’re a bit repressed, like him, but in a way that’s reserved. He wants to see you come undone, enjoys the begging tone of your moans too much.

Satoru skims his fingers along your thigh, wetting the skin with your slick. He pulls your underwear to the side to find your clit. The pressure of his fingers against it makes you shiver.

Your eyes close as you sigh. You can’t look at him – can’t remind yourself that he can see your face like this, falling apart in small breaths. The coil in your stomach aches.

“Tell me how it feels.” His voice is low, his breath tickling just beneath your ear.

“Good,” you reply, breathless. “Feels really good.”

He wants to ask for permission, but he can’t help it. The sight of your mouth parting in pleasure is so much. He wants to see how your face contorts when he touches you in different places. You have always been his favorite toy, haven’t you?

Without warning, he pushes an index finger into you, stifling a groan at your reaction.

“Want more? How do you like it?”

“I don’t– I don’t know?”

“You don’t touch yourself, Twigs?”

“Satoru, just– oh.”

You’re so wet around him. So tight. His cock throbs at the idea of being inside you.

“Another one?”

“Mhm.”

“Open your eyes. Want you to look at me.”

Your lashes flutter as you gasp into his mouth. He looks at you intently, mesmerized. Your hips jerk, grinding into his lap when he uses his thumb to circle your clit again, this time in a steady rhythm with two fingers inside your cunt.

Satoru exhales into your mouth, his jaw slack and moaning softly as if he’s being stimulated as much as you are. In a way, he is, from the friction of you in his lap. He thinks he might just cum in his pants from watching you. He’s never been this pent-up before.

You finish with a quiet gasp, clutching Satoru’s shoulders as you bury your face into his neck. When you pull back, he’s wonderstruck, eager to kiss your cheeks and your jaw and the space above your collarbone. His fingers, still wet with your slick, enter his mouth. He curses softly. You flush at the sight of his lips all dewy with the taste of you.

“Can I take this off?” He pulls at the hem of your dress. The sound of his voice shakes you back to Earth.

You nod, helping him slip the fabric off of your body.

It’s almost as terrible as it is tantalizing to be so vulnerable in front of him. Bare enough for him to make his mark on you, claiming you forever. You suppose he had done that long ago without you realizing.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he coos. He soothes a palm over your waist.

“Naked, you mean?”

Satoru laughs. Eyes hazy, summer blue. “Yes. But you’ve always been beautiful.”

You want to retaliate with something, ease your nerves with a joke, but the tenderness of his voice renders you speechless.

“Your turn,” you breathe, tugging at his sleeve.

When he rids himself of his shirt and sweatpants, you notice he’s as pale as moonlight. Smooth porcelain and filled-out muscle. Rigid. What happened to the lanky boy that used to pull on your braids?

“Got a staring problem?” he goads.

“Shut up.”

“Maybe if you lay back for me.”

You swallow. You listen to him. He looks at you, your hair fanning out on his pillow, your body bare and ripe for the taking. Satoru sits in front of you and coaxes your legs apart to kiss your knees, the back of your thighs. You mewl when he bites, nipping at you the same way you’d done to his neck.

“Look at you. So fucking pretty. Wanna eat you out.”

You have half a mind to say thank you, but the moment passes. You’re too fixated on the way his eyes trail down your body. How the brevity of his words makes you feel flayed alive.

When he kisses you a little too close to your core, you whine in protest and pull at his hair in a fit. He looks up at you, feigning dejection.

“I’m sorry, baby. What is it that you want, hm?”

Baby. Baby.

“Come kiss me.”

And he does, but it’s more violent this time. He doesn’t hold back on showing you how much he wants you, how badly he’s obsessed with you after seeing you fall apart so sweetly for him. The supercut of it will reel in his head long after this. He’s sure of it.

Satoru laves his tongue over the places on your neck that he’s bitten, and descends to your chest until he hooks his teeth around your nipple. He groans at the sound of your moan. His hands are still roaming, palms gripping the taut flesh of your thighs as he grinds lightly into your body enough for you to feel his hardness.

He wants to give you more, so he teases the swollen nub of your clit again with his fingertips and is delighted to feel that you’re even wetter than before – if that was even possible.

“Satoru!”

“Yes?”

Your breathing is so irregular that you can’t put your desire into words. Not without it tainting you with shame, at least. You plead with big eyes, but Satoru wants to tease you a little more. You wonder if it’s in his nature to be so cruel.

“Use your words, Twigs. What is it? You want me to fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, okay,” he chuckles, kissing your temple. “You want a condom?”

You close your eyes, nodding, trying to savor the way he makes you feel and not the terrifying vulnerability that rots in the pit of your stomach. It’s all too much, much more than you had dreamt out, but you’re here now. You know there’s no going back. You know that when you open your eyes to see his soaking in so much light, looking at you with adoration, you wouldn’t want to go back anyway.

He’s quick to prod your entrance again. You nod slightly to permit him, clutching him like a lifeline.

“Let me know if it hurts too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

He kisses you hard, consuming you as a distraction as the head of him enters you little by little. You’re wet enough to not feel any resistance. When he’s pushed to the hilt of you, he moans against your mouth. He drinks up your exhale, trying not to consider it a painful one as he runs his fingers through your hair lovingly.

It’s a strange pain. Something of an ache in the core of you, twisting at your insides in a way that also feels like crushing ripe fruit. A delicate sensation as much as it is rough. Satoru is gentle in his movements, brushing your hair out of your face. He looks at you with utmost admiration.

“Is that— is that good?” you whisper.

“I should be asking you that, shouldn’t I?” he says. You feel the rumble of his laugh against your chest. “Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. But it—it feels nice.”

He slides his cock back to thrust into you again, slowly. It’s almost languid, lazy the way he slips back into you like the two of you have just woken up from a dream.

Satoru wants to be intentional with how he fucks you. Even within these past minutes, he’s convinced he’s gotten your reactions down to memory. He’ll be able to touch you in all the right ways the next time you fall into his bed. But if he’s intentional, if he fucks you the way he truly wants to, he’s worried it’ll be too much. Everything he feels for you is too much at the moment.

“Relax for me.” His voice is smooth as butter. Your reaction is a hot knife. You notice that for the first time in a long time, in front of you, his face is blushing pink. It makes your walls tighten around him.

He rolls his hips against yours. It’s ecstasy—the feeling of you encapsulating him in lust, in softness. The drawn-out whine that tumbles out of your mouth makes it all worthwhile as Satoru thrusts with the smallest bit of intention. Softly, lovingly. After a bit, his length begins to make you feel full without all the pain. Skin kissing skin. Insides fluttering.

You don’t notice the tears pricking the corners of your eyes. The pain subsides, but the pleasure stokes the fire in your stomach until it devours you completely.

He hitches your right leg higher, ankle past his shoulder. He feels so fucking reckless, but he’ll satiate you the way you deserve—sweet and painless and passionate. The way your bottom lip trembles is making it so fucking difficult for him to stay gentle, though.

He moans your name and it reminds you of yourself. Of your body, of inhabiting it and being consumed by your best friend who is not your best friend. And you love him, you realize, but it’s a worthless feat to think about it too much during your first time. You can at least play pretend while Satoru is inside of you, as he looks at you like he’s the one in love with you.

He bites at your neck as he ruts into you a little faster. He’s so deep that you think you might go brainless—dizzied with pleasure, overflowing with thrill.

“So fucking tight,” Satoru groans. He pushes up his body now, settles himself on his knees as he holds your thighs firmly. “Look at you. My pretty girl.”

