#(Because dreams are stupid and get things wrong)

[lara4eclipze]

“i love you”

sypnosis -» "I don't care what they say — I love you that's what matters" you scolded manon

beware! -» fluff , angst , crying , comfort, sick , swearing, cyber bullying, stupid hoes

talks -» hey so recently manon got sick and she couldn't attend the MAMA Awards — some lame hoes decided to use this as a way to hate her , friendly fucking reminder she's a person not a fuckin' robot stupid bitches , I hope y'all burn btw...!

taglist (open) -» @nyssalvr @ohmyhaely @vrtualstar @c-yerim @jellaaa

it wasn't much of a secret that the girls especially lara and manon got so much hate when the documentary got released — death threats , bullying , racism and etc — it took a toll out of their mental health especially since they were just getting started being an idol

recently katseye got invited to perform at the MAMA Awards , this was big the MAMA Awards is one of the biggest award ceremony in korea — so the girls spent weeks practicing their presentation for the awards

many sleepless nights and hours upon hours of practice took a negative turn for manons body — just two days before the awards she had to announce her mini hiatus due to her having a fever

obviously she was devastated, but she knew the rest of the girls were gonna do good—although she wished that she could also perform

"babyy i miss you :((" manon texts you , it was pretty early so you went to their dorms , you drive faster than usual sensing something was wrong

you knock on the door waiting for her to open it—well what greeted you was manon sniffling with a blanket draped over her frame

"baby what's wrong??" you ask entering the abode , she hugs you not muttering a word , as your shirt absorbed her tears , you held her head closer to you but you felt like she was burning "your burning up , are you alright?— did you take your medicine yet?" a motherly way of concern starts to take over you

"i-im okay" she sniffles yet again , finally she lifts up her head — her eyes were puffy her nose red and her face coated with her tears

"no you're not baby , tell me what's bothering you?" you sternly said to her , you both sat down on the couch with her clung onto you

"I just - I saw videos and comments that I wasn't sick that I was just lazy but I'm not!—i work as hard as everyone does!" manon exclaims her hands flailing around , angry and upset tears leaving her eyes as she stumbled over her words

"I know , you shouldn't care about what they say — they're just jealous of you" you said comforting her , her frown deepens "no they just hate me" she says , your heart breaks at everything manon had to endure

"I don't care what they say — I love you that's what matters , not some stupid comment made by someone who probably can't achieve the things you have" you scolded — her tears soon dried up and a smile forms on her face

"I love you too" she smiles , her lips now on yours as a tint of pink made it's way to your cheeks — "now take your medicine" you mutter , she groans

"it tastes like shit — I'm not even over exaggerating it" manon mumbles pouting at you

"language and no just because you look cute doesn't mean you won't take your medicine" you chuckle at her attempt to stop you from making her drink her medicine

"no fair"

"you're sick not me"

after watching a movie and finally making manon drink some paracetamol — she peacefully falls asleep whilst her head was on your lap , you made a soothing motion on her scalp

"you're so pretty" you mumble looking at her peaceful face

sometimes you wish that manon didn't go thru the dream academy, or even became a member if you only knew it meant her being bullied online — yet your thankful that she was with people that loved her , eyekons, katseye, and you

manon deserves where she is now ,no one and I mean no one could tell you otherwise — she worked hard and shed her blood sweat and tears for this and for that you are proud of her

[ancha-aus]

Gifted Drabble - NewAgeAU - The Eclipse

I am back again and I got a big boy drabble for you today @spotaus

After the amazing drabble they did about Nightmare losing the magic. I decided it was about time I tried my hands at the event that brought forth the magic!

Also we are back to Ccino POV. I don't know what it is about him in this series I just love him dearly and adore his POV. Once we move more into the story I will probably do other people's POVs haha.

Warnings! We are in for a rough time because Ccino never has it easy and that is like 90% my fault. There is past abuse, past starvation, victim blaming (kinda), there is gaslighting, there is manipulation. Implied future abuse.

There is a lot and I need you to be aware of this.

Also... It... may be a bit long? As in 10K words long. So... just so you know it is long. With that out of the way! Lets Go!

*--------------------------------------*

Ccino isn’t sure what to feel. He knows he should be proud and feel excited. Today was the twin’s birthdays. They were finally turning thirteen. Something everyone in the kingdom has been excited for for the last few years as this day grow closer.

Ccino sighs as he feels his body shake. Even as he makes sure that Nightmare’s outfit is spotless. It is a beautiful light yellow. It will fit in perfectly amongst the golden and yellow decorations but Ccino can only assume it is on purpose. To show Nightmare’s rank and position as prince as Dream ascends. To see they belong together and are connected by their bond as twins.

Nightmare frows as he tugs on his shelves. Ccino gently takes his hand and removes it from the soft fabric “Hey. It is okay my prince.” He puts the sleeves back in place and is happy to note there are no ruffles.

Nightmare frowns as he turns his skull away. Ccino frowns as he makes sure the outfit is perfect.

Nightmare mutters “Still think they are stupid for making you wear pink…”

Ccino blinks and looks down at his undershirt. It is a very soft light pink and there are yellow accents. He smiles as he twists his skull a bit to enable himself to look better at Nightmare “Really? Why is that my prince?”

Nightmare shrugs and mutters “Pink doesn’t suit you… beige is better.”

Ccino smiles “I do love the neutral and nature colours… But your brother was allowed to pick everything for his big day.” And it was only fitting that the new king’s gift was exactly as he wanted-

Ccino shakes his skull. He needs to stop thinking about it like that. He isn’t the one who matters here.

Nightmare is anxious. Nightmare’s twin is about to be crowned and become king. Complete this mysterious ritual. Ccino had to be there for him. Nightmare had found information and mentions about this great sacrifice and pain. Something that Dream had to do or experience to ascend to godhood.

Nightmare had come to him near tears. Terrified his brother would be hurt by this ritual that was going to happen no matter what. Nightmare had said he had tried to warn Dream but Dream just told him he was nervous and that everything would be okay. That Dream would become a god like their mother and Dream would rule their kingdom.

Nightmare had spoken about how he had gone to his mother with his worries but Nim just dismissed him. That Nim had just told him he was seeing things wrong again and that he was letting silly ideas get the better of him again.

Ccino isn’t surprised she was like that. Nim is just like that. A terrible and horrible-

Ccino stops himself. He can never be sure what she knows and what she doesn’t.

Instead, even back when Nightmare came to him, he concentrated on helping Nightmare. Helping him calm down before looking at what he had found.

Ccino wasn’t even sure what it was but he knew… he knew that Nightmare was correct. This magic, this ