#“ill unlive you” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mooishbeam · 1 year ago

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『♡』 Brittle is Devotion

♡ featuring: ex-husband!toji x f!reader

♡ summary: it's been a while since you've seen your ex-husband, and on a drunken night, buried feelings emerge. wc: 12.2k+ (bruhhh)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of violence/blood, angst/comfort, rekindled feelings, rough sex, missionary, prone bone, full-nelson, overstimulation, cervix fucking, creampie, m/f receiving, throat fucking, sadism/masochism, dom/sub dynamics, squirting, fingering, praise/degredation kink, dumbification, edging, breeding kink, feral toji mmm, pet names (angel, sweetie, baby)

notes: good morning!! hope everyone is having a lovely day, i am so so so so sorry i haven't posted in so long i didnt abandon the account!! i've just been getting it together before the semester starts, and i didnt expect for it to be this long :(( im very tired but ill try to get some stuff out in the next couple of weeks, most likely long fics too. ty so much, and srry for any spelling mistakes. art by ilameys_ on ig! <;3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Picking up the pieces after Toji is rough. The divorce was bad enough, and you currently have an aching pain stilling in your chest that makes it hard to take the shallowest breaths. It hammers in the tight confines of your ribcage, and as you sob into your pillow the only relief you desire is sleep, so that you may have temporary solace from the grief wrecking your brain. Your new apartment feels entirely too shallow. There’s no crumby television to use because you were too broke to afford the higher-end appliances, or that creaking mattress you both squeezed into until you could thrift a reasonable headboard. You missed the 60s style tiles painted a horrific green in your kitchen, and the shower that ran out of hot water every other day. It was terrible, downright unlivable for most, but you had each other.

It hurts more because you love him. So much. Unbearably, to the point where you screamed at the top of your lungs until your throat scratched through angry hot tears, begging him to care for a moment, to give you a reason to stay. Countless times, threatening to walk out if he didn’t endeavor to change. But he never believed you. He thought you’d never leave, because all you had was him.

And it was true, for years it was. Toji was your dream man; funny and thoughtful. It wasn’t conventional kindness, but it was his. Money didn’t matter—even as you enjoyed a frozen meal on the floor of your empty apartment in the first couple months of moving in with him, you had a smile on your face. Even when your friends and family begged you not to marry him, because they couldn’t stand the sight of him and his arrogant, sometimes aggressive candor, you went on with it anyway. You knew who he really was at heart.

He was your first everything, you felt if he left, you’d melt to nothing and become a shell of who you once were, because Toji had become an extension of you. You waited for him to get home, had dinner, and slept through the outside commotion of cars and bar fights; his securing arm locked around you, hand cradling your head and legs intertwined. There was no one like him.

He knew that and got greedy.

To you, the change was fast, but it’d been spreading like a nasty mold for years. You’d sunk so deep you hadn’t noticed the drought until you reached the bottom. He taught you love, then pulled away; separated himself with additional shifts and pathetic excuses. In turn you punished yourself, showered him with heavier instances of love and endearment, and convinced yourself you needed to try harder. If the sex wasn’t daily, you gave him more. If he didn’t like the food, you learned how to be a better chef. If the house wasn’t clean, you scrubbed top to bottom. Wringing a tired towel, dry of sacrifice. Chasing after him until the soles of your feet blistered. Still, not a smidge of praise or approval came to fruition. When he did—which was rare—those peppered spaces ignited a lasting burn in your heart, keeping withering fire alive.

Soon, those fleeting kisses and distant pauses weren’t enough, and he didn’t care enough to change. You’d plead and cry at his feet, and he’d scoff and walk past you.

“We’ll talk about it later”, he’d say more often than not. You didn’t have the confidence to leave, and he consumed himself with whatever underground work he participated in, while you decayed in a declining marriage.

A grimace on his face, laid back on the couch and looking at you expectingly, as if you would drop to your knees and service him in a heartbeat—but you did exactly that. And you were tired, utterly tired of pulling the emotional and mental leaden baggage on your own. It was heavy, and you were crushing yourself underneath it. You still loved him with every inch of your being, and you’d do it all for him, but it couldn’t be just you anymore. He came home one fateful night to you sitting at the dining table, spotlighted under the stark glass pendant lamp in your dark apartment, dejection that foreshadowed the unfortunate end.

“Do you love me?” He gazed at your solemn face and scratched his head.

“Mhm.”

“Will you change?”

“No.”

That’s what you needed to hear. The next week, while he was at work, you gathered your clothes and measly possessions to leave. You sobbed the entire way through, shaking with uncertainty and fear of the unknown—unsure about a future without him. As you slid the dissolution of your marriage on the counter, the sudden reality made you unable to control your knees as you dropped to the floor, and tears spilled down your cheeks and freckled the papers. Luckily, Shoko was there to comfort you and help pack your things. The corners of that confinement spared a gentle, loving memory, and vitriol was left in its wake. Turning back to its hollowness for the last time, you imagined Toji, plopping onto the couch as he’d usually do to watch some late-night television show or going to bed. Like you weren’t there.

Maybe you never mattered in the first place.

It’s been a year since, and things are looking up for you. An opportunity surfaced in a field you were interested in applying for, and you miraculously got the job. Moving over a city helped you adjust to your new life—that, and a bottle of dark burning liquor. No matter how much you mindlessly typed at your computer or partied with coworkers, you couldn’t stomach the pit gorging through you, a hole that surfaced everything you’d been burying.

You’re not prepared to face the forlorn mock of your bleached walls today. As you pry your eyes open, the flickering shimmers through your sheer curtain cast across unattended sheets, soothed by stuffed animals strung along the comforter. You reach for something that isn’t there in your groggy state—a gentle reminder that your morning would be just as empty as yesterday.

Today isn’t any other; it’s what would’ve been your five-year anniversary. One year, of new beginnings and new friends. A year of solitude.

You don’t bother slinking out of bed. The accumulation of tasks awaiting you is more daunting than the actual execution. In an attempt to regain control of your life, you established a healthy routine. It entails waking up at early hours to exercise and work on projects and meal prep, and ending your night early with extra exercise and skincare. It was amazing at first and quelled your sadness. What they didn’t inform you of, was the spectacle; the appearance and perception of perfection, and not the struggles or gradual burnout of maintaining that lifestyle. When the distraction died down, and work and social activities became a congealed, monstrous chore, you quickly resented those limp salads and vomit-inducing runs.

You expel a loaded sigh and pull the covers over.

The vibration of the phone buzzing on your stomach peels your eyes awake. You allow it to pass, but it rings again. From a frustrated exhale, your languid hands muster the strength to flip to its notification; Shoko’s calling.

“Hello?” you mutter, fatigue caught in your throat.

“Fuck, you sound like hell!” she replies. The repetitive clack of office keyboards and analog phones being slammed by stressed out coworkers distorts the background. Thank God I used my paid time off.

“I love you too, Shoko.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean it like that…you ok?” It’s much sweeter. Shoko has always been a supportive friend, perhaps bordering on too supportive. You cherish her motherly concern, and rather vulgar honesty.

“Mm, I’ll manage.”

“I can come over after work.” You flip onto your back, soaking in the mild sunlight.

“S’alright, I’m sure you’re busy, and I might sleep in. Wallow in sorrow for a few hours.” Shoko drawls a dramatic groan and creaks back in her chair.

“Nothing good comes out of feeling sorry for yourself. Go to the club or somethin’.”

“‘N how’s that gonna help?”

“Better than whining at home. Wear something sexy, look pretty and get laid. That’s how I get over shit.”

“Mm, right. I don’t know if that’s gonna work” you giggle, toying with one of the ears on your stuffed bunny.

“Oh yeah, forgot you’re the born-again Virgin Mary now. You know… if you want to get over ‘him’, you have to take the first step.” You can envision her air quotations. She treats his name as forbidden speech, and regularly refers to it in conversation as “he who shall not be named.”

“Ugh, mother Shoko’s speaking.”

“Listen, it may or may not work. Don’t knock it ‘till you try it is all I’m saying.”

“Yea? Well, if he has a tiny dick, I’m blaming you.”

“Nothing wrong with shellfish.”

The last curl falls in place, and you follow it up with copious amounts of hairspray. Fanning your bathroom after a drawn out coughing fit, you get a good look at your figure in the mirror. The backless lacy black dress you’re wearing hugs you in all the right places and guides the detail sitting tight under your butt. It’s undoubtedly revealing, coupled with strappy heels and a dark cat eye.

You walk past your vanity and pause at the messy jewelry box, riddled with remnants of Toji’s adoration. Sparkling varieties of heavy necklaces and rings and precious diamonds; ninety percent of your jewels were because of him. You’d asked if he stole the items he gifted you, and he’d come up with an elaborate sarcastic story about a jewelry heist he carried out, and how appreciative you should be. Buried underneath rested your engagement ring, a sparkling cut that crowded your entire finger. You couldn’t bring yourself to pawn it, opting to occasionally revel in its beauty before shoving it in a far corner with your feelings.

Shoko wasn’t lying about how sexy you’d feel dolled up, and it shows in your confidence as you modeled around your bedroom, striking poses to no one. Your plushies weren’t very appreciative of the full-blown fashion show, but you hadn’t felt like this for a long while. Maybe it was about time you entered the dating scene.

The entrance to Infinity appears as a run-down tacky club from an outdated era, and it’s easy to miss the multicolored flashes dotting the black tinted glass on each side. A few steps past the black and white checkered vestibule, and you get to experience the scale of a roaring, clashing club. It’s not half as lively on the outside; sweat dripping under twinkling lights of multicolor, bodies colliding and moving to the melodic sway of erratic music vibrating through the floor, freely drowning and expelling their insecurities, deepest struggles. It’s both welcoming and hopeless.

A woman balances her shot glass as she gyrates against a stranger while another stumbles off the dance floor in a drunken stupor. The heat and screams are overstimulating, circulating around you. You consider withdrawing, especially since you held some reservations about partying solo. However, this is what you need, to get comfortable with doing things by yourself.

So you down shots, two, three, burning of different varieties that heighten your body temperature and nerve. You throw back a mix of dark and white liquor, a dangerous combo that dizzies your vision and runs up an unfathomable tab you can't afford. The strangers accompanying you at the counter encourage you. No rational thoughts, let alone decision making, register in your alcohol-sodden mind. Like strings being fielded by a puppeteer, your legs move on their own to the dance floor.

It’s hot. The blurring iridescence bends to produce shapes that make your fuzzy brain giggle for some odd reason. You’re moving in slow motion, and the world’s continuing at max speed. You don’t care either way. You’re light on your feet, and the music goads you to dance. Spinning, hands tangled between your locks traveling down the curve of your thighs, hearing the lyrics inside and out as if no one is watching.

You dance with women and men alike, anyone willing to help you overlook your heartache. It’s floaty, an airiness that spills sober thoughts from cotton mouth and makes every touch electrifying. It’s in your legs and arms, your restless feet and fingers. You laugh hysterically, incomprehensibly, and switch to sadness in a heartbeat. These aimless bodies, just as lost as you, drinking to your despair. Was it worth the abyss tomorrow held, or the agonizing headache as a result?

After those dances, mainly flailing efforts at rhythm, your head is barreling. You’re suffering from a heavy case of vertigo at the slightest turn, and your stomach’s riddled with knots. It hits you like a car crash, and you strive to stabilize yourself as bile fills your throat, cringing when you reluctantly swallow. A disorienting slurry of words and faces ask you things you cannot hear or see, and it suddenly becomes too real.

In few sparse moments, your life plays before you in stop motion. From heaving over the toilet while a lady with long nails held your hair back, to knocking the drink out of someone’s hand on your way out. Now you’re walking on one heel and holding the other. You might’ve popped a nail if not for security holding the door open. They attempt to flag you, but you reply with a curt slurred “‘M fine.”

You push your knees together, sitting on the corner of a curb. This isn’t how you expected the night to end. It’s pitch black beside street lamps, and awfully quiet in contrast to inside. Shivers ripple through you despite the persistent warmth pooling in your ears. You lean on a street lamp in the calm cold as people leave, probably running to participate in intimate affairs with their acquaintances. The gentle hand on a waist or shoulder forms a subconscious smile; young, passionate love blooming on a random night.

And you burst into tears.

Ugly tears streaming down your face in blobs that don’t stop no matter how much you wipe them, followed by deep sniffles. They smear across your phone while you search for a taxi app, and your cloudy eyes deceive you.

You jolt when a hand brushes against your arm and turn to meet the foggy face of a man with stubble. You wipe your wet cheeks and lean further from him.

“Hey baby, you alright?” The pet-name makes you shudder. You definitely don’t know him, and at this point there’s no one outside.

“Wh’re you?” you garble.

“Kusakabe. Where ya off to?”

“Waitin’ for uh frien’” Your eyelids waver, failing to stay alert under the frightening stare burning holes through your skull.

“A friend, huh…you gotta man?” he asks, stepping closer to you. You back away to the side of the light.

“Go away.” You’re definitive, but he laughs as if it were the ridiculous request of a child.

“I like that dress. You look hot.” His hand drags along the strap of your dress, but you nudge his hand.

“Mm’get off me. N’don’ need your help.” He scoffs with offense, and as you go to leave, he grabs your wrist firm.

“Relax. Tryna go home with someone tonight?” You’re trembling, tugging with as much force as you can muster in your punch-drunk state, but he doesn’t budge.

“L’ve me alone”

“Don’t be like that, baby. I’ll call a cab-”

Whack! Your wrist goes limp, and the crunch and crack of flesh hitting concrete echoes. You sluggishly pan to him, knocked out cold beyond the spotlight. The influence takes you, however, and you nearly find yourself joining him on the sidewalk. Before you can fall, a broad, rough hand supports your lower back. Their deep gritty tone is inches away from you.

“C’mon, sweetheart.”

You rise from an unusually sweet slumber. The light shines through your eyelids, unavoidable even when you maneuver the velvety warm blanket for shade. Your eyeballs shift across thin skin being prodded by intrusive sun, and as they crack open, you catch a glimpse of the glass coffee table in front of you, arranged with perfection resembling a furniture showroom. You smile to yourself half-asleep, wondering when you bought such an expensive item, and how an abundance of sunlight made its way through your average window. You’re drifting off anew.

Then, you shoot up.

You start to really take in the surroundings, and when you do, a pit drops in your stomach. An ultra-wide flat screen television faces you, decorated with plants on either side. Craning your neck, the long windows of this penthouse line the adjacent wall up to the ceiling, which hangs a glass geometric chandelier. This isn’t your bedroom, nor your apartment.

Instantly you switch to sitting, and recoil just as fast. Pain envelops the wrinkles of your brain, and you wince from abrupt tension. You palm the bridge of your nose.

“Fuck” you whisper. Last night replays in your head through staccato bursts, though you couldn’t remember the minutes before you passed out. Embarrassment creeps onto your ears at the freak show you performed hours ago. You’d made a fool of yourself, puked and tripped like a sloppy drunk college girl. You can’t be more ashamed, and to top it off, you’re in the house of a stranger you possibly slept with. You look down from the smooth sectional sofa, and notice your heels arranged neatly beneath you with your phone and bag. At the very least, the man you engaged with seems to be accommodating.

You scurry to put your heels on, and hopefully sneak out in silence before you face further humiliation. Something about this blanket smells familiar; musk and oakmoss and man, grazing across your nose like the aroma in an intimate embrace, the earthy dew of calm before a storm, a trace only you can understand.

“Finally up?”

It’s that gravelly smoky voice you lived in for five years, and some before that. The voice you fell asleep to, mumbling nonsense in your ear through boorish snores. The voice you fell in love with, easily saying “I do” when you wedded at the courthouse. The voice you resent, saying nothing at all when you cried.

You look behind you, and there he is, walking down the staircase. He’s wearing boxers, settled under the tufts of hair running down his belly button. His rugged muscles peek out from the untied black robe dangling to his strong calves. His hair grew out a bit since you’ve last seen him, shaggy bedhead running across his eyes and covering his ears.

He smirks the same, though, sweet and soft for such a dour man, like nothing ever happened, approaching you while you sneer at the cruel joke bestowed upon you.

“Toji.” You haven’t said it in forever. It’s abashing how quickly your regularly tense shoulders relax in his proximity.

“How ya feelin’? Hope the couch was comfortable enough, figured you wouldn’t wanna sleep in my bed” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he stretched his sturdy back.

“It was fine.”

There's an awkward quiet afterwards. The air’s thick, glass straining under pressure, threatening to give way at the smallest disturbance.

Toji clears his throat. “So, um...you need somethin’? Water?”

“No” you bark, folding your arms across your chest. You can’t look at him, not without feeling enraged. You’re the afterthought, the chaser, rushing after a man who wouldn’t dare look twice. “How’d you even know I was there?”

