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httpskuzuu · 7 months

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Softer Pt.2

I like October, it's my birthday month, and I finally finished the second part of Softer :p

Anyway, I think you can tell that I like the word need, necesitar, in Spanish or English sounds good :D and this is my favorite part, I think, I really like how they both turned out

Yandere!Fyodor x Reader

English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes

sumary: You tried to escape and now you have to take the consequences, but you make something change in Fyodor... (but the part 2 >:p) Pt.1

tw: yandere behavior, kidnapping, explicit self-harms, blood, manipulation, brainwashing, stockholm syndrome, reader needs therapy, self-blame, suicidal thoughts, mention of death (no one dies), blood loss, manipulation, trauma, mention of god, Fyodor is a fucking tw

It was three phases from your confession and your punishment.

Everything was perfect and nice for the first two weeks, until your cuts became scars. He seemed to go out of his way to make you feel good and loved by him, and you were very grateful. Now, you feel ungrateful to be complaining about his change.

After six weeks, your ribs healed and he began to distance you. When you noticed that, you panicked, you cried whole nights and days in your room because of this fact, how was it possible that something like this had affected you so much? You don't even know yourself, you just know that you wanted to pull out every hair on your body to forget about the emotional pain you were carrying.

And now, well, you can't be so horrible and say that Fyodor is back to his usual self, it's more like a strange mix, that comforts you. That this Fyodor is a mix of the previous ones makes you think he's trying to be gentle, but he's having a difficult time. You like to opine that that's the right reason for not sinking you further.

You wish you could say you hate normal Fyodor, but you can't hate any part of Fyodor and that worries you. What's been happening to you? Why are you behaving this way? Always looking for the terrorist's cold touch like an abandoned dog. Always waiting for him like a dog, loving him like one, messy, intense and ready to die for your owner.

Your mind was broken, atrophied and without any hope of repair. That scares you. You don't want this! You want your mind back! You miss being able to think about something else that isn't related to Fyodor. It's like being an intruder in your own mind, you no longer belong in that place full of happy memories, now blurred.

Sometimes you love your useless mind, you love believing in him the way you do, and you love how that seems to satisfy him. Maybe that's all your mind is looking for: to satisfy him.

Speaking of satisfying: he no longer seems to enjoy punishing you, which completely disorients you. All your life you were assuming that the only way to satisfy Fyodor was to let him mistreat you, but now? Now he was only touching you to give you light caresses. You don't want to be an idiot, you love that now your body doesn't suffer, but that doesn't take away from the fact that a small part of your skin is missing the pain. It's as if you were created to be hurt.

You convince yourself that you are ungrateful. Fyodor has changed for you, and you play the victim, saying that everything is so weird, poor you. You can't think about anything else besides yourself because you are a bad person, because you don't deserve the change Fyodor made for you.

It's not like before, everything is so much more comfortable in his presence, even if afterward he disappears for hours and makes your mind a prison of horrible thoughts, thoughts of firmly believing that it's your fault he's gone.

Physical contact has also changed, it is somewhat more common than with normal Fyodor, but it is nothing compared to gentle Fyodor. It really hurts you inside every time he is in front of you, and he isn't touching you or talking to you. Something is broken, and you don't quite know why. How needy of attention have you become in this time?

What did Fyodor do with your mind? You don't know. The horror of what he did to you is still in you, lurking like a shadow. It won't go away.

Sometimes there's a little voice deep in the back of your head, the only sane part left in you. It shows up on dark nights, when you're alone, makes you realize all the shit Fyodor put you through and how much he fucked up your mental health. You like having that little voice, it feels like getting over Fyodor somehow, it's a shame it disappears the next morning along with the first bite of breakfast.

Even though you listen to it, you never mind it, and that can be noticed by the need to not be able to bear it anymore, you need Fyodor so badly. You miss him every time he's gone. You miss the person who hurt you.

Maybe you really are going crazy.

You think about the fact that Fyodor took care of you after the punishment, when you were moribund and almost unable to move from the pain, and that his kind behavior ended after all your damages were healed.

You were about to do something crazy, you were aware of it, but you would give anything to feel that angelic temperature change again.

You have a sharp knife in your hand, you squeeze it so hard that your fist turns white. Fyodor never hides sharp objects, only pills, he knows you wouldn't be able to kill yourself with them out of fear.

Something tells you to kill yourself, to teach Fyodor a lesson.

Again your ungrateful thoughts come back, he already told you, you are just a brat. A fucking brat, and what you were doing now proves it.

But can you really blame yourself for this? You just need his attention, you need that love in his hands, you need him to care so much about you that he locks every drawer in the house.

That's why you're here now, in the bathroom, with your elbows resting on the sink and the knife almost brushing against your clean arm. About to kill a part of you to keep his gentleness alive.

You think about whether it's possible that he might be angry with you for this, for staining your skin with wounds without his permission. You think if he gets angry and punishes you it will also be worth it because there is a chance he will take care of you after that like the first time.

Maybe all you need to do is talk it over with him, maybe you need his naked body against yours to keep control, or maybe a simple kiss would be better. Maybe you should relax, maybe you should ask him for a hug, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe….

A cut and the blood starts to spread. You feel an immense urge to vomit, and you regret everything that led you to this moment.

You drop the knife limply and cover the wound with your now free hand. You watch the scene you've made for yourself with wide, shocked eyes. Why did you do all this? Just for Fyodor's attention? How pathetic of you.

You're like a child, crying and screaming, having a tantrum to get what you want.

You don't even heed your thoughts, and your gaze returns to the knife lying in the sink. The fright has dissipated and only silence remains. You need to cut more, how will you make Fyodor care about you with just one cut? You need more, you need to tear your arm if you have to, take your skin off, anything.

It's just a cut.

You move your hand away from the wound, blood is still coming out, but you don't care. You grab the knife, careful not to let it slip through the red fluid, and keep cutting.

It's just a cut, a few cuts, many cuts.

You stop when you get dizzy and lose your balance, drop the knife on the floor and miraculously you don't fall with it. You lean against the wall behind you and watch as the floor fills with your dripping blood. It's too much, too much, oh God, now you're going to die, aren't you? Is that what's going to happen?

You deserve to die, or at least you convince yourself of it, you're just a useless entity in Fyodor's house, what other function do you do here besides pursuing him? It would be like a punishment for being so selfish, for loving Fyodor so much.

Sometimes it surprises you how much you hate yourself just because you are you. Would you hate Fyodor the same way if he were like you? You don't even need to think about it, you already know the answer.

You hear footsteps outside the bathroom. Of course, you made some noise when you dropped the knife and almost fell yourself in the process. Fyodor had to notice, wait, that meant that Fyodor was paying attention to you and the noises you were making. He could just stay absorbed in his work, but no, he's here now.

Three soft knocks on the door are enough to make you tremble.

"Everything okay?"

You cry the instant you hear his voice, yes, there's the soft Fyodor. You recognize hints of tenderness and concern in his voice., you can recognize it.

You shouldn't have cut yourself off, now you change your mind and you don't want Fyodor to see you this way, weak and unbearable. If he realizes that you can't live without him by your side, you're sure he'll leave you, that you'll be too annoying for him and he'll go back to being his old self, this time forever, or until he gets rid of you, until he finds someone better than you. That would be easy.

If there is a God up there, you beg him to let you die. There is no answer. You're left to face your actions alone.

"I've done a stupid thing…"

You still have time to think better of it, you can still barricade yourself in the bathroom and die there. But these are your actions, your consequences.

You shakily open the door.

The look on Fyodor's face is one you've never seen, that keeps you from lowering your head with shame. You've never seen so many emotions in him, all at once, like a whirlpool.

Have you been able to generate that? You don't know whether to consider it a good or bad thing, but a flow of pride runs through your veins.

Fyodor whispers your name, breathless, his accent thickening even more. A part of you actually believed that what you did to yourself would not affect him in any way, how foolish, of course it would affect him. He is human, you are human, but still something tells you that Fyodor is anything but human. His eyes now show you otherwise.

"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry! I'm such an idiot! I didn't mean to bother you."

Fyodor takes only a few seconds to drag you back into the bathroom. He turns on the sink faucet and guides your arm down the stream of water. It hurts like hell, but complaining doesn't even cross your mind, after all, Fyodor probably stopped doing something important just to cure your mess, you can't give him any more trouble.

Your mind would like to escape your body, but you don't let it because without it you wouldn't be able to feel Fyodor behind you, pressing his chest against your scarred back.

As he runs a soaked towel against your cuts, you decide to lean against him, he doesn't push you away, and you take it as a small victory.

Your brain won't let you enjoy of the moment, giving you reminders of everything the Russian had done to you: the scars on your back, all over your body, the agonizing nightmares, the silent and devastating nights. All a fucking reminder, and yet here you are, against his body.

Your thoughts linger in that confined space until your arm is tight between messy bandages. His hand reaches for yours and your fingers intertwine.

You fear his potential annoyance, his potential punishment. He provokes unique feelings in you, and you love him, but he is terrible, he is just terrible.

Fyodor lets out a sigh, and you know instantly that you are selfish. He is tired, he has better things to do besides taking care of a brat, but still he is still with you. Fyodor is such a merciful being when it came to you, he wouldn't be this way with anyone else, only you. You feel your chest tighten with warmth.

"Fyodor…" You don't want to speak too loudly or break the silence in the room. You try to keep your thoughts in the same rhythm as your voice, quiet and low. You need to be okay, for Fyodor's sake.

"Why?" He squeezes your hand. There is no emotion in his voice, and you feel guilty of your disappointment at that. "Why did you do it?"

"I-" The words decided not to come out of your mouth and closed your throat in a knot, a very painful knot.

What were you supposed to say? Wouldn't admitting your need for attention make you sound like a spoiled child? A brat?

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bother you." You say hastily, trying to find words to make Fyodor happy, so he won't hate you for your reckless actions.

"You don't bother me." Bullshit, Fyodor is an almost pathological liar, you should know that, it should be burned into your memory. You'd like to believe him. "Is this why you did all this? Because you think you're bothering me?"

You wish the answer was as easy as that. You shake your head.

"Then why?"

"I needed you." It's not a good explanation, there are a lot of loose questions left, but how else can you tell him? Every time you speak, it's like scratching your throat.

"Needed me? You mean my attention?" You nod, feeling a humiliation run down your throat. "I was with you all these days, what more attention do you want from me?"

It's like a stabbing, like the cuts he gave you on your back. It showed, from afar, you were just a pet that can't be away from its owner or it would break into pieces. You shouldn't be crying either, you have no good reason to.

"Hey, no, stop." He turns your body without effort. All you do is keep your head down, full of shame, though it doesn't last long, as his free hand lifts it up and lands against your cheek. You don't deserve it, you can't even stop crying. "What did I say? Why are you crying this time?"

"I'm a spoiled brat." You lean against his cold hand, you needed his touch so badly.

"You're not, you just wanted me to give you attention, that's not a bad thing."

"It is! I'm being selfish." The sobs interrupt you, and you close your eyes, you don't want to look at Fyodor. How can you ask for love and attention from Fyodor when you yourself don't know how to love properly?

"Selfish? Why?" Your reason that the only reason for his question is to make you humiliate yourself, to make you admit that you are a nuisance.

"B-Because you were probably busy, I'm just bothering you trying to get your attention…"

"I want you to pay close attention to me right now, can you do that?" Even if you couldn't do it, you would anyway. You're not lying when you nod in response. He's all you can think about and fixate on, everything else is ephemeral and useless, nothing else is needed for you.

"Good... You don't bother me, I understand you want more attention from me, I made your mind that way anyway. Stop feeling bad about doing things you're programmed to do." Hearing him admit that, is like a war in your head, you should care that Fyodor played with your mind like a stuffed animal, but what you should is not the same as what you do. It feels like a relief to know that it is Fyodor is causing it all, and it's nicer than you ever imagined.

Your mind will never go back to normal after this. You will never be the same after this. That's okay, you can live with it as long as you have Fyodor by your side.

You collapse against him, hugging him with no intention of letting go. He accepts you in his arms. Now everything is warm again like it was that time, you needed it so badly after everything that had happened.

"It's just that you've been acting more distant and I thought-" Do you really want to keep talking and sobbing nonsense? You have no intended trajectory with your words.

You just hope Fyodor understands you, it's the only thing that will give you calm.

"I'm sorry…"

"It's okay, no need to cry anymore, моя крошка." His hands on your back undeniably comfort you. His touch feels like fire, but it doesn't burn, it just leaves a trail of warmth and desire everywhere it passes.

You are a sensitive, desperate mess, and no one knows how to love you but Fyodor. He is the God you have always pleaded to, now you understand why he never granted your wish to die.

"This is strange for me. I've never cared for anyone before, and I really don't want to hurt you unintentionally." And there's your long-awaited why. It's warmer than you could have ever thought, your heart is silently grateful. He's trying, that's good enough for you.

Maybe you can't go back to that first day of care after punishment, maybe you can't go back to that new and gentle Fyodor, but those are things that happen and that's okay.

You nod, oblivious to your own reality, everything feels correct. "I get it, it's okay, yeah. You don't have to worry, I'm fine now."

But you keep crying.

You don't know or need to know how long you stood there, holding each other as if both of your lives depended on it. In total silence until Fyodor's voice broke it. No doubt that's your favorite tune.

"моя любовь, I never responded properly to your confession, did I?" He never did, but he never denied it. There was always a glimmer of hope that you took as the word yes, as total acceptance of your feelings.

You look at him with enlightened eyes, you wished that what your mind was imagining was real.

"I love you too."

Fyodor's love is paralyzing. You notice it now.

my favorite part is the dog part, idk, I like how it turned out

#bsd x reader #bsd x you #bsd fyodor #fyodor x reader #fyodor x y/n #fyodor x you #fyodor #yandere fyodor #fyodor dostoyevsky bsd #bsd x y/n #yandere bsd #yandere

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yoru-no-seiiki · 10 months

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Could you do a yandere cannibal?

- 🌹

END OF A DREAM 夢の終わる

YANDERE! DIVINE BEAST x SINNER! READER

I actually have the OC for that! Well, it’s technically my persona but it counts I suppose. I’m designating them for vore related works.

tw/cw: DDDNE, yandere themes, vore, gore/blood, violence, victim blaming.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI OR I WILL BLOCK YOU.

YOU ARE DELECTABLE. THE EMBODIMENT OF TEMPTATION.

Therefore it could be said that this was warranted. Maalik only carried out the task it was meant to do. Rid the world of demonic beings like you. Beings whose sole purpose was to deviate humanity from God’s divine order.

Your skin was no match for its teeth; crafted to slay even the most powerful of devils. Your screams did little to dissuade it from relishing in your demise.

And so you laughed. Laughed at how cruel the world is to give you such a fate. Cackled at the God who created you just to steer you into a painful death. Chuckled at the wicked twists that lending your trust resulted in.

Maalik. You knew them as the kind yet reclusive villager who lived in the woods. A generous person who’d provide plenty of assistance during mishaps caused by drunken clients and aided you when traveling at night. They were gentle as feathers in the wind.