“Satoru—” you whine, feeling too exposed, too bare with him hovering over you like this—“Oh, my god—”

You’re pushed over the edge when he thumbs at your clit again, your cunt tightening around him at the feeling. You look beautiful like this. Tears of an angel. It distracts him a bit, how pretty you look, until he realizes the power he holds over you. Knowing that he’s taking.

“Too rough, baby?” he coos, leaning over to kiss your cheeks, licking up your salty tears.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp. “S’good. Feels good.”

He’s pushed against you again, head buried into your neck. He pulls at your hair gently, angling your face to look at him. Noses touching. Mouths sharing air.

“Gonna cum,” you whine into a kiss. He groans at your admission, pulling you taut against him as he adjusts you both to your sides. He lifts your leg over his, rolling his hips harder, and the angle makes you cry out.

“Fuck,” he curses. His eyes are wide open, mooning at your face as you cum, and he can feel his release burying inside you to the hilt.

Even after you’re both spent, he’s greedy, still hard inside of you as he continues. Lazy movements, half in tandem with your ragged breaths. He grins at you then, breathless at your blurry gaze. Kisses you sweetly like a shared promise.

The comfortable silence falls between you as you swap kisses. You hum against his lips, caressing his jaw. Your eyes blink at the sight of rain outside his bedroom window. A light drizzle despite the orange sunlight.

“Hm,” Satoru purrs. “We brought the rain.”

“What, with an orgasm?”

“I’m pretty sure you had more than one.”

“You’re so obnoxious,” you mutter.

“And still inside you,” he grins.

He pulls out when you make a grumbled sound, contrasting the melody of his laugh. He has half the mind to take a picture of you like this, sprawled in his bed like a painting. He’d keep the image of it in his wallet if he could.

Instead, he goes to the bathroom to bring you a warm, wet rag and cleans you up. He’s able to catch his breath as he rubs his hands over your bare thighs. You’re changed, glowing, yet your face is so familiar. The same one he’s been fond of for years. The shift inside him aches.

Satoru isn’t sure what to do. Usually, he’s inebriated at this point, and the sex closes with a heavy, dreamless sleep after midnight. The sun shower outside has calmed down, barely there, and afternoon sunlight floods the room. He’s more awake than ever with your presence. He’s surprised you haven’t gotten up to get dressed or made some excuse about leaving. He realizes he doesn’t want you to.

It feels normal when he falls into bed with you after just touching your skin, slips into a sweet afternoon nap. Hours later, you make him dinner. He makes you cum again.

September, 2008

You don’t understand Satoru’s affinity for sugar. You would think he had an addictive personality the way he consumed sweets – you’re surprised he isn’t addicted to something worse, like cigarettes.

Lately, he’s been complaining about craving something sweet before he fucks you. He licks his lips as you share the same mango-flavored popsicle in the courtyard of his estate. Juice dribbling down your chin. It doesn’t take him long to get you knee-deep in the grass. He teases you, tells you your pussy is sweeter. The sweetest.

Other times, you have quiet nights. He watches movies with you in your room and has sex with you before you sleep. Over a few months, Satoru gets accustomed to how you sound when he touches you until he knows you inside out. Expert in the map of your body. Of the pillow-soft places he can tease to make you cum hard.

But he doesn’t take you out after. Or before. It’s always a rendezvous, the rest of the world dead to the both of you as you consume each other. A paradise restricted to a bed. He gets you so dizzy that it doesn’t bother you. He kisses you sweetly on his way out to see his friends. He kisses you sweetly before he’s quick to slip out your door or send you out on his own.

It’s perfect for him. You’re perfect — you feel it.

Satoru likes that you’re so pliable. He can say anything he wants to you and you’ll take it. You’ll even moan for it.

Sometimes he can be mean, sometimes he has tears rolling down your face, but he always kisses them away. He likes that you let him cum in your mouth.

He especially likes that you’re good company outside of the sex. You’re the only mind that gets him besides Suguru. It’s why he likes spending time with you when everyone else is busy. Even if he’s practicing his techniques and you’re splayed on the grass, reading a book.

It’s what you’re doing now. He’s convinced you’re trying to tempt him today. At the moment you’re wearing the pleated skirt from your school uniform, despite it being summer break. The July heat made it unbearable to wear pants. It was laundry day, too, but Satoru insisted on having you come over.

“Come play with me, Twigs,” he calls after you. You look like a dream in your little tank and little skirt. Bare legs with imprints of grass patterns.

“I’m reading.”

“Just because you have a healing technique doesn’t mean that you can’t practice combat.”

“Shoko doesn’t,” you scoff.

“Shoko is going to cheat her way through med school. C’mere, I’m lonely,” Satoru whines.

You’re not as good at fighting as you were when you were children, able to at least wrestle with Satoru and have equal footing. Even then, you didn’t have enough cursed energy to fight like a true sorcerer like Satoru.

But you are getting the hang of it, bleeding cursed energy that flickered a gauzy aura around you. Satoru wonders if it’s just his six eyes that make you look so beautiful in front of him. So soft.

He ends up pushing his weight on you by the end, anyway. He revels in the way you groan, annoyed at him for pinning you down. He knows what’s on your mind from the way you lift your hips for him almost involuntarily. It’s how he has you melt in his grasp, skirt hiked over your stomach as he bullies his cock into you. You’d been asking for it since you looked at him, your teasing eyes peeking from above your book.

He finishes on the small of your back like he always does. Licks over the hickey under your collarbone, too.

You ground him. At least as much as Suguru does, but differently. He’s clear-headed after he cums, laying with you skin to skin. It reminds him that he’s human rather than a god-like prodigy. He keeps you like a pet, never wanting to let you leave him, insisting on stroking through your hair like you’re a cat.

“This has to be some form of kidnapping,” you mutter, one afternoon in his bed. He’d kept you for at least 36 hours, this time. You would never hear the end of it from your mother.

“I can always go to your house.”

“I wonder if this is codependent,” you say. You scrunch your nose as he nuzzles his to yours.

“Nah,” Satoru hums lazily.

“You don’t think so, Satoru?”

“There’s a time limit for me to hang out with my best friend?”

His quip makes your heart pang. You ignore it.

He’ll release you when he feels like it. He knows well enough that you’d rather stay in his bed all day, anyway. He’s too wrapped up in you to think about how it may be cruel.

You stay long enough that your staycation with Satoru bleeds into his usual weekend plans. This includes a movie night with Suguru, so you join.

Satoru picks something raunchy, of course. Something horrific and exploitative in a way that draws attention from its taboo. A cinematic car wreck that has your head spinning.

He whispers in your ear, teasing you, calling you baby whenever Suguru goes to the bathroom. He has his hand on your thigh, fingertips under the blanket, and close enough to your core to make you dripping wet.

And then, as the movie progresses, you tuck your body towards Suguru, who shares your distaste for such violence. Even if it’s fictional. As Satoru watches his worlds collide and sees the way Suguru’s fox eyes light up at your banter, something odd flickers inside him.

When the new semester starts in the fall, he doesn’t look at you as he walks past you.

#gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #juijutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk smut #geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #gojo satoru x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk x you

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multifandomfix · 5 months

Text

Plague Of The Paramour — Anthony Bridgerton

Summary: You let yourself be seduced by Anthony, and with your reputation at stake, after your tryst, you make sure to steer clear of him. But Anthony Bridgerton is not an easy man to avoid.

Word Count: 589

Warnings: Fem!Reader, some angst, implied past sexual content

Any time the ton was brought together for an event, you made sure to avoid Anthony like the plague. Even catching a glimpse of him from across the way would bring to mind the images of that ill fated night you spent under his thrall.