“Coincidence” he replies, and you scoff. He couldn’t get away with lying to you; playing games with moves you’ve lost to countless times.

“Like hell it was a coincidence. I’m in a completely different city now, what were you doing there?” You have to physically bite back the words begging to spill from your mouth as his head wanders in thought, possibly concocting another fabrication.

“Had business”

“Oh, I’m supposed to believe the man who hates keeping a job had ‘business’. Okay.” You don’t acknowledge the extravagance of the apartment he must be paying for monthly. That, or a chain of illegal activities—whatever assumption suited your irritation in the moment.

“Well, ya wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said, anyway” he chides. You’re a shaken bottle ready to explode, and his nonchalant demeanor only eggs you on. Toji’s perpetually dismissive, looking down on you like a pitiful puppy.

“Because you’re always full of shit” you snap. He exerts a loaded sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, as if he had any right to be tired of the situation.

“’M not lyin’.”

“Right.” You observe your surroundings more. It’s too opulent, pricey vases you wouldn’t expect from the ex-husband that once thought hanging jackets in the doorway was “decoration.” Definitely not fit for a single guy. You’re separated, and you know it's not your responsibility to keep tabs on his sex life, but that caviling thought won’t stop taunting you. How could he get over it so soon?

“If you were just gonna bring me back to your fuck pad, I should’ve slept on the curb. Who knows how many girls you’ve had here.”

He gets eye-level, sitting on the coffee table with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together like a drained salaryman, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? You can’t be serious. Like you never do anything wrong, like everything that’s happened until now is somehow my fault and you did nothing, nothing, to contribute to the bullshit. Stop acting like a fucking victim.”

“Little lady, you got shitfaced, and some guy was tryna take your drunk ass home. You’re lucky you went home with me instead.”

“I could’ve handled it; I don’t need you for anything-”

“You could barely keep your eyes op-”

“I would’ve handled it! Just like I handle everything else. Alone. Every time. It gets done, I’m not incompetent, Toji!”

You could hear a pin drop in the stillness. Those forested eyes are gazing into your soul. It’s said and done, and you’ve got it off your chest, yet it hurts like a freshly sliced gash. The arguing doesn’t change, married or not. It sucks when you shout, uncontrollable like a blazing fire, only to be snubbed out by his calm, condescending tone.

“...I know.”

You can’t take it, it’s stifling being near him. Wounds loosely covered by band aids seem to peel at his presence, and you’re stuck at his mercy again. You can’t give him the satisfaction of crying in addition to the drunk, poor decisions you made, hardening your expression as you fumble for your phone.

“Take me home” you demand. Toji stands with an exaggerated stretch on both arms, painfully slow. Before you can hurl your phone at him from the dramatics, he looks down on you with that intoxicating gaze.

“Are ya hungry?”

You furrow your brows, and hastily put on the other shoe. Turning on your heels, you go to leave, and are immediately stopped by Toji's calloused hand holding your wrist. You don’t watch, but his palm is gentle. You could smoothly slip out and exit his apartment, forget this engagement and continue a peaceful, isolated life. You’d move on eventually—perhaps to bigger, happier jobs and romances.

Despite that hopeful outcome, you remain.

“I don’t wanna eat. If you don’t take me home, I'll call a cab.”

“I’ll take ya home, just...look, I know you’re hungry, and I’m down to eat at a diner down the block. Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll pay for it.” Toji isn’t known for being docile, but with his curved posture almost leaning into you and dejection in his eyes, you swear he’s searching for pity.

“I said I’m not-,” The untimely arrival of your dinning, rumbling stomach cuts off any excuse. A corner of his mouth upturns, and your face contorts to scorned pride.

“...Fine. Let’s make it quick.”

“Great. Can’t have ya walkin’ around like that, though.” He pans to your chest. You haven’t thought to give your outfit a glance, but when you do, your eyes grow wide. The entirety of your conversation with Toji, your chest was spilling out the dress, and now part of your areolas is exposed. You cover up the top, but he stares with an x-ray's invasiveness. You reprimand him, swatting his chest;

“Pervert!”

There was an added benefit to being around Toji; the way people cleared a path for him and treated him with frightened kindness, afraid that pissing off the physically intimidating man would land them a one-way ticket to the nearest hospital.

They weren’t exactly wrong, and you have a satisfied pep in your step as people scoot aside. He strides in front of you to get the door, and you mutter a small “thank you.”

Sweet fluffy pancakes and charred grills mingle with faint notes of bleach. At least he knew better than to take you to a fancy establishment, especially since you were wearing a baggy t-shirt from him, and basketball shorts you had to tie around the waistband. His massive slides had you flopping across the dining aisle as you got to your booth. He’s not particularly dressed either, wearing matching shorts and a compression top.

It’s hard not to perceive the way women ogle him, drooling at the way his biceps flex when he raises the menu, and his chiseled jaw tensing while he ponders the food options. It was a notable problem when you were married. They’d glare at you, shower him with compliments in front of you, and you’d shrink yourself. Occasionally the waiter would pretend you don’t exist as she swayed her hips at every little thing Toji said. If they want him, they can have him. It’s not your business, right? It’s no different with this waiter, twirling the curl of her hair as Toji reiterates his order, shifting from one leg to the other to highlight her curves.

Not my business. You're nauseous.

Not my business. Your fists clench underneath the table.

Your head’s swimming in thoughts, uncertainty crashing down like a wave upon your increasingly loud intrusions. You drown within yourself, until you’re pulled out by a thumb travelling up your hand, and other fingers clasping around it.

“Watcha wanna order, angel?” You regain composure, and when you blink, Toji is waiting for you. The waiter side-eyes you and the joining of your hands.

“You lost? Take her order” he spat.

The food's steaming hot and fresh, and you salivate at the plate in front of you. Toji snatches your bacon before you can, and you begrudgingly watch as he breaks the strips into two pieces, the way you like it. He winks, and you groan. You coat your strawberry pancakes with maple syrup, trespassing territory around the scrambled eggs and bacon, and he laughs across from you.

“What’s funny?”

“Never stopped drowning your breakfast in syrup” he ribs. You pout and swirl your bacon, “It makes it taste better.”

Soon, food in your belly aided your dialogue, and the old banter returned; an easygoing flow, similar to a lifelong friend you hadn’t spoken to in decades. You giggle between bites and gossip about mutual rumors.

"What you been doin’ since..." Toji trails off, falling short of “divorce”—a word he never wants to say.

"Shoko recommended me to her boss, so I'm working uptown now. Pay's okay, nothing to write home about."

"S'good. Livin comfortable?"

"As comfortable as I can be"

"Real humble. Guessin’ it's better than before" he jokes, though you sense a displace in his bearing at the nervous grin he flashes. You reach onto to his side and grab one of the grapes off his plate. You pop one in your mouth, "So, what drug ring got you that house?"

"The cartel. Good vacation time, too" he jests.

"Nice. at least it's not that shitty garbage gig you had for a while."

"It did pay well."

"Yeah? Couldn't get rid of the rotten milk and vomit smell for weeks after. Remember I made you shower at Geto’s apartment?"

“Heh, yeah, he was fuckin’ pissed” he laughs, stealing a piece of sugary bacon from the syrup pool. "I'm a CEO, run a company downtown."

"Ooo, look at you. Can't be little if it did this much for you" you say as you gesture at the empty dishes on the table. Restaurants were a luxury in your household.

"I guess. I had a vision, and some people believed in me”, he pokes at the leftover blueberries, “I finally made it happen, that counts for something, right?"

You pick another off his plate, smile stretching, "You're a natural born leader. People will follow you regardless, even if it's not the right choice."

His eyebrows raised in surprise, "That's the first good thing you said about me today."

"Don't get used to it."

You wait for Toji to retrieve his car after walking back to his apartment. You’re awestruck in many ways; he paid for the whole meal with a black card and showed undying manners. He bowed to your requests. You’re smarter than this, though. This is his opportunity to get on your good side, and he’s showing the best version of himself. However, it fills your heart with want—like the initial dating phase, those butterfly stricken, heart-numbing, sappy gestures that made you melt.

He wraps around the car to open your door, and you plant yourself in the sleek beige interior. Your eyes flick to the veins in his forearm straining as he steers, his deadpan focused expression and the composed R&B music low in the background. It starts to drizzle, and raindrops plink the car roof.

You feel complete; And that alone is a dreadful reality.

The scar on his lip twists to a smile, “Did’ya like the food?”

You turn your nose up, “it was satisfactory.” He snickers, and navigates to the street your apartment is on. “Shit, I gotta give you your clothes back.”

“Forget it, bring it when you get the chance.” Chance. He expected to see you again. You hang your head as he approaches the complex. You didn’t want today to end, but this is it. You’ll leave this car and go your separate ways. This is how it should be.

You place an earnest hand on his shoulder and cast a smile. The corners quiver and your first syllable wobbles, but you finally speak, “I’m proud of you, Toji. I mean it. You’re going to do great things, and I’m always rooting for you.”

He swallows stiff, and suddenly he’s sickly pale. Something within you is pleased at that reaction; if he wants redemption, he should beg and drop to his knees and crawl for forgiveness, he should lock himself up for your eyes only and cut off everyone else in his life. You’re walking away a second time, rightfully so, but you struggle to decipher what you want in this moment. He palms your hand, staring at you, “I’m all for praise, but tell me when we meet again”

“Toji, there can’t be a next- “

“Give me your phone.”

“Huh?” His urgency throws you off guard, “Don’t think, just give me your phone.” It’s impossible to kill the complicated slurry that is your mind, and a new bundle of thoughts emerges from his request, but for a heartbeat, you allow yourself to wander. Pitter patter and muted music, heated seats, the cologne radiating from Toji—all that exists.

You moved on instinct, and now your phone is in Toji’s hands. He's adding his contact information. He hands it back to you, fingers brushing against your soft skin.

“I won’t text or call you. ’S there whenever you need me. Move at your own pace and call me when you’re ready.” With that, you exit his car. No hug or gratitude, skipping goodbyes as you rush out the car. It’s bittersweet when he pulls off, and you’re left with the ghost of him.

The familiar click of your convoluted keys in the apartment door could bring you to tears. You’ve officially reverted to your mundane, boring lifestyle. The walls look duller today.

You curiously click on his contact, and giggle at the name he assigned himself:

dumbass ex

tick, tock, tick, tock

The blue light beaming through your office computer is an eyesore, but you have little say in the matter. There's an upcoming deadline for these reports, you can’t waste precious skill complaining about circumstances out of your control. It’s tiresome, and you rove to the cobweb missing a string in the corner of the room, or the single drop of water roaming outside those wide sterile windows. The balls of your feet carry your flats as you absentmindedly push a pen against your lip.

Your concentration has been out of commission since meeting Toji. He kept his word and hadn’t called you whatsoever. A month passed, and still nothing. Be glad, you told yourself, get your goals back on track. Your exercises get vicious, from jogging to a full sprint, hoping that those buckets of sweat will shed off the extra weight of Toji’s abidance. The fruit bowl on your break offends you with mocking displays of strawberries and grapes. You’ve pondered deleting the contact entirely to repel enticement, but you can’t do it. It’s painfully clear that you miss him.

He’s horrible, callous and selfish. Of course, Toji had a way of showing up at your lowest to fill your head with empty promises and gestures of affection, that charming grin shooting daggers at your weakness. In his gaze, you’re defenseless, and in his arms, you’re exposed.

Albeit late, a pestering thought carves into you, unfortunate and disgraceful to the healing you strive to accomplish; message Toji.

A set of wheels rolls above the carpet, and you see Shoko, lifeless arms hanging beyond the armrests. The bags under her eyes signify stress from finalizing late papers.

“Unnghhhh, (Y/N), I can’t do it” she laments, drooping her head to the side. You pat the top of her hair, “I believe in you.”

“What are you working on?” She quirks a brow, and you stare at the screen with her. You’ve typed an entire page of straight gibberish. “I’m getting distracted too...”

“Let’s quit and tell her to shove it.”

“You know I can’t do that” you fuss as you backspace the document. “Mm, me neither. What’s got you zoned out?”

“Nothing in particular.” You’re afraid to tell Shoko of your rendezvous, she might become volcanic and fire magma at the sound of any “-oji”.

“I know it’s not nothing. New boyfriend, hm?”

“S-something like that” you chuckle. She shapes an ‘O’ with her mouth, and wheels closer. Her bangs touch your eyebrows, and she rests her chin on her hand. Her usual dead eyes have a malicious twinkle in them.

“What’s he like? Is he tall or short?” she gasps, “did you meet him at the club? I told you it was a good idea; I really am the best advisor.”

You sigh, “It’s no one new.”

“Ooo, an old flame. Spicy. What’s his name?” You turn slowly, a nervous bite on your lips. She studies your face, and slowly hers drops.

“Do not fucking say it.”

“Shokoooo” you whine, searching for sympathy from her. Instead of that, your body is shaken violently as she whisper-yells, “Are you kidding? Get a grip! What’s gotten into you, you were fine!”

“But I wasn’t. It sucks, I feel lonely all the time.”

“You felt lonelier with him than without him!”

“I know, but...” You ball your lips in with furrowed brows, and she holds her breath.

“I wanna go see him” you squeak. Instantly, she squishes your cheeks with both hands to hold you in place.

“Absolutely. Fucking. Not.”

At home, you pace back and forth in front of the phone resting on your bed. Toji’s contact is open, and nausea is brewing in your stomach. You’re giddy and ill, working up the courage to press “call”. You really should be practicing Shoko’s advice, but you’ve long surpassed common sense. You leave and come back, spying on it from a distance. Eventually, you forgo the theatrics and grab the phone to hit the messenger app.

Three dots vanish and resurface. You can’t get it right:

'Hey stranger I got custody of ur clothes rn'

'Hey haha I missed u can I come over?'

'Yo what’s up? Still have ur clothes do u want them?'

'I’m coming to give u ur stinky clothes'

This shouldn’t be complicated, and you don’t usually perform the process of elimination for simple responses, but it’s Toji. You’re scrambling and overanalyzing, reiterating your choice of slang only to delete it all over again. You settle for a simple message. “Hey Toji, I wanted to return your clothes. Let me know when you’re available. Thanks”

Once you hit send, you run a marathon around your bedroom, tippy tapping to expel your anticipation. The churning grows as seconds pass, and so does your doubt. You tiptoe to the phone as if a displaced floorboard would activate the alarm. You’re about to tap the screen, and then your ringtone plays.

Oh god.

You take a deep breath and swipe right on the faceless profile picture labeled “dumbass ex”.

“…Hello?”

“Hey, angel.” You avoid a dull pound in your chest at the memorable pet name. “So, um-“

“I wanna see you. I’m available now, and I’ll be home by the time you get here” he states, direct and confident. His conviction validates yours, you bend to his direction.

“Okay then. I’ll start getting ready.”

“I’ll send a cab to your address. See you soon.” When he hangs up, you dive into the pile of plushies. Squeezing them for emotional support, kicking your feet in the air as you scream into your ruffled pillows like a girl’s first crush. You have a long night ahead of you.

You access Toji’s building. He must’ve notified them you were coming, as the doors were open upon arrival, and a bellhop was sent to guide you to his floor. You’re standing outside of it, clothes and a bottle of champagne in hand. Your stretchy maxi dress clings to your figure, complimenting the juicy shade of lip gloss you’re wearing—the shade he loved most on you during your marriage. You ring the bell, and it doesn’t take long before he opens the door. The scene you’re exposed to swells heat between your legs.

Toji has nothing but a towel shimmied low on his hips, v-line adorned with veins and biceps corded with muscle. He’s trimmed his hair since your last encounter, and it’s dripping wet along with the rest of his soaked body. You’ve interrupted his shower apparently, but he didn’t hesitate to rush to the door, water cascading from the raven veil, sluicing down his sculpted chest. He had to have done this on purpose, but you weren’t complaining at this point; he looked damn good doing it. You can’t disengage from the beads branching amid his pecs and through his happy trail. God, you wish you were water personified right no-

“You’re staring, dollface” he teases with a smirk. Your eyes snap to his, and you remember to breathe. You clumsily hold up the liquid peace offering, “Brought a little something.”

“Thanks. Make yourself comfortable, I’m gonna get dressed.” You nod, and he marches upstairs. You don’t need comfortability; you need to be in and out of here before you do something you’ll regret.

But...is that cedarwood and vanilla? The interior gives off romantic energy at night, attractive dim lighting throughout and dull flickering pops of his fireplace in the living room. You find the source of that heavenly scent sitting on his kitchen island, and awkwardly place the bottle down. You don’t know what to do with yourself, more so you don’t know what to say. It’s hard to recite a script when things aren’t going according to plan. Did you want to apologize, or force him to apologize? Maybe you should’ve cursed him out, rehashed his asshole behavior from the past until he drowned in guilt. You want to kiss and slap him, cry in his arms until your voice gives out and disappear all at once.