Maalik, the angel — the divine beast before you, was no such thing as it tore your limbs apart slowly, letting you watch as your muscles stretched before ripping asunder with a smile on its face, using its powers to keep you from the brink of death so it can savor your expressions and taste in life.

Inevitably, your eyes close as you drift to eternal sleep.

But what awaits the end of a mortal existence’s dream is the start of a hellish, ever-lasting reality with the Angel of Hell.

©️ yoru.no.seiiki - yun | 2023

This is less cannibal and more just vore cause I don’t think I’m ready to write a human eating another just yet without fainting or getting a panic attack so I’m really sorry!! I hope this suffices 😅

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windrsr · 1 year

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what kind of punishment can you expect from your OCs for disobeying?

Tw - victim blaming, possession, and violence.

•Henry - He thinks your disobedience is amusing, actually. He gives you lots of chances before punishing you, which involves keeping you on edge; leaving the house for too long, taking less time to take care of you, and rushing you when you're doing basic tasks. He smirks the whole entire time, and it makes you feel like you're walking on eggshells around him. Henry can be unpredictable, and you're not sure what he's doing to do next, so he makes sure you know how to behave.

•Micheal - Disobeying him once was already your biggest mistake. He can be very violent when he wants to, and won't hestitate to hurt you (physically) if you piss him off.

•Miru - He manipulates you/tricks you into thinking that everything is your fault. That you're being ungrateful for all he does for you and how you're making things difficult for him. He would never physically harm you, but you'll most likely end up mentally scarred because he can say some pretty nasty and hurtful things, along with the whole victim blaming mentality that he has towards you.

•Aaron - For your punishment, he would isolate you from your friends and family, and keep you locked up in his house. He also makes sure you feel bad for what you did; crying (he's one hell of an actor), telling you that he thinks he doesn't deserve you, and how he's trying to hard to be with you and make you happy.

•Ryan - All he does is keep you locked up in his house, making sure to hide the key. He would never physically or emotionally hurt you, and he would never forgive himself if he did. If he ends up scaring you because of his punishment, he tries his best to comfort you and promises he will never harm you.

•Loki - If you're a human, he'll be both a little annoyed and impressed on how you're willing to be so disobedient to someone like him. But he'll possess to get you to do things for him; your body moves without you having any control over it because he's the one controlling your body. This lasts for hours, and by the time he's done, you're trembling in fear, now knowing what hes capable of.

•Samuel - At first, he gives you the silent treatment and the cold shoulder. His usual gentle and nurturing personality is completely gone, and it almost scares you how he can act like you mean absolutely nothing to him; he'll stop looking after you, caring for your needs, and would even tell you that you can take of things yourself if you ask for his help. If you continue to be disobedient, he'll lock you down in his basement until you're crying your eyes out, begging him to nurture you once again.

#{all of them}#yandere oc #male yandere #yandere boy #yandere male #male yandere x reader #yandere #yandere oc x reader #male yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere x darling #yandere scenarios

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whumpberry-cookie · 2 years

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Caretaker realising he became cruel.

(Tw: drugging, nonsexual noncon, gaslighting, victim blaming, bad caretaker, death wish, strong guilt, betrayal)

But doesn't care to change:

(W:) "I don't want to take this anymore. It makes me feel weak. I'm scared" (C:)"Listen, you've heared enough of encouraging words from me. Do we really have to work this through every single day? Either you take it now or I'll shove it down your throat"

Whumpee doesn't want anyone to see their wounds and markings. But it doesn't matter for Caretaker who forcefully takes their bandages off and starts to wash them with a harsh sponge. "Please, stop- Caretaker, you are hurting me" "It will hurt as long as you keep fighting"

Caretaker drugging Whumpee with sleeping pills so he doesn't have to listen to another sloppy confession.

----------------------

And is scared of what he might do:

Caretaker asks his Teammate to take care of Whumpee instead. (T:) "I thought you wanted to keep an eye on him. Why would you change your mind now? You know, you can tell me" (C:) "....I'm... I'm so angry, Teammate. I don't want to hurt them. But I'm thinking about it. All the time. I'm getting so irritated. What's wrong with me?" Teammate looks closely in his eyes "Caretaker. When was the last time you slept?" (C:) Why does it even-" (T:) "I can tell you are so tired. Go to sleep and we will talk this out in the morning"

Whumpee is suffering in critical state, the medic can not promise if they will survive. Caretaker catches himself at hoping they will not so he can finally rest. Even though he truly loves them. He just wants the fear and uncertainty to be over.

Whumpee keeps thanking Caretaker. And saying how much Whumpee admires him for being so patient, so gentle. Maybe even confesses love to him. But it all only makes him feel guilty for how much he's masking his frustration and disgust. "You know nothing about me" Caretaker finally snaps. "And I am not the person to love. Not by you."

----------------------

#whump #whumpee #whump prompt #caretaker #caretaker turned whumper #bad caretaker #writting prompt #recovery whump #tw gaslighting #tw noncon #tw drugging #tw betrayal #tw guilt #tw death wish

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hhoneyglasss · 1 year

Text

like water

notes: howdy howdy. i wanted to write this as a late remembrance for sam’s (unofficial) birthday, and i got the idea bcuz i was sick. now that i’m feeling better, here u go. happy birthday samster, and a happy new year’s to all.

{also, just wanted to mention that this fic is connected to ‘phantom’. u can find the link to it on my masterlist at the top of my blog if u’re interested in it, but it is, by all means, not required reading. in fact, what i’ve written here takes place months before ‘phantom’, but both can be read separately or in any particular order.}

apologies for the lengthy introduction, hope u enjoy.

pairings: present romantic relationship w sam & darlin’, mentions of a serious past romantic relationship with quinn and darlin’

pov: darlin’ — first person limited

word count: 3,848 words

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46468699

!! TWs {these begin under the cut} !! mentions of hallucination due to illness, guilt, victim-blaming done unto one’s self, opening up about past traumatic experiences. if any of these topics are triggering to u, please proceed with caution or do not interact with this work.

Faded sunlight fell through the window and splashed delicately onto the wooden planks of the floor. Brushstrokes of pink, orange, and blue shaded the clouds as the sun finally began to set and dip beneath the horizon.

Our clothes were haphazardly strewn throughout our bedroom, shirts and pants lying messily on the floor and dresser. Smooth, silk sheets adorned our bed, soft like clouds, and light like feathers.

His arms were wrapped snug around my waist, his fingertips drawing unknown shapes on my stomach. Bare skin across bare skin, his face buried in the crook of my neck. My hands rested on top of his, my own fingertips tracing the bones and tendons of the backs of his palms.

His lips danced across my shoulders, and a contented sigh from me had all of the tension leaving my muscles. My body seemed to mold into his arms, with my back pressing neatly against his chest, his arms coiled around my waist. It seemed like I was made for him—like we were made for each other.

“Thank you,” he whispered softly into my ear before pressing a gentle kiss behind it.

I laughed quietly. “For what?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted with a small chuckle, “For this? For you being here with me? For everything?”

He paused before adding with a stroke of finality, “For everything.”

I slid a hand behind his neck to pull him closer to me. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“You always say that,” he said, and I could feel him smile into my skin.

I countered, “I say it because it’s true.”

“Just say ‘you’re welcome’,” he insisted with a playful murmur.

I felt a shiver run down my spine at his cool breath on my neck. I savored the feeling, savored him, savored this.

“You’re welcome.”

—

The memory faded slowly, but the trails of it never fully went away. It was an everlasting echo, the sound drifting just enough to seem gone when it swung right back, the reverb causing a throb in my skull.

I was in my bathroom, standing silently in front of the mirror. I was swaying ever-so-slightly, labored, heavy breaths falling from my lips as I tried to stay upright. My vision was drowning in the cream color of the painted walls and the white ivory of the sink, the surface of my mirrored reflection flickering with the fluorescent light of the bulbs.

But then, my vision began to steady, my unstable reflection rippling until the image in front of me finally became clear.

The person looking at me was familiar, but a stranger all the same.

Their skin was unmarred, clear and shining under the artificial iridescence of the bathroom light. The large, ragged scars that should’ve been cast upon their body had dissolved, now left with a beautiful, soft glimmer. Eyes that had been downcast with fatigue and illness were now bright, a compassionate and bold luminance pulling the dark circles that had once been there. A shy but excited smile pulled at the corner of their lips, ready to go out into a world that seemed to only wish them Hell.

The person looking at me was who I had been before everything had happened.

The person looking at me was who I had been before him.

They only disappeared when the loud, obnoxious ring of my phone bellowed into my eardrums. The image of them left almost as fast as they had come, the tide of my mind pulling the reflection back into the depths of memory. My pulse pounded in my ears at the scare, a low growl ripping from my throat.

I turned off the bathroom light before heading back into my bedroom. From what I could see out of the cheap linen of my curtains, the sun had set, the last of its light hanging feebly onto the edge of the horizon. I sat down on my bed with a heavy thump, dizziness making my head spin as I fumbled for my phone.

I grabbed it from on top of my nightstand, the weight of the thing unusually heavy in my hand. I hissed when the bright screen lit up, my eyes narrowed as I read the caller’s contact.

It read: “Incoming call from: Sam.”

I bit my lip, debating if I should let the dial tone run out.

I had been avoiding his calls all week. Making up excuse after excuse as to why I was so busy—impromptu pack meeting, staying late at work, too tired, you name it. The last one was the only excuse that could be pushed to become a half truth—I was, indeed, exhausted.

David had sent me home from the office on Monday, insisting that I get some sleep. Unfortunately for me, the exhaustion had morphed into an even uglier perpetrator—a cold.

Well, it was Friday now, and I had been bed-ridden all week, barely able to call into work to let them know I couldn’t come in. Today had been the worst—the bright, Californian sunlight jamming its way into my eyes and splitting my skull open. The thin fabric of my curtains had done little to nothing in terms of blocking it out, so I had resorted to lying face-down in my mattress for the majority of the day.

I spoke out loud, a quiet, friendly ‘hello’ as I tested whether or not I could fake not being sick.

The trial did not go well.

My voice came out in a pitiful, painful rasp, the pain in my throat warping the two syllables so much it barely sounded like the original greeting. It sounded and felt like someone had lit a fire in my throat and tossed in a gallon of ash.

I sighed, quickly realizing I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. But, the unstoppable force and immovable object pinning me in place had me answering the phone anyway, ready to deal with the expected onslaught of Sam’s questions.

His voice rang clear like a bell, but the deepness of it tumbled like rolling thunder. “Hey, darlin’.”

“Hey,” I whispered, grateful that some of the rasp dissipated.

“You actually picked up this time,” he said, and I could hear the smile, “A pleasant surprise, I think. Nothin’ came up tonight?”

I paused for a moment, lost in the river of his voice, drifting in the way his accent laced around the syllables and consonants of his words.

I finally answered after that brief moment. “No, nothing.”

I was hoping the short, terse answer would have him thinking I was alright, but the way he stayed silent for a few, tense seconds told me otherwise.

“Are you okay, darlin’?”

The simple question had me blanking. I hurried, “I’m fine.”

Another pause. “You don’t sound fine.”

“Probably the distortion of the line.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Darlin’.”

The sudden stern, yet caring tone of his voice made me go silent. I tried to think of another excuse, a rebuttal as to why I didn’t ‘sound fine’, but my efforts were short-lived, what little energy I had left soon used up.

I sighed with a small chuckle, “You caught me red-handed. I guess the jig is up now.”

I could hear him sigh too, and I laughed again as I heard him curse quietly.

He asked, “How long have you been sick?”

“Since Monday.”

“Monday?” he gawked, “You’ve been feelin’ like this all week but haven’t said anythin’? Is this the real reason you haven’t been answerin’ my calls?”

“Yep. Maybe I should start calling you ‘Detective Collins’ instead of ‘doctor’.”

Another curse, and this time I laughed a little louder.

“Very funny, darlin’,” he grumbled, “Are you at home right now?”

I cleared my throat. I winced. “Yeah. Why?”

“I’m comin’ over.”

I winced again, but not because of my throat.

This is why I had lied about why I couldn’t answer his evening calls. I knew exactly what he would do if I hadn’t—he’d figure me out in less than a minute, proceed to immediately drop everything, call for a favor that he didn’t have, and rush over to my place.

“You don’t need to do that,” I argued, “I’m okay taking care of myself.”

He paused again, and I could sense the incoming cross-examination from a mile away.

“Have you been takin’ medicine? Do you have any medicine?”

“Yes, actually,” I said, “I always have painkillers on me. I’ve been taking them since Monday.”

“Have you been eatin’?”

“Yes.”

“I should clarify— have you been eatin’ well?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but he interrupted. “Take-out doesn’t count.”

I blanked again. Dammit.

I laughed. “You know me too well.”

“Maybe. I’ll be over there in about half n’ hour. How does that sound?”

“Sounds good. I could use your company anyway.”

I could hear his smile again. “Good. I’ll see you soon, darlin’.”

“See you. Drive safe.”

—

A half hour came and went, and I heard the rhythm of his knock sound at the door. I hopped up and jogged to the door, excitement bubbling in my chest as I opened it.

Sam looked down at me, a soft gentle smile spreading across his face. “You know, you didn’t have to come up to open the door. You coulda called me in.”

I arched a brow. “I’m getting déjà vu, cowboy.”

He laughed, and I added, “Are you gonna ask me to let you in yet, or…? I think you might’ve missed your line cue.”

Another smile and another laugh. My heart fluttered.

I stepped aside to let him in, watching as he had to duck beneath the door frame. I shut the door quietly and clicked the lock close.

He must’ve caught me watching him because he turned to glance at me, and he tilted his head towards the door. “Low frame.”

“Tall cowboy.”

He glared at me, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not a cowboy.”

“Tell that to your accent, red flannel, and blue jeans.”

I chuckled under my breath as I led him to the kitchen, ignoring his (not-so) quiet, in-denial statements of not being a cowboy.

When we walked into the kitchen, I jumped up to sit on the counter, and Sam moved to stand in front of me.

“Do you like getting a rise out o’ me?” He asked, light-hearted annoyance clear in his tone.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.”

I tilted my head. “Then yes, I do.”

I paused for a moment before adding, ”Should I even stop? You don’t seem like you mind it at all.”

“Oh, really?” He said, skepticism flowing through the words.

“Mhm, I think the blush is evident enough of that.”

His eyes widened, then he glared again. “I don’t blush.”

“Déjà vu again, and that’s what they all say…”

“That’s what I say.”

“Oh?”

“And what I say is right.”

I leaned a little closer to him. “Your cheeks have only gotten pinker, you know.”

He leaned closer too. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

I felt my breath hitch, and my gaze flickered to his lips. His hands had been on either side of me on the counter, but his right moved to rest on my hip.

It wasn’t the first time his hand had been there.

I noticed when his eyes dropped to my lips too. His thumb ran back and forth across the bone of my hip, and my heartbeat slowed down to match the rhythm.

We looked each other in the eye for a few moments before we both broke contact. Chaste sighs and shaky breaths filled the cool air and broke the brief silence.

I turned to look at the counter, only to see three heavy grocery bags sitting on top of it. I hadn’t noticed them when he first walked in.

“Why?” I asked with a long, heavy sigh.

“‘Why’ what?”