Of course, Anthony wasn’t entirely to blame. He may have initiated your seduction, but you were no fool. You’d allowed yourself to be seduced, knowing full well what the consequences of such a thing could be. And now, you were regretting it.

The night in question was not the part you regretted, rather it was the implications it made towards your character and your chances to be wed. You understood that Anthony had not done what he’d done in preparation to make an honest woman of you. No, he’d only done what he always did, make a game out of women’s affections.

It seemed that tonight, despite the efforts made on your part, Anthony was always there, in the corners of your vision, as if he were deliberately trying to get your attention. Well, if that were the case, you surely weren’t about to make it easy for him.

In a valiant attempt to dodge the eldest Bridgerton, you filled up your dance card, leaving you precious little time to be alone during the evening, therefore giving him the smallest possible chance to steal you away. You didn’t want to speak to him. Hell, you didn’t even want to see him.

As the night progressed, you were sure your ingenuity had succeeded. Yet, when it came to the last dance of the night, your planned partner was conspicuously absent. As you searched the room for the man, it was Anthony who caught your eye, making his way towards you through the crowd. You silently cursed to yourself, knowing that running from him would only cause a scene, and that was something you definitely didn’t need.

“Lord Bridgerton,” you greeted as gracefully as you could manage.

“You are a difficult one to track down,” Anthony replied, a little out of breath from his relentless pursuit of you. “I’ve wished to speak with you all night.”

“How unfortunate that we haven’t crossed paths then,” you said, though you’d hardly meant it.

“Unfortunate indeed. I had something I wanted to ask of you.”

“If it’s a repeat performance, then you ought to look elsewhere,” you informed him. “I am not the type to make the same mistake twice.”

Your words appeared to have wounded him like a blade, as it took quite a bit of fortitude for him not to recoil at the venom in your voice. He doubted himself for a moment, but ultimately decided to continue. “I assure you that was not the question I’d intended. And though I do not have the utmost confidence in your answer, I shall ask you anyway, here and now. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

The question had truly shocked you and had stopped some of the action in the room from the nearest bystanders. They, and Anthony, awaited your answer. Certainly he couldn’t mean— Had you been found out? You looked in his eyes, desperately searching for the answer to your unspoken questions.

Anthony only looked back with pure adoration, something you hadn’t expected from him. That night may have been an error in judgement, but that didn’t mean there were no feelings between you. His question tonight clarified that much. And so, determining his feelings were earnest, you knew your answer. “Yes.”

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-izzy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @nclgsticore, @ayanthegreat28, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @malfoyfeed, @aliciabrower, @bitchr-mkay, @sparrowspixie

Anthony Bridgerton: @retvenkos, @ladyrooster39, @riveranddoctorsong123, @theamazingworldofcarol, @esposamultifandom, @elorasfandomsandocs, @littlsstuff, @freyathehuntress, @m-rae23, @floresferae, @onlinecemetery, @bigbluegiants, @edit-me-prettyplease, @angelmenace, @foxherder, @bestfriend491, @astrogrande

#anthony bridgerton #anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton #request

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cherryjuiceblues · 1 year

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for the sleepover!!

just a cute little midnight snack fluff blurb. y/n can’t sleep and goes downstairs to make her fav midnight snack— H wakes up and finds her downstairs and finishes making it for her 🥹🥹🫶🏼 no rush at all and it’s totally okay if u don’t get to it!! xx

✰ boyfriend!harry no warnings.

You’ve been staring at the side of Harry’s face for longer than you know, long since giving up on attempting to sleep and instead trying to make out your boyfriend’s pretty features in the dark. You don’t know why you’re struggling so much tonight but, it seems no matter what you do, your brain just won’t settle.

You’d considered waking Harry up but immediately dismissed the thought, frowning at the idea of disrupting his sleep. And after tracing his face with your eyes a multitude of times, feeling no closer to falling asleep, you decide to get up. You don’t breathe until you’re sure you haven’t woken Harry, engulfing deep breathes once you reach the kitchen, the tiles cold on your feet. Something warm in your tummy ought to mellow you out a little, you think.

Everything seems to make so much more noise when you’re trying to be quiet, the pot you’re extracting from the cupboard making you wince as it clatters against something and the lid you nearly drop scraping against something else. As the water boils (run from the apparently deafening tap) your body deflates—exhaustion more prevalent now that you’re up, and you rest yourself against the counter, head hanging low. Your eyes fall shut and despite the discomfort of standing you nearly drift off, until you hear the telling noise of bubbling water and force your eyes open.

“What’re you doing up?” A tired voice sounds behind you and you nearly jump out of your skin, whipping around to see a dishevelled Harry. You frown. “Don’t be too pleased to see me,” he says sarcastically, scratching at his jaw.

“I didn’t want to wake you up, m’sorry.” You let him pull you into a hug as he walks over, chest hard and warm.

“My body was missing you,” he drawls, and you smile against him. “Get hungry?”

You nod, “Couldn’t sleep,” speaking into his skin. “M’making cheesy pasta.”

Harry hums and fiddles with the hob behind you—probably turning it down. Still wrapped up in his arms, you go to turn but he stops you.

“Lemme. Go sit.” And you want to argue but you’re too tired. So with delayed steps you totter over and lift yourself up onto the counter opposite Harry and the hob; probably a bad idea considering you might fall off it if you drift off, but once you’re up, you don’t want to move.

Harry potters about and you watch him with eyes half-lidded. Gaze as he takes out the pasta and pours an appropriate amount into the pan (you would’ve cooked enough to feed a family of four, most likely) and then as he grates some cheese to make the sauce. It’s a meal he makes well, experienced in the cooking of it whenever you need comfort food. Your eyes shut once more and you’re too gone to panic about where you’re sitting as the delicious smell of cooking lulls you to sleep.

“Hey,” Harry whispers, suddenly in front of you, hand on your knee. Well, you think it’s sudden but then you realise you’re just waking up. He’s holding a finished bowl of cheesy pasta and you perk up considerably, wiping the tiredness from your eyes.

“Mm, thank you,” you hum, reaching out to grab it with slow movements.

Harry pulls it away, removing his hand from you to hold the fork. “I’ll feed you, baby, y’can close your eyes.” You smile up at him, heart full, even though you shake your head in a way of saying you’ll keep them open. Harry knows you won’t. He stabs a couple of pieces and holds them up to your mouth that you open gratefully, eyes shutting immediately at the soothing warmth and taste. You try to reopen them, you do, but Harry reassures you. “Don’t fight it, love.”

He means it in the most sincere and caring way, but he also takes the opportunity to feed himself some, free of your inevitable grumbling and pouting (“Don’t eat my food!” He can picture you saying, before replying, “I made it for you, brat.”).

Once the pasta is all gone, and you are ninety-five percent asleep, Harry sets the bowl down quietly in the sink and scoops you up into his arms—your legs cling to his waist, and your arms to his neck, like the true depiction of a sloth.

When he lays you back down in bed, it takes you all of five seconds to sink into a happy and satisfied slumber, this time with Harry the one to watch your face before he too, falls asleep.

sleepover tag!

#cherryjuiceblues sleepover #blurb night #harry styles #harry styles blurbs #writing #harry styles x reader #soft!harry #softrry #bf!harry #harry styles imagines #harry concept #keepdrivingkisses #concept

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takaraphoenix · 3 months

Text

Polympians Event!

Clarifying right off the gate: This does NOT mean exclusively Percy x poly Olympians, it means any god/Percy ship.

EDIT: I made a sideblog for the event: @polympians-event

EDIT 2: Here's the link to the AO3 collection!

What is the Polympians Event?