There’s a beautiful clear vase in the center, crammed with your favorite flowers, and your fingers dance across the petals. “You like ‘em?” he asks stepping into the kitchen. His hair’s still saturated, but he’s sporting grey sweatpants and a black ribbed tank top. “They’re very pretty.”

“They’re for you.”

You switch between his playful expression and the burst of colors, “You don’t have to do that.” The bouquet evokes recollections of heated arguments—anytime he’d angered you to tears, and you slammed that bedroom door in his face, you always woke up to similar flowers on the floor. They were cheap, but it meant more than money; because despite the fights and disagreements, it let you know that he’d love you regardless.

“I wanted to. As thanks for bringing my clothes.” He’s pacing towards you, and you’re bound to the floor like melting wax. His gaze is captivating, and you’re entranced by the verdurous ardor that won’t deter from you.

“Thank you”, you say as he looms above you and inspects the scripture on the pale bottle. His large thumb blocks the intricate lettering he’s trying to read, “I should be thanking you. Didn’t think you’d ever message me.”

You can feel the body heat radiating off him, the airy words as he mouths the contents. His eyebrows furrow to follow his focus, while you lose yours.

“I-I should probably get going-” Without delay, Toji blocks your side with an iron grip on the island, trapping you in the confines of his broad wingspan.

“Leaving so soon? You got plans tonight?” Saying and doing are completely different stories, and from the way your feet haven’t moved, you aren’t in a rush to go anywhere.

“Not really, but I worked today and I’m kinda tired-”

“Then what better way to unwind than with a bottle? I can’t drink this by myself, might as well keep me company” he suggests, persuasion to a greater extent when your lower back hits the bar. A drink or two couldn’t hurt, right?

“I guess I can stay for a few minutes.” Toji flashes a victorious toothy grin and retrieves cups from the sink cupboard. He gives you a rounded glass, and his muscles flex below candlelight as he maneuvers the cork at an angle.

“Let’s crack this open” he says, popping the cap off and pouring a substantial amount of golden fizz into both cups.

Toji raises his glass, “A toast.”

You tilt your head but raise yours as well. “To what?”

“Us.”

Us is a funny thing—with enough effort, it becomes you and I just as quickly as it formed. You don’t know if you’re willing to accept the responsibility of eternity. The devastation of commitment could damage you forever. There’s no us, but there’s you and him. So, you clink your glass, “To us,” and his eyes never leave yours as he takes a swig. It lasts a lifetime among longing breaths and unsaid words.

He brings the champagne to the living room, “I’ll turn on a movie. You know that cheesy romcom shit you used to watch? They made a sequel.” You fall flat on containing your excitement. He grabs the remote and lays back with his thighs spread apart.

Toji pats the couch, “Come sit. Don’t worry, I won’t bite.” You hardly believe that, but you remove your heels and relax upon overstuffed cushions. You opt to sit farther on the couch, and there’s an annoyed twitch on his lip at your display of boundaries. Nevertheless, he starts the movie.

Toji’s not particularly sneaky. He announces multiple bathroom breaks, returning to a spot on the couch that’s inconspicuous, but inching closer to you. The intent becomes clear when the ghost of his shoulder knocks against you, spreading his thighs wider to brush against the softness huddled into your snug figure. You’re half paying attention to the cliché performance, and half observing Toji. It’s hard not to smile when he behaves like a disobedient dog obligated to sit.

It’s cute that he arced himself to be eye-level with you. His tank rode up to expose his lower abdomen, and he adjusts himself in his sweats, jaw occasionally clenching. It could be the drink talking, perhaps you’ve had too many.

The movie ends, and you exhale a sigh of relief. “I forgot how corny this shit is.”

Toji shrugs, “I didn’t think it was too bad.”

“No way, you actually liked it?” you gasp. He huffs out his nose, smiling, “People change.”

“I’m shocked” you quip. Dusk creeps into a descending sunset, and you steal a glance at your phone screen. Bright as day, a notification from Shoko emerges. “NO TOJI >:("

You’re stumped thinking of a reply, one that doesn’t compromise your less-than-ideal situation, when Toji puts his hand over the screen. “Hope I’m not gettin’ ya in trouble.”

“Like you care.” He chuckles and slides it to the far side of the couch. “You’re right. Let’s watch another.”

This next movie's decent; a flat racing plot with excessive sequels. He unleashes an exaggerated yawn, extending his triceps to land behind your head. You quirk a brow at him, and he plays innocent. “You look cold” he says. You don’t care as much as you pretend. His pads trace the shell of your burning ear down to the lobe, to fine hair at the end of your neck. His rough hand massages the back of your head, and you lull to his chest. Be it the champagne or his actions, it’s too hot for comfort. Clamping your thighs shut spurs the intensity. His other hand languidly tests the limits of your skin, gossamer touches from your knee to your thigh. It's asking, and when you don’t object, he invites the entire palm to your knee, rubbing delicately. He brings it to your upper thigh, and retreats to the outside, getting dangerously close to your rear. The worst part is it’s not that bad. It’s intimate. Warm.

Loving.

It takes you a minute to comprehend you’re tearing up, but Toji recognizes that hushed sniffle. Airy and choked, quiet as to not be a burden. He circles a hand around your waist and pulls you impossibly close. He tilts your chin to his gaze, soft and deceptively gentle when he asks.

“What’s wrong pretty, hm?” You say nothing through the constrains in your throat, streaking the tears that fall faster than you can wipe them. This man alone can reduce you to mush with a wave of his hand. He bares your rawest state and sculpts you back together with such purity, such devotion, that you’d plead for him to sink his clay sodden fingers into your nothing, and make you everything.

“Tell me, and I’ll fix it.”

You say just above a whisper, “You’re selfish, you know that?”

“Mhm, I know” he nods, grazing his thumb across your lip.

“This isn’t healthy for us; we can’t heal like this.” He angles your head with his half lidded gaze, polishing your damp undereyes.

“I don’t need healing. I need you.”

You find passage in his hair, and surrender to temptation.

You test with a smooch. Then another. Then a series of tender, sugary kisses are pushed upon his pliant lips, and he responds in kind. You curl your fingers through his tresses as you explore the contours of his lips for what feels like the first time. Toji isn’t known for patience, but the sensation of his mildly dry lips getting smoother from your supple kisses gives him the will to savor this moment. You push and pull from each other, indulging in the messy smacks and caresses. You stop amid shared breaths to skim and nudge his yearning lips, diving into more hungry kisses. Toji abruptly lifts you over him, and you deepen its bruising passion.

You lick his bottom lip, and he groans, parting his mouth to allow your entry. You traverse the pink mass, interlacing in a wet feverish exchange. Your mind is numb, and the heartbeat in your core strikes stronger when your tongues intertwine. Toji hikes your dress up and slinks his massive hands over the plush fat of your rear. He earns a muffled moan from you as he kneads and gropes, and you feel his smirk against your lips. He grips your ass and starts to grind your hips on the bulge in his pants, a silent beg for any amount of friction. You wind with his movements, consuming him, and you hear a whimper get lost in the back of his throat.

You drag your teeth along his neck. You lick and suck in a few spots and decide to draw harshly on a responsive patch of skin while circling the fat of your pussy over his sensitive cock, taut in his boxers. His breath hitches, and he slaps your ass. “Fuck, baby please.” It’s rare to witness him begging like this, and you’re drinking it in. You lick up his Adam’s apple and pepper his jaw with kisses. “You like it?”

“Need more.” You bite his bottom lip for what seems like an exchange, but break away once he leans in. “Mm, be patient Toji.”

Your hands traverse the rugged muscle under his tank top. He aids in taking it off, and you rake over his breathless torso. You kiss along his pecs and lick the groove of his abs, delighting in the parts you missed during your separation. Toji has a tinge of red soaking his chest and ears, shifting uncomfortably from his throbbing cock when you bat your eyes as you slope to the floor. You slip a finger under his waistband, playfully running over its span, and snapping it from a peak. He hisses. You palm his erection, and he grinds into it.

“Wait” he husks. He reaches for a pillow and shuffles it under your knees. “Oh, thank you” you say, but it doesn’t look like he hears you in the chaos of tugging his sweatpants down to expose his boxers. The anticipation’s killing you, so you free his dick from its confinement.

You can’t forget the mouthwatering size. His girth meets his length with equal satisfaction. The base is tan, fading to a rosy tip and a faint curve. You committed his veins to memory, small ones embossing the sides and a prominent one meandering to his tip.

You maintain eye contact with him, hand steady on the base as you deliver taunting little licks to his frenulum. You precisely ring around his urethra and trace the veins, pulsating from the flick of your wrist. Toji hisses shaky curses and bucks, beefy thighs stiffening when you roll a flat strip to his leaking head and pump the base of his cock. He didn’t want to push you, but his whole body twitched in desire. “Your mouth” he groans. You react a coy ‘huh?’, tapping the head on your tongue and slathering it in saliva with cutesy doe eyes. He’s homed in on the strings of saliva connecting him to your tongue.

An undertone of desperation in his gravelly voice, “Whole thing. In your mouth,” he expends another shaky breath, “please.”

He bites his lip and stifles a moan, watching you engulf the cockhead in your mouth. You hollow out your cheeks while the underside of your tongue holds firm, and cautiously accommodate his size. It’s too big for comfort and it stretches the capacity of your plump spit-covered lips, but you work through the daunting pressure poking your reflex. You gradually relax, periodically gagging from an unprepared increase, and he twitches at your tightening throat. Your nose finally touches the hilt, flooded in his musk, and you start to suck. You bob leisurely, adjusting to the sense, and he subtly squirms in your touch.

Toji crinkles his brows when you release a pleasant pop on his tip, purely to observe his eyes rolling back when you wreck him in a noisy suction. Noise was no longer a factor—sounds of spit and dry retching overpowered the volume of the movie regardless. He holds your hair away from you to get a better view of your face, smothered with tears and mascara, drool ceaseless down your chin. “F-fuck, you’re so good, so, so good to me” he groans.

Your tongue swirls around him as you’re bobbing, and you accompany it with a tender massage to his balls. You cup and fondle them, using the lubrication from your spit to glide your fingers across. He sighs and grabs a handful of your hair. “Need to come. Keep that pretty throat open for me, yeah?”

He rapidly shoves you down to the hilt, and you wince before he continues at a relentless pace. You anchor his thigh for stability, and he throws his head back, fucking your throat raw. There's a sheen of sweat where his bangs stick to his forehead, and he emits an endless measure of moans the closer he gets. Rambling about nonsense, yes’s and curses as he stiffens. He treats your mouth like a flesh light, evident by the throat bulge disappearing and reappearing. You happily accept the searing jaw, swaying your ass from thrumming in your saturated panties damp to your inner thighs.

You can tell he’s about to climax because he goes completely quiet minus the panting, open mouthed with his head back. You resume massaging his balls, and he shoves you to the base, “C-coming” he moans. You grab onto him, and a squeak dies in your throat when he paints it white. He shakes, groans for each spurt coating your mouth, pumping the last of his semen as you swallow.

Toji shudders when he pulls out, and his panting returns to a soft huff. You expected him to be spent, or at least sit in the aftershocks for a while until he calmed down. But he tightens the grip on your hair and forces you to look up. “Show me” he husks. You stick your tongue out, proof you swallowed every bit. “Now c’mere”, he guides you into a filthy French kiss, devouring you with much more dominance than before. It’s as though your nearness restored him. You can hardly stand your feeble knees and sopping core, but Toji takes care of it for you. With unnatural vigor, he lifts you over his shoulder, and marches up the stairs. “Ah, Toji, maybe you should take a sec-”

He swats your butt harsh, and you yelp from the sting. “Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do. You’ve been so mouthy, a damn tease, too. You’re gonna regret it.”

You’re ferried into the rather plain bedroom lined with dim hues, and a wide ceiling length mirror opposite the bed. He tosses you on the dark gray bedding and climbs over you. Your heart’s racing with thrill. Toji yanks the dress over your head, uncovering the sheer white lacey bra, similar to your underwear.

He stares like you’re a piece of meat, feasting on your flawlessness not yet smothered in hickeys and bruises, your nipples at attention under the fabric. “It’s all for me, huh?” he whispers, lust rolling off his tongue. You nod, because it’s always been for him, whether he was here or not. He buries himself in your cleavage and hums in satisfaction. His touch sends goosebumps to your skin and keeps your back arched when he drags a pad along your spine. Then your bra unclasps, and he removes it carefully, as if he didn’t want to spoil the surprise by unwrapping his gift too early. He gawks at them for an embarrassingly long pause, enough to make your cheeks hot, and you chide, “Stop staring.”

“Shut up, you’re gorgeous.” Toji submerges the bud, whirling around it while he roughly squeezes both breasts. He molds the dough of your breasts with strong palms, nips and tugs your nipple before soothing it with fierce tongue kisses. Consistent teeth grazing hikes your sensitivity before he trades it for sucking. When he switches to the other, he pinches the maltreated peak, eliciting a whimper. You merely bind your thighs and embrace the disarray being caused on your spit-soaked nipples. The cold air your abused tits receive as he withdrawals from suckling is nullified by the hickeys he leaves. You quiver from constellations of splotchy purplish red, delicious pain tingling throughout your torso. “Not so much, I have to go back to work soon” you moan, not very convincing.

“Even better; everyone’ll know who fucks you” Toji winks, and your heart skips. He dumps a nice vibrant bruise on your sternum, and advances to the dainty hem. He parts your thighs with ease, throwing them on his shoulder. Then he develops a haughty smirk.

You’re monitoring his face, until he presses a pad against your aching clit, and the subsequent juices overflowing from a huge wet patch. He plays with the spiderweb of slick between his digits, “Mm. Y’still my girl.” You blush as he sucks on them and licks his lips afterwards. Hooking under the panties, he pulls them taut, projecting the swell of your pudgy vulva in tightening lace. It sinks past your outer lips and cages your clit—you want to writhe from friction, but it makes it worse. He ghosts against you and kisses the print, and you want to scream. “Tell me what you want, or I won’t do it.”

“P-please...” you whine. You lock eyes, and you can hardly manage a word in the foreground of his intensity. How can he expect you to form coherent sentences when he sees through you like this? He gives a disappointed tut and puppeteers the strings, shifting them back and forth upon your neglected vulva. You cry out, and he cinches it together, isolating the part that pulses incessantly. He has an evil grin on his face, the bastard. “Details, baby.”

“Toji...please t-touch me alre-eady so I can come, m’sorry I won’t tease you again!” you promise, willing to do whatever it takes to reduce your sentence.

“And what else?”

“Your mouth on m-my pussy...please lick it.” You’re humiliated at the request that tumbles from your bottommost desires, but he’s satisfied. He’s never been one to shy away from dirty talk.

“Good girl.” Toji slithers your panties off, and you sigh from a loss of pressure just as his bangs tickle your pubic area. He interlocks your hands, a breath from eating you.

“You don’t look at me, I’ll stop. Think you can do that f’me?”

“Mhm!”

He hums in agreement and submerses into you. Toji’s a messy eater, especially when he’s desperate. He ovals the outer lips and precisely stirs your clit, and your stomach turns in knots from simple motions. He frames it and carefully winds around his capable tongue, really focusing on the spots that make your back curve; really focusing on your entry, as he teasingly digs in.

Toji cajoles a groan from his nose caressing your bud, then laps a level tongue over your wetness, truly tasting you. It isn’t long before his teasing farce began to crumble, and he obliged his ravenous appetite. He eats you starving, insatiable as he absorbs your twitching cunt and perfumed essence spilling down his chin. You clasp your hands, desire building in a trembling quake, but he doesn’t falter. He slurps your inner lips, and finally delivers proper care to your neglected clit. He hums a low vibration when he sucks, his pursed lips moving from a steady tongue to full on slobbering like some savage animal.

You appreciate the support his steady hands give your shaky ones. “Toji, hahhh coming” you whine, a familiar sensation flipping in your core. He lets his words fan onto you, “You know better” he husks. Your hips are bucking frantically, and so you whine, “Please, can I come sir, please please please please!”

“Hmm, I don’t know, you were ready to disobey me just now.” He says that, however the look in his eye is unrelated; it craves you, the want to make you squeal repeatedly until you’re on the verge of collapse. “’M can’t take it anymore, please let me come!” You urge your hips to his mouth, and meld into his warmth.