“Why?” I stressed as I gestured to the bags with a long, sweeping motion of my hand.

“Because I know damn well your pantry is runnin’ on empty.”

I crossed my arms. “You’d be surprised again.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, his gaze suspicious, unbelieving. He walked over to the pantry and opened it, and I grinned when I saw his eyes widen.

“Told you so.”

Although the shelves weren’t nearly stocked to full, there was a box of cereal and a few packs of ramen. Some cans of vegetables were stacked high on the top shelf, along with a box of crackers. A pack of granola bars and another of fruit cups sat brand new, pristine and perfect on the top shelf.

“You did,” he agreed as he walked back over to the counter, “Although I’m not sure how I feel ‘bout the ramen sittin’ in there.”

I smiled at him. “Baby steps?”

“Baby steps.”

He started to unload the grocery bags and I watched him quietly. The silence that fell over us wasn’t awkward or unsettling—it was calm. The current was cool and comfortable, laying between us in supple waves.

A few minutes had passed by when Sam turned to me, his eyes and voice soft as he said, “While I get dinner started, you can go lay down if you want.”

I frowned at him. “Are you sure? You don’t need any help?”

“No, I’ve got it from here. Go get some rest,” he reassured with a tilt of his head towards the living room.

I nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”

“No problem, darlin’. I’ll be done in a bit.”

—

I was drifting in and out of sleep on the couch, but I guessed it had been around fifteen minutes when I heard Sam come into the living room. He sat down next to me on the other end, but I sat up and moved closer to him.

He looked down at me, his arm moving to wrap around my shoulder. He was stiff for a moment—unsure if I wanted his arm there, if I wanted his touch. I silently answered his question by leaning into him and resting my head on his shoulder, and I felt him relax.

“How have you been?” He asked, his voice low.

“Tired.” Loaded answer.

“You look tired.”

I looked up at him, sarcasm invading my tone as I said, “I don’t know why you would ever even think that.”

I expected him to laugh, but he didn’t. He made eye contact with me and said, softer this time, “Not just that kind o’ tired, darlin’. More than that.”

He didn’t say anything else, and I realized that the next part of our conversation was up to me. The ball was in my court— I could keep everything to myself and switch gears, or I could tell him. I could open up a part of me to him, or I could keep it hidden until I felt comfortable. He was, albeit silently, letting me know this decision was only mine to make.

I still wasn’t used to having a choice like this.

I sighed shakily, the decision caught in my throat.

I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him everything with each fiber of my being.

I didn’t think I would—I figured I would make another sarcastic comment and toss the ball back into his court, letting him continue the conversation in a different, familiar direction. I figured I’d blow off his concerns in exchange for not having to try and find the words to tell him how I’ve been feeling, but I didn’t want to.

If there was anyone I wanted to know, it was him—a part of me was scared of that, scared of letting him into the walls I’d built. But for some reason, with him, I found all of this to be easier. I gave him my key, finally letting him see the part of myself I had kept within for so long.

“It’s Quinn,” I answered, “I’ve been thinking about him. Not just him now, but the good memories before… before everything.”

He stayed silent again, waiting if I wanted to continue. I did.

“A part of me is still stuck on the good years. I remember who he was, who he used to be before I reported him— who we used to be.”

I looked up at Sam again. “I know you never knew him before then, but… I don’t know. Sam, I… I thought I was gonna marry him.”

I felt him tense, and he asked, “You dated?”

I nodded. “Four years. I reported him to the department a week after our fourth anniversary.”

I looked down and away from him—I was becoming unsure again. “I’m sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable, I haven’t told many people about this,— him and I, I mean.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he said, his hand rubbing my shoulder gently, “Thank you for tellin’ me when you were ready.”

I smiled, and he added, “You can keep goin’ if you want. You don’t have to tell me the things you aren’t ready to say out loud. Take as much time as you need.”

I reached my hands towards his face and pulled him down a bit, and I pressed a gentle kiss on his forehead. I whispered, “Thank you.”

“Anytime, darlin’,” he murmured back with a small smile.

I rested my arms back at my sides and continued with another deep breath. “It’s hard to think about what he’s done up to now whenever I look back on the three years we had before everything started to go south— before he started to go south. The cognitive dissonance has me questioning if any of it was real in the first place. I can’t help but to think he’s always been like this, always been this— this monster, but the part of me that still loves him can’t come to terms with that.

“And I try to think if there were any signs before, if there were some clues or evidence that I missed. I’ve gone through every photo, every text message, every voicemail, and I can’t find anything. The rose-tinted lenses were stuck then, and they seem to be stuck now, no matter how hard I try to break them. I wish I could’ve stopped it before this all happened, cut him off when I realized he wasn’t who I thought he was. If I hadn’t spent that last year with him where I held on to the man I met, to the man I fell in love with, none of this would’ve happened at all.”

I was choking up by the end, tears threatening to fall down my cheeks as I turned away from Sam. I hung my head low, feeling every single word lace and pull tight into my very being as truth now that they were spoken aloud. It felt like I was being taken apart by them, thread by thread, needle in tandem with needle, as I unraveled into something utterly unrecognizable.

Sam unslid his arm from around my shoulders and shifted to kneel on the floor in front of me. His hands were in mine now, and he asked, voice sweet as molasses, “Darlin’, can you look at me?”

I did with a struggle, my whole body shaking now that I’d been honest with him. The look in his eyes only made it all worse—silver irises now swirling with sympathy and grief between the crimson flecks.

“Thank you,” he began, “And darlin’, I need you to know that none o’ this is your fault— and I mean that, I mean it with my whole heart, every part o’ me. It is not your fault for any of this because all o’ that blame that’s been placed on you should be thrown on his shoulders. The difference is that you’re the one bein’ hit with the ramifications o’ what he’s done the hardest. You’ve been there since his start—you’ve had to watch all of this happen.

“Listen to me when I tell you that it wasn’t, hasn’t, and will never be your responsibility to have noticed the change in him before. You have a connection to him that the rest of us don’t— you were in love with him, darlin’. Of course you tried to hold on and tried to help him see differently, but he was the one who didn’t listen. This is the path that he chose and this is the path he tried to force you on, and he got upset when you didn’t listen to his orders.

“You’ve done so much, darlin’. You went to the department and reported him even when you knew the consequence. You took that risk in stride with more bravery than anyone I know. You came back down here to Dahlia to track him, and kept yourself isolated because you wanted to protect your pack, even if it meant riskin’ your life. You’ve done more to try and track him on your own than the entirety of the department has in the past two years. I’m askin’ you to hear me now that I’ve said all o’ this— hear me when I tell you that you’ve done worlds beyond what you had to, and that you don’t have to burden this alone anymore. You have me, the pack, and the clan right behind you, ready for whenever he comes back. You are not alone, darlin’, and you’re never goin’ to have to be again for as long as we can help it.”

I dove towards him, my arms spiraling around his neck as I pulled him closer to me. He grunted before hugging back, his arms circling around my waist until they pulled me to him. I rested my head in the crook of his neck, the tears falling easily, but not for the reason they had been before. These tears were grateful, relieved, awestruck—these tears were made up of words I couldn’t think of in that moment. All I could think of was Sam and his touch, and how he had been able to reassure me in a way I didn’t think anyone else would.

I pulled away from him slightly, my hands still on him as I said, “Thank you.”

He reached up to wipe away my tears with his thumb. “Anytime.”

I leaned into his touch. “I love you, Sam.”

“I love you too, darlin’.”

He moved to sit back down on the couch and he hugged me again, this time with my body pressed against his chest. We laid like that for a while, that same comfortable silence coming back to us.

Sam was like water—gentle and all encompassing. He washed over me, his tide pushing and pulling around me. Our streams ebbed and flowed with each other until they headed into a single, glistening river.

Even when the surface was choppy and I thought I might drown, he was there to keep me afloat. The depthless ocean that seemed to have a grip on me was flattened by him, ready to hold me when I couldn’t see the bottom. His current was ever-steady, keeping me stable as I drifted amongst the waves.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redactedverse #redacted asmr sam #redacted sam #redacted asmr darlin #redacted darlin #redacted tank #redacted asmr quinn #redacted quinn #redacted fanfic #honeyglass’s handwritings

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emmaswamp · 1 year

Text

a bandage

fandom the witcher

pairing yennefer x jaskier

word count 1,600+

tw mentions of past trauma, slight angst but mostly humour and fluff.

summary yennefer wishes to help jaskier with his wounds. the bard does not cooperate.

a/n based around the netflix series. may be ooc as i am more familiar with the books and games.

“Be careful!”

The bard was quick to recoil his hand which was securely wrapped in a bandage. “Gentle now.” His icy blue eyes widened at her, and his face was reared back. “I was meant for gentle caresses, not this!” He blabbered, using his spare hand to cradle his wounded one.

“Oh, hush. You’re so dramatic.” Yennefer groaned, impatiently reaching out to retract his hand back.

She ensured to have a firm grip on his wrist this time. Though the troubadour still attempted to twist and turn his arm, spewing out nonsense she did her best to tune out.

“— What are you even doing? What if your little witchy spells go wrong? I swear, Yennefer, if you disintegrate my hand, so help me I will —“

If the sorceress would not have butted in, she knew he would continue to ramble on and on with his usual nonsense. “You can not be serious.” She rolled her violet eyes.

Jaskier was still now, warily looking her over with flared nostrils. She took the moment to slip her thumb into the filthy bandaging. “Well.. I..” He swallowed, using his spare hand to scratch his neck.

It was rare for the poet to be at a loss for words. Normally he would never shut his mouth.

“Now that you mention it, I do need your severed hand for an elixir.”

He blinked at her, his shoulders were squared and tense. He waited for a following statement that would clarify that the raven-haired sorceress was only jesting, that she was only leaving one of her usual witty comments to spook him into submission.

But there was none.

Yennefer used his startled state to her advantage. She undid the bandage further. She was getting closer.

He fought the urge to shrink into himself. Jaskier shifted to a more comfortable position on the table as well as crossing his legs as if the change of position would serve as a distraction. He cleared his throat. Perhaps he should break the tension? It was clouding his senses anyway, making the situation unpleasant and awkward. “How’s you and Geralt?”

Her face held a scowl while she threw a frustrated glare his way with her alluring eyes, one that lacked most emotion. He only identified pure annoyance along with frustration.

Jaskier awkwardly laughed. “Ah hah.. not the best topic, I see.” He was thankful looks could not kill. Though her dazzling eyes were an easy topic to vocalize proudly about, they were rather intimidating when you were their victim.

Her skin felt hot. He knew how to push her. Jaskier was lucky Yennefer had a goal she would not relent on. She undid the bandage further, she was now able to see his knuckles make form.

“Yeah — I should be on my way now.” Jaskier moved to stand up, but the dark-haired woman placed her hand on his chest to prevent him from hopping off the table she had him perched upon.

She was his obstacle. How could Geralt tolerate a woman like her?

Yes, she was beautiful. A woman he would even pursue if her personality was different. She was rather frightening.

Yennefer finally gained the ability to fully undo the cloth as he was lost in the ocean of his never ending thoughts. She turned his hand over to where his fingertips were exposed.

“You’re not a healer.” He didn’t trust her. But who would blame him? She had done nothing of the sort to gain his trust besides rescue him out of pity. Jaskier figured she would have left him be if she did not have a sudden spurt of sympathy in that moment.

“I think I would know that.” Yennefer ran her fingertips along his, a delicate way of seeing if the burns oh so generously gifted by Rience still bothered him without verbalizing her thoughts.

She got her answer quickly. An overdramatized hiss and a turn of his head. “Poking and prodding doesn’t help!” He tried once more to pull himself away.

“Calm yourself.” She spat. Her harsh tone of voice contradicted her soothing words. “I only wish to see if you can be healed.”

At that, Jaskier perked up. He straightened his back, and now he suddenly seemed intrigued with her work. There was also a noticeable change in his heartbeat.

It thumped steadily in her ears unlike before, though she was still able to sense slight wariness, it was better than before. He would be able to play his out again.

“Any consequences?”

Yennefer shook her head back and forth, her loose dark hair bouncing in rhythm. “I doubt it.”

“That’s not a sure answer.” He retorted defensively.

“Could you be any more annoying?”

The sorceress finally looked up at him. What was the big issue? She did not understand. All she wished to do was help, was there any problem with that?

She stayed still, allowing herself into the bard’s mind.

Fear.

She fought the urge to flinch upon feeling someone else’s negative emotion. An overwhelming one, at that.

Yennefer knew she and the bard were far from the closest of friends. But he should not feel that around her, no.

She did not like that.

With a heavy sigh, she released Jaskier’s hand from her grasp. She didn’t like not getting her way, this was rather foreign to her. She did not celebrate the feeling.

And Jaskier’s bewildered expression only made it worse. He stared at her with a tilted head and an expression a confused child would wear. His striking blue eyes were narrowed, and he was not all sure what to do with his hands.

He settled with leaving the burnt one out of her reach.

Yennefer’s heart clenched unwillingly. ”Are you alright?”

“Well —“ He started by drawing out the ‘l’, blinking a few times and urging his head back. “No. No not really. I rather like my hand. It has plenty of uses. I’d prefer you not use your unreliable weird..” He did an odd flourish of his hand, one that was surprisingly enough to make the ends of Yennefer’s lips curl. He floundered to find the correct word, “Magic.” He finished.

“Well,” she mocked, starting her statement the same way as he did. “I don’t have to.” It bothered her. She only wished to provide aid, yet he rejected her offer.

Of all things Yennefer could say, he certainly was not expecting that. Usually, she was a terribly stubborn woman, he did not expect submission so early. “Thank you.”

She was also surprised to hear the grateful expression from the bard’s skilled mouth. Nonetheless, she was happy to hear it. She gave a short nod of her head. “So it still bothers you?”

“Oh, this?” He held out his hand. “You could say so. It prevents me from going out and spreading my lovely ballads to all,” He theatrically spread his hands out. He acted alright, Yennefer noted, “such a shame, Lambert would have loved my works.”

Yennefer looked at him amused, “I’m so sure.” She fought back the sudden urge to laugh at him and his antics. He did not need any more encouragement.

He graced her with a boyish smile. “I best be on my way now.” He moved to stand up, this time the violet-eyed woman allowed him. She stepped aside.

But he lingered.

“Bandage this back up for me? It would be rather rude for you to leave it as it is —“

“Shut it. Alright.” She glanced around for any sign of clean bandages, yet found nothing by simply using her eyes. Yennefer moved forward and began shuffling through the cabinets and whatnot.

She did not quite comprehend what was going on. Other than that the bothersome bard may be experiencing trauma still. Which was fair.

She saw what he had experienced.

Yennefer cleared her throat and lifted her chin triumphantly when she finally retrieved the bandages. She approached the bard at a slow pace, something odd for her. “Let me see your hand.”

“You wish to hold my hand?” He teased, yet he still obliged, presenting her with the wounded hand.

She rolled her eyes, taking his hand in hers in a shockingly delicate manner. It was the complete opposite of her actions from earlier. She was careful not to press up against his fingertips.

She noticed Jaskier leaning closer to examine her work. Their foreheads were nearly touching.

Yennefer gave in to her thoughts, she leaned in as well.