What I have in mind is an open event for any and all god/Percy ships. You ship Percy with only one god? Fill the prompts with only that ship! You sail many different god/Percy ships? Fill each prompt with a different ship, if you want! A full Percy/Olympians poly ship, OT3 or any poly constellation? Primordial gods, titans or non-Olympian gods? Any god(s)/Percy ship goes!

I've seen, in recent years, that god/Percy ships have gained quite some traction and I love that, so much. But while there are bigger ships that do have their own events, there are also the tiny rarepairs that don't get these chances, and even with the bigger ones, not everyone has the time/energy to participate in all their ships' events. So one blanket event, where the biggest of god/Percy ships and the rarest of god/Percy ships are equally welcome.

Are there rules to this?

Yes, but only the most basic. No ship bashing or harassment of other participants. The event is open to all god/Percy ships, which means people will participate with your NOTPs too. Don't like them? Don't read them. Instead, focus on the new content to your own ships! If you can't be a civil, normal person about this, then this event isn't for you.

Whether you want to write smut or not is entirely up to you, but you ought to tag appropriately!

What's the plan?

I chose the dates of the Lightning Thief quest for this event! Meaning it will run from May 28th (Percy waking up at CHB) to June 21st (Percy returning the Master Bolt and Helmet).

That length works out well for there to be 12 prompts, and you would have two days to post each prompt, plus an additional 13th prompt on the last day, to keep with the theme of the Olympians.

I'll get an AO3 collection started to which you can submit your entries on AO3 and, if there would be interest in it, I could start a sideblog specifically for this event to which entries (with proper ship tags so you can filter out your NOTPs) will be reblogged as a signal boost.

What are the prompts?

May 28th/29th: Roman

May 30th/31st: wedding/marriage

June 1st/2nd: The sea does not like to be restrained

June 3rd/4th: family focus

June 5th/6th: jealous/possessive [god]

June 7th/8th: role-swap AU (god!Percy/demigod![god])

June 9th/10th: Modern AU/no powers

June 11th/12th: metamorphosis/shapechange

June 13th/14th: godly gifts

June 15th/16th: Aphrodite ships it

June 17th/18th: Percy accepts godhood

June 19th/20th: yearning/pining

June 21st: Mythology

And because I'm bad at phrasing short prompts, here some explanations on what I had in mind with them, though you are of course free to interpret them in whatever manner you read them!

Roman: could mean the Roman aspect of the god, a Roman!Percy AU, or whatever else you want to make of it!

family focus: Are Percy and the god married with children of their own? Percy as step-parent to campers? The god meeting Sally, Paul and/or Tyson?

metamorphosis/shapechange: the gods have a track-record of turning people into animals or plants. Does this mean full animal, or catboy/other hybrid? Is this angst or fluff?

godly gifts: magic powers granted to Percy, or literal physical gifts to court, or something else?

Aphrodite ships it: Aphrodite as wing-woman, hyping and helping, can also very much include Aphrodite/Percy since she would be her own biggest shipper

Mythology: could be a mythological AU where Percy takes on a role from the past, or specific elements of a tale that recur, anything

Let me know if you're interested so I know I won't be hosting this just for myself!

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lilac-5ky · 11 months

Text

Roommates from Hell, pt.2 (Toji x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 2: 2912

Chapter 1 | Chapter 3 | Story Masterlist | Masterlist

A/N: Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed the first part of the story! I'll do my best to update every 1-2 weeks and to keep things interesting. Feedback and suggestions are always welcome, and if anyone wants to be notified for updates, drop your name in the comments and I'll gladly tag your @.

Warning: Flashback, mentions of violence, blood, and sex toys (odd combo, I know)

2…9…1…2

Deft fingers punched in the numbers on the door’s keypad, a practiced crescendo of beeps and bops granting you access to your flat. Hesitant fingers that dropped to the handle, but refused to push forward, instead anchoring you there. Not yet, you mumbled, your eyes squeezing shut as soon as your forehead hit the frame.

Today has been a long day. So long that you barely had a moment to process the line of rapid escalations as it brought you to this very doorstep, with the ghost of your former scarf dangling from your neck. Some people would rather be glued to the little screens of their little phones than discipline their eight-year-old brats who, for some reason, thought playing tug of war with others’ scarves while they busted their gut to make a leaving to be of utmost entertainment.

Some people ought to keep their genes to themselves, you exasperated, untying the fabric from your neck and then balled it inside your bag, zipping the bunny across the seam.

The bunny…

Toji…

It was becoming a habit of yours to follow up his name with a sigh. Sometimes a sigh that meant “What am I going to do with you?” and others coming from a place of deep longing and frustration, meaning “What am I going to do without you?”

He said he’d be home after “snipping some loose ends,” which in his dictionary either referred to him breaking some poor woman’s heart, or quite literally stabbing some equally unfortunate man’s heart out of his body at his job’s demand. Depending on the plausibility of each scenario, you were given a minimum of four and a maximum of six hours to try and make sense of his actions and devise a plan to make this cohabitation work.

You licked your lips for the millionth time that day, gnawing at the chapped flesh with the edge of your teeth. No lip balm could aspire to salvage their sorry-ass state, aggravated by the low temperatures and honed by your continuous munching on them. You’d become so conscious of their existence, that it seemed as if you were trying hard to erase it before he had the chance to realize his goal of kissing them— even when that was a common goal shared by the both of you.

The taste of metal pooled in the hollow of your mouth, your teeth sinking a tad too deep. There wasn’t much reason to keep contemplating that which never happened and that which, perhaps, would never come. You wiped your shoes on the crooked doormat (was it always crooked?) and walked inside, your legs nearly giving out at the sight of two knees dangling from your beloved couch’s armrest.

“Woah, keep it down, won’t ya?”

None other than the voice of Toji reprimanded you as you screamed at the top of your lungs. His body was spilled across your couch, the expanse of muscles barely fitting upon the three azure-colored pillows. A soda —your soda— nested in his palm, while a bag of empty potato chips —your chips— lay on the kotatsu.

“What the hell are you doing here?!?” A trembling hand reached out to where your heart supposedly was, checking whether it was still in its place.

“Watching some travel show about Chikura,” he answered, unfazed and undisturbed. “You like abalone, right? Why don’t we-”

“I’m asking, how the fuck did you get in here?”

“Oh, that,” Toji smirked, lowering the TV’s volume just when the travel host was about to devour a platter full of steaming hot seafood—mouthwatering enough to divert your attention for a second. “Sayaka let me in.”

“Sa-yaka…?”

“Flat hair, narrow eyes— kinda like Izumi Pinko. Walks around with a cane twice her size. Rings a bell?”

“Talking about Ogawa-san?” you asked, a caricature of your crabby landlady taking shape before your very eyes. “She never lets in anyone without a key, though. Last time I forgot mine, she acted as if she didn’t know me and went right past. Had to phone a locksmith,” you sighed, murmuring under your breath about the extravagant sum of money you were forced to pay. “How did you do it? Convince her to open up?”

“How else ya think?” His chin rotated leisurely atop his knuckles.

“You can’t be serious! Y-you fucked her?” Your eyes went wide like saucers, the notion sounding both feasible and surreal.

His smirk sharpened into a sly grin as he stood up, a slight slouch on his shoulders carrying him to your eye level. You couldn’t exactly look away from this proximity, so you began quietly analyzing him. The tight-fitting black tee and baggy training pants that greatly accentuated his hips and shoulders; his work outfit. The overgrown hair that curtained the dark circles of his eyes; evidence of a sleepless night. The absence of scent, not even of dirt, sweat, or struggle. He must’ve actually been working on a bounty, you deduced, your final thought of rationale as he invaded the last bit of personal space you’d left.