“Come on my face, pretty girl” he groans, just as hankering as you. He laps at your clit, and you sooner fall apart underneath him. Your whimpered plea forms an innocent sob as you spasm from overstimulation. Toji just doesn’t stop. His head careens against you, tasting everything your body has to offer. You’re suddenly regretting how badly you wanted to come.

“Toji- I-it’s too much” you protest, but it receives no response. Your release dribbles down his chin and he persists, ultimately unbinding when you lose a hold on his hands from the tremors. He diverges your lips and admires the way your mess clenches around air.

“Heh, you’re shaking. Cute.” He rubs the back of your legs, reassuring you in spite of his previous cruelty. You make a sad attempt at wiggling away, but he grabs you firm.

No running. Be good and hold your legs back.” He folds your legs to your shoulders, and you mewl, reluctantly wrapping your hands around them. ‘No’ isn’t a valid response at present.

Toji’s thumbs spread your wrinkling opening, and you feel a draft on its expanse before he spits directly into your hole. You jerk, startled, and he shushes you. He slathers his thick digits in your glistening strip, and smoothly sinks one inside. “Pussy so slippery for me. Miss this...miss you” he sighs, starting to pump. He prepares you for the main course, scrapes your walls and curls his finger to hit a spot you can’t reach. The nasty squelching sounds you echo from a mere finger casts heat on your cheeks, and he seems to enjoy your responsiveness as he adds another finger to the commotion. He twines a ‘come hither’ motion that makes your back arch from every delightful swipe against your velvety walls. Then his pink muscle undulates along your swollen bud, and you dissolve to a puddle. Your hips stutter, and surge after surge of torturous pleasure strikes you with no end in sight.

“Toji, f-fuck wait- hng s’feels too good” you whimper, and he gruffs a chuckle. He expands his fingers with precision, then chooses to slide a thumb in your butthole. The combination of both hands intruding your being, coiling into your soul jams your head with intoxicating dizziness and fictitious futures. Static pools in your stomach and circulates like the goading flickers of a raging inferno. He contacts your g-spot, and you moan, “Ah- can I, I’m close”

“I know, I know. Let go for me,” he says, or at least that’s what it sounds like when he’s face-deep. Your eyes are screwed shut, white noise before you crash and shatter around his fingers. Fortunately, you’re deaf to your own lewd wailing, clutching for dear life through contractions. It gushes past his wrist. Tears reside in your lashes, croaked sob from the slap he gives your puffy pussy. “That’s it, baby, there we go.”

Toji shows mercy and slips out. You’re still registering sultry bliss, untangling your limbs to lay slack. Empathy isn’t forever, though, because he forces your butt rearwards as he hops off the bed. Precum seeps from his tip, sheeting his shaft and heavy brimming sack. He propels your thighs to your chest, and your expression switches to fear for a second at the angry red tip sitting at your entrance. It's as if it grew since the blowjob, and you’re sure you’ll die if he stuffs that monster inside you.

He slides up and down the entrance, seizing the sore bud, “Mmm, pretty thing making a mess all over my cock.”

“Just go slow, okay?” you meek.

“Of course, ‘m not tryna kill you.” Toji doesn’t disrupt the yearning gaze between you, giving your entry several threatening caresses. He groans from the sensation of your puffy lips snuggling his length. Then he plunges the bulbous tip, encased in your passion. He’s unhurried for the most part, besides the instants he stops himself from ramming into you, cock begging to feel the fervor. He’s plugging you to capacity, and you’re only halfway in. Soreness whirrs in your walls being outstretched beyond belief, yet you’re milking what remains, dragging the rest of him in. His breath hitches, a spiderweb of veins pulses in your tight embrace and he rocks his hips further. “Look at the way you’re gripping me. Fuck” he shudders. His tip presses on your cervix, and you feel the weight of his balls on your rear.

Toji drives into you nice and slow. In this position you feel each vast stroke massaging your tumid core, squelching amidst your languid bodies. There’s almost a gloss film on his eyes as he indulges in the sweet addiction swamping his thoughts with unfiltered lust. “When you left it hurt real bad, y’know? I even cried.” You’re a bit stunned at his spur of honesty, but it’s short-lived as his thrusts get wilder and brutal. Your mouth hangs open, drool shameless out your mouth as he kisses your cervix without trying. You throb frenetically, chest heaving from the way his sack smacks against your ass and the creamy translucent ring forming at the base of his cock. His swinging strokes graze your g-spot and you sob, but he doesn’t check for your mitigation, encompassing your numb clit in the heat of his mean smacks.

“Heh, dunno if you remember, but you left a pair of panties when you moved”, Toji regresses to the tip and bottoms out repeatedly, “I’ve jerked off in them so many times, imagining you backing up this juicy pussy on my dick.” You’re hysterical, flushed from head to toe and struggling to take breaths. Toji has you locked slamming into your cervix. It coaxes a mix of pleasure and pain burning through you, and your toes curl. “You love me?” he asks. It’s unfair to ask you now, scatter-brained and drooling like a stupefied slut. But you nod, and he plasters a cocky grin. “Good. ‘S long as I have that, I’m okay.”

The unexpected flood of your orgasm quakes you, unable to warn Toji, or even ask for permission. How disappointed he’d be in you, as your juices sluice and soak, fluttering where you come undone. It’s a trail of fire, and it hurts to come. His hips sputter and he mutters a string of curses, flicking your nub faster to heighten the intensity of the earlier mess. You paw at his chest, back arched and fresh tears clustering in the haze. “Please, please!” you babble to an unresponsive Toji, stuck in a feral trance.

Toji pulls out, palpitating at the precipice of his own climax. You take this opportunity to flip on your stomach and creep to a farther part of the bed. He’s in no rush. You can’t go far like that, a net of arousal at the apex of your thighs. He climbs onto the bed and grapples your hips, thighs capturing yours. He curves your back and slips into your gummy walls anew. You grip him like a vice notwithstanding the complaints. You hate to say it, but Toji’s length bullying its way to your cervix is a poison you’d drink habitually. He snares your hair and holds the underside of your chin. “Hah- c’mon baby, you can take a little more”, he groans at a savage pace, “be a good girl.” Your ass ripples against the brawny man, hoarse voice in your ear, scrotum pummeling the overworked bundle of nerves. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets. All you should do is let him use you, that’s all you need to do, right?

Toji pans your head to the mirror, “Look how good you’re taking me, angel. You’re doing well.” His honeyed praises make you throb, attended by the bestial snap of his hips. “See that?”, he references your release slugging both legs, air heavy with sweat, “you’re such a f-fucking slut, what man could satisfy you besides me?” You sniffle and muster a pathetic babble, and he laughs. “You’re my perfect slut, though, fuck- ‘nd I’m not gonna make the same mistakes again.” There’s a tinge of regret swimming in the sea that is Toji’s confidence, and you feel it. It’s a subtle confession; please don’t go.

Then he stops. Toji lets go, and you’re impulsively manhandled in front of him while he’s behind you. He lays back, and in doing so, ferries your knees to the sides of your face and hooks his hands to the rear of your head. You’re unveiled in the reflection of the mirror, a panel that bounces back the thin sheen of sweat on your bodies, your disheveled hair and makeup, wrinkled sheets, and the sticky lacings attaching you to Toji. You want to shy from the humiliating sight. “Don’t hide your face” he coos. You glimpse a portion of his face in the mirror, a glint in his eye, “I like this view more.”

He bends his knees and pounds your chubby cunt with reckless abandon. He’s fucking your cervix, heedless grunts and panting groans as you swallow him up. Toji sputters, throbbing along your abused body and reverberating vicious staggering plap’s that could be heard on the lowest floor. You can’t breathe, let alone think, and the asphyxiation goes straight to your pussy. “O-oh fuck, heh, feel s’good. Gonna fill you up, yeah? Shit- have a mini me crawling around. Y-you'd like that, wouldn’t you, doll? Wanna carry my baby?” The headboard thuds against the wall, and in your fog, you call out for him, chanting his name like a mantra. The emotion is overwhelming, you claw at his bicep as shockwaves burst and fizzle out on your skin. “You’re dripping down my balls, sweetie, you close again?” Tougher, nastier strikes allure your orgasm, and you bleat a scream as a stream of liquid surges from you that drenches the sheets and Toji’s shaft. It’s a blinding white light, and you go limp through the violent spasms.

“Ohhh shit, that’s it baby, take everything I give you” he rasps. Toji shoulders your dead weight with ease, going silent, then plummeting you to the hilt. His balls tighten, and he manages some slushy pumps before he comes. He spurts thick, hot globs that paint and crowd your walls with greed. You milk him dry as he bucks. It overflows to trickling down his length, and his muscles quiver as he comes down from his high. His staggering pants reduce to hitching, and he relaxes your exhausted limbs.

Toji drives out and turns you around. You’re edging unconsciousness, sporadic jolts and innocent sobs carrying in your scratched throat. “I know. Breathe, baby.” He brings you flush with his chest, and you absorb his gentle puffs, the methodical beat of his heart. “You okay?” You’re unresponsive, gathering yourself in an incomplete collage of thoughts. You want to talk but it dissipates on your tongue. He rubs your back and kisses your forehead.

Then it’s muted; solely the dwindling rate at which your heart races, and the tender smooches Toji dots on your face as you cuddle. When you open your eyes, the sheets are changed, and you’re cleaned. Clearly some time has passed. You sit, and Toji comes out the bathroom, running water in the background. “How ya feelin’?”

You wince at the blunt thrum in your vulva, “Okay. How long was I out?”

“Like half an hour. Up for a bath?” You don’t have the energy to move your body. Toji scoops you bridal style and leads you to the bathroom. You found it amusing how considerate he was after wrecking your brain.

Toji spoons a generous quantity of Epson salt into the corner jet tub. He helps you in and joins once you’re stable. It’s a lavish proportion, but you decide to be next to him. Your head situates on your forearms over the tub rim while Toji sloshes water onto your back. The steam and serene jets below ship you to a luxury vacation on a tropical island, its quality comparable to spas with extensive dollar signs. You study each other.

“I’ll let you get whatever you need from your place.” You knit your brows, “For what?”

“You live with me.” You simper at his audacity.

“So, you’re the decision maker now?”

“For this, yes. Can’t risk you runnin’ off again.”

“It’s your fault I left.” He pauses, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “I know. I’m sorry.”

A piece of you becomes whole at his acknowledgement. There are no petty jabs to be had where lingering truths wade in the mist. “Never thought I’d hear an apology from you.”

“It’s overdue. I was a dick, and I should’ve never treated you like that. Was tryna sort out my shit, but I didn’t have to take it out on ya.”

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “Sorry...but not sorry enough to let me go?”

“No. You need nobody but me.”

You chortle, and he cracks a smirk. “Arrogant asshole.”

“I love you, too.”

#jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu toji #toji fushiguro #toji smut #toji x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #toji fushigro x reader #jjk

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junglejim4322 · 11 days ago

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I am autistic and was around mostly autistic or learning disabled etc people growing up due to being homeschooled and yes it gives perspective to the way people act when they are around higher needs people or even people who are just a little more unpalatable and pristine and perfect than them but more than anything I grew up w a family member who is schizophrenic and the way people treat him legitimately could make you question the humanity of the average person and I see this same type of thing a lot amongst many an online neurodivergent and many a disability activist and many a leftist etc etc etc if someone god forbid is noticeably mentally ill in a way that isn’t acceptable to other people a huge portion of people side with making life unlivable for them without even thinking about why they act the way they do. Shits fucked man

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monimccoythings · 11 months ago

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Random headcanons of Alastor and his child!reader

This will mix headcanons from both the living and the afterliving times.

Tw: Controlling behavior, implied cannibalism, references to murder.

This is not proof read so I apologize for any grammar and vocabulary mistakes.

Your home is always filled with music. Be it the radio, a record player or him singing. There's always someone playing a tune. Even now at the hotel you can always find him in one of the common rooms humming a song or with his cathedral radio on.

Loves dancing with you, you'll be helping him cook and next thing you know he is swirling you around the room, music mixing with your combined laughter.

From a very young age, he will teach you to love the radio. He is immensely proud of his job (the legal one) and wants to share it with you.

Likes to treat your wounds and illness the traditional way, just like he used to when you were alive. You got a scratch? He is cleaning it for you and bandaging it up. You are down with something? He'll wrap you in blankets with a hot water bottle and feed you old family remedies and warm soup. If the wound or illness is way too severe to his liking, he will immediately make it go away with a snap of his fingers, otherwise he just likes to act like your caregiver and mother hen you.

Really loves to pull the 'single hardworking dad' act that makes the mothers and female teachers at your school swoon. He is not really interested in pursuing anything further with them, but boy, does he enjoy the attention.

He likes to check on you while you are sleeping. Sometimes he just stays there, quietly watching you sleep, his ever present smile growing bigger as a sense of pride fills his chest.

Lots of dad jokes, I think he's the only one who could pull it off and have everyone laugh. It goes with his radio host charisma and personality.

He does your hair. This man has singlehandledly researched and become well versed in the art of braiding hair. Braids, pigtails, or just brush it, you call it, you got it.

Alastor loves control and having power over people, he is the kind of dad that will subtly talk you out of doing something he doesn't approve of, just using his inmense charms and smooth talking skills to convince you into thinking this was your decision after doing some critical thinking. "Cher, I don't think you should do X, how about you do Y instead?" "I'm sure your friend is too busy to hang out today, why don't we go to the ice cream shop?" He won't ever put you down or make you feel bad about anything, but if you are deviating for the path that he has already set for you (the safe path) he will immediately persuade you to go back to the right way, his way. In Hell that aspect of him has become a million times worse, since he has already lost you once and has become someone with many dangerous enemies who wouldn't hesitate to use you to get back at him. His overprotectiveness and controlling behavior skyrocket when he becomes a demon, which eventually will come back to bite him in the ass.

Doesn't like having anyone question about your biological parents. He is your parent. You don't need anybody else.

Alastor is not fond of physical affection, unless he is the one initiating it. But, since he has had you since you were a baby, he has mostly grown used to your touch. He has become proficient enough in detecting your moods that he knows exactly when you are going to need a hug, a kiss or some other kind of physical comfort, so he can get ahead and start the contact first. He admits that one of his favorite ways nowadays to show affection to you is ruffling your fluffy hair, lightly tickling your ears, his eyes fill with joy when your ears get all twitchy.

Your room back at the hotel is a carbon copy of the one you had back when you were alive, but bigger, and with a private old timey bathroom. Alastor likes to come in whenever he pleases, he is the unliving embodiment of "I'm respecting your privacy by knocking but asserting my authority as your parent by coming in anyway". He even said so once. Word by word.

You can't stand Mimzy. Sorry, it's a fact, she always gets your name wrong and only comes by if she needs something from your dad. She seems to not be very fond of you either, can't understand why in Hell Alastor would waste his time so willingly just to take care of a snooty brat that ain't even his. But your father seems to like her enough, so you swallow up your critics.

When he was alive, and came back from a 'hunt', he always brought a little memorabilia for you, maybe some old watch, a fancy toy or trinket the victim had on them at that moment. Whatever little thing that wasn't too incriminating and pretty enough to be worthy of you. Now that you know the truth, you can't stop wondering with dread if every little thing he gifts you belonged once to a poor tormented soul that crossed in his path.

Might had fed you human remians in his stews. He utterly denies it, claiming that he would never do that to your delicate stomach. But the suspicious way his eyes quickly dart around the room, makes you think otherwise. It was the Great Depression after all, food was scarce. You'd rather not dwell too much on it or you will never eat anything ever again.

He is a monster, and it pained you to have been so blind all these years, but even after discovering his true nature, the only thing you could say about his parenting before that terrible night of the discovery, was that he was an excellent dad, a tad bit overbearing and overprotective, but a great parent nonetheless.

#alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel x reader #tw: controlling behavior #tw: cannibalism #tw: murder

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glassofspoiledmilk · 1 month ago

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Zombies and puke

SYNOPSIS: most of the time when you’re bedridden, you’ve been injured or bitten, so it’s pretty embarrassing for Carl to be in with a stomach bug.

WC: 1.1k

!!Vomit/Emetephobia warning!!

On a normal Sunday morning, you could catch Carl grimes out on watch, or on the porch with Judith, but not today.

As I walked down the sunny streets of Alexandria I walked by the grimes’ house, which was looking particularly unlively today. As i made my way around the corner, I saw Rick walking out onto the street.

“Hey..sorry to bother you but where’s Carl, we were supposed to be on watch today?” I ask my boyfriend’s father.

“Oh he’s not feelin' too good…ate somethin' bad. Nothin' serious though, he should be fine. I was about to go out on a run to look for some medicine.” He says as he stops in his tracks, turning around to face me.

“I think he might want some company though” he smiles with a light chuckle.

I nod and carefully step up onto the porch.

“Good luck on your run!” I say as I gently creak open the front door.