Their foreheads were now touching while she worked silently. The bard lifted his gaze to her. He looked vulnerable up close.

Perhaps she misjudged him?

“A drowner could do a better job of putting a bandage on.” Jaskier quipped, playfully bumping their noses together.

Nevermind.

“Really now?” Her normally unkind eyes now brimmed with an uncommon gentleness, it did not matter if she was aware of it or not.

“Mhmm.” He grinned toothily at her. She wondered how he managed to stay so.. animated.

“You’re insufferable.” Yennefer scoffed. She pressed a light kiss to the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. She was quick to pull away.

The bard shuffled his foot, and he stared at her evidently stunned. “Uh..” He held a finger up, “I’ve never had a drowner do.. that.”

“I would hope not.” She smirked, proud to see the pinkish tint slowly blossoming upon the proud bard’s face. She gave him one last glimpse before strutting towards the laboratory’s exit.

The poet’s intrigued eyes followed her every step, watching the fabric of her black dress swish with each step. He brought a hand to the corner of his lip, unaware Yennefer had even finished bandaging him up.

“Oh, she’s scary.” He heaved out a sigh, wiping his other hand on his pants.

Yet he longed to chase after her. He wanted more than what he had received.

#the witcher #yennefer #yennefer x jaskier #jaskier #yennskier #yenskier #jaskier x yennefer #julian alfred pankratz #yennefer of vengerberg #fanfic #swamp writes

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proudfreakmetarusonniku · 1 year

Text

remembered that one thing cc!tommy said when talking about the finale where he raised the question about whether c!dream planned it or not and this appeared on my notes app suddenly. help.

TWs: abuse, infantilisation, codependency, isolation, possessive behaviour, victim blaming, manipulation, c!Dream’s perspective is it’s own warning tbh.

—

“dream?”

tommy's eyes were adorably wide, his face innocent and curious. so dependent. helpless, apart from dream's mercy.

prime, he couldn’t thank xd enough for this. it was perfect.

“yes, my little bug?”

“i, uh…” tommy took a nervous glance to the floor, fiddling with the white hair on his fringe. seeing tommy with all those scars, every one proof of the fun the two of them had done together, yet completely oblivious to any of it, was so amusing it was hard to not laugh sometimes. “you remember when we met? and, uh, the other boy, the one with the horns.”

huh. hearing that stupid fucking ram mentioned still filled him with utter rage. he'd ruined everything, hadn’t he? and it couldn’t have been tommy's fault. kind, sweet tommy, who'd been the only one to reach an olive branch, who'd been the only one to realise he was simply misguided and never wrong even to the last. he had to have been manipulated, forced. the idea of anyone hurting tommy like that, just to get at him, filled him with pure, blind rage.

at least when he hurt tommy it was always for their own good.

he forced his tone to be level. “what about him?”

“i want to go and meet him again, maybe? i went out, and i found his base is super close to ours, so i was thinkin', maybe the two of us could go and-“

tommy yelped in surprise as dream slapped him. it wasn’t anything harsh, not enough to do more than sting a bit, but the hurt in his eyes was an almost comical overreaction. of course, though, it was the first time he'd hit tommy since the incident. he'd get used to it, if he kept misbehaving.

“oi! what the fuck, man? i- i- why did you hit me?” tommy sniffled. good to know he was always a little drama queen. how fascinating. “dream, i thought you- i thought you wanted to be my friend…”

“shh, shh. tommy, of course i want to be your friend. you’re almost like a little brother to me, remember? and that means i have to keep you safe. even with tough love.” dream smiled, gently reaching out to ruffle tommy's hair, revelling in the adorably confused look on his face. “it’s normal, tommy. this is how all friends act, remember?”

“oh.” tommy sounded utterly ashamed. “i- i didn’t fuckin' know, man. it just… it doesn’t feel right. it feels all like- like it makes my stomach turn all wiggly and throat all burny. like i'm getting a fever or sommat.”

“and that’s why you need me, right?” dream beckoned tommy over- his tommy, his sweet, helpless little brother, his to protect, his to watch over. if the rest of the server would reject his gentle hand, he could at least take care of one person. maybe he wasn’t useless. wrapping his arms around tommy, he let the boy cry into his shoulders. seeing tommy so unguarded was proof he was helping, right? “i know you can’t remember much, little bug. i can remember it all for you.”

tommy continued to throw himself a pity party for a bit, before pulling away, still sniffling. “i- i know you’re right, man, you always are, dream. always. but why can’t we meet him?” oh so innocent. so naive. it broke dream's heart, sometimes.

“tommy, the outside world is dangerous. it'll chew you up and spit you out. it'll change you, from the brother i love into a scared little shell. it'll convince you to hate everything that keeps you safe, to misbehave. it'll tell you you need to hide your kindness behind a shield, that you need to be angry and aggressive and hide everything you love. it’s safer here, where i'll never judge you or hurt you, right?”

tommy raised a hand to his cheek, furrowing his brow. “but…” he sighed. “alright, dream. but if you’re lying about this, i'm gonna fuckin' kill you.”

oh, if only he knew. “of course, tommy. i'd never lie to you, would i?”

tommy lowered his head, obviously ashamed of himself for questioning dream. good. he was learning. “course you wouldn’t. sorry, man.”

“oh, tommy. if only you knew what i've been through to keep you safe.”

#my writing #dream smp #dream smp fic #primeboys (derogatory)#tw abuse #tw infantilisation #tw codependency #tw isolation #tw possesive behaviour #tw victim blaming #tw manipulation

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traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors · 1 year

Note

Tw: cocsa, incest, SA

I don't remember much when I was much but I remember I did get groped by my brother around 10. Before that I used to get chronic uits as a child, I came across corn early on, I saw things around the house and on the computer and we both used to watch it. I've had dreams now as an adult that we engaged in certain stuff sexually but I don't seem to remember. I had a lot of inappropriate behaviour as a child and instead of asking I just got shamed for it and looked down upon, I even did things with my other brother which I ended up remembering and I feel so guilty. But with my older brother I felt way more attachment than normal, even jealousy which i found odd.

I had his laptop once and I was trying to find my file and ended up coming across his porn, it was full of step sis and sis content which shocked me after having those dreams, what I found even shocking was how similar the girls would look to me..

After that i remembered I ended up getting weirdly turned on and hyper, I felt like spiral for 3 days straight.

I also got sa at 11 by my neighbour. Theu didn't know, During this time I was acting inappropriate and my parents shamed me for it and said I'm disgusting, it was just me and a friend during school drawing and writing dicks n stuff. They banned me from watching my favourite shows because of it.

Another thing I had a dream of my dad, just once. I dont remember anything but when I was 14, I went to put food on table and he spanked my ass, so harshly. I do have a big ass and idk It felt really disgusting bc it wasn't gentle but it wasn't even a good touch in my head, just bad. Since then I feel awkward around him, he's commented a few times on me and my body. I know he has a thing for girls around my age bc he got obsessed once with this one in a show and yeah its wasn't nice but she's literally my age... I found he searched explicit scenes or pics of her once. Idk if he ever did anything with me bc I don't remember anything. But when he takes pics of me I do feel uncomfortable, because I know he's a perv and idk maybe he's thinking thoughts like that with me? I even tell him to delete and he never does.

I remember around 20 we had an argument over clothes, apparently i can't even wear simple things because of my body 🙃 and they mentioned well people will look and an uncle had commented on my body at 14. Saying how I'm pretty thick and how my body shows... I was covered btw because it was during a wedding. What my parents did instead of blame me, as I've always gotten blamed. To the point, I feel like I'm so disgusting and shameful. I hate how I get turned on when I shouldn't be, me getting hyper.

I just feel gaslight half of the time and what makes it worse is when it was during the school when me and a friend was writing about a male teacher as jokes, my mom switched up like 3 years ago saying I'm disgusting because I wrote that stuff about my own dad! Wtf! I can't believe she would even say that to me bc I'm very well aware of what is being wrote. I'm not even kidding when I say shes probably jealous of me at this point.

No one cared or bothered to know why I was acting like that at young, when I spoke sexual things n what not, what I came across, instead I get shamed, its my fault and I'm a horrible person. I hate how I always had to do something sexual in order to feel a release.

Hi anon.

I'm so sorry about what you went through.

It sounds like not only your brother but both your parents held attitudes that enabled sexual abuse, through victim-blaming, gaslighting, and excusing each other's behavior. It's possible that there may be a history of that, as they seem to normalize that kind of behavior.

It sounds like, as a result of your experiences, you may have developed what is known as hypersexuality, which for you has stirred up a lot of feelings of shame and disgust. Please know that it's quite common for assault survivors to experience hypersexuality.

None of what happened is your fault. You're not a horrible person. You're a survivor.

I hope I could help. Please let us know if you need anything.

-Bun

#mod bun #trauma talks #tw abuse #tw sa #tw csa #tw cocsa #tw emotional abuse

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ander-aurelius · 6 months

Text

But then if you're so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid?

ANDER AURELIUS. DISTRICT 13. THE TEACHER.

PLAYLIST | PINTEREST

Name: Oleander Aurelius, Ander

Age: 26

Gender: Cis man, he/him

Home: District 13

Role: Teacher, D13 citizen

Personality: Gentle, nervous, quiet, sincere, intelligent, bookish

Song: No Complaints - Noah Kahan

Faceclaim: Jonah Hauer-King

OVERVIEW

Divorce mention, death mention, disease mention, bullying mention TW

Oleander Aurelius wouldn’t blame anyone for confusing him for his brother. He wouldn’t get mad when he heard people refer to him as just, “one of the triplets.”

He could get huffy about it, correct people, roll his eyes and complain about it just like Orion had fallen into the habit of doing, but what was the point? It was true, after all. He was one of the triplets, and sure, maybe he used his shared identity as a bit of a security blanket, but was it really so wrong? He didn’t think so.

Oleander (who much preferred to go by Ander when not being called “no, the other one,”) was one of three children born to Dr. Gabriel Aurelius and Evelyn Stryker, lifelong residents of District 13. Ander didn’t mind spending most of his life underground, childhood full of grey walls, grey uniforms, and strict schedules. As a child he often imagined what it would be like to live aboveground, but he knew it was safer this way. Everyone told him so. He and his siblings made their own fun regardless; the triplets thrived on the chaos that seemed to follow them around every corner. It almost made up for his general lack of friends in school. Almost.

Ander wasn’t funny and outgoing like Orion, and he wasn’t as confident and cool as Ophelia. Ander was just Ander; the quiet, awkward, bookworm of a middle child who couldn’t help but feel a bit too nervous when separated from his siblings. Perched on the edge of his bed late one night, his father once mentioned something about anxiety, and how they could “work through it together.” The irony of the psychiatrist’s son having his own inner demons wasn’t lost on him.

He doesn’t remember a lot of the specifics of the sickness that struck 13. He was 15, the halls were oddly quiet for weeks as the flu-like illness worked its way through family units, and even he himself had fallen victim to the virus. But he got better, and so did Evelyn and Orion. They all did.

Except for the family of the boy who moved in down the hall. That boy — Ángel, he remembered him from school — had lost everything. It was tragic, and Ander felt guilty for co-opting his pain as he lost sleep over pondering the fragility of his own family. Time passed, and much to his surprise, the boys became friends, with Ángel going as far as to stand up for Ander when being harassed by the worst of their classmates.

Things were good for Ander and the Aurelius family for a while, completely business as usual. His parents worked, and he and his siblings went to school and studied hard (or at least he did). The triplets grew up, moved into their own quarters, and were assigned jobs. Ander followed in his mother’s footsteps and became a teacher, a role everyone in his family would agree suited him.

However, it wasn’t long after the triplets moved out that Evelyn and Gabriel broke the news of their divorce. They told their children it was amicable, reminded them that they had been just 19 when they got married and that people change — that they changed.

Ander understood. He did not blame them for their separation. He wanted his parents to be happy, and if that meant ending the marriage, so be it. But the news still rattled him, leaving behind a gross and lingering sense of unease that he liked to pretend didn’t exist.

Regardless of the change, life went on, and eventually the war began. Ander enjoyed meeting the refugees who sought out the protection of 13, welcoming all the new children who were beginning to fill the empty desks of his classroom. He did not know the terror they had lived through; growing up in 13 he had been spared from the Games and much of the Capitol’s cruelty, but to an extent, he understood.

Ander knew there wasn’t much he could do to support the rebellion other than complete his mandated training and be ready to deploy if the powers that be commanded it, but he could make his classroom a safe place for those children, and it’s exactly what he tried to do.

Currently, Ander lives in District 13, working as a teacher. He supports the rebellion from a distance but isn’t too excited about the idea of being sent out on a mission.

#the teacher #read me

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eventiderpg · 6 months

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BASICS

Faceclaim: Jonah Hauer-King

Name: Oleander Aurelius, Ander

Age: 26

Gender: Cis male, he/him

Home: District 13

Role: Teacher, D13 citizen

Personality: Gentle, nervous, quiet, sincere, intelligent, bookish

Song: No Complaints - Noah Kahan

Activity: Secondary

BIOGRAPHY

Divorce mention, death mention, disease mention, bullying mention TW

Oleander Aurelius wouldn’t blame anyone for confusing him for his brother. He wouldn’t get mad when he heard people refer to him as just, “one of the triplets.”

Currently, Ander lives in District 13, working as a teacher. He supports the rebellion from a distance but isn’t too excited about the idea of being sent out on a mission.

Written by Sarah

#established rp #oc rp #original character rp #the hunger games rp #thg rp #eventidebio #queued

0 notes

gingersnaaps · 3 years

Text

tetraphobia

maybe seijoh's revenge doesn't always have to be on the court. maybe seijoh's revenge can come in the form of fucking kageyama's sweet little girlfriend.

wc: 3.3k

tags/tw's(PLEASE READ): explicit n*fw, noncon, gangbang, mindbreak, victim blaming/guilt, forced infidelity, hints of sadism, anal, double penetration, deepthroat, cunnilingus, sorta overstim? idk this is very nasty, fem!reader with inner genitals, timeskip!characters

a/n: this is for @somecravings' gangbang collab! this work features the seijoh four.

i don’t want minors interacting with my content

“I wonder where Tobio-chan found himself such a cute girlfriend.”

The words freeze you in your tracks.

A tall, well-built, man leans against the wall of the hotel hallway, the cramped space making him loom large in front of you. You think he’s a stranger at first - but a closer look at the waves of his chestnut hair, his molten hazel eyes - and memories of the pictures Tobio had shown you flood back into your mind.

Oikawa Tooru, he’d told you. Teammates at Kitagawa Daiichi, and then rivals at Karasuno and Aoba Johsai. I took away his last chance to make it to nationals in high school. Now he’s on Argentina’s national team. Looked up to him a lot, but we had a… strained relationship.

His eyes flicker back to the faded yearbook photos, an unmistakable note of bitterness in his voice.

The very same Oikawa Tooru from his pictures stands in the hallway leading to your hotel room, arms crossed and eyes glittering with amusement.

Almost as if he’d been waiting there for you.

“He’s out celebrating his win, isn’t he?” he says, cocking his head to one side. “Along with the rest of his team.”