“You really think the worst of me, huh?” His tongue circled his lips, prompting yours to do the same as you sheepishly shook your head, the sultry sound of his voice as hypnotizing as his hooded green eyes were.

“You think I go ‘round spreading the legs of everything that moves?” Toji asked again, his tone growing more condescending by the second. “ ‘fraid that ain’t the case, princess. I’m not into goodwill. Don’t do things without merit, either. She asked who I was, got all perky when I said I’m moving in, and then handed me these,” he paused, throwing a bundle of creased envelopes at your feet.

You kneeled awkwardly, seeking the sender’s origin in each logo seal. Water company. Electricity company. Phone company. Insurance company. Even the bills from that one debit card Hinata issued in your name in case of an emergency.

“Could say I paid my way in,” he scoffed, his eyes searching for an inkling of appreciation that he failed to find in your stubborn squint.

“I could’ve handled these myself.”

“Thought you’d say this, that’s why I saved this one,” he tossed another, smaller yellow-tinted paper onto the pile. “Eviction notice. My, you have it quite hard, don’tcha?”

“I don’t need classes on financial handling from someone whose living conditions are entirely dependent on ‘the bimbo of the week’,” you snapped, rising back to your feet with the bills in hand.

Maybe things were a bit tighter these past few months than you’d accounted for, but you weren’t like him. Sooner or later, you paid all expenses through sheer work and effort— a concept foreign to him, who’d rather be thrown into the streets than save a dime.

You weren’t like Toji. Not one bit. You knew that if he hadn’t run into your landlady, you would have definitely paid all your debts off in a month’s time or two, even if that meant devolving your breakfast’s nutritional value to that of instant ramen. You could take care of yourself, just like you’d done for 14 years now. He had no right to interfere because, come next month, you’d—

But the overdue deadlines at the top of each paper spoke louder than your inner thoughts and bravado did. The next month would never come for you. Not in this house, at least.

Defeated, you unfolded the paper, straightening the creases your fingernails had helped create. You hated feeling this way— indebted. The last thing you wanted was for this to turn into just another transactional relationship with an expiration date dependent on the other’s wage.

“Thank you, and,” you mumbled, your stare hiking up his body and stopping at his chest —right about where the difference in your height manifested— “….sorry, I guess. Just thought that with the way you look, and all that-”

“The way I look…?” A winsome smile tugged at his dimples, his left hand weaving through his hair as if he were oblivious to how effortlessly attractive he appeared in his work clothes, every single crevice of his body visible under the little piece of fabric.

“N-never mind.” You tore your eyes away, cheeks flushing bright red at thoughts a friend shouldn’t be having. “How was work?”

“Pretty dead,” he shrugged, using the same hand to rub some of the tension around the crook of his neck. “Don’t see a real challenge rising until that Gojo kid hatches from his egg. Rest die like flies.”

As a regular person with about an average percentage of cursed energy running through your system, you had little understanding of the mystical world of Jujutsu and its sorcerers, all the information you had acquired being bits and pieces that Toji had shared with you over the years. He never went into too much detail about his job but never hid anything either. He killed sorcerers with the same ease he spread butter on his bread.

You really didn’t understand much, and perhaps the keywords “kills for a living” ought to ring an alarm or two, but an outsider like you who didn’t abide by their rules had no right judging those who broke them. Besides, with the way his family had disposed of him as if he were a chewed piece of gum stuck on the back of their sole, things weren’t as black and white as one would assume.

“Gojo, you say,” the name sounding awfully familiar on your tongue. “Is that one of the three big clans?”

Toji nodded, his arms folding over his chest. “Special grade when he ain’t grown any pubes yet,” he scoffed, voice twisting in an unnatural way that could have tricked you into thinking he was jealous of the young boy.

“Are you gonna kill him?”

His brows knitted together, clearly not expecting such bluntness. “Question is, can I? Answer being, for the right price,” the frown he wore subdued into a crooked smile. “maybe. Kid should fetch one good wad of cash. I’m sure many want the six eyes out of the picture.”

Six eyes?

“Just make sure you save some of it,” you mindlessly said, eyes dancing around the room for the first time since you’d entered the house.

There were no real signs of his presence. The duffel bag seemed to be nowhere in sight either. Only his shoes were left by the door right next to yours, a sign you’d completely missed upon entering.

“What happened to your things, by the way? Don’t see ‘em.”

“Took the liberty of sorting them out,” Toji said. “You had a lot more empty space than you made it sound earlier.”

Somehow that statement terrified you— not because you were some overbearing control freak who didn’t want others interfering with their stuff, but because you feared the misplaced items he might have found casually lying around, providing him with all the excuse he needed to tease you to an excruciatingly slow and shameful death.

You went on a parade through the rooms, Toji following in your steps like a well-trained puppy, letting you freely inspect the new “changes”.

In the living room, you spotted a pair of dumbbells lying by the window, heavy enough that when you tried to pick one of them up, it resulted in one loud, unintentional shriek as your feet were nearly crushed, much to Toji’s vile amusement. Then in the bathroom, you found a second toothbrush that shared the exact same color yours did, along with a black fuzzy towel and a men’s deodorant that was missing its lid. You’d have to get another cup for his toothbrush, you noted, and moved along, eventually making it to your apartment’s sole bedroom.

“Where are your clothes?” you asked, Toji nodding in your closet’s direction.

You opened the first door, finding a series of dark-colored shirts, sweaters, and cardigans hanging from the previously vacant racks. You didn’t wear much color yourself, but when comparing the disparity between his almost exclusively black side of the space and the creamier pastels that predominated yours, the clash in taste was indisputable.

Absentmindedly, you run your fingers through his clothes, stopping at the dark blue parka you’d gotten him for his 21st birthday. He wasn’t the type to keep gifts from women, but seeing he’d preserved yours in mint condition filled you with a strange sense of pride.

“Not bad,” you exclaimed, satisfied with how aptly his clothes were displayed until a new worry surfaced. “What about your underwear?”

He glanced toward the bottom drawer, his instep gently kicking against it. You weren’t too sure if that was necessary, and under different circumstances, you’d rather avoid such overt embarrassment, but this was your house first and foremost. Your closet, your drawer, and—

“The bottom drawer…?” The realization struck like a ton of bricks, your pupils widening and then trembling as a breath hitched up your throat, remaining there.

The bottom drawer is where you kept it, perhaps the only thing in this entire household that you’d rather he didn’t see, at the cost of your own life, even. A rabbit, whose little ears tapped in excitement every time it saw you. A rabbit vastly different from the ones that hopped around happily in fields or the one that was weaved through the zipper of your handbag. A rabbit that had kept you company in his place many nights and knew the sound of his name better than Toji himself did.

Sinking to your knees, you felt his shadow loom over you like the shadow of imminent death. You let go of that breath and yanked the drawer open, eyes squinting at the sight of neatly stacked black boxers, their size big enough to make you arch a brow, yet not big enough to completely conceal 6 inches of hot pink. You were safe.

“Looking for this?” A light buzz rang in your ear, your head tilting to meet Toji’s namesake.

“G-give it back!” You dived forward, gracelessly collapsing at his feet when he pulled it out of reach.

“Come and get it,” Toji retorted, wiggling it before your very eyes.

Piecing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you pounced at him, fingers locking around the silicone and his hand, while he refused to surrender, his thrilled expression revealing just how much he enjoyed the demand in your tone as you bossed him into handing back the vibrator.

“What will I get in return?”