Rick smiles back and swiftly turns around to jump inside his car.

As soon as I stepped inside I heard the sounds of violent coughing echoing from the upstairs bathroom, located just outside of Carls' bedroom.

I climbed up the stairs and opened the door to see him leaned over the toilet, his head resting weakly on the bare toilet seat.

“Hey..” I said as I quietly walked in.

“..Hi” he said with a scratchy voice, followed by a few coughs.

“Stomach bug?” I ask as I take a seat next to him on the floor.

“I think I ate something bad..”

I chuckle slightly.

“Your hair is all in your face” I smile as I gently pull his hair back into a bun, but soon realized there were no hairties within my vicinity.

"do you have any hairties?" I ask as I lay his long hair back down onto his neck, combing it out of his face with my fingers.

"I think there are some in my room.." he replies softly.

"alright, ill be right back. if you need anything, just call for me ok?" i whisper softly as i gently pop up onto my feet and leave the room.

i quietly exit and slip into his bedroom, which was plain except for the many comic books and the occasional photos of us he had taped to the wall.

i made my way over to his dresser and opened the top door, which was filled to the brim with random items and trinkets. i quickly dug through the mess and pulled out a bright purple, stretched out hairtie.

i shut the drawer and made my way back into the bathroom where carl sat.

“Thank you baby..” he says as he turns his head sideways, smiling at me.

“No problem” I reply as i gently comb his hair back into a ponytail.

“You think you got it all out?” I add as I carefully rub his back.

“Yea..that was the first time I’ve puked in a while” he replies with a weak cough.

“Wanna try and lay in bed?” I asked.

“Yea..” he answers as he slowly stumbles to his feet.

I carefully wrap my arm around his shoulder and help him to his bedroom.

A majority of his weight is on me,making it hard to move.

Slowly, we stumbled our way into the room.

I pull the comforter off the corner and gently sit him down onto the bed, placing his trash can next to it as a precaution.

He slides down into the comfy sheets, gently sinking into the soft mattress.

I lift up the comforter and place it on top of him.

“Need anything else?” I ask as I sit on the edge of the bed.

“Mm lay with me..” he says with a sleepy tone.

“Lay?” I chuckle.

“Mhm..” he hums as he grabs my hand and lightly tugs on it.

I playfully roll my eyes and climb onto the other side of the bed.

He slides over and gently snakes his arms around my waist, pulling himself into my chest.

“Are you always this clingy when you’re sick?” I laugh.

“Mm maybe…” he mumbles.

I smile and softly place my hand to brush his bangs away from his forehead.

“You’re clammy” I whisper.

“Well I just puked up my breakfast” he chuckles lowly.

“Atleast you don’t have a fever” I add with a hopeful smile.

“You want any water? You’ve got to be dehydrated” I ask as I gently comb my fingers through his hair.

“Yea but later..” he muttered.

“Later?” I smile.

“I want you here” he adds.

“I guess I’ll grab you some while you’re sleeping” I chuckle.

“You’re really gonna leave me while I’m sleeping? What if I get sick again?” He complains.

“You’ll be fine, you puked five other times without me” I playfully protest.

He groans into his pillow.

“Now sleep” I add as I softly rub his back.

“Oh no now you’re rushing me so you can leave?” He jokes.

“You’re ridiculous” I laugh.

Soon enough, the long haired boy in question was sound asleep on my chest.

I gently slid him off and onto the pillow beside me, and placed a gentle kiss on his sweaty forehead.

i quietly slipped out of the room and tiptoed down the creaky stairs, weary of making any noise.

The lights in the kitchen flickered on and I pulled out a pot from under the sink. I gently filled it up with whatever soup I could find..which just so happened to be chicken noodle soup..and left it on the stove to simmer.

While that was cooking, I filled up a water bottle with ice water and placed it off to the side.

After the soup was done cooking I poured it into a bowl and carefully brought it up the stairs.

I slowly creeped around the corner, unsure if he’s awake or not.

His eyes flickered open as I entered the room.

“Good morning” I joke.

“..you made me food?” He asks as he rubs his eyes, slowly adjusting to the light.

“I found some soup in the pantry” I say as I place the warm bowl onto his lap.

“thank you..” he smiles, adjusting himself to sit up against the headboard.

“And I brought your water..would you consider now to be later?” I chuckle as I place it next to him on the bed.

“Ha ha” he says sarcastically as he sips the soup.

“It’s really good..I really appreciate this..” he adds with a shy, but genuine tone.

“Of course” I reply as I comfortingly rub his arm with my thumb.

“I love you”

“I love you too”

#the walking dead #carl grimes #x reader #oneshots #fluff imagine #fluff #sickfic #stomach ache #grimes family #carl grimes x reader

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eggluverz · 1 year ago

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danheng college roommate au 🥹

— HOT AND COLD

In which Dan Heng runs hot and blasts the air conditioner to keep cool, and you feel like you’re living in the arctic.

PAIRING. dan heng x gn!reader

GENRE. modern au, roommate au

WORD COUNT. 1238

NOTE. and they were roommates :> ty for the idea anon!! it was vague enough so i kinda just ran with it LOL dan heng running the ac in this asian household? wild xD anyway pls enjoy!!

You had gone through this school year in relative peace with your roommate.

When the school year started, you were unable to secure on-campus housing in time and thankfully your friends found a social media thread of other college students living off-campus who needed someone to share an apartment with. Dan Heng immediately stood out of the crowd, solely for how handsome he looked in profile picture alone. Who needed other sources of credibility when they were pretty?

For most of the year, the two of you lived pretty separate lives. When you were home, you were usually in your room unless you wanted to cook. When Dan Heng was home, it was the same. And add the fact that he only exited his room during ungodly hours of the night, it was a recipe for never really bumping into each other.

It made you a little sad, naturally. You wanted to be close with your roommate and have movie nights and game nights, but he set the tone for wanting to live together, yet separate, and you found it simpler to adhere to his wishes.

But as the weather warmed up, as did your serendipitous contact with Dan Heng. For starters, right as winter came to an end and spring only remotely gave its warm greeting, you would see Dan Heng head to the living room and turn on the air conditioner while you were eating on the kitchen island.

As it grew hotter out, Dan Heng only lowered the thermostat more and more. Causing you to freeze more and more.

Now, you enjoyed living in a nice and temperate room like most people, but with how your roommate set the thermostat, your apartment was well below room temperature! Below freezing if you wanted to be dramatic. It was a little ridiculous how cold it was, in your humble opinion. Did he want to live in the snow?

One particular cold night, you came out to boil yourself some hot water for your hot chocolate and marshmallows. It may have been burning hot out, but inside was a winter wonderland, so you figured you may as well get in the mood. You had fuzzy pajama pants on, along with a longsleeve shirt and a scarf wrapped around your neck and a beanie on your head.

Just as you were about to go back to your room and wrap yourself under a million fluffy blankets, Dan Heng emerged from his room to head to the thermostat.

He paused as you walked by him, eyes widening at the sight. Dan Heng himself wore nothing but a pair of gray sweats and a black shirt. He stared at you for a few moments.

“Are you feeling ill?” he asked, one of the first words you’ve heard him say this whole month.

You shook yourself. “No! I’m feeling perfectly fine,” you said, voice muffled from the scarf that half-covered your mouth.

He blinked. “But… your outfit.”

“I’m just a little chilly, is all.”

He walked over to you with his arm outstretched. He brought his hand close to you and asked, “May I?”

You nodded.

Dan Heng lifted your beanie slightly and placed the back of his palm on your forehead. It was instantly warm to the touch and you wanted to place it right on your cold cheek to heat it up. He stayed in that position for a while, a look of deep thought on his face. “Hmm… Your temperature doesn’t seem to be of concern. It does seem safe to assume you’re not sick.”

“Yeah! I’m feeling fine. Just a bit cold, like I said.”

Dan Heng looked between his bare arms and your fully covered ones. He ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You looked at him, confused.

He elaborated, “I didn’t realize I was making the apartment unliveable for you.”

“No, no! I wouldn’t say unliveable. I’m cold, yes, but it’s nothing some layers can’t fix.” Besides, the two of you were lucky enough to live in an apartment that covered utilities for you. He could run the AC and heater on all day and all night if he truly wished.

Dan Heng shook his head. “I should’ve been more attentive to the needs of the other occupants. I’ll keep the temperature higher for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you teased, noting the look of intense worry on his face. You took a sip of your hot chocolate and smiled at him. “But thank you.”

˖⁺‧₊˚❀˚₊‧⁺˖

Dan Heng was nothing but determined, it seemed.

You could tell the next day because instead of the igloo your apartment once was, it now became a sauna.

As you walked into the building after a nice walk outside in the hot sun, you were looking forward to the cool air greeting you. However, what you got was a blast of heated air blowing on your face.

You instantly fanned yourself with your hand as you called, “Dan Heng?”

You didn’t have to look very far because as you walked into the living room, you noticed him shirtless and slightly glistening, a book in one hand an a popsicle in another.

He straightened up as he heard you approach. “Welcome home,” he greeted.

“Hi,” you said with a sheepish wave, trying to keep your eyes off his well-defined chest muscles.

“Is the temperature more to your liking?”

You stared at him, your body and face growing warmer as the hot air continued to blow around you. For a moment, you considered agreeing with him, if only to commend his efforts. You noticed he was putting up with being comfortable if it would have made you more comfortable. However, you felt pretty miserable and you figured you would rather freeze than have the both of you melt inside your apartment.

“Not exactly,” you said, feeling a bead of sweat forming on your temple. “It’s hotter in here and outside, Dan Heng!”

His cheeks that were flushed pink from the heat turned even redder. “Perhaps I overestimated how warm you liked your living area.”

“I think you did!” You couldn’t stop the amused laughter from coming out of your mouth. “I appreciate the thought, but I don’t think living in a sauna is fun for either of us.”

He nodded in agreement. A drop of his popsicle melted and slowly made its way towards his hand. He briefly licked it before it could make a mess.

“I’m going to turn the air conditioner back on,” you said in amusement. “Maybe set it to a nice, room temperature.”

“I agree that would be for the best.”

You walked over to the thermostat and adjusted the temperature accordingly. You felt your body warming with each step. There was no way you wanted to stay in your apartment while it was still this hot.

“It’s going to take a while for our apartment to cool down,” you laughed. “Do you want to go out and get some ice cream while we wait? Maybe go to the beach?”

Dan Heng considered it for a moment, finishing up the small remainder of his popsicle. “I’d like that. We haven’t had much time to bond as roommates. Maybe this would be a good time.”

You nodded. “Something is telling me I’d really enjoy getting to know you more.”

He smiled. “I feel the same.”

“Let’s go have a beach day, roomie!”

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail #dan heng x reader #dan heng #hsr #hsr fluff #dan heng x you #dan heng x y/n #hsr imagines #hsr fanfiction

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coldxperience · 5 months ago

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☀︎ Lan Sizhui names etymology

Here's a complete post on the etymology of our lovely Sizuhi's various names. I've always appreciated how authors would give out names that fit their characters so well, which is why I chose to share this.

Both Lan Wangji & Wei Wuxian's are already up on my profile. ▷ MDZS Home Page

Birth Name - Lan/Wen Yuan

Lan 藍 (lán) – blue In Chinese, Lan 藍 is literally blue.

Wen 温 (wēn) – lukewarm

Yuan 愿 / 苑 (yuàn) 愿 – honest, hope/desire 苑 – park & emperor's garden

Sizhui’s other name bestowed by LWJ, Yuan (愿), means ‘hope’. Just like how he saw Weiying again shortly after meeting A-Yuan, maybe he’s also hoping for the moment that familiar voice will beckon his name once more. His name as a Wen is also Yuan, though written as 苑, meaning ‘emperor’s garden’. In the past, the imperial family built gardens for pleasure, to escape from the rigid rules and etiquette of the palace and worldly matters. It was also built to impress.

I think how this is juxtaposed against the Burial Mounds, an unliveable place that WWX and the Wens worked hard to make into not only a habitable but enjoyable living space, away from the perceptions and condemnation of the outside world. A little piece of heaven from the barbaric world, just like the imperial gardens. It was here that WWX found a sliver of hope – the author used 神清气爽 (‘refreshed, invigorated’) to describe his feelings after the Wens held a dinner to thank him. It was here that he began to question if walking on a ‘single-plank bridge to darkness’ will be dark after all. It was also here that he could focus on demonic cultivation and his inventions in peace, eventually becoming the revered Yiling Patriarch.

Courtesy Name - Lan Sizhui

Shizhui 思追 (sīzhuī) – to recollect and long for

Sizhui, his courtesy name or zi, derives from a rhyming couplet from the author Mo Xiang Tong Xiu herself. “思君不可追，念君何时归” (sī jūn bù kě zhuī, niàn jūn hé shí guī) translates to ‘yearning for but cannot chase after you, longing for someday when you will return’.

Let’s not forget that Sizhui is a love letter between LWJ and WWX. Aside from the pair of rabbits, perfume sachet, copies of Lan Sect scriptures and the Chinese peonies, Sizhui is the last ‘thing’ under LWJ’s protection who symbolises their shared memories, having been brought up for more than three years by WWX. Though Sizhui himself did not remember his life as a Wen after his illness, it’s inevitable that whenever LWJ looked at him, he would have been reminded of his mental turmoil during WWX’s seclusion at the Burial Mounds – his inability to stand by his side and yearning for bringing him back to the Cloud Recesses. Raising Sizhui as a lineal descendant was intentional – he could not save WWX but at least he could save his ‘son’.

Author Note: I am not an expert in Chinese at all, English isn't my native language either - I hope everything is correct.

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[ completed ; 09/08/2024]

★ ⁺. ໒꒰ྀི｡- ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১ ૮꒰˶ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ˶꒱ა ˖⁺‧₊˚

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alienaiver · 7 months ago

Text

Cloudwalking

Aizawa Shouta x GN!reader

content: you're married to aizawa and he takes you to meet shirakumo for the first time.

wordcount: ~900

notes: the anniversary of a friend's passing is catching up to me. aizawa helps me cope so heavy on the comfort <3 written entirely on my phone and with no beta reading. i hope you enjoy <3333 (genuinely not sure if this is coherent. its missing people hour<3) spoilers from season 4 and up? to be sure!! ill come back and format this post when i have more than 3% battery 🫡

"i'm married."

"married!" the voice is at the cusp of a scoff, but excitement shines through.

"yeah, i know. wasn't the most emotionally available back then."

"good for you, man! is it them standing over there?"

aizawa turns his head to look back at you. you're a distance away with a small bouquet of flowers, all in white and blue. you're looking up at the huge, cumulonimbus clouds. you're meeting shirakumo for the first time.

aizawa turns back to the cold, unliving stone with his friend's name engraved, together with the dates. he hates the last date; that day had nothing to do with shirakumo, he's not attached to that particular day in any way. it was just... the day aizawa, yamada and his family lost him. nothing else, nothing important or personal that'd invoke feelings in shirakumo himself.

he hears the comforting words of his friend, "hey man, it's alright. we're okay."

he never pictured himself as a person talking to graves, imagining the voice of a deceased. it's irrational. completely irrational. there's no one there. least of all his friend. but showing up periodically and giving his friend his life updates eases a weight in aizawa that he's barely able to grasp otherwise.

but he hasn't been here for quite some time. with the war, the amputation, the restoration of society, his marriage, it hadn't really seemed like an opportune time whenever he thought of it. always so much to do, so much to run after.

the days blurred more and more often for aizawa; all the things and jobs and shifts and teachings that he always had the upper hand with kept slipping between his fingers now. fatigue making him forget to grade papers after patrol, night shifts at the dorm disrupting his already fragile sleep cycles, medication after medication turning his stomach around while wrestling with medical training, physio and therapy.

aizawa's not young anymore; hell, he's never felt young. not quite like his peers and he's never really been able to recognize himself in his students. he may see a glimmer of himself here and there, but never quite does he relate to their motivations. he bites his lip.

"they're nervous about meeting you." he admits, even if he finds your fear irrational. shirakumo would never judge anyone.

he imagines his friend's laugh like a caress on his cheek, "i've already met them. i'm with you all the time, remember?"

aizawa snorts, "god, i hope not."

there's a beat of silence before he imagines shirakumo's next words, biting his upper lip and tensing to prevent tears.

"they take great care of you, like you deserve."

aizawa's lost so much. over the years he hasn't always been able to rationalize how he keeps going. surely, anyone going through all that he has is bound to suffer a mental break, right?

he thinks he almost did. but then you showed up, bright and warm. you offered a hand right before he'd resigned himself to stay alone.

to stay alone for everyone else's sake. he knows he'll become more and more of a burden as age grapples his torn body, as disability lets things slip.

he's been more nervous about seeing shirakumo today than you.

what if his friend isn't proud of him? what if he's disappointed? what if he pities him?

he grits his teeth and apologizes to the grave in a strained voice. reprimands himself for ruining the moment.