He steps closer, walking towards you until he’s mere feet away. You can see where the hem of his blue jersey peeks out from beneath his jacket, the white of his teeth glinting as he grins. Up close, he’s even more intimidating, and you suppress the sudden surge of discomfort that crawls beneath your skin.

Your eyes flit back and forth, eyebrows creasing in confusion. “Is there something you need?”

“Yes,” he says, his hand reaching out to stroke gently along your cheek. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor, sweetheart.”

Panic seizes you when his cold, calloused, fingertips brush lightly along your skin, your heart thudding as discomfort rips through your body. You don’t know what his intentions are, but his words scare you. There’s nothing genuine about his tone, nothing kind, and years of too-close encounters with men have left you wary and alert. His touch is invasive, contemptuous, mocking, and you jerk away from his hand in an attempt to backpedal-

Warm hands clamp down around your shoulders in an iron grip. Your heart sinks as you realize you’ve got nowhere to go, dread seeping into every vein in your body.

“I’m a little late. Sorry.”

The voice at your ear is a low rasp, his tone nonchalant, but you can hear the message that undercuts it as clear as day: you’re not going anywhere.

“Don’t worry about it, Iwa,” Oikawa says, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your face up forcefully until you’re staring directly into his eyes. “You got here just in time to help me out. She looked like she was about to run away for a while there. Can you imagine?”

The man behind you - Iwaizumi Hajime, you recall - chuckles. “Wouldn’t get very far.”

Your blood runs cold at the implication of his words. Your stomach churns, an awful, nauseous feeling that makes you feel sick, shoulders tensing as you struggle against Iwaizumi’s hold.

“Hey,” he warns quietly. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”

His words almost make you want to laugh; he says them like he’s trying to help you, like he genuinely cares about your well-being. You remember the late-night talks you and Kageyama would have, the ones where he’d describe his days spent in middle school, secluded and walled off from the other players on his team. There was always one name he spoke with a particular reverence: Iwaizumi Hajime. Tough. Strong. Kind. A good man, he’d emphasized. I’m glad he was there during those years.

Well, this certainly was a reality check, wasn't it?

He removes his hands from your shoulders and wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you pressed close to his side, as if a reminder of you how powerless you are in this position. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“It’d be rude to keep Makki and Mattsun waiting any longer."

Oikawa slides his fingers into yours until the two of you are holding hands, humming happily as Iwaizumi escorts you down the hall towards your own hotel room. It takes every last ounce of self-control to stop yourself from crying and screaming on the spot, to hold back the tears that threaten to spill over, to save yourself the embarrassment of breaking down pathetically as these people - these assholes - watch.

You get the feeling that they’re not going to leave you alone out of pity.

They escort you to your hotel room, passing by rows and rows of rooms that blur as your vision tunnels. Their presence is suffocating; Oikawa’s fingers brush against your wrist, rubbing tender circles into your skin, and you can feel Iwaizumi's warm breath on the crown of your head.

Oikawa grabs the key card from your purse, sliding it into the scanner, and pushes the door open when it lights up green.

Your heart stills with fear as they drag you inside, flicking the light switch open until the room glows softly.

There’s two more people sitting in the bed.

A tall, lanky man waves in acknowledgement, nudging his companion in the side as his eyes flicker appraisingly over you.

The other man looks up, tossing his phone aside, blowing aside a stray strand of strawberry-pink hair.

“Hmm. I hate to say this, but Oikawa was right,” he says, a wry grin on his face. “What a pretty girl.”

You feel so vulnerable with four pairs of eyes roaming over every inch of your body, your mind running rampant with fear and anticipation as they admire and scrutinize. And you’d be right to be scared, because there’s so much they can’t wait to do, so much of you they’ve been dying to explore, so many of their little fantasies that they’ve been waiting for the right girl to help them act out.

You’ll help them out, won’t you?

Without warning, there’s a pair of hands on your waist insistently pushing you downwards, applying steady pressure until your legs collapse and you’re forced to your knees.

“So impatient, Iwa.” Oikawa clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You won’t even let her get settled in?”

There‘s a huff of annoyance above you. “The more you talk, the less I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Alright, alright.”

Oikawa slides a hand onto the back of your neck, the other moving to grip your hair. His touch is gentle, fingers stroking along your pulse point, but you know it won’t last if you misbehave. You have no illusions about the kind of person he is, not when his hands maneuver your mouth and throat into nothing more than a warm fleshlight for his friend.

Iwaizumi palms himself in front of your face, hands skimming over the bulge in his jeans as he groans in pleasure, and pulls out his half hard cock, veins throbbing and flushed with arousal. Cupping your face in his hand, he fits the tip to your soft lips and tilts your chin upwards to meet his piercing, lust-filled eyes, his gaze swirling with want.

“Open up for me like a good girl, okay?” he growls.

You can’t help the way your cunt pulses at his tone, an intoxicating rush of fear and desire that leaves your mind hazy and mouth dropping open. He doesn’t waste the opportunity, pushing his cock into your warm, wet, mouth, a moan falling from his lips as he thrusts his hips forwards. You retch at the intrusion, instinctively jerking your head backwards, but Oikawa’s grip on your neck tightens as he holds you in place. He crouches down, lips finding your ear as Iwaizumi starts sliding in and out of your mouth.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “If you take it like you’re supposed to, he won’t last too long.”

At those words, his hands push your head forward, impaling your throat on his cock, holding you down as you choke and drool and retch. Your eyes redden as silvery tears drip through your lashes, panic rising, vision turning to static, the pain in your lungs growing unbearable as Oikawa’s smile turns razor sharp. “Atta girl,” he encourages softly, his thumb wiping away one of the tears running down your cheek. “I think he’s gonna cum soon if you keep this up.”

If you keep this up. As if you have a choice.

Iwaizumi’s thrusts grow more erratic, fucking you rougher and faster as he slams in and out of your throat. “Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Got such a - such a perfect little mouth, taking me so well,” he says, breath catching.

Just like Oikawa had predicted, he doesn’t last much longer after that, hips stuttering when he spills down your waiting throat. He tastes warm and slightly salty, the last few drops of his cum dripping down your chin as he presses a thumb to your lips and wipes away the drool collecting at the corner.

There’s a horrible, sinking, feeling settling inside you as he grabs the collar of your shirt and hoists you up with him onto the bed, your limbs going limp as you let him press an open-mouthed kiss to your trembling lips, his tongue slipping inside of your slack mouth.

You feel used.

Up close to Iwaizumi, you can see the flush of arousal coloring his bronzed cheeks, the sheen of sweat on his forehead, all the physical evidence of just how good you made him feel, and your stomach churns.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel fingers softly stroking at your clit, light, teasing strokes back and forth that leave you whimpering. A twinge of arousal pulses in your cunt as you hear words murmured against your inner thigh.

“Didn’t even try to fight back, did you?” There’s a gentle laugh from the pink-haired man beneath you, soft and terrifying, and the light brushes turn into more insistent circles. “It’s almost like you wanted it.”

Iwaizumi’s tongue curls deeper into your mouth as he deepens the kiss, leaving you gasping for breath.

“I had no idea you’d turn out to be such a slut,” he hums, mouth latching onto your thigh. “Although I’m really not complaining.”

“C’mon, Makki, don’t be so mean to her,” Iwaizumi chuckles, his teeth scraping roughly against your lips.

“I’m only telling the truth.”

The fingers circling your pussy creep upwards, grabbing onto your hips and pushing you down against the mattress. “Keep those legs spread nice and open for me, okay?” Makki says, voice sweet and cloying.

When the flat of his tongue brushes against your clit, his breath huffing warm on your folds, your thighs twitch involuntarily. It’s as if he’s made it his mission to eat you out as slow and light as possible, his kitten-licks and teasing strokes sliding along your folds and circling around your sweet spots without ever truly giving you the satisfaction that your cunt craves.

And he can tell you’re starting to break.

As Iwaizumi’s mouth moves down to suck at your neck, lips brushing along the erratic heartbeat of your pulse point, your hips jerk upwards against Makki’s waiting mouth as a moan slips out from between your lips.

He sucks at your aching clit, the steady, constant pressure making you writhe in his grasp. “Cute little cunt wants more, doesn’t i?” he coos.

You don’t dare say a word, face flushed with embarrassment as you bite your inner cheek in embarrassment. Makki’s right.

He’s right, and you hate that he’s right, hate how good he’s making you feel with every long, languid, lick, with every brush of his lips that leaves your walls throbbing in search of more.

A hand picks up your limp wrist, guiding your fingers until they wrap around something warm and hard, something incredibly thick and so, so, long -

You freeze as you realize it’s a cock.

“Mattsun’s blessed, isn’t he?” Makki laughs from between your thighs. “Maybe now you’ll understand that I’m really trying to do you a favor. We want these sheets stained with cum, not blood.”

You swallow nervously. That monster cock, so big you can barely fit your hand around it, is going inside you.

You’re paralyzed with dread, not even bothering to fight back as he maneuvers your palm up and down along his length, wrapping his much larger hand around yours as he uses your fist to help jerk him off.

All the revulsion in the world can’t stop the slow, mounting, wave of pressure building inside your core, growing stronger as Makki sucks with more force against your clit. Crooked fingers push inside your slick, needy, hole, his nimble digits searching and prodding, the pads of his fingertips rubbing insistently at your g-spot.

“See?” he murmurs. “‘m making you feel so good. You’re gonna be nice and ready when I’m done with you.”

You want to scream. You feel like a whore for enjoying anything at all; bile and guilt rising in your throat as white-hot arousal throbs in your cunt.

You’re strung out along the edge when you feel another mouth descending on your body, a tongue flicking out to tease at your nipple. You see a flash of chestnut brown hair as Oikawa looks up at you, a smirk curving at the corners of his mouth, almost as if he knows exactly what he’s doing, knows where your limits are and how to push right past them.

It’s too much for you to handle, too much for you to take. Three mouths ravage your body, tongues flicking out to lick at your neck and suck at your nipples and drag along your clit, silky and sensual against your soft skin, all while your slack hand pumps steadily along the shaft of a huge cock.

When an orgasm rips through your body, it’s like something stolen, something taken from you, and as your hips buck and thrash wildly, an emptiness settles in your stomach after you’re all fucked out from their ministrations.

What’s wrong with you?

At this point, you don’t feel like much more than a sex doll for the four men, all spread out and useless as you lay your head in Iwaizumi’s lap. He strokes gently at your hair, brushing a stray strand out of your face.

You barely even react as Mattsun manhandles you up, large hands positioning your hips until the head of his fully hard cock sits at your entrance, sliding just the tip into your loosened, clenching, hole.

“Ready?” he asks, his half-lidded eyes glinting with amusement.

He doesn’t really care about your answer.

“One… two… three.”

He forces you down on his cock, pushing your hips further and further down as you squirm and struggle and moan from the stretch. Your mind goes foggy as you feel the drag of his cock against the front of your walls, burying itself so deep in your cunt you can almost feel it in your stomach.

Mattsun likes it when his dick makes girls feel good, of course, when he fucks them better than their boyfriends, when he makes them cream and gush after barely moving.

He likes it better when he makes girls go stupid.

As he looks down at you, a warm rush of arousal twists in his gut. Your eyelids flutter in pleasure, mouth open and panting, small hands fisting at his shirt as you moan softly. It’s just too big for you to take, isn’t it? You can't handle being used like a pretty fuckdoll, or eaten out until you cream, or to be impaled on a cock so nice and big you can barely think straight. A string of drool falls from the corner of your mouth, but he doesn’t bother cleaning it up. You look better ruined, he thinks.

You’re dragged out of your fucked-out daze when a voice crawls into your ear, taunting and cruel, and a warm dick presses and slides along your ass.

“Bet Kageyama’s never tried this before,” Oikawa says.

A spurt of terror grips you as you hear the thinly-veiled anticipation in his voice, his fingers trembling with excitement as they grope at your ass.

He holds back a laugh at the way you freeze, shuddering in a mixture of fear and pleasure as Mattsun rolls his hips up and thrusts his cock even deeper. He knows he guessed right, judging from your cute little reaction, a high-pitched, pathetic whimper dropping from your lips as brushes his cock against your hole.

He hopes it hurts.

When he presses in, it’s a slow, aching, stretch that leaves you feeling raw and split wide open. Unlike the dull pain from Mattsun’s cock, this one is a searing, brutal, torment, a stinging intrusion in your tight hole that forces a choked gasp from your lungs.

“Wish your boyfriend could see us right now,” he breathes, pressing a gentle kiss to the crook of your neck. “Feels so good squeezing my cock, so fucking nice and tight.”

Tobio.

Panic races along your veins. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, breasts bouncing slightly as your breaths come shallow and rapid.

“I can’t imagine how he’d feel - seeing his perfect little angel getting stuffed so full in both her precious holes.”

The tightness in your chest bursts as tears stream down your face, cries and moans coming out thick and stuffy as you sob. You know he’s right. It didn’t matter that it was forced, that you said you didn’t want it - you already came once, didn’t you? And judging by the tense pleasure pulsing at your clit, you were due for another sooner or later.

Oikawa laughs. “It’d be awful if he came back right now, wouldn’t it? Just in time to watch his precious little girlfriend getting raped by his former senpai.”

Mattsun snickers, bring a hand up to swipe at your clit. “Look,” he says softly, tilting your head until you lock eyes with Makki.

He’s fisting his cock rapidly, a hungry, predatory, expression on his face, tongue darting out to lick at his lips as he lets out a pleasured groan.

It’s better than almost any of his gross little fantasies. He’s not sure his favorite porn videos will ever be able to compare to the sight of you being fucked stupid and split in two by his friends, two cocks sliding in and out of your tired holes as you cry.

You squeeze your eyes shut as the first waves of the orgasm begin to roll over you. Mattsun’s deft, long, fingers toy with your clit, stroking you insistently through the wild jerking of your hips as he feels your walls fluttering and creaming around the base of his dick. The pleasure is intense, unbearable, almost impossible to hold back, even as disgust crawls beneath your skin at the feeling of being stretched wide open.

Maybe they were right.

All those times you’d thought about what you’d do if this happened, every single night when you’d lie awake and tell yourself, i’ll fight back. i’ll resist. i’ll make them regret ever forcing me -

They were all lies.

Oikawa feels a sick sense of satisfaction as he watches the turmoil in your expression. He can tell by the slump of your shoulders, the bitterness in your gaze, the way you turn over to your side and curl up into a fetal position - they broke you, turned you into a mindless, slutty, fuckdoll, showed you who you really were.

Kageyama can have you back now. He’ll come into this hotel room, horrified at the sight of you passed out and naked, and call the police. Maybe he’ll help wash you up, bring you a cup of tea as you sob and insist that it wasn’t your fault. Maybe he’ll even believe you, despite the way you’ve stained the sheets.

But things won’t ever really be the same for you.

They made sure of it.

if you liked this, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! my inbox is always open :)

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years

Note

Yandere with a free use kink that thinks that so long as you only come for them it's fine. They reason that it's just a show of what life would be like if you left them (as if you could), since no one would ever be able to resist someone so perfect. At least here you have someone that wants to make you feel good too, and you only have to put up with other people fucking you when you go out.