“Wha— why would you get anything?” You gritted your teeth, stumbling forward as he dragged you to him.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” he shook his forefinger playfully. “Finders keepers, losers weepers. If ya really want it, better compensate me first. Oh, look, it has multiple speeds, huh….” he said semi-impressed, revving up the rabbit’s switch to its second and third speeds.

“…What do you want?” You practically begged, seeking a way out of this humiliation.

“Now we talking,” Toji smirked, barely restraining himself from ruffling the hair of the ferocious, albeit cute, beast that attacked him. “2912. What do the numbers mean? Tried your birthday first, but seems like you do have a few brain cells in there,” he tapped at your temple with his free hand, frustration pooling in your eyes. “Then your mom’s death anniversary, your sis’ birthday, that brat’s too— even mine, but no good.

“So, what’s 2912 to you? Indulge me, and I’ll let you have it.”

2912, or more accurately, 29/12. It didn’t surprise you that he didn’t remember. After all, it wasn’t an important date, just another winter’s day from many, many years ago. A day that was all but erased under the thick blanket of snow as it engulfed your tender memories.

A heavy sigh parted your lips, and at that moment, you knew you’d already lost.

“You really wanna know?”

It was the 27th of December.

The 27th morning of a month whose sole notable event was the week-long blizzard that’d condemned the entire nation to a period of absolute and unfaltering inertia. Well, as unfaltering as the in-between downpours let it be, snow washing over the streets in a diluted mixture of ice and mud every two days— streets turning into a dangerous minefield, and hospital beds quickly filling up with broken-boned smarty pants who thought wandering out and about in the heart of winter would be as inconsequential as those dull days were.

You were one of those idiots. Not quite, but you were on your way to join their ranks, every step you took across the frozen pavements of Tokyo threatening to leave you with a bad case of a sprained ankle, or worse, a cracked skull. You regretted wearing those worn-out boots today of all days, but then again, your wardrobe choices were limited to whatever clothing you’d grown out of, and the clothes your mother left behind.

This old suede pair was hers, too. A gift from back when your house was still open to crowds and birthday parties— when it wasn’t just an empty carcass of termite-eaten joists and web-infested corners that could barely welcome, let alone host, the final of its residents: yourself.

Returning to the reason why you’d chosen today as the day to stride across Shibuya —a thermos of soothing Butajiru soup gripped tightly between your mitten-clad palms and a backpack full of advertising fliers for your afternoon job attached to your back— and consequentially, the reason why you sported your mother’s beloved shoes: you had a job interview. Your first non-canceled interview in over two months since your personal inertia began when you were suddenly and unjustifiably laid off.

Those were tough times. The entire country was dipped in despair over the biggest economic recession they’d known. Left and right, people had their jobs snatched from within their grasp in the name of meek excuses such as cost reduction, or merging and buyouts, or even staff redundancy, and who could blame those small enterprise owners, really?

In any case, the cost of running your previous employer’s rathole of a convenience store might have been reduced, but your living expenses weren’t, and the supplementary funds the state provided were running dry. No one wanted to hire an inexperienced, uninsured high schooler. It was too much of a gamble, especially when the contenders were overqualified college graduates desperate enough to work menial jobs for the same breadcrumbs a part-timer would.

You were at your wit’s end. Out of luck and starved for something other than vending machine onigiri. Thirsty for a life you’d probably never be able to obtain. But today wasn’t about wallowing in self-pity. No, today was the day you’d take your first step toward normality and dignity. Today, you marched proudly in your mother’s most prized possession, and today you felt her comforting scent linger in the breeze, giving you the much-needed push to achieve what you’d set out to do.

Live. That was the final request that left her lips, and that was exactly what you were planning to do. You’d live. No matter what, against all odds, you would live.

The headlights at the bustling intersection shone a brilliant green as the herd of sharply dressed businessmen and casually dressed students on their day off pushed forward like a troop of toy soldiers, sweeping you past Shibuya River, where the crystallized waters from below its bridge stilled your grimacing reflection.

It’d been so long since the last time you’d genuinely smiled that your facial muscles barely remembered how to. It looked awkward and forced. Foreign. You’d practiced your introduction days ahead, but that damn smile stood in the way. If only there was a “smiles for dummies” playbook, though you doubted it’d help. Those without a reason to smile could only second-guess the happiness of those who were blessed with it.

As if to further test your theory, today’s misfortune came pedaling right in your direction, a hasty biker knocking the thermos off your hands and onto the water with a faint “sorry” echoing in his stead. You ducked over the handrail, spotting the silver shine a couple of meters away from the river’s brink. You sighed in relief, grateful that the impact hadn’t shattered the ice and that you still had about 45 minutes to catch your interview— more than enough time for you to carry out your flask’s impromptu rescue operation.

You walked over to the bridge’s sideline, where, in place of stairs, an overgrown cherry tree cast its shadow. This was far from sensible, but the cliff wasn’t steep enough to dissuade you. You looped your scarf around a leaning branch and began your descent, the non-existent friction between your tattered soles and the slippery cement sending you to meet your maker as you tumbled down the slope and hit the ground. Shit.

Once you were done lamenting your sheer idiocy, your faulty shoes, the tree branch, the weather forecast, and every Shinto deity’s name you could remember off the top of your head, you pushed yourself onto your knees, carefully rotating each ankle around itself. Not broken. Thank those aforementioned gods you cursed, or else you’d never be able to afford the medical bills.

You shook the snow off your clothes and stood up, stretching both arms over your head, only to realize your blunder had become a lonesome spectator’s object of amusement. The man —assuming that the creature behind you was a man and not some wild beast with the way his jacket fluffed over his skull— was bent in half, knees to his chest, and arms coiled around, the sole distinctive trait that of his sparkling green eyes zeroing in on your plainer orbs.

You could have sworn you heard a chuckle, too, but you weren’t about to start a fight with some unhinged bum at the bottom of a bridge— not when you were one missed bill away from sharing his fate.

Deciding to temporarily forsake his presence, you located the now broken branch and attempted to fish your bottle out, moving as close to the ice as you could. Desperate lunges pushed the thermos further in, your hold on the wood relaxing with each failed attempt until you barely had a grip.

“Excuse me!” you turned at your last resort. “Hi, um… could you please help me out here? I dropped this into the water, and it’s really important I get it back, but my arms can’t reach and the ice is so thin and slippery I just might fall.”

An uncomfortable chuckle failed to appease its tough crowd, with the man remaining lost in his thoughts, his eyes blinking slower than traffic lights during rush hours. It seemed like you’d found the worst person to exercise your communication skills with.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Shut up.”

It was your turn to blink in surprise, your jaw dropping at the man’s barking. You were too shocked to be offended and too offended to question if it was you he addressed, but his next sentence left no real room for misunderstanding.

“I said, shut the fuck up and take it elsewhere. You were the one who dropped it. If it was that important to you, then shoulda taken better care of it instead of avalanching your way down here and disturbing my peace.”

Clapping your hands over your agape mouth, you muttered an apology and faced away from him, coming to your senses a minute later when you realized you weren’t in the wrong. Sure, he could be dealing with some lachrymose life-shattering situation you knew nothing about, but that wasn’t an excuse for him to act like a complete jerk to a fellow stranger in need.

You weren’t sure why you held back from flipping him off. Maybe you’d accepted that dealing with douchebags was going to become part of your new reality as a service worker, or maybe it was because you really didn’t want any trouble with a guy who looked this intimidating even while seated. Either way, you whipped out your trusty branch again and neared the brink, this time using it as a cane to help you tread the frozen waters and snatch your thermos.