"they're coming over."

he tenses up when he hears your footsteps nearing.

why?

"i told them to."

aizawa's stays squatted in front of the grave, afraid to turn to you. you don't see this side of him often.

he can feel you right beside him, and after you've taken a steadying breath to gather courage, you bow low to the grave and introduce yourself like you would to someone above you in a hierachy.

"thank you for taking care of my husband. i'm deeply grateful to be able to meet you."

you squat down next to aizawa and put the flowers gently on the grave, and he observes as you trace your fingers over the bluest of them all, the muscari, before you lean into your husband's shoulder. aizawa doesn't want to admit it, but he relaxes instantly at the gesture.

there's a moment of silence, like you're both soaking up the moment. when you rise and speak again, aizawa isn't able to hold back his sniffle as gracefully as he hoped. if you hear it, you don't comment on it.

"i promise to take care of him, in your stead. and send him here more often, with some salmon nigiri to enjoy with you."

the last part makes him laugh, letting his head fall into his open palm in a sort of flustered embarrassment stemming from all the overwhelm of emotions. aizawa imagines the gleeful laugh of his best friend, the puffed up chest and the hand to your shoulder, telling you to do your best, and that aizawa can be a handful.

"he's a handful sure, but there's nothing about him that doesn't make it worth it."

aizawa feels his heart soar as he looks up at you straightening your pants. when he catches your eye, you give him a thumbs up and a big, sunny smile matching the bright blue sky and white clouds behind you. the clouds perfectly shapes themselves and centers around you, like you're embraced by those, too.

#bnha x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #mha x reader #aizawa shouta x you #bnha x you #bnha fluff #i guess. hurt subject comfort handling?#nohr.bnha #nohr.writings

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cardentist · 7 months ago

Note

(Note I'm seeing this through lens of being horribly ill and struggling with health providers rn but)

I never saw it as an addiction metaphor I saw but how disabled people are denied aid and stuff because its 'wrong' and you 'should just be able to exist without it'.

But 'it hurts me to see you using cane/meds/wheelchair'

So it made sense to me that yeah he'd feel great using it but also feel horrible guilty

Context: [Link]

I didn't get into this in the original post because I was worried I wouldn't be able to word it right (in part because I haven't finished my relisten, and in part because this is More than just meta about a story I like and I didn't want to say anything ignorant).

BUT I'm absolutely glad that you're bringing this up.

because the truth is that my Other problem with the discussion about monsterhood in the magnus archives as addiction (in holding characters morally accountable for being monsters because they "should" be able to just Choose not to do monstrous things if they were good people) is that it Is accurate to how people treat addicts, and that's a bad thing when people parrot it without realizing that.

because the truth is, addicts often Do need their addiction to survive. medically, emotionally, or just. You Know. because addiction often means you can't just cut cold turkey without major consequences (consequences that, to be clear, Can Kill You). and they Are often treated poorly by the people around them for not just being able to Do Better as if anyone could be expected to do "better" in their situation.

when ""better"" means being in pain, when ""better"" is unlivable without the necessary support to Make it bearable.

and this Absolutely crosses over with ableism. in real life And in the show.

you don't Need to be an addict for someone to treat you like you're immoral for needing aid they don't. though I think it'd be a mistake to talk about it without Also keeping addiction in the conversation, because it's not right when people do it to addicts either.

needing aid to survive And being an addict aren't mutually exclusive, and that's what I meant when I said my last post was In Conversation with the addiction metaphor.

jon's situation being a mirror (in many ways, it's not an exact one to one of course) with addiction doesn't mean that he's Less deserving of compassion or that his situation was somehow his own fault, it means that we should be taking that compassion and understanding of his situation and Apply That to the real people who are also deserving of those things.

we Watched jon be stripped of his own agency and forced into a position where he could Only be a monster or die, and in response many people have said that he should've just Chosen not to be, as if the choice is Reasonable. as if asking him to starve or die is Reasonable.

and of course, I'm not qualified to speak about addiction in detail, but it's just something that's sat wrong with me for years. the Show's use of addiction as a metaphor works for me because of the empathy and humanity it's Meant to show to addiction. but the fandom's reception to that messaging isn't. always stellar.

and I don't think people necessarily do it on purpose, but I Do wish there was more of an awareness of it. how it might come across, you know?

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #meta #someone who knows more than I do Please come talk on this post

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v4voracity · 9 months ago

Text

HALF A HEART - COD characters x Poltergeist!reader

POLTERGEIST COD AU

⥇❥"Reader" is a literal ghost, AFAB reader and referred primarily as to as "you", sometimes explicitly referred to as a woman, implied to be British and implied to have died in the 1500s/16th century, though the location isn’t relevant for much other than attempted historical accuracy with her death/why she’s in England. Reader is also not said to be of any skin tone or ethnicity, just that she was *likely* born in England. Reader is from a time when afab people weren't commonly educated and canonically has slight trouble reading and learning after her death since she can't access books or learning materials and had to self-teach herself to read and write after death where she couldn't ask for help, this will probably change though after she meets 141. Said information is slightly relevant to the plot, though I can make an alternate version if people want an amab/gender neutral reader :)

also roach is canonically part of this and has little antenna attachments to his helmet because i said so

⥇❥Word Count: 4096, excluding warnings and text above the cut.

⥇❥CONTENT WARNING FOR:

↪ Technically age gap? Reader was born and died long before any cod character ↪ possibly historically inaccurate as i was unfortunately not alive in the 1500s nor most of the following time periods ↪ possibly incorrect depictions of a ‘poltergeist’, as reader is an amalgamation of different types of ghosts/folklore (i mainly just didn't want to use the term ‘ghost’ because it’d be confusing with Ghost the character) ↪ possibly OOC characters ↪ american author writing europeans ↪reader is (basically) rasputin with their death ↪ slight mentions of religion or religious themes (mainly about the afterlife, existence of heaven/hell, and brief mentions of witch trials which were mostly religiously motivated.) ↪graphic description of how reader died (witch trials, so think salem witch trials kind of graphic)

let me know if i missed anything or should edit the content warnings!

Link to main masterlist - Link to HALF A HEART sub-list

You have been warned, scroll at your own risk.

Let’s get things straight. You are, for all intents and purposes, dead.

Deader than a doornail, in-fact, you’ve been dead for almost.. 500 years now? Well, you're rounding slightly but nobody cares for the exact amount of time.

Now, that is a long time to be dead for… Well, a long time to be dead but still conscious; a spirit, ghost, apparition, whatever you wanted to call it. If it weren’t for the fact you were more-so apparition than person, you’d almost say it’s like being alive and immortal for longer than god (or genetics, you weren’t picky) ever intended.

And being ‘alive’ for so long is very boring; especially now that the deep-seeded anger in your heart has faded, those who wronged you long gone and their kin far too distant from them for you to ever wish ill-will towards them. Especially now that the fear you felt, the horrific terror you felt being escorted to your improper grave and the existential dread that hung heavy when you revived, only to realize you hadn’t survived nor been healed for a second chance. No, you were dead; rejected by both heaven and hell, not even worthy for eternal damnation. The only upside to this was that you were still capable of interacting with the living world; more than you could say for the very, very, VERY small number of ghouls you had met in your time of unliving. Apparently you were a bit unusual, you being far more capable and capable of manipulating the living world than the 'run-of-the-mill' ghost.

That being said, your current behavior, which was following around some hunky military men like a lovesick maiden, was totally excusable…

…It wasn’t creepy, no, you weren’t being improper. You were totally just... curious. It couldn’t have been the fact that you died unwed— a pure virgin, hardly having even engaged in romantic acts, as you were devout in your chaste nature. I mean, surely your absolute devotion which led to you never even kissing a man or woman, holding hands or lying with someone earned you a little justification to do… whatever you were doing right now.

Okay, maybe it was a bit creepy. But dying a without so much as ever having ONE cute little date with heated cheeks, bashful giggles, and butterflies in your stomach as your hands brushed each others— FOLLOWED by being forced to go entirely unperceived much less feeling any sort of physical contact or verbal interaction for A COUPLE CENTURIES makes this somewhat understandable.

It’s not like you were really DOING anything, (because, again, that was a wee-bit hard in your current state) you’ve just kind of been following this guy around?

(You followed him around because you overheard people refer to him as ‘Ghost’ and as an actual ghost you found that a little funny)

Then that led to you following his team around. You had, somewhat, messed with the men— not much, mainly flickering lights, closing doors, and moving objects slightly.

There had been slight complaints, but not much indicating they knew they were facing a lonely, dead girl who died unfairly supernatural danger in the form of a poltergeist with abnormally strong powers. Just assumptions that ‘the wiring was faulty’, or that ‘someone must’ve left a window open’, sometimes they just assume someone knocked something over (despite nobody being near said knocked object). Oh, and your favorite was that ‘some stupid recruits moving shit’— speaking of which— the guys you followed were all pretty high-ranking from your understanding and occasionally trained recruits. That was cool in its own right, but it was especially great for you because you could lob stuff at them and get some poor recruit in trouble. It was fun.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t fun enough to keep you entertained. Now, given when you were born and raised it wasn’t a surprise that you weren’t particularly that literate. Your brain (long gone and returned to the ground) wasn’t even physical or attached to you anymore, so it wasn’t a surprise that learning things was often hard for you(something you hated in death, as learning things would help pass the time if it weren't frustrating and near impossible both because you couldn’t access physical hobbies or items like books AND because your brain—or lack thereof— simply didn’t take to information like it used to), but you knew enough of written English to make out most newspapers and documents. Despite that, you had very little clue of the strange ciphers and terms used by the men, even though you had remained mainly around the military base they were staying in for a few months.

…That was until recently, when you decided you were curious enough to try and actually learn about what they’re doing. You were currently following this guy— Captain Price, you think— because from what you knew (as a woman who died in the middle ages, uneducated, illiterate, dying fairly young by today's standards anyways and having lived without ever partaking in any wars or battles and not ever bothering to ask about any) he was the highest rank of the team, followed by that ‘Ghost’ guy you originally followed (he’s called a lieutenant, a word you hated writing or reading because it was so damn hard to spell or even look at), then this ‘Soap’ fella (A sergeant, another word you weren’t a fan of) and then this ‘Gaz’ bloke (Who was apparently also a sergeant, but he was the second? So he was lower? Why did they need two? And why was one rank worse than the other? You didn’t know and frankly found it stupid.) There were also these other people; Shadow Company or something, you didn’t really get it because the guy who they most frequently talked to from that company was white as a sheet, but whatever.

Anyways, recently you found out that while wandering wasn’t an issue for you (you weren’t ever bound to a particular area, probably because your body, or whatever remained of it, was far from where you died, and you couldn’t really remember where you were when you died so you weren’t particularly attached) it was very hard for you to follow after the ‘vehicles’ they used. Sometimes they used these wheeled inventions called ‘cars’ (which were kinda like the horses, carts, and carriages of your time but not shitty). They also had these things— called ‘helicopters’ or something similar with a different name (again, you didn't know why they made things so complicated but whatever) that were able to take them anywhere by air. Pretty cool if it weren’t for the fact it made following them anywhere exceptionally difficult. So you had to go about a different method if you wanted to actually follow them anywhere.

Possession.

Not necessarily like the kind you’d seen in a ghost-related movie you watched over an unwitting couple’s shoulder. It was more so just somewhat attaching yourself to someone, letting part of yourself (probably your soul, if you actually had one) attach to theirs, letting them become a tether into the physical plane. The realm of the living. If you pushed it far you could absolutely do like they do in the movies, but you found that kind of scary since you didn’t know how much of your soul was required for that or if you could be exorcized like in the movies. You really only tethered yourself to someone when you first transitioned into… whatever you were now.

A wraith, at the time, aggressive and vengeful against the man who accused you, the town that raised you then gazed at you hungrily— blaming you for their sins. Calling you a temptress for the beauty you acquired with your maturation, something you were once proud about turned into something you abhorred.

At one point you even felt festering hatred towards the family that raised you. A mother who birthed you only to denounce birthing you, claiming a devil implanted you as a demon of the night that’d ruin their village and took the milk meant for sons, your elder brothers. A father, one who doted on you before as his precious only daughter and youngest, turning his head; unable to watch as you were tied to the pyre and lit ablaze— a man who was cowardly and evasive. The siblings of yours that you grew with— were close with, were cared for by, were raised by!

All for them to pretend they had nothing to do with you. Or to join the crowd’s jeering turned cheers as you sobbed, salty tears unable to extinguish the fast-growing embers. Not one of them dared to correct the executioner’s methods. Witches, despite stigma, were usually hung or otherwise given quick deaths prior to the burning; but you…

Oh, poor, poor you. Things weren’t quite done correctly. You were still alive when they tied you to the post, surrounding you with flammables and letting the flames lick up your body. Catatonic, unable to beg for mercy, for them to kill you properly. Though, even if you were able to speak, you probably wouldn’t beg. You were desperate to survive. When they butchered you like the farm animals you’d skinned many times before with your dear-old-dad. Failed to cut the correct places and left you bleeding, conscious but paralyzed in pain and fear as they dragged your body to a make-shift wooden post in the town center. Never let you burn fully, the triumph leaving their voices when they still saw you, struggling— eyes still moving, hyperventilating as your arms thrashed trying to break the burnt ropes, paralysis spell broken by desperation— still living, still struggling, still surviving.

They didn’t have the courage to finish burning you either.

It'd be a poor choice if you were a witch, since burning was supposed to be done to stop them from cursing people…

Actually, now that you’re thinking about it, maybe you were a witch? Maybe you had somehow sold your soul, and with no soul to give you could enter the afterlife? Maybe that’s why you felt a path of fury when you died? You felt wronged and cursed people for nearly half the first century you found yourself un-living.

Regardless, the cowards backed away from you with wide eyes, and eventually you felt the ropes break, your body barely reacting to what you wanted it to do, stumbling around aimlessly despite your efforts.

All you could do was scramble out the village, betrayed and never wanting to return.

Eventually, you fell to a crawl, dragging yourself through the grass, fingernails caked with a mix of dirt and blood, as if your near-corpse was trying to create a shallow grave every time you scraped them across the ground…

Somehow, you ended up falling into a river. You don’t know if you fell during your crawls or if someone put you in there, just that it was excruciatingly cold and your lungs, shrunken and shriveled by the heat of your incomplete incineration couldn’t get any air. You tried pulling yourself out but you were too far gone. Even then, ‘til the point your eyes closed you never gave up. Maybe you were so against dying your soul remained, even when your body went.

Honestly, you weren’t ever really sure which of those injuries eventually lead to your drawn-out and overdue death, but you didn’t care. What you did care about, upon re-awakening, was revenge, hearing the blood-curdling screams of those who wronged you, those who feigned ignorance, those who lied, and those who threw you out when false accusations came. You were swift in it, tethering yourself to everyone in town, attaching small pieces of yourself meant for one purpose: tracking.

No matter where they went they were damned, your violent-haze, the cravings for others to bear a fraction of your misfortune. You were like a tsunami, quick to approach with little warning, only the quick recession of water to warn those who’d be affected. (Not that your victims knew what a train was, but it was like the equivalent of seeing a train barreling toward you and being unable to move, only able to process what's about to happen.) And you were even swifter to strike, small misfortunes not enough to quell that furious fire inside you— brighter than those that scalded you. All ended in what you thought were well-deserved deaths.

But, that wasn’t what you’d be using them for. Not today, and hopefully never again.

You decided you’d turn up the heat a bit and have these men notice that they were, in fact, haunted and not just clumsy or forgetful. You had an easier time manipulating things when no-one was around, or when someone was alone. Easy prey for the ghoulish you, even if most of these guys could probably have easily broken you in half when you were still alive. It sounded dumb to give yourself away, since they might try to send you back to the rest you used to crave upon first re-animating, but it was necessary to tether yourself.

So… here you were! Fucking around and moving things, only to be met with just minor annoyance by this guy. ‘Price’, for some unknown reason, just seemed minorly peeved by your interactions, not convinced they were supernatural.

You moved his chair and desk(which was pretty hard with how heavy it was) and this guy just groaned about how his superiors treated his office however they wanted when they needed something.

You sent his papers flying, stacks of paperwork sorted neatly into piles of done and yet-to-be looked at, all flying. You flung the pen he used too, sending a blotch of ink onto the floor with the papers, permanently soaking them. Minor annoyance, didn’t even say anything. Just… grumbled.

Hell, you toppled over a WHOLE bookshelf, loud thud echoing as it fell to the ground and all its contents scattered. And this guy? Grumbling about how the flooring was uneven!