If you ever do come for someone else you better hope your yandere doesn't find out. You've been in the basement before, but the decomposing head is sure to make you ask twice next time you think about cheating on them like that.

tw - noncon, physical/psychological abuse, possessive behavior, slight dehumanization, slight victim-blaming.

It's a show of their trust in you - a test, to see how far you've come since they first found you, since you were just some weak, fragile thing, prone to letting anyone take anything from you, whenever they wanted, regardless of how much they wanted to take. How far you've come since they first brought you home, when you fought them on every little thing, when you were too stubborn to follow their simple rules and too delicate not to cry and sob and scream through your punishment, calling them all kinds of nasty names, making all kinds of hollow promises just to worm your way out of discipline you've done more than enough to earn. You were a brat, but you're better, now, more thankful for everything they do for you. You know they're trying to give you everything they can, that they don't want to take anything away. You know they're just trying to take care of you.

Now, when they take you on your little dates, you're on your best behavior. You used to thrash, bite, throw such a fit and force them to tie you down, but you're better, now, you know when you're allowed to talk and when you have to keep quiet, who you're allowed to struggle against and who you have to be good for. You don't embarrass them, anymore, when they pass you off to their friends, even if they can still tell you're holding back tears, even if they know you don't liked being groped, having strangers tell you how pretty you are, how perfect, how hard it'd be to keep their hands off you, if they caught you alone. You don't like being pinned down, being played with, having to prove your that you still love them, that you're still loyal to them, even if they're letting someone else try and make you feel good. You understand what they want from you, what they expect from you, and most of the time, you can give it to them, clench your fists and scratch at your chest and bite down on your tongue until their friends get bored and you're returned to your proper place, allowed to spend the rest of the night in their lap, your face buried in their chest, your little whimpers and cries muffled by their gentle coos, their assurances that you did such a good job, that you've always been so good for them.

Save for, of course, when you aren't, when their friends bring out your favorite toys and you just can't help but misbehave. You try to hide it from them, to hold yourself still, to pretend you aren't having any fun at all, but they know you, they love you, and they aren't going to take your infidelity very lightly. They don't want to be jealous, but it just... it reminds them of how you used to be, of how many people go to touch you before they did, and they just get so mad, it's hard to think about anything but taking you somewhere that isn't so nice, with people they don't know so well, people who won't be so careful with you. Just for a few hours, just until you've gotten it out of system. Just until they know you've learned your lesson.

Just until they know you understand that they're the only person you're ever going to love, and there's nothing you can do to change that.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere prompts #yandere theory #general

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fishstyx · 3 years

Text

featuring. college au!gojo satoru x fem!reader x geto suguru

wc. 9.2k

genre. dark/taboo, smut, angst

tw. 18+ nsfw, non/dubcon, toxic/abusive relationships, manipulation, victim blaming, dry humping, penetration, masturbation, irresponsible practice of bdsm, hair pulling, mild exhibitionism, size kink (both 6’3”, gojo can lift you), implied corruption kink, degradation, creampie, intoxication/alcohol, incel behavior, misogyny, dacryphilia

synopsis.

“Parading around as my personal fucktoy get you that excited?” he starts with a smirk, wide eyes drinking up your sharp inhale as if it were his own, inspiring pinpricks of heat to rise to your cheeks.

He hooks the hem of your skirt with his thumbs when he’s met with silence, pulls you from the doorframe just far away that he can release the elastic with a snap, silent snigger on his lips when it elicits a small sound of surprise from you. You nod in response, frantic bob of your head drawing a low growl from his chest and a “that’s right, I know what’s best for my pet,” as he lifts you off your feet and carries you to the bedroom.

notes. title inspo: love the way you lie (eminem, rihanna). you’re dating gojo, a charming, manipulative, self-entitled bastard. geto is, of course, his best friend, written as an aloof, self-righteous, bitter incel. please stay safe, read all the warnings, and enjoy. this is the most personal fic i have to offer. it draws from not-so-savory past relationships... i hope it remains the only testament to them. <3

links. broken toys. (sequel)

You were stunned into silence when he first suggested it.

And how couldn’t you be? Any sane person would, or at least should, have recoiled at the proposition. Isn’t that right?

But he makes it seem so harmless, so innocent, somehow. Like it’s no big deal, far from uncharacteristic for either of you—just a walk around campus, nothing new there. He tells you this like you’re overreacting, slow on the uptake, taking far too long to reach a final decision. The rational part of your mind says it’s out of the option. But the irrational part is louder, all-consuming, domineering.

The irrational part says, out of all your options, it’s the only viable one.

“Come on, babygirl. What’s the harm of trying it out once?”

It’s always this way, always has been. He takes your hands in his with a dramatic swell, the sparkle in his eyes big and bright and gleaming, and you bite back the urge to pull away. You would break your gaze if you could, if he didn’t look so determined, if that twinkling blue galaxy wasn’t sweltering with hope and adoration. But you can’t, and he does, and it just about swallows you whole.

The fact of the matter is, Gojo Satoru wants to take you out on a leash today.

Never mind today; he wanted this yesterday, the day before that, and the day before that, never one to shy away from his desires as you deliberated the entire time. By now he’s asked you to do this one, single thing for him far more times than you can count��initially playing it off as a joke, slowly feeling you out, gradually seeing how far he could push and pull until you explicitly told him no.

Except it’s never just one, single thing with him, and you—with the way you dance around the topic, hoping to give him the illusion that you might give in, or perhaps yourself the illusion of control—you never say no.

A simple line of defense, yes. Even you agree with that. But its execution? Around Gojo, it seems anything but.

Geto would beg to differ.

Geto.

The only other person privy to your latest concerns. The only other person you can bear knowing. And he’d be disappointed if only he could see you now.

Who are you kidding? He’s already disappointed.

A vague outline was all you gave him. A vague outline, you knew, not-so-deep down in your heart, was all you dare tell him—or anyone at all, really.

Because, sure, you’ve adopted a rather experimental lifestyle around Gojo, but that was supposed to be private. Reserved for behind closed doors, you thought, until now.

You were right in that the brooding brunette didn’t need every last grueling detail of Gojo’s newest request. He’s his best friend; he’s seen you at every single step of your whirlwind relationship together. The fervid beginnings, when the two of you couldn’t be physically separated, let alone in different rooms from each other. The ups and the downs, each one more intense than the last, each one blowing up in your faces before you ran back into each other’s arms and kissed and made up. You knew that much.

What you didn’t foresee, however, even as you recounted your latest grievance to him, was that nothing you were saying was new. To Geto it was regurgitated rhetoric, distorted and distressed, yesterday’s news—whereas you saw it as a unique conquest, a new hurdle to overcome.

“It almost amazes me how you can come up with so many new ways to say the same old thing,” he said, slanted eyes dull with apathy as they panned away from yours. “Almost.”

You could only choke on your words in response.

What Geto told you next is now a hushed murmur in the back of your head. It reverberates against your skull, pinballing against the walls of all that empty space and showing no signs of slowing down. It tells you to just say the magic word and it’ll be over, every last bit of Gojo’s borderline demands, washing away all of that white noise if only you’d breathe some life into it. That one word, the one that plagues your mind night and day, it begins to materialize upon your lips, poised and ready to spring into action, flexing on the tip of your tongue as if it were a wind-up toy.

Just say it already.

Just say no.

But you’re always holding your tongue around the both of them, together or alone, whether on the bony roof of your mouth or its flexible, fleshy floor, biting your words back for an eternity and more. Perhaps you were only faking yourself out, simply going through—no, barely feinting at the motions so you can come back to this chapter of your life and say that you tried. The moment passes, the pause your boyfriend gave at the sight of your mouth ajar long over, his words beginning to bleed into your reality once more.

And he’s saying, “I bought such a cute collar for you, too,” voice rising and falling with lovelorn disappointment. You can’t help but wince at his gentle timbre, all too painfully aware that such a small investment is far from the root of Gojo’s displeasure. You can hear it in his tone, too, how his carefree singsong runs steely as his thoughts begin to wander, settling on a resigned indifference.

So you wander, too. Tear your eyes from his in search of something, anything that might lend a reason to divert your gaze. Your fingers encircle white leather before you realize it, turning the thin strip over in absentminded idle, silver o-ring jingling in place. The metallic clank doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You should at least try it on before I return it, don’t you think?”

And you can’t find it in your heart to disagree, stiff choker tightening around your neck as he fumbles with the clasp. You trace the sanded edges before latching a finger—two fingers—beneath the leather material.

Perfect.

Perfectly irritating. Irritatingly perfect. It sits in the center of your neck without slipping, just snug enough that you can still breathe easy, comfortable and almost disturbingly so.

“Well?”

White lashes flutter idly as he considers your reflection as if studying it. And with the hint of a smile behind you, large hands on your waist in the mirror’s image, you start to think for the first time that the collar really is a pretty number, and a shame and a waste to throw away.

Because he looks so pleased now, creased cheeks and crinkled eyelids as he smooths his palms over your hips, like maybe you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever held. Because instead of the pouting you’ve come to expect, the declarations that you’re “no fun,” or that you’re “overreacting,” or that you need to “relax” you’ve come to accept, he simply brushes your hair to the side and rests his cheek against yours, warm breath just about tickling your chin.

It begs the question.

“Will you love me more if I do this for you?”

And it sends his eyes into a frenzied state, hungry void for pupils swallowing crystal irises with unabating greed, all frisky lashes and overeager ridges.

Ideally, he’d take your hands in his, tell you that that wasn’t his intention at all and beg for your forgiveness. Ideally, he’d hold you close, say that he loves you no matter what and promise to never push you this far again. You know all of these self-evident truths and more, yet you still can’t stop your heart from skipping a beat when he tells you, voice hushed in awe, triumph washing over you in spite of yourself:

“Of course I will.”

It’s different when you actually go through with it.

You try not to regret your decision immediately when you’re chained to Gojo’s hand in public, dog leash swinging in the wind as you round the campus loop. What a waste of a beautiful day for you to be hanging your head low, tips of your ears burning with shame. You don’t even believe that you’ve agreed to this yourself as you search the faces ahead of you for a trace of anyone you might know, pushing down the urge to cross your fingers behind your back.

But Gojo himself? He loves the lingering stares to tiny little pieces, practically basks in the attention as he pushes his sunglasses back so they rest above his hairline. Airy tufts of white spill over the tinted lenses, billowy strands coming to rest upon his forehead. When you think of it as your gorgeous boyfriend showing you off, it makes it all a little more bearable, has you standing up a little straighter. But your heart nearly stops every time you think you recognize the passerby, and eventually you dread the sight of absolutely anyone in the distance, for fear they will finally be a person who knows and calls you by name.

Gojo takes quick notice, realizes you hardly want to take another step in this undignified manner, and thinks to himself that there must be a better way to go about the arrangement.

His solution is to turn your walk of shame into a crawl of shame.

“On your fours,” he says, delighted when you actually crouch to the pavement, thankful for an excuse to hide your face. He ruffles your hair and slaps your hand away when you try to pull your skirt down, enamored by the way it rides up and reveals the lacy material below. You suppose it’s a trade-off you’ll just have to take, and in a confession that gets caught up your throat, you don’t wholly mind it: the pairs of eyes you can feel burning through you, though real or imagined you can’t be entirely sure. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were Gojo. It makes you wonder if anyone wishes they were you.

In the corner of your eye, you think you see someone sneaking a picture, but you don’t dare lift your head for a closer look. Instead you track the ground for rubble, hoping you’ll get away without scraping your knees, shaky line for a pair of lips as micro cuts come to crisscross your legs.

The rest of the walk is spent with you crawling the ground, light breeze tickling your backside, every part of you flaunted as if you’re Gojo’s most prized possession. You had better be, you think to yourself as you circle back to his building, and luckily enough, he’s about to make good on that expectation.

Maybe it’s the collar around your neck, or maybe it’s the surge of relief you get from returning, but by the time you meet the first glass door, you’re aching for whatever Gojo’s planned next.

He’s moving on predatory instinct the second you’ve set foot in his apartment, flushed lips curling around your own as soon as he pulls you up from all fours. A hollow knock sounds behind you as your heels strike the door, lower lip traced with a wet warmth until you’re gracious enough to grant him full access. He easily cages you with his entire frame, pressing that cute pink muscle in your mouth flat before writhing his own to the rhythm of his heartbeat, booming and ricocheting and alive.

It’s not nearly enough for either of you, of course, his hands beginning to roam all over your pliable form, all over his property, skirting along your outline and creeping closer still to the innermost curves of your contour cutout. Flitting fingers brush against your navel, dancing lower as you suck your tummy in by reflex, stopping right before the tingling bundle of nerves that just might explode as soon as he touches them.

But he takes pause instead, presses his forehead flush against yours, jewel colored eyes waiting on you with intent. You swear they can see right through you, even sheathed behind a cluster of wild white lashes, gauge everything there is to know about you faster than you can say “blue.” The moment freezes over, two bodies still and unmoving until you suddenly remember your need for air, gasping when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

Your body bounces back from the force with which he tosses you into the mattress, giggles erupting from your throat when he climbs atop of you, tugging at your leash. A thin stripe of saliva trails up and down the column of your neck, laving intermittently over the leather that encases your flesh. A coppery taste, of earth and salt and smoke, dances on his tongue as his front teeth sink into the stretch of your collarbone, nipping and sucking at the delicate flesh. You sink into the bed as you ease into his touch, but he doesn’t give you much time to get comfortable.

“Touch yourself, then,” he says, “if you like to be watched that much.”

It almost sounds like a suggestion, especially with the way in which he uses the lightest touch to brush the stray hairs from your forehead, but you know better than that. Your fingers fly to the wet patch on your panties, thin material almost see-through with your slick, working the fiber flat against dampened skin. An echo of a chuckle reverberates throughout the room as he watches you, undoubtedly pleased by the way in which the fabric clings to your already dripping folds.

Large hands have your legs spread wide open by the time you’ve traced the outline of your clit, your little show put on full display for him. They stay pressed against your thighs as you venture loose, round motions around your sensitive nub. Too timid. You tighten the circles into a coiled spiral, mustering the courage to go harder, faster, the friction of cotton against delicate skin drawing small mewls and sputters out of your trembling form. The delayed relief is sweet, your arousal crying into the pads of your fingers as you pick up the speed. The image burns itself into his brain, watchful eye unfaltering as you play yourself to your heart’s content.

The very air itself seems to buzz as you hold the other end of his gaze, thick fingers running along your sides as you start to roll your hips into the palm of your hand. He’s bent over you with the twitch of his pants, too worked up to remain a bystander any longer as he blows and sucks up your neck. The open-mouthed kisses only hasten the buildup, sensation shotgunning down your body from the surface of your nape.

But the coil in your core knots itself far too early for your taste, and you reel your hand back right before you can realize your peak. You opt to drag a lone finger down your slit instead, afraid that with too much pressure, you’ll come undone before Gojo has the chance to get his fill.

Too late, too slow; he takes notice of your negligence immediately, eyes darkening at the pitiful way your hand skitters with abashment. He pulls away from the crook of your neck to get a good look at your dwindling handiwork, smirking to himself when you shrink in response.

“Having a little trouble there?”