You didn’t even get a chance at a victorious cheer when you felt the ice shatter beneath your feet, eager to swallow you into the depths of its bottomless abyss. Or that’s what would have happened if the river didn’t cap at 2 meters, and if a hand didn’t yank you by the scruff of your neck, hurling you back to the shore as if you weighed no more than a snowflake.

“The hell you think you are doing? Got a death wish or something?” the brass voice of your savior accused, belonging to a much more pleasant and youthful face than one would have expected.

The boy was more or less your age, about a head taller with broad shoulders and a toned physique his baggy clothes undermined— much stronger than your average high-schooler, judging by the sheer strength he’d flung your body with. Messy raven black hair rained down to his ears, sloppily chopped into shape by their owner himself. Eyes as green as a thousand springs gone by, and as fiery as the blazing fury scorching them. The only discord in his features was that of a scar on the right side of his lips, begrudgingly moving with each profanity he spat.

Your second apology came as a knee-jerk reaction to his outburst, encouraged by the temporal trance his good looks had subjected you to. You wouldn’t say you had a type, and even if you did, you doubted that a no-good, rude bridge inhabitant was it. However, the only way for you to tear your gaze off of him was to physically force yourself away. The guy murmured something under his breath and moved back to his original spot, arms dangling over his spread thighs.

You were unsure of what to do. The time for your interview was closing in, and no one guaranteed he wouldn’t rip the vocal cords off your throat if you tried to verbally thank him. You had a very bad feeling about this guy, and perhaps you should have listened to your gut rather than nullifying the distance with a peace offering.

“Here,” you prodded a spare cup of soup into the empty space between you.

He arched a brow at your gesture, his irritation gradually melting into curiosity and then acceptance as he brought the cup to his lips and took a hesitant sip.

“Hmm,” he hummed, gulping down some more after he’d made sure you weren’t trying to poison him.

You expected something else to follow, but it seemed like his outburst exhausted his vocabulary. You could always ask what he thought of it, but the thought alone was as scary as going for another suicide dive. So you said nothing, and he did the same. Just two strangers who barely tolerated each other sharing a moment of silence in the snowy landscape.

A short while later, the boy shoved the cup toward you and dug his hand in his jacket’s front pocket, dropping about six crumpled ten-thousand yen bills at your feet.

“For the soup,” he explained as if the notion of spending such an extravagant sum on half a cup of pork loin soup made sense.

“Are you outta your mind?” You pushed the bills back at him, lest your greed take over. “How much do you think this cost to make?”

“Dunno,” he shrugged, no real hurry to reclaim his cash.

Your initial impression was completely false. No bum would ever wave ten-thousand bills around as if they were nothing. No, this guy ought to at least be some troubled conglomerate heir that’d run away from his five-bedroom mansion.

“I’m sure you don’t know how dangerous this neighborhood is,” you said, placing your hand against your heart. “But as a born and raised local, allow me to say that if you keep flaunting wads of cash in people’s faces so recklessly, it won’t be long before you get mugged. It’s your lucky day you ran into me and not some sleazy money grabber, but trust me, not every day’s lucky, and not everyone’s as nice.”

Something about what you said must have resonated with him, considering his frown cracked into a simper.

“I’d like to see them try,” he spoke in a cocky tone that reeked of confidence. “How much for seconds then?”

“Not for sale,” you answered, throwing the thermos inside your backpack.

His weight shifted in your direction, chin balancing against his elbow. “Why not?”

“You see, I’m on my way to a job interview. Figured if I don’t cut it, then the soup will,” quickly adding, “It’s my trump card.”

“What a dumb plan,” he sneered. “If ya wanna bribe someone, better make an offer they can’t refuse. Couple of these work like a charm.”

He waved the money again, successfully drawing your interest when you noticed tiny splotches of red on one of the bills. Blood.

Picking up on the change in your expression, he hurriedly stuffed the cash inside his pocket, his thumbs sticking out in a relaxed grip so as to hide his discomfort. The air grew heavy once more, albeit for a different reason.

Every guess you’d made regarding this guy’s identity clashed with the next one. He was rude, but he’d jumped to your rescue. He looked unkempt yet strikingly handsome. He’d taken refuge under a bridge but was damn loaded. A walking (more like seated) contradiction of a man that intrigued you in more ways than he repulsed you.

“So, what are you doing out here? Did you also fall from up there?” You chuckled nervously while pointing upward.

He smiled.

“That’s a pretty old-school pickup line, if ya ask me.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Your chest pounded against your fleece jacket, hands quick to dispute him. “Did something happen? Why did you end up here?”

He shook his head.

“Did you run away from home?”

He shook his head again.

“Did you get into a fight with someone?”

He thought about shaking his head a third time, but instead, he opted for a groan and hissed about how he should have let you drown.

Your tongue embarrassed you yet again, as you mumbled an apology and cowered in your corner. For some reason, you couldn’t stop apologizing to him, and if that was enough to frustrate you, then it was definitely enough to annoy him. Maybe the time to leave had come. You’d done your part in thanking him, and it was really none of your business to pry into his sad character backstory.

“Well then. It was nice knowing you, and all. Hope you have a Happy New Year’s and a nice life, and let’s never see each other again for as long as we-”

“What if I told you I just killed someone?”

The blood in your veins froze for a reason separate from the cold. You were left staring at him with wide-open eyes and a wide-open mouth that refused to form anything other than a soundless “What?!”

“Thought so,” he scoffed as if he expected the outcome, sorrow lingering in his voice. “Go away if ya don’t wanna end up the same way. I’m still getting the hang of it, and I’m afraid it’d hurt more than drowning.”

But you didn’t leave. Even when that little voice of reason thrashed and begged for you to seize the opportunity and get the fuck away from this place, your legs refused to take another step. Instead, you settled back upon the snowy blanket and stilled your gaze on his face, watching a glimmer of something tune in the green of his eyes.

“W-Who was it?” You feigned calmness.

“Does it matter?” he shrugged.

“Why did you kill him?”

“Does it really matter?” he sighed, reconsidering his answer. “Dunno. Money, I guess. Not as if I had a personal grudge or anything. Didn’t even know the dude up until three days ago. Took him out with a single bullet to his brain. T’was instant since he didn’t move. Painless, too.” He tried to humanize his actions.

You weren’t entirely sold on his story, but on the off chance he was telling the truth, that made him a murderer and you a witness to his crime. Worse, if you didn’t rat on him, it made you an accomplice, and as far as you were concerned, neither was less illegal than the other.

Your hands cupped your mouth completely as you pretended to blow hot air, the reality being that you didn’t want to spew anything too backhanded before thinking things through. Oddly, it all made sense. The reason he sat down there like a puppy kicked by his owners. His devil-may-care attitude and rude comments that meant to throw you off. The blood on the bills and the stain on the hem of his jacket that you’d previously overlooked.

That was all the incriminating evidence one needed to possibly sentence him, and yet you sensed no real danger in his presence. Only a deep sadness that stemmed from his lifeless eyes, making you believe that his so-called victim was none other than himself. He looked as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in God knows how long, the light in his eyes reduced to a murky shade of jade now that everything was laid bare.

There was so much you didn’t know about this boy, his name included. But you knew that look of despair all too well. If it was because of money, then maybe, just this once, you wouldn’t mind giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“How much did you make?” You lowered your palms.

Your question surprised him more than he thought possible, and his stupefied expression was a telltale sign of that. He flipped both pockets inside out and let the money fall onto the snow, revealing twice the amount he’d held before— a total of 120.000 yen.

“Minus a grand. Felt hungry after,” he admitted.

“Must be nice… With that amount of money, I could have rice to last me until the end of the year.”