If you had a physical body, you’d be beating your head against a wall right now. Seriously, it was frustrating!

You guessed you had done something correctly though, as he seemed annoyed enough to leave his office and go for a walk. Throughout said walk you continued throwing items and flying through his body, which usually caused people immense discomfort, sometimes to the point of causing panic attacks or full-on freak-outs. All that? Yeah, met with a “Bit chilly today.” or a “Someone outta close th’ windows.”

You were offended, to say the least.

Now, you were in a common room with several other people, including those guys, Gaz and Soap, who now talked to the Price fella. It was harder to interact with things, especially with so many people in broad daylight, in light in general. But you surprised yourself when your frustrations and slight anger led to the lightbulbs in the room flickering several times before simultaneously combusting into sparks and broken glass, all electronics—mainly the radios strapped to almost every soldier in the room— with speakers blaring loud static as you flung the nearest object, a bench that you didn't initially notice was bolted to the fucking ground out from it and towards Price, and the other two who surrounded him.

‘Oops..?’

Okay, maybe you weren’t entirely devoid of anger and wrathful vengeance, but you’d like to think your self-control was a lot better than when you first died. You did have around… well, about 400 other years to learn some self-restraint and become slightly less blood-thirsty?

ANYWAYS; Lucky for you they all managed to dodge that heavy and fast approaching bench! good thing they were all trained soldiers who were always on guard Oh, and even better everyone in the room now looked at the uprooted bench with wide eyes and terrified expressions! So… mission accomplished?

Well, sort of?

“The hell?!” Everyone in the room backed towards whatever wall was nearest to them, behind unmoved furniture, or otherwise tactically covered positions as quick as they could, many (including the poor sod you’d been following and the rest of his team) having their guns ready and aimed at the entrances or near the uprooted bench.

…Yeah, you didn’t really wanna deal with this.

So you floated off, through the walls pretending your problems didn’t exist, as you usually did.

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

You came across something pretty interesting, that Ghost guy was doing some strange hand gestures to this other masked fella (why was everyone here covered almost head to in something?). For a moment you thought they were trying to summon something before remembering that the military used hand signals and stuff.

Anyways, you now had a new guy to follow! He looked pretty cool and he had these little things hanging off his helmet that remind you of a bug. Something… was slightly off with this guy though. You could’ve SWORN he was occasionally glancing over at you, or your general area. Ghost, who you couldn’t really tell much expression-wise due to him also wearing a mask, seemed to lift an eyebrow. Or furrow them. You didn’t know, you just saw his forehead area shift a bit under the mask.

“You 'lright?” He turned and glanced over at you, where his bug-like friend kept glancing. Bug-fella looked over at you for a few more moments before shaking his head and gesturing at Ghost again. Ghost seemingly returns to his resting facial position and glances back towards your general direction, not quite as spot on as his friend was. “Y' just keep looking over there, ‘was wondering why.”

Ghost loses interest quickly, turning away from where his friend was staring, resuming his silent communication with the still-unnamed lad, hand gestures becoming far too fast for you to even comprehend what they were doing even if you did understand what the gestures meant. After a short while of just floating around and watching them, Ghost gives the shorter man a light bump to the shoulder with his fist (seemingly friendly?) and turns to leave. “See y’ round.”

It’s just you and Bug-boy now. The room empty, and his eyes (not that you can see them, he’s wearing a helmet and goggles that are practically solid with how heavy the glass is tinted) are aimed directly at you. You float over, hovering a good foot or two off the floor because the ground and gravity were for cowards, and stop a few inches away from him. He reaches a hand up towards you, only for it to quickly phase through your arm, then your torso, then back into the air. He’s startled by the feeling, you can tell, shivering as goosebumps raise on his arm and his hair stands on end, you can tell because of his sleeves being bunched up at his elbows.

“Sorry.” you say, not even sure if he’d hear you. Maybe this was some weird coincidence and he couldn’t actually see you. Though, to your utter surprise and slight delight he kind of waves it off, making gestures (full body ones this time, not the hand-signals you couldn’t quite understand) that you could interpret as meaning ‘not to worry about it’. Your eyes widened, before breaking into a big grin. “Wait, wait, wait, you can see me? You heard me— can hear me?!” He nods, looking at you, observing, then gesturing with his hands again.

You.. feel a little bad that you don’t understand whatever military signs this must be, tilting your head and frowning. “I… I don’t understand. Sorry, I don’t know much about the military signals or whatever you were using. The code signs and words you guys use weren’t around when I lived. Or died.” He seems a little confused, then brings out a rectangle from his pocket— a phone, new invention and quite useful. It lights up as he puts in the code and opens something, pressing at the glass.

After a moment he turns it towards you. It… takes you a little to adjust to the brightness (and to read the small letters, given your eyesight and low-literacy). “Give me a second, it takes me a minute to read.” In your peripheral he nods, though you don't move your gaze away from the screen.

“That’s fine, not many people know sign language. It’s not a military signal, just a way I communicate since I’m mute.” You read his words aloud, relatively slowly and he nods after you’ve read it; confirming you’ve read it correctly.

You glance back up at him. “Mute… So you… can’t speak? Right?” Another nod, then he turns the phone back to himself, rapidly pressing the screen and turning it back again. You read again, “What are you? How are you floating, and why’d my hand go through? Why were you watching us?” You hum, floating away from him slightly, sinking slightly to a sitting position, though still remaining affixed in the air and not sitting on an actual chair.

“Well, I’m dead. I guess you could call me a spirit, spectral, a ghost…” you chuckle a bit at the last one. “Well, maybe not that last one, it seems your friend already occupies it.” You lean forward again, nearly doing a backflip in the air before stopping in a lying position, holding your head in your hands. “I guess me being dead physically but alive… consciously, or spiritually I guess..? Resulted in me being incorporeal, thus not really touchable by people or gravity.” He nods at your words before motioning for you to continue when you pause.

You avert your eyes. “Well, watching people is all I usually can do. Incorporeal and all. I’m not sure how you can see me when I’m not manifested or tethered to you, but it’s nice…” Smiling sheepishly, you can only hope this guy— the only person you’ve actually talked to in a long, long, time— isn’t grimacing under his mask. You hesitate before reaching out towards him, running a finger down his throat in thought, forgetting it'd just phase through. “Maybe it's because you can't speak? It's not a sense but it's like maybe because you don't have one thing your other senses are better? But back to your prior questions. Being dead is… boring. All I can really do is fuck with people and watch stuff. You and your friend, Ghost, and his other… teammates are just what have caught my interest recently.”

He nods and trots over to a nearby bench, you grimace thinking about the mischief you caused slightly earlier by throwing a bench at the captain. Let’s hope your bug-friend doesn’t overhear that and stop talking to you. “What’s your name?” He types, and turns the phone to you, a single word there. “Roach? Like… the bug?” your mouth quirks into a crooked smile and you giggle, flicking the antenna like attachments to his helmet. “Fitting, you got the antennas and everything!”

Floating down onto the seat, you try your best to sit on it, your bum and thighs slightly phasing through the seat but it's fine. ‘Roach’ begins typing on his phone again, having it set on his thigh so you can watch while he types. It was also probably just in case someone came in or saw him and so he wouldn’t look crazy turning his phone around to nothing (from other people’s perspectives).

“People can’t usually see you?”

You sigh and lean back, accidentally reclining into the wall and to the other side before realizing he probably won’t be able to hear you if you speak. “Oops, I forgot I’d phase through. Uh, yeah they usually can’t unless I’m actively haunting them and choosing to. It takes a lot of energy to do that though, so…” He nods and hovers his fingers over the phone, thinking for a moment.

“What's your name?”

You hum, thinking for a moment. You... haven't had to introduce yourself to anyone in centuries.

"This... well, it's a little embarrassing, but I can't remember."

"Why don't I call you 'Poltergeist' for now then, since Ghost is taken?" You smile at him, your cheeks feel like they've heated up slightly, but not from the lingering burn you got after your death, no, it was the burn of happiness. Giddy from this guy giving you a name, almost like you were a stray. You shouldn't be this happy, clinging to him and internally deeming him your new best friend, but you were.

Your undeath began a new chapter today, now living as 'Poltergeist' (at least until you remembered your name) with your new ghost-inclined friend Roach.

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amtskind · 3 months ago

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why was gregor samsa unbothered?

recently, someone on reddit asked the question "why does gregor seem unbothered by his transformation into a vermin, and instead thinks about trivial problems". i tried myself on my interpretation of said fact, and decided to post my answer here as well:

to some degree the insect-metaphor is not to take literally, as it often happens in literature. think of kafka's original wish, not to print any insects on the book's cover.

first, let's establish the samsas' life: gregor is the family's only financial income after his father failed his own business and had many debts to pay off, so all the samsas are depended on him. some may even argue, they exploit him, since the whole family is fully able to work (as seen after his transformation) and yet decides to make gregor work for him all alone. we don't know, if gregor does realize that, if he denies it for the sake of his sanity - or if he really doesn't notice. he thinks positively about his family.

gregor carries a lot of responsibility, he doesn't want to fail, because he cares for his family.

but other than work and family, gregor's life is incredibly limited. no friends mentioned, no love-interest in sight (but the desire referenced through the picture of a woman in his room).

his transformation into a vermin with bug-like features could be a metaphor for an incident, that made him unable to work and fall into isolation (like an illness). as gregor was almost a farm-animal in the literal sense before, he now lost all his use, making him useless and an "unnecessary burden".

try to picture the scenario, that you wake up - for example, without your limbs or without your speech. you may freak out or feel alienated by yourself, but in the first place you will miss your former life - your routine - your "use in society", as harsh as it sounds.

gregor's indifference towards his "new form" shows, that living as a "bug" per se isn't that hard. he hopes, people would accept that, just as he does. but society - in this case his family and colleagues, don't. they despise him, hide him, isolate him, just like some people do with those, who they view as deviant or useless.

gregor could have adapted to his new life, if his family let him - but the samsas didn't - and the hierarchy turned, the family grew and moved, but without gregor. and when gregor accepted, that he will never live his life "nomally" again (not necessarily as a human, but simply enjoying the same things as he did before - like his family's company), he crawls in the corner to die. in some altruistic act, to not be a burden to his family anymore. kafka shows us, how vile and fatal isolation is.

the insect-metaphor as a whole paints the picture, how unlivable gregor's life was already. his exploitation via. work isolates him from the outer life and he is unhappy about it. but as always, gregor tries to deny it, maybe for his own comfort - to at least think, this life is worth living. but despite everything, deep down he knows he is full of sorrow and stress. his transformation was the final mirror to his life, that pulled him (or moreso the reader, as gregor still hangs onto hope for the bettering and love for his family) out of the disillusioned view, that things were normal.

gregor clinges onto his routine, his past - oh so "happy" life and general altruism - and as always, puts himself last, not minding his horrific state.

in the end: what could he have done anyway? the protagonists of kafka are a subject to an enigmatic, unknown rule or power, which they don't question any further. sometimes, you aren't in control of your life. "it is what it is."

#franz kafka #kafka #german literature #literature #my interpretation #the metamorphosis #die verwandlung #gregor samsa

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defectivevillain · 7 months ago

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this winding labyrinth, ch8

chapter eight: excarnation

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 8, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-7, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: mentions of cancer (stage 4 lung), chronic illness, self-deprecating thoughts; typical blood/violence. Gore!!! A LOT of gore. This cannot be overstated. Please take caution!!!!

Nothing haunts Jack Crawford. The criminals he places behind bars (with the assistance of his team) fade from his mind’s eye the moment they’re confined. He doesn’t have time to dwell on memories. His attention moves from one threat to the next to the next; he is purpose-driven and rarely distracted. The few nightmares he does have hit far closer to home—with Bella’s Stage 4 lung cancer suddenly spiking and causing her immense, unlivable pain. Jack’s deepest, darkest fear isn’t a serial killer ripping him apart—it’s the thought of looking into Bella’s eyes, hazy with pain, and feeling completely helpless as she suffers.

Even so, there is one exception: one killer who will break through Jack’s barriers in the quietest of moments, when he least expects it. Yes, Jack supposes, Hannibal Lecter is a special case. He isn’t an average psychopath—he is charismatic and incredibly composed. And what eludes Jack most is the undeniable fact that the only reason they caught Lecter… was because he allowed them to. His surrender was tactical, pointed—and grounded in his conviction that he would be able to escape whenever he desired. Jack can only hope that Lecter was incorrect; can only hope that the man will rot in a cell for the rest of his life. (But he knows, deep down, that Hannibal Lecter is rarely wrong. And that troubles Jack far more than he’s willing to admit.)

In the time following Lecter’s “surrender,” Jack does not think of him. For several months, his mind palace is thoroughly guarded against any unwelcome intrusions. His attention is devoted to: 1) Bella, whose condition is slowly but surely worsening; and 2) his work with the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Admittedly, there is something else that occasionally crosses his mind—but it isn’t necessarily related to Lecter’s seemingly countless murders. Instead, it is the nature of Lecter’s affections for you that consistently bothers him.

The look on Hannibal’s face that fateful night often flickers before Jack’s eyes, and he feels a strange sense of guilt at the memory. Because Jack was the reason Hannibal met you—he was the one to introduce you both, all those years ago. He needed you to pass a psychiatric evaluation and Hannibal seemed intelligent enough to understand that—to understand how essential it was for you to return to the field. Jack hadn’t thought that he had made a misstep until he saw the two of you together at the crime scene the Minnesota Shrike left behind—until he saw Hannibal practically latched to your side, looming over you like a menacing, all-encompassing shadow.

Now, as Jack stands before Hannibal Lecter in his cage at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he feels as if he’s drowning in déjà vu. Those brown-crimson eyes pin him in place before the glass enclosure. Frederick Chilton’s interest in Hannibal is abundantly clear, Jack realizes, as his eyes wander across bookshelves, a writing desk, and other amenities that the other prisoners certainly do not have. Chilton has always been annoyingly self-serving, and Jack isn’t even sure if a conversation with him would change his behavior. It is clear that the administrator is painfully aware of the kind of opportunity Lecter’s captivity presents: a once-in-a-lifetime chance to study someone who defies all existing research. Jack personally can’t see the appeal; he is instead concerned with the lives the man has taken and the families he has torn apart in the process. He is instead concerned with the inexplicable feeling burrowed deep in his chest—the one that suggests that, despite their positioning, Jack is the one trapped in walls of glass (the pawn) while Hannibal looks on (forever the chessmaster).

“Hello, Jack.” Hannibal greets him, looking up from his book. His eyes are twinkling, Jack notes with distaste.

“Lecter,” Jack responds carefully, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. Hannibal notices this and a slight smile rises on his lips. “You requested to speak with me.” And while Jack’s instincts screamed at him to ignore the request, he knew he really had no choice. If there’s a chance, no matter how small, that Lecter has information on the Tooth Fairy… Well, Jack will endure the man’s mind games.

“I did,” Hannibal acquiesces, clasping his hands and crossing one leg over the other. Even in a nondescript white jumpsuit, he makes the gesture look elegant. “How are you, Jack?” Immediately, Jack is annoyed. He doesn’t have the patience for this. As the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, he has never had much time for meaningless conversation. Every second wasted is another second for a knife to be lodged between someone’s ribs—another chance for innocent lives to be taken.

“I struggle to believe you summoned me to engage in casual conversation,” Jack says, not bothering to hide his irritation anymore.

“Perhaps not,” Hannibal admits with that infuriating smile. Jack has never been a particularly violent or confrontational person, yet he can now see the appeal of wrapping hands around someone’s neck and choking the life out of them. He shakes his head to clear himself of the uncharacteristically violent thought. This place—this façade of a hospital—has always brought out the worst in him. “How are you, Jack?” Hannibal asks persistently. He isn’t dissuaded by his nonexistent answer. “How is Bella?”

White-hot fury rises in Jack’s chest. He is immediately thrown back into the past, into a time when Bella felt as if she couldn’t burden him with her condition (as if it was somehow her choice, as if Jack was so selfish as to prefer ignorance over assisting his partner). He has never fully recovered from Bella’s lie of omission—and the worst part is that he understands her decision. There have been times, across the course of his career, where he concealed his own injuries so that he didn’t cause her unnecessary stress. And while their situations are entirely different, Jack still can find the commonalities in them—can still understand the need to keep your partner from experiencing any undue stress.

Jack isn’t sure how long he stands there, lost in thought, until he remembers that Hannibal asked him a question. He takes a slow measured breath. “She’s fine,” he settles for saying.

Hannibal arches a brow. “And I suppose you’re fine , too?” He asks, his voice devoid of emotion. Yet there’s a fraction of a second where Jack sees the man’s shoulders tighten in irritation.