His voice is deceptively singsong as he takes your sluggish hand in his, guiding your knuckles back to that aching button that has you arching your back and curling your toes. He repeats the motion, half a mind to force an orgasm out of you right then and there when suddenly, a whimper—yours—sends his eyes darting back towards your own.

“No, not like this,” you say with strained breath, and he quirks an eyebrow in response, working your fingers into the fabric despite the interruption. “I want more, I need…” your voice trails off, a sorry attempt at stalling.

“Need what?” he asks as he catches on, shit-eating grin somehow audible without you even looking. You don’t know how he does it, how he locks his desires up as you squirm underneath him, waiting ever so innocently for a proper response.

“Need, need you,” you say under your breath, and he cocks an eyebrow, a clear sign of an underwhelming response.

“Oh? I couldn’t quite catch that, princess.”

As if.

“I need you inside of me. Please, claim this filthy cunt,” you whine, determined to play, determined to win. Your hips buck into your interlaced fingers, searching desperately for the one word that’ll send him over the edge and finding it as the leather accessory rides up your neck—as if to remind you of its existence—“Master.”

And it does, it sends a jolt of heat to his groin, has him kicking his pants off and pinning your wrists into the sheets. It’s got him surging with primal need, tugging the pathetic mess of your soaked panties to the side with limitless hunger.

Because even though he’s drawn many names from your lips before, they’ve always been ones he’s insisted on, ones he’s downright pestered you about. Even the simplest “Satoru” was, admittedly, a struggle to pry out of you the very first time you got tangled in his sheets; you shielded your eyes then, cheeks burning and voice low as you whispered it in his ear. And look at you now, sprawled out beneath him as you edge yourself with a hand steeped in your own concoction, begging for his cock with that delicious nickname of your own admission, and it rings throughout his head like an addictive melody.

Master.

You can hardly recognize the noises he fucks out of you for the remainder of the night. He showers you with an unsavory slew of awful names, phrases you’ve never even heard aloud before, tells you that you’re his “freaky cocksleeve” and a “bitch in heat” as he jerks your leash without warning. And that’s exactly what you are, twitching for him like an animal as he screws you senseless, the most guttural of responses rising from your throat as he asks:

“Who do you belong to?”

And of course you respond, between labored pants, “You, master,” muscles taut as you fight for air, fingernails scrambling for purchase on his back but finding absolutely none.

It’s not until you’re entangled in a breathless mass that he pulls your head into his lap, strokes your cheeks and coos that you’ve been a good fucking girl, a thick mixture of his seed seeping from your gaping hole.

Morning always comes when you least expect it, sneaking up on you and peeking through the blinds before you’re ready to get going.

Gojo’s still passed out cold when you creep out of bed, only the most languid of movements used to pry yourself out of the mattress as your arms and legs ache for need of rest. The dull pain humbles you, delayed post-nut clarity finally hitting as you rub into your bleary eyes.

It feels like you’ve been struck by a train.

Your gait is but a tiptoe as you stalk towards his dresser, trembling hands slowly rummaging for something, anything that can provide you some cover. Your classes are starting soon, and whether his are, too, or whether he’s simply skipping out today, you know better than to rouse him from his toil-induced slumber.

It’s nearly inaudible, the sound of the door closing behind you, clank of metal but a whisper as the soles of your shoes kiss up carpeted floor. You’ve left it unlocked, just the way your boyfriend likes it, a small assembly of what you hope he’ll recognize as breakfast perched upon the kitchen table—the last traces of your visit left behind in a neat and tidy little package.

Your eyes find Geto’s once you turn down the hallway, small black beads peering into yours before taking a lap around the block to assess the damage. He must not like what he sees, this tousled morning-after apparition, faint patches of indigo and violet creeping out from under your—no, Gojo’s—oversized sweatshirt, because it’s a solemn sigh that hits your ears next and not a “good morning” or even a simple “hey” that acknowledges you.

Because he knows your average person wouldn’t notice the marks, too sheltered by all that thick cotton riding up your neck, purposefully pulled up just far enough that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking. He knows your average person couldn’t have the slightest idea how you really scratched up your knees, pointillistic constellations of reddish purple threatening, however empty that threat is, to inch up your thighs. He scoffs.

“What do you even see in him?”

The words cloud the air before he’s completely aware of them, surprising the both of you as they surface.

You open and close your mouth like a fish out of water: for starters he’s charming, engaging, lively and free-spirited. He’s beautiful and he adores you, you want to say, but even though you have all the correct phrases picked out, all strung together in the same time and place, they don’t seem to roll off your tongue quite right.

You seem so tired, forced laugh falling short where it should flutter out of your mouth, the usual cotton candy you spout crystallizing before it can materialize.

“I could ask the same of you.”

It traipses out of your mouth before you can give it permission, easing itself into the atmosphere before sinking like a stone. Truthfully you don’t care to hear an answer, if only to avoid giving your own. You usher yourself out, pushing yourself past the towering wall of a human and stalking down the nearest stairwell.

Gojo knows just how to toy with your pride. But Geto? Geto knows how to slash it down to shreds.

The silence is deafening.

Geto sighs once you’re out of earshot, turning his heel to continue his trajectory. If anything, he didn’t want to run into you today, either. He cringes at the small collection you’ve no doubt assembled yourself, of iced matcha and a granola bar, staring him in the face as he stalks into the apartment. For some reason it only feeds into his mounting dread, the rising unease of what he might find waiting for him in the bedroom.

So he raps the bedroom door with his knuckles instead of barging in like he normally does, hoping in vain that he can get its sole inhabitant to lumber out himself. But of course Gojo doesn’t make it easy, letting out an obnoxiously loud yawn before stretching his lanky limbs with an equally obnoxious groan.

“You said to swing by this morning,” Geto half-yells, half says to himself, already prepared to turn tail and leave. He’s honestly surprised when he gets a legible response instead of the hungover mumbles he’s grown used to.

“Oh, that? Come in, it’s unlocked,” Gojo calls out, each syllable punctuated with tardiness. So Geto braces himself, puffing his chest out before giving the doorknob a firm handshake, stepping deeper into the belly of the beast.

Geto was prepared to see many things when he walked through that door. Something like lipstick stains and flavored condoms, S&M paddles and ribbed dildos. Instead he’s met with something completely other, the evidence already cleared away. Whatever late-night exploits you enjoyed are long gone, not a trace left behind by now, privy only to a grown man slumped over the edge of his mattress, grabbing around under the bedframe.

“Ahh, got it!”

With sleepy eyes Gojo lifts his head and presents to Geto the chrome colored box he’s fished out. It’s small and compact and ridiculously outdated, a conspicuous red button jutting out of its interface. He holds it up to his friend’s face, and the device finally registers.

A voice recorder.

“What, they still make those things?”

Geto schools his features easily, wiping the shock off his face before it can even materialize. It’s not exactly a lie; he knows he shouldn’t be surprised at all that Gojo has kept such an antiquated device for the occasion.

“You act as if you’ve never seen one before.”

It’s a smirk that’s plastered all over their faces now, one that nearly matches the one across from the other, and knowingly so. The two burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of it all, Gojo slapping his knee and Geto clutching onto his sides. They’re not sure who starts it, but one of them high fives the other.

Girls like you are oh so naïve.

Your wish is granted for about a week total.

Gojo keeps his promise, of loving you more and loving you better, throughout the remaining weekdays.

He takes you out for brunch, picks you up after class, and best of all, doesn’t ask anything more of you, doesn’t ask for anything better.

He opts to shower you with gifts instead, of stuffed animals and chocolates and bite-sized amenities, insisting that you take them all, no strings attached. Your nightstand overflows with his presents, mismatched tokens that remind you of his affection even when you’re not together. And although neither of you explicitly verbalize it, it seems like his way of apologizing. Silently.

You whole-heartedly accept.

This is the Satoru I fell in love with, you think to yourself as he pets your head one sunlit afternoon, grogginess setting in after a particularly big meal. You nuzzle into his lap and relish in the soft filtered light, sprawled out on your side on the living room sofa. He has you gazing upwards at a tap of the shoulder, all softened eyes and unkempt locks of hair, the smell of sandalwood and fresh dry cleaning enveloping you entirely as he leans in for a faint forehead kiss.

“What’s up?” you half ask, half mumble, eyelids heavy with sleep.

“Just wanted to see my princess’s face,” he says, a fleeting grin on his rosy lips. A hollow thud sounds as you play-punch him in the chest, but you roll over from your side to look up at him anyway.

“You happy now?”

“Overjoyed.”

The two of you lock eyes, slivers of white hair undoing themselves from behind his ear as your breath syncs up slowly, gradually. He stares at you with such longing that you would think you weren’t laying right atop of him, and you struggle to hold your ground.

“Are you—”

“Yup.”

You groan, eyes overcome with on demand prickling. “No thank you,” you proclaim as you squeeze them shut, uninterested in indulging him a staring contest. Moments pass and your eyes stay closed, a tide of tiredness washing over you. You loosen up, head rolling back as you allow yourself to relax.

Big mistake. He takes it as an invitation for his hands to descend upon you, attacking your sides in an attempt to tickle, and you jerk away instantly.

“What the—Sato, cut it out!” You bat his arms away, one eye open as uproarious laughter fills your ears.

“If you’re gonna fall asleep then at least let me lay down too,” he says, drawing out the last word as he props your upper half up. He takes your place on the sofa before pulling you on top, and you huff as you fall into a pile.

“Jerk.”

“Your favorite jerk, though.”

Oh, he definitely feels it when you smile into his chest.

The weekend arrives without issue.

Wednesday night you’re watching the sunset over melon sodas.

Thursday night you’re falling asleep on Facetime.

Friday night you’re in the midst of downtown Tokyo, multicolored lights casting your faces in ethereal glow as you work against the hustle and bustle of regulars and tourists. Karaoke songs eat up the most of your visit, Gojo’s voice slowly going scratchy until the crowd finally works the nerve to drag him offstage. You spend the remaining time hopping restaurants, ordering exactly one dish at each location, slowly working your way through a full course meal. The waitress who serves you nothing more than a plate of gyoza gets an especially generous tip.

Dessert is by far his favorite dish: a deluxe parfait, served in a tall, American-style glass and filled to the brim with sorbet. You can still taste the fruit toppings, fresh and fragrant and honeyed on your tongues as you swap saliva in the back of his car. He cups your face with one hand and holds the small of your back with the other, pressing dangerously close against your body. When you finally have the chance to breathe, a thread of spit trails between your lips, in memory of your union. It glistens in the color of the muted city lights, persevering through the window tint in all of their electric might. A mischievous glint reaches his eyes, and all of a sudden he’s pulling you on top of his lap.

“We can get away with this much, can’t we, princess?”

And you oblige, patch of wetness already creeping through your panties as he starts to move, clothed cockhead grinding against the curve of your ass. He’s louder than usual, quivering groans crumbling as they reach your ears, his hips rolling in stuttering motions. You feel as if you’re aflame, pulsating with need, decadent sweetness enveloping your senses every time he pulls in for a kiss, every time he grazes you with his pubic bone. Your clit sings with praises as he pushes you down by the hips, whispering how good you’re being for him, how gorgeous you look in the dress he bought you, and you make a silent wish in the faint moonlight that the moment will never end.

But it seems that good things always meet their end, and come Saturday night, the monster rears its ugly head again.

Because on Saturday night, Gojo’s got you hanging on his arm, the two of you ascending concrete steps to the usual place. Same group of people, different game every week. The two of you are greeted with sweet sighs and boozy smiles, clink of bottles surrounding you as they prepare this week’s drinking game. Gojo’s a lightweight and Geto sticks to designated-driver duty, so it usually works out just fine.

Just not this week.

If Gojo was the sun, then Geto was the moon.

It always seemed to Geto that his best friend had everything in the world he could possibly need: looks, charisma, and status, all readily available to him without much effort of his own. And honestly? He loathed him for that.

As soon as the clock strikes midnight, Geto knows there’s absolutely no way he’s making it to the party. Instead he opts to spend Saturday night alone in the comfort, or perhaps the prison, of his own room.

Because the sun is a star that births brilliance, instilling vitality and inspiring vigor wherever it goes. Whereas the moon only picks up in the after hours, left to guide the lost and the wandering in the nighttime. He feels like he’s always scraping the bottom of the barrel, the pool of women he can choose from limited to the gaggle of bumbling stragglers who lament, still, the absence of the blinding sun. And for the past twenty or so years of his life, those bumbling stragglers have not so much as glanced back at him, too enchanted by the liveliness of day.

Worst of all is that softheaded people, scatterbrains just like you, they think they can fix Gojo, super-fucking-nova Gojo who burns it all up, destroying everything in his course of direction. Part of Geto thinks it’s absolutely deplorable, the way in which pea-brained whores throw themselves at him, hankering for his attention and jumping through all the hoops necessary to get just that. But part of Geto also wants to have his own stake in the fun, and Gojo—pretty boy, genetic-lottery winner Gojo knows this all too well.

The glint of the moonlight taunts Geto as it reflects off the silver-toned box in his hand, bold “STOP,” “REC,” and “PLAY” lettering practically chanting his name in the dim illumination. He was told that the handheld device was safer with him, well out of your reach in the confines of his single dorm, and he supposes that’s the truth, what with the lack of foot traffic in this cramped room that lacks of fresh air and sunlight.

It’d be doubly safer if he’d just tuck the abomination away, stick it deep in the corner of his sock drawer or perhaps somewhere underneath the bed frame, but he’s kept it well in sight ever since he first laid hands on it. He clutches it tightly as if it just might disappear when he lets go; chances like these are rare for him, to be so close in proximity to the wanton whines of someone he knows and sees almost daily. And if it’s anyone’s fault that you’re still fucking an immature bastard, a privileged manchild who gets pretty much everything he wants, it most certainly isn’t his own.

It’s just so exhilarating, to be able to cradle the cool metal in one hand, throbbing cock in the other, drawstring sweats already halfway down as he thumbs at his flushed, pink head. He’s kicking his pants off as he leans into bed, flat of his slicked-up fingers laving over the sopping tip that cries and weep for release. He’s already imagining it, the kinds of o-shaped faces you make with a leash dangling from your neck, bubbling with excitement and intoxication and jealousy at the mere thought. But he doesn’t start the audio yet, fumbling for his stash of lotion before moving to fist his cock in its entirety, twitching creature red with excitement as he jerks it up and down.

It feels so intimate to him, the fact that you’re so close yet so far away, musical mewls available on demand whenever he so pleases. He quickens the pace, palm of his hand practically flattening the vein on the underside of his cock as he starts to buck his hips into his tightening fingers. He’d just love to ram his dick down your throat one day, but for now he’ll have to make do with his hands.

He hits “PLAY” with bitter determination.

The very first sound of crumpling bedsheets has him curling into a full-body tingle. He’s close, so close he can almost taste it, but he keeps his concentration on the audio speaker, waiting for something, anything to heighten his arousal. He sucks in the cold air between his teeth, curses threatening to pour from his lips at how right, how wrong it all feels. The anticipation is short-lived, however, broken by the sound of Gojo’s voice, just barely recognizable in the speaker’s tinny, superficial quality.

“My, my,” the silver-haired deviant says, corners of his mouth undoubtedly upturned as he leans into the microphone.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Geto?”