“You’d kill for rice…?”

Glancing at his face, you couldn’t help yourself from snorting. You were both too deep inside the twilight zone to be questioning each other’s motives.

“Why act surprised? People like us do all sorts of things to get out of our predicaments, don’t we?” you asked, deciding there were more things you had in common than things that divided you. “Is ‘just money’ a better reason than rice?”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “But if I were you, I’d get myself a pair of boots that ain’t a death trap of its own. Gotta be a special kind of idiot to wear crappy shoes in the snow.”

“These were my mother’s!” you objected, and he smirked. “What about you? Where do you plan on spending all that money?”

“Roppongi probably. Or Kabukicho. Heard the right price fetches you the right type of fun there.”

He couldn’t be serious. Those were two of the most renowned bad districts in the history of bad districts. Drugs, gambling, prostitution— you name it.

“How old are you again?”

“Older than you,” he childishly retorted.

“What’s your name?”

“So you can snitch?” His tongue wet the scar below his bottom lip. “Toji.”

“Last name?”

He contemplated his answer for a bit before proudly stating that he didn’t have one —that he didn’t need one— and then he asked you the same.

“Y/N.” You smiled faintly. “I do have a last name, but doubt the one who gave it wants me to have it. Would’ve asked it back if it had any real value.”

“So we are two fuck-ups,” he— Toji, declared.

“I suppose we are.”

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, the kind that wasn’t heard but felt through the eyes of two kindred spirits entirely content with each other’s presence. Ever since your mother passed, you lived in a sphere separate from other people. Your classmates and those who tried to be your friends could afford the luxury of sharing takoyaki on a school day and going karaoke singing the next. They could attend field trips and leave memories on a string of Polaroid frames.

You didn’t. You couldn’t. There wasn’t a single moment in your life when you hadn’t thought about the cost of milk and the value of one-plus-one deals you convinced yourself you didn’t need. Such were the concerns you had at seventeen. Not boys, no friendships, no university entrance exams, no nothing. You couldn’t afford the price tag of a dream, let alone a tomorrow. You lived for today and for making ends meet, so how could someone like you ever aspire to be understood? How could you ever view yourself as something other than the zeros at the bottom of your meager paycheck?

Your self-exile had no room for others, yet somehow, this foul-mouthed stranger had barged his way in and given you a moment that you couldn’t price. A moment that neither loan sharks nor the bank could ever steal. A moment of your youth.

The thick fingers of a calloused hand came to tap at your knee softly, making you wonder whether you’d missed something during your short period of contemplation.

“When’s the interview?” Toji asked.

“Uhm.” You rolled your sleeve to check your watch. “Ten minutes? There’s still time; the place’s right around the corner.”

“Somethin’ tells me getting your ass over there will take longer than that.” Suddenly, the hand that was on your leg hovered above your head, prompting you to grab it as Toji towered over you. “Let’s go.”

“You coming with?”

“You think I’d rather sit down here like some bridge troll that reels in defenseless damsels in distress?”

You were tempted to answer “yes” to see his reaction, but he resumed talking before you could utter a word. “Won’t say it again. Let’s go.”

And with that, you followed Toji to the other end of the bridge, where the stairs you previously failed to locate mocked you with every little squeak your heels produced, until you stood back at the top of civilization, finding it, unsurprisingly, the same as you’d left it. Thoroughly white and eerily quiet.

Just as you thought your ways would part, Toji took your hand in his rather forcefully and picked up a steady gait that you were made to keep up with, your shoes leaving deep imprints in the snow.

He held your hand all the way to the diner, and although you were truly curious as to why he did that, you didn’t dare ask. You walked side by side in silence, occasional fleeting gazes catching his warm breath clashing with the cold. It was then that you realized how warm his palm felt, despite it being all bare. Warm, strong, and certain. So this is what holding a guy’s hand feels like, you giddily mused.

By the time you reached the front door, you were more reluctant to let go than you’d been to grab his hand, thinking that this was the first and last time the two of you were saying goodbye. Sweat made your fingers slippery. You were anxious. You slid your mittens off your fingers and, on a whim, pressed them tight against his palms, making him the recipient of the first gift you’d ever given. He shot the pink-colored wool a funny look —maybe because the prospect of him accepting such a girly-looking accessory puzzled him— and then lingered for a moment or two before he turned around and waved at you over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you gonna wish me good luck?” You asked when the distance between you began to increase.

“You won’t need it,” you heard him say. “The soup will do.”

And with those final words exchanged, you traded the frigid cold for the diner’s artificial heat and the presence of a prospective friend for that of your boss-to-be.

Just like Toji predicted, you didn’t need luck, and you didn’t need that lukewarm soup either. The man hired you almost as fast as he saw you, sternly announcing that you start come Monday. You thanked him from the bottom of your heart and ran back outside, searching through the various white-painted buildings for that stubborn hint of black you’d not too long ago parted with— which you quickly spotted a couple of alleyways ahead.

“I got the job! You hear me, Toji?” You yelled in utter glee, sensibility alone keeping you from springing upward like a jack-in-the-box. “I’m not a fuck-up anymore; I got it! I got the job!”

You weren’t even sure whether that shadow really belonged to him and whether he’d actually made sense of all your frantic cries, but maybe if you’d hushed a little, then you could have heard a distant voice chiming, “I knew you would.”

It was the 27th of December when we first met, but it was on the 29th that I fell in love with you— the scruffy boy with the snow-laced hair and emptied pockets who ordered the cheapest fries off the menu as my company’s fee.

You had your answer locked and loaded— a trigger waiting to be pulled. A clear shot. One bullet was all it’d take to end it. One word, and the farce you called friendship would fizzle right then and there. A sadistic impulse uncoiled deep within your stomach, hitching up your throat like a vile serpent of temptation spurring your chaste tongue to commit the greatest sin imaginable.

I hate being your friend. I don’t want to do this anymore. Do you have any idea how hard it is?

All synonyms for the same emotion. A gut-wrenching, soul-crushing, and above all, self-destructive unrequited love that made your heart clench at the mere sight of him, pound at the sound of his voice, and hammer at the ghost of his touch. If you could reach deep within your chest and cut that useless thing off the strings that held it in its cavity, you certainly would. You’d hand it over to him and gladly watch him stomp on it with the biggest smile contorting the final expression on your face. You wanted to rid yourself of this pointless emotion, but you knew very well that to destroy yourself meant to destroy him.

The 18-year-old Toji that held your hand on a cold winter’s day as if it were the most precious thing to him. The 20-year-old Toji that came along to meet the sister and nephew you didn’t know you had. The 22-year-old Toji that said he was proud of you when you paid off your parents’ house’s mortgage. The 24-year-old Toji that came to your graduation from state college with blood-stained lilies in his hand, again letting slip how proud he was. The 26-year-old Toji that didn’t hesitate to knock the teeth right out of a handsy prick’s jaw, spending his first and last night in a holding cell. The Toji from the last ten years of your life that never strayed too far away from your sight and always managed to return in time for lunch.

Standing in front of the 28-year-old Toji, you felt more apologetic than ever, wishing that you wouldn’t have let your love for him fester into something so selfish and consuming. Because if Toji left, then you’d still have your sister and her family, but if you left, Toji would have none.

And that was why you could never tell him what that day meant. It was impossible to speak of it with any less fondness than the one depicted in your memories, and as dense as Toji could be at times, he was no idiot. So rather than giving him the answer he thought himself to seek, you retracted your hand and took a step back, forcing the meekest smile your guilty conscience could muster.

“How about an offer you’d never refuse?”

tags: @absoluteindulgence

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