Jack makes a point to take another slow, measured breath, before clenching his fists at his sides. He will have to play into Hannibal’s hand, if he wants to learn anything about why he’s been called here today. And while he wants nothing more than to lie, he knows the man in front of him will discern the truth in an instant.

“Bella is… not well.” Jack admits. Her health is getting worse—to the point where she is mostly bedridden. Jack hates that his work keeps him from her during the day, hates that he returns to find her with a smile on her face—as if he’s not letting her down. He feels his jaw clench at the thought.

“I am very sorry to hear that, Jack, truly,” Hannibal says. Jack suspects the sentiment is genuine—Hannibal shared dinner with the two of them, after all. Bella then reached out to him and had several meetings with him regarding her disease. And while Jack is grateful that Bella felt empowered to speak to someone about her situation, he selfishly wishes that she had just sat down and spoken to him instead. After all, her meetings with Hannibal created an awkward gap in their relationship—as Jack was forced to come to terms with the fact that the psychiatrist knew more about his wife’s condition than he did. “How are you faring?” Hannibal asks, drawing him out of his thoughts.

“I don’t see how this is relevant,” Jack says, gritting his teeth. This idle small talk is making him more and more restless with every passing moment.

“It is painfully relevant,” Hannibal asserts.

“Fine,” Jack repeats angrily. He feels like a broken record. “Very well. I’ve been better.” That’s the under exaggeration of the century—he feels as if he’s falling apart, as he is forced to stand by and watch as Bella’s health deteriorates. Jack wants nothing more than to help her, but he doesn’t know how. Bella maintains that his presence is enough, but Jack still feels the visceral need to do something more than sitting silently at her side .

“How much longer does she have?” Hannibal asks.

“A few weeks, she’s told,” Jack answers habitually. Everything about the disease is horribly cruel. Jack wishes he could share some of Bella’s pain—or, even better, take it away entirely. But he’s not a miracle worker—he is only her husband. Jack is not a religious man—someone like him, who has chased criminals for decades, will lose faith as they see fresh horrors that question their very mortality. Yet recently he has found himself close to praying for Bella’s recovery.

“It must be difficult to make time for her,” Hannibal says. “The FBI isn’t an accommodating employer. Not that I would know.” He says coyly. Jack feels any of his remaining patience promptly disintegrate into nothingness.

“Enough with the small talk,” Jack demands. This is taking much longer than he would like it to. “Why did you ask for me?”

“As I said, I have information for you,” Hannibal states.

“On the Tooth Fairy?” Jack presses.

“No.” The man responds. Jack nearly loses it right then and there. He turns around and is about to make his departure when Hannibal continues. “I have information on someone close to you.” Someone close to you. If it were Bella, then he would’ve said so. Who could this be about?

“How did you come to possess this information?” Jack asks guardedly. He still doesn’t necessarily believe the other man. Hannibal could be deceiving him. But Jack’s already here now, so he might as well at least hear him out. At worst, the information will be useless and Jack will storm out of the building in annoyance.

“Observation,” Hannibal answers ambiguously.

“Who might this person be?” Jack asks, despite being fairly confident that there’s only one reasonable answer. He hopes his suspicions are incorrect.

“Your best agent,” Hannibal responds, confirming his suspicions. Unease prickles along Jack’s skin. “Don’t distract my best agent,” Jack had said to Hannibal all those years ago. If only he had known how much of a distraction the man would prove to be…

“I don’t believe you,” Jack immediately remarks. The words crawl up his throat and wrench themselves out of his lips, clinging to the tense air like a vice.

“I think we both know that baseless conjecture would not benefit me.” Jack just remains silent. Eventually, Hannibal continues. “I have a defined sense of smell, as you know,” he says. He’s dragging this out on purpose. Jack has to resist the growing urge to snap at him. The man must sense his quickly declining patience, because he continues. “During our first conversation, I smelled smoke.”

“Must’ve been a fluke,” Jack interjects. If Hannibal is bothered by the interruption, he doesn’t show it. But Jack is certain that he’s annoyed—after all, he abhors rudeness.

“That’s what I thought,” Hannibal agrees. “Then we spoke again—and I recognized the scent as the same one I smelled before. I assume there is no significant other in the picture, therefore… your best agent is a smoker.” That last remark almost sounds like a question. Jack tries to dispel it from his memory, but he finds that Hannibal has ensnared him in a verbal trap. In order to get the truth, he must divulge information that Hannibal does not deserve to know. But, when it comes to your safety…

He decides not to answer, despite knowing deep down that his silence is enough of an answer. Instead, Jack asks the man to recount what happened in detail and Hannibal obliges. As he claims, he first smelled smoke when you approached him and asked for information on the Tooth Fairy. He wanted to inquire about it, but he wasn’t convinced of his theory. After all, the odor could’ve come from a visit to a friend’s house or a windy day downtown. The next time you visited, however, Hannibal smelled it again. He confronted you about it and you didn’t deny his accusations. Apparently, he also expressed his concerns—citing that smoking can cause lung cancer and other adverse effects. You didn’t seem to care.

Jack isn’t sure he believes Hannibal wholeheartedly, but he also knows that the man has no incentive to lie. That begs the question, however: why would Hannibal say something in the first place? “I don’t understand how telling me this benefits you.” Jack confesses, watching him warily.

Hannibal smiles knowingly. The gesture is fleeting. “I find myself worried,” he admits. “Smoking is terrible for a person’s health and can cause lifelong, irreparable damage.”

“You want me to intervene,” Jack realizes aloud, immediately discerning the real reason Hannibal summoned him.

“I believe you are in a unique position—one that gives you the authority to curb such a habit,” Hannibal proposes. A dark expression flickers across his face as he stares ahead. “I pray it hasn’t become an addiction just yet.” He supplements, appearing vaguely troubled.

Jack knows the danger of making a promise to the man standing in front of him, to the Chesapeake Ripper. But he feels it is necessary. After all, if he can manage to follow through, then he’ll likely receive some good karma and cement Hannibal’s trust in him. Jack could then exploit that trust later on. Knowing that, he decides to go for it. “I’ll see what I can do,” Jack guarantees.

“Thank you, Jack,” Hannibal responds sincerely. “You are unfailingly reliable, as always.”

“...Thank you,” Jack responds. The compliment doesn’t mean very much to him, considering the entire situation. He takes a deep breath and tries to settle the sudden onset of his nerves. Jack anticipates that you will bristle and withdraw if he tries to intervene. But Jack doesn’t really have any other option—you’re a vital component of the Behavioral Analysis Unit and he won’t see your physical or cognitive abilities impaired by anything, let alone something as harmful as smoking. “I’ll be departing now.” Jack announces.

“Very well,” Hannibal nods, regarding him one last time. The smile on his face sends a shiver down Jack’s spine. “It was good to see you, Jack.”

Jack doesn’t bother echoing the sentiment, instead turning on his heel and walking away. He got what he needed and will leave entirely unscathed. So why is his heart racing so thunderously in his chest?

Jack soon understands when he finds himself standing before you, attempting to decide how to best confront you. Because this is, ultimately, a confrontation—an intervention that you will likely not appreciate. But it’s a necessary evil, Jack tells himself.

Eventually, he just decides to cut to the chase. He’s never been one to sugarcoat things. “You’ve been smoking.” Jack says cavalierly.

You stare at him, eyes widening for the briefest of moments before the emotion is being reigned in and suppressed. Jack can’t help but think of that emotional control written on someone else’s face—in the brown eyes gleaming with crimson and the wry turn of lips. “No, I haven’t,” you respond smoothly.

Jack is not fooled. He has considered everything he’s seen—has digested the evidence (or, in this case, the utter lack of it). “Don’t lie to me, Agent,” Jack sighs, exasperation and irritation battling for prominence in his voice. He’s a bit disappointed that you think you still have the ability to lie to him—that you can hide such things from him.

“How did you know?” You then ask suspiciously, shoving your hands in your pockets. “I haven’t been smoking at work.” And somehow, Jack knows you’ve been taking meticulous showers—and ensuring that the smell doesn’t reach your work clothes. That’s the only explanation for the complete lack of sensory input.

“That doesn’t matter,” Jack eventually settles for saying. How he became privy to that information isn’t important. What is important is the truth of the matter: that you’ve been putting yourself at risk.

“Who told you?” You demand, ascertaining what Jack fails to utter. He locks eyes with you and, somehow, you seem to find the answer in his gaze. “It was Hannibal, wasn’t it?”

Jack is still quiet. It’s cowardly, but he doesn’t want to utter the words—that will usher in a whole new horrifying sense of finality. He knows you’ll get an answer from his silence anyway; indeed, you study him for a moment before nodding resolutely and walking away. He watches you depart with a tight feeling in his chest, inexplicably convinced that he just crossed a line he can’t come back from.

Standing before Hannibal Lecter’s cell, you’re overcome with the knowledge that you shouldn’t have visited. Irritation, anger, and (unjustified) betrayal prickle along your skin and pull your hands into clenched fists. You can cope with the former emotions, but the latter? You should not feel betrayed—because betrayal implies that, to some degree, you trust Hannibal. Even after everything he’s done to you.

You shake your head and take a deep breath. It’s too late to go back now. You’re already standing in front of his enclosure. He has already seen you, even if he gives no indication that he has noticed you.

“You told Jack.” The accusation crawls from your lips before you can attempt to stifle it. It’s raw, pained, emotional—in all the worst ways. You’re wounded prey before a hungry predator—tempting it with what it desires. Hannibal wants to see you affected by his actions, and you’re fulfilling that desire. After all, you’re not so foolish as to think that Hannibal genuinely cares for your physical wellbeing. You’ve made that mistake—assuming the best of him—far too many times in the past. Even behind this glass wall, Hannibal is the puppetmaster. But you refuse to be his puppet.

“Hello,” Hannibal responds. He closes the book he’s holding and looks up at you. You’re not convinced that he just now focused his attention on you; no, the moment you stepped into the hall, he sank his teeth into you. “You must know it’s polite to start a conversation with a greeting. And I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” you seethe. You’re not feeling very charitable today, so you don’t bother to pretend that you’re composed. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Yes,” you remark, finding it increasingly difficult to be patient. He’s drawing this conversation out on purpose. He senses that it irritates you, so he keeps doing it. You try to stay focused. “You told Jack that I was smoking.” Your teeth grit at the memory of your conversation with Jack, at the disappointment hidden in his words. Lately, you can’t shake the feeling that you are nothing more than a problem to Jack.

“You presume Jack didn’t know before,” Hannibal assesses.

“I was doing a rather good job of keeping it hidden from him,” you argue, crossing your arms over your chest. Indeed, you went to extraordinary lengths to ensure Jack didn’t notice your new habit. You only smoked outside your home, in casual clothing that Jack wouldn’t see you wear. Not to mention, you always kept your lighter and cigarettes concealed in your pockets discreetly. No, you made sure that Jack wouldn’t notice.

“Were you?” Hannibal questions.

“Stop doing that,” you snap, abandoning pretense. He’s parroting your words back to you—asking questions that don’t advance the conversation. “It’s annoying.”

“Very well,” Hannibal says with an amicable shrug. Something about the nonchalance dripping off of him is both non-threatening and sharpened to a fine point. Everything about the man before you is a contradiction. He is nothing but a twisted, tangled mess of paradoxes. Hannibal Lecter is companionable but lonely; compassionate but cruel; deceptively ordinary but horribly, dangerously different. He is only noticeable when he wishes to be. Nothing about him is as it seems.

You stare at the man before you: the Chesapeake Ripper. He is a killer who has upturned your entire life—ripping the rug from beneath your feet and ensuring that you will never know stable footing again. Rage bubbles and froths beneath your skin, compelling you to itch at your forearms in a futile attempt to rid yourself of the overwhelming feeling. This match’s players were decided long before the game even began. Are you forever doomed to be his victim? Do you stand a chance against fate?

“Do you remember?” Clark Ingram croons. “Ripping apart the skin, digging your hands into the matter that gives an organism life? Do you remember that your hands didn’t shake? Do you remember washing away the blood? Is it still on your hands?”

Spots float across your vision. You blink them away; when you open your eyes again, you see Abel Gideon standing behind the glass wall in front of you. His eyes are hazy and unseeing, yet he seems to stare into your very soul. He reaches a hand out, then another, and you instinctively bring your hands to your neck, if only to wrench his grip away-

“You.” Garret Jacob Hobbs whispers. “You’re just like me.”

And suddenly Gideon is reeling back, a bullet carving a neat path through his temple. Blood slips down his face in crimson rivulets; his eyeballs slip and roll in their sockets, before falling out—leaving them to dangle ominously, with only the optic nerves to keep them anchored. Gideon opens his mouth and his teeth crumble and rot, blackening and decaying to dust in his mouth.

Suddenly his visage shifts, and you’re staring at Miggs—who is staring back with wild eyes. He lets out a truly bone-chilling laugh, his jaw extending further and further until it’s snapping off and ripping through his skin. His tongue slithers down his chin, traveling down his body and resting in a scarlet puddle on the floor. His eyes are bloodshot and frozen as they spin faster and faster-

A blur of motion draws your attention to the left, and you watch in muted horror and shock as a pale hand reaches towards you, beckoning you closer. You lock eyes with Franklyn Froidevaux; a pained noise leaves your lips as you watch his hand snap and break, bending and curling backwards in a manner that is not physically possible. With clawed fingers, Franklyn brings a hand to rest in the air near his chest and you hear ringing in your ears. In a fluid motion, he impales himself. His free hand mimics the motion and your stomach stews as you see him grasp adjacent ribs in each hand, before brutally ripping them apart to bare his chest cavity and free his heart. The organ pulsates in the open air, and past the disgusting squelches of blood, tissue, and biological matter fleeing further down his chest and hitting the ground, all you can hear is his heart pounding in your own ears-

There is a hand on your shoulder. You inhale sharply and immediately turn around, prepared to fight off another criminal—another one of your victims—when you lock eyes with Frederick Chilton. It takes you several moments to come back to your body and ground yourself in the present moment. Your breaths are arriving and leaving far too fast; there’s sweat collecting at the back of your neck; your hands are trembling; your throat is extremely dry.

When you can finally move past these physical sensations, you realize that Dr. Chilton is staring at you with glittering eyes. The concern on his face almost seems genuine, which is all the more concerning.

“Time’s up.” He says, a modicum of sympathy in his voice.

You cough to clear your throat, wincing at how tight and scratchy it feels. “I just got here.” You answer raspily, trying to shrug his hand off of your shoulder. Chilton’s grip only strengthens.

“I gave you an extra ten minutes,” He says softly, looking at you worriedly. His grip on your shoulder is tight and you quickly shake it off. This time, he lets you. “It’s been an hour.”

An hour? Surely that’s not right. You glance at your watch, only to find that it has indeed been an hour. Sensing a gaze boring into you, you remember Hannibal’s presence. Glancing at him, you find that he has a blank expression on his face. Have you really been standing here, rooted to this very spot for an hour, with the Ripper right in front of you? What did he do, while you were lost in phantom worlds? Did he observe you with a sick fascination, reading through research in his head? Your stomach churns at the thought of being so vulnerable in front of Hannibal for such an extended period of time. The security in this place is not nearly enough to make you feel safe in front of him. Hannibal can overcome any obstacle, if he desires.

You take a shuddering breath in and nod at Chilton, turning towards the door. Hannibal utters a goodbye, but you’re too lost in your thoughts to hear it. This meeting was an entire waste of time, but, then again, what were you expecting? Did you hope to have a reasonable conversation with the Ripper? You’re not sure why you bothered showing up in the first place. A small part of you wonders if this is all an act of elaborate self-sabotage—if you’re setting yourself up for further pain with every new conversation with Hannibal.

Regardless, the events of today serve as a reminder: Hannibal is confined within these halls, but he still has enough power to manipulate the outside world—enough to manipulate your life. You dig your nails into your palms and walk down the hall, your footsteps echoing throughout the space. You’re so rattled that you don’t notice Chilton’s grip remaining on your shoulder, nor do you notice the malicious glare Hannibal sends him in response.

next chapter

endnotes: Avoiding pronouns here was very difficult, so apologies if the conversation between Jack and Hannibal is a bit awkward. But I’m still committed to ensuring the reader’s gender is ambiguous, so… awkward phrasing it is.

Here was the original dialogue I was going to use for the conversation between Hannibal and the reader. I ended up scrapping it, but I still think it’s a fun idea:

“You’re a bastard. You know that?” “I’m afraid that’s a new one,” Hannibal says, a small mirthful smile slipping onto his face.

Jack takes a bit more of a *proactive* approach to combating your addiction in the next chapter.

I am proud of myself for the gore. Heehee.

thx for reading! hope you enjoyed :3

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