The voice recorder hits the floor at the sound of his own name, blood pressure rising as his arms and legs tense up in disbelief. His own orgasm slips away and out of reach in an instant, petering out in wretchedly slow motion as his stiff cock throbs with pitiful languor. He wants to laugh, he wants to cry, wants to curse the world for ever thinking you were actually within his reach, wants to chuck the accursed gadget across the room and watch it scatter across the floor in glittering smithereens. Or maybe he just wants to cradle his head and sink into the ground, face his back to the despicable device for the rest of the night as the cold seeps into his sides, but he’s not even sure where the damn thing skittered off to and his head is spinning and his eyelids clench shut and the world just grinds to a halt.

Gojo doesn’t take the news well.

Gojo doesn’t want to take it at all.

You’re chatting up the party’s host, a premed student in the same year as him, when you first notice him glancing at his phone.

“So how are things? Between you two, I mean,” Shoko asks as she follows your gaze.

“Couldn’t be better” is your absentminded answer, and she stifles a laugh—a perfect relationship with the Gojo Satoru? But you’re only half listening as she expresses her disbelief, eyes never quite leaving Gojo’s back as he shifts away from the mass of people and shuffles towards the windows, cell phone in balled-up hand.

The first call is inconspicuous enough—Geto has a habit of running late, after all. But when you excuse yourself to the bathroom and come back find to Gojo still holding the phone to his ear, half crouched with his lips screwed up in a pout, you know something’s off. Part of you doesn’t want to take your place beside him, but he pulls you down by the wrist, grip strong enough to leave dime-sized bruises.

They’re explaining the game of the night before you can ask him what’s up: a pitcher of beer will round the group of players, all sat in a circle on the carpeted floor, each and every one taking turns trying to steal the last drop. It’s a familiar setting, the music but a hum in the background as the participants buzz with idle chatter, but the person beside you feels alien somehow. The woolen material pills underneath your toes as you curl them into little balls, eyeing him with a sideways glance. You know better than to raise the issue when his foot’s tapping the floor with such force, rapid rhythm almost matching the incessant pace with which he thumbs at his phone. He’s calling Geto three, four, five times before changing tack, demanding an explanation through text.

Shallow breaths are all that fill your lungs as you keep as still as possible, trying your best to get a good read on the screen. If the slump in his shoulders is any indicator, you’re sure he’s seething at the words that light it up. But before you can make out a single phrase, he’s slamming the phone down with one hand, clenching the pitcher of freshly poured beer with the other.

His turn to take the first swig.

He ends up gulping until you’re sure he’s out of breath.

“Whoa there, Satoru,” the person next to him says when he sets the pitcher down, nearly emptied. “What the fuck was that?”

His wrist rises to wipe the corner of his mouth and he exhales sharply, as if his simple reply requires strenuous effort.

“DD bailed on us,” he announces, “fucking flake.”

“Maybe we should have you sober up, then,” someone else, likely Shoko, calls out from across the room.

The change in his demeanor is instant.

“Ah, we’ll make it back in one piece, won’t we?” Gojo’s glance darts sideways, playful lilt betraying the ice he has for eyes.

The room hushes, waiting for an answer, and you sit up straight when you realize who he’s asking. You quirk an eyebrow, amused. With his cheeks already flushed, what seems to be a pointed gaze unfocused and glassy, you can’t help but beg to differ. You know the answer he wants to hear with every bone in your body. But every fiber in your being knows the truth.

“Bullshit.”

The entire room erupts and it’s decided, against his will, that you’ll be spending the night.

Everything falls apart from there.

Shoko shows you to a guest room once the others begin to clear out, dark circles carved out by cool white fluorescents that cast shadows behind her puffy eye bags.

“Sorry it’s so small,” she says, gesturing at the lone mattress, creeping moonlight like a spotlight on its linen-lined surface.

“It’s everything we could ask for,” you say as Gojo falls into bed, sprawling out against the twin sized sheets. “Thanks for letting us crash.” She shoots him a tight lipped smile before placing a deft hand on your shoulder, brown locks cascading as she leans into your ear.

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

The night is long and never-ending.

Teeny tiny bits of skylight taunt you from above as Gojo proceeds to keep you awake well past twilight. He’s tossing and turning in the guest bed, kicking the blanket off the both of you with spiteful purpose, inviting in the cool night breeze. It nips you from your face to your toes, colder still even as he tightens his hold on you, and you decide to finally break the silence.

“You still mad about that one thing I said?”

He scoffs, huff of breath like a shot to your neck.

“You seriously have to ask?”

You tense up immediately, spine straightening flat against his chest as he continues, edge to his voice swelling as it looms behind you. “Honestly, who do you think you think you are? Always acting like you’re better than me.” Razor thin needles lodge themselves into your scalp as he pulls your hair back, your chin meeting chilled air as you offer up a whimper.

“It’s not like that.”

He only tightens his grip on your hair, pulling it back harder still.

“Think I need to remind you of your fucking place,” he mumbles as he presses into you, something stiff rocking against the fat of your thighs.

“Not here,” you breathe, eyes widening as you realize his intent, the alcohol in your system seeming to swirl in your head. He staggers his hips in response.

“Wasn’t a problem in the car.”

“Satoru, they might hear us,” you say, the steel in your voice cracking as his free arm snakes around your side, searching for the hem of your pants. “Mercy,” you try again, the familiar, agreed upon safe word sounding foreign and unfamiliar when it comes out but a croak. It hurtles from the shelter of your lips, forever lost as the strain in his pants only grows, breath going ragged as he ruts into your hips.

“Just let me have this.”

And he revels in the way in which he easily overpowers you, enamored in how his towering frame nearly swallows you whole. When a particularly loud groan—one you’re sure anyone in a neighboring room can overhear—escapes his lips, you blister with shame, burying your face in the pillow, limbs aching for need of sleep.

And then his breath hitches as he chases after fireworks and explosions, captivated by the way that you squirm in vain. His palms claim your hips as his own, cockhead grinding behind you, servicing himself with feverish concentration. He presses your side into the mattress, ass cheeks squeezing together like a homemade fleshlight, and you arch your back in a sorry attempt at evasion.

He groans in response, knees buckling together as he brushes up against the makeshift curve, and you stop struggling altogether. Your body buzzes from the touch, head swelling like a balloon, skin crawling from the jerky movements as you go limp as a ragdoll.

“God, you’re so good to me,” he says, praise anything but endearing when it hits your ears. It’s the same kind of acclaim he gave up just the night before, but it cheapens as he repeats it, banal phrase playing over and over in your head. He’s still humping your butt when he cums, shaky and delirious as he rides out the high, profanities rolling off his tongue until he’s shuddering himself to sleep. All is still once he’s blacked out from the stimulation, pitter patter of salted frustration the only movement left over as it soaks the pillowcase through and through.

You lay awake, caged by his toned muscle, trapped by his carbon curses, praying for sleep until the birds begin to chirp. They sing a song that they borrowed from the night, a harrowing lullaby that has you in a panic, slipping out of his grasp as you crawl out of bed.

By the crack of dawn you’ve tiptoed into a cab, belongings clutched tight to your chest, apartment complex shrinking in the distance, but it never seems to get further away.

Geto hasn’t breathed a word about the voice recorder.

Geto doesn’t want to think about it all.

He’s paying for it now with a barrage of daily phone calls from none other than Gojo himself, who dials him day and night and morning, no regard for moderation. Geto regards the fallout as both of their instant karma, still miffed by the prank he’d just fallen for, but unwilling to reveal his folly. He fills the role of trusty confidant nonetheless, his betrayal as M.I.A driver long forgotten. It’s a spectacle, the frenzy Gojo is bound in, and he might as well watch from a front row seat.

But he hasn’t made a full recovery yet, forever irked at the pretty privilege Gojo takes for granted, the privilege he downright hoards for himself, barking into the speaker when he feels his blood begin to boil.

“Seriously, what did you do this time?” He wants to tear his hair out at Gojo’s stupidity, his utter lack of tact, wants to pull out his front teeth and pulverize the dental tissue into a fine powder when he’s met with momentary silence.

It’s been a few days since you left the guest bedroom alone in the wee hours of morning, and Gojo hasn’t been able to get ahold of you since. You haven’t been answering his texts, his calls, Christ, he even tried your personal email, and now Geto finds himself shouldering the brunt of his correspondence, trying everything in his power to get him to calm the fuck down, albeit fruitlessly.

“Nothing we haven’t done before,” Gojo insists once he’s found his choice of words, spitting them out one by one, raking stiff fingers through colorless locks. “I got a little handsy, but it was seriously nothing.” Geto shakes his head and rubs his temples; nothing isn’t enough to make you walk out on him.

“If you’re telling the truth, then stop worrying already.” A stray section of his bangs fall forward, sweeping over his eye as he slumps over in his chair. “But if you’re lying—” he starts, cut off by the sound of chaste knocks, an unassuming 1-2-3 kissing up at his door before he can finish.

Saved by the mystery visitor.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d sigh relief, eager to break away from the droning and moaning of the spoiled brat on the other line. Instead he gives pause, as if weighing the cost of answering the door against the merit of staying put on the phone, moment’s hesitation only giving way to a guaranteed getaway.

“Hold on, I need to get this,” is all Geto says as he hangs up the phone, equal parts appreciative and skeptical of the person at his door. He isn’t exactly friendly with anyone on his floor, and few would show up here without asking first, so he peers through the peephole, curiosity getting the better of him.

And lo and behold, speak of the devil, it’s Gojo’s missing girlfriend, standing alone with her hands twisted together.

Amazing. You’re quite literally the very last person he wanted to see right now.

“Do you have any idea how worried he is?” Geto snaps when he answers the door. You have no idea what kind of mess he has on his hands. “Go and make up with your boyfriend already.” He moves to close the door but you react quickly, wedging yourself before the doorframe, eyes wide and pleading.

“I’m in trouble, so please...” You scramble for something half believable. “I can’t turn to anyone else.” He laughs in your face, eyebrows quirked with mirth at how genuine it almost sounds.

Almost.

“Don’t give me that.”

“No, I mean it,” you press on, unwilling to admit that anyone else who’d listen to your cries for help, from trusted family to doe-eyed friends, would undoubtedly have you in a beeline for the authorities. “You—you’re the only other person who can put up with Gojo.”

That gets him stopping in his tracks.

“Barely,” he scoffs, but the pressure on the door lets up. He hates that you have a point there. Hates that he can’t look away from Gojo and his silly antics and his daring ploys and especially hates that he has that in common with you. He wants to turn you away but you look so hopeful, ignoring the dulling pain of the door trying to crush your foot flat.

He bites the bullet.

“You know he’ll be pissed if he finds out you came to me first, right?” You screw your lips together when he cracks the door slightly.

“Well, he doesn’t really have the right at the moment,” you sniff, barging in when he lets go of the door completely.

The room is impossibly smaller than you ever imagined, in direct contrast to all the empty space in Gojo’s rental. It’s a wonder how all his necessities fit in the cramped shelves and tiny drawers, and you almost marvel at the scale of it until the sound of wood on vinyl tiling snaps you back to focus. A few stray articles of clothing are plucked from the ground and chucked to the corner before he’s pulling two chairs up, one for you and one for him. Once he’s sitting, you have his full, unadulterated attention.

Not that you know what to do with it.

It takes a while to find your voice, fiddling with your fingers as you try, unsuccessfully, to hold his gaze. There’s no clock but you swear you can hear the second hand ticking. The curtain’s closed but you’re sure you can feel the heat of the sun disappearing. You’re certain that it ebbs below the curve of the horizon as you watch, timidly, the tap of Geto’s wooden sandal. It remind you of the clack of Gojo’s dress boots, impatience slowly exceeding its carefully drawn bounds.

You time out a moment of silence.

And then another.

And then another, until Geto is staring you down expectantly, pinpricks for eyes. You take the hint.

“I said it.” You look down, fidgeting with your shirt. “I said no.”

His eyes soften immediately, struck by the raw edge of your voice, your inability to look him in the eye.

“And he didn’t respect that?”

“He touched me. When I asked him to stop.” The words have to force themselves out your throat, the little bit of courage you have all that keeps the walls from collapsing in completely. You take as deep of a breath as you can manage when the memory flickers through your mind, clear as yesterday. “He—he fucked me through his clothes.” Your head’s buried in your hands as you fold into yourself completely, rocking in place, and something rages inside of Geto.

“Wait, what?” Geto looks at you incredulously, disbelief scrawled all over his face, eyes narrowing when you keep your head down. “Through his clothes?”

You nod slowly, knowingly, and he feels as though the world is spinning all over again. The ground seems to shift beneath him as your face contorts in pain, saltwater already beading up along your lower lashes. That’s it? That’s what this entire circus is on about? He cards his hands through his hair as he tries to process it, shaking his head when you fail to respond. That’s all it takes for your whole body to quake, hard lumps bubbling up your throat at the bite of his words, breath stuttering irregularly as your windpipe starts to clench up.

And then you’re crying, body wracked with hiccups as you try to quell the chills crawling up your skin. Your chest heaves in a sorry attempt to keep up with the lurch of your lungs, sputtering as you try to suppress your voice.

“God, you’re all so fucking annoying.”

He watches you bubble over, feeling his own emotions swell as they hit a critical mass, stomach churning at the sight. You couldn’t manage a comeback if you wanted to, a blubbering mess as you try to wipe your eyes dry. The small bit of composure that’s kept him whole these past few days finally snaps when the tears trail down your hands, no end in sight in the onslaught of waterworks.

“I bet you wanted it,” he continues, unfazed by the fattening tears, fingertips digging into his thighs as he spots the yellowed bruises he jacks off to at night. He leers at the fading brown and imagines them overlaid with fresh, new marks, gleaming blush and fiery crimson. “I bet sluts like you don’t care what happens as long as they get dicked down in the end.” A quiet sob tumbles out of you and your cheeks tingle with hurt, like you’ve been backhanded once, then twice.

“It’s n-not like that,” you finally manage to say, gasping through choked noises as he creeps closer, cloaking you in shadow. He stares vacantly from his vantage point, as if looking at an ant on the tiles.

“Then why don’t you walk away for real?”

And that’s exactly what you should be doing right now, cornered by a large man in his dark, dingy room, but by the time you think to stand up he’s grabbing you by the wrists. He sends you barreling into the desk, spinning you around so your hands clutch the edge, chest pressing up against the surface. He pins an arm behind you with ease, kicking your legs wide open, and you flail the other in no particular direction.

“You secretly enjoy all of it, don’t you? You secretly get off on the idea of being raped by your boyfriend.” He sneers as you buckle underneath him, grazing his growing erection. “All worked up over a little dry humping? Get over yourself already. You females want to be hurt so bad.”

“Fuck you,” you manage between muffled sobs, chest feeling as if it’s about to break in half. “You’re j-just like Gojo.”

“Just like Gojo?” Geto echoes, free hand coming to snake between your thighs, voice catching as he speaks. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

You fall limp as he draws a single finger under your panties, tracing your hipbone as he muses. He imagines their contents, imagines how easy it would be to take you by force, sighing aloud at the prospect of doing it without.

“I can never be him.”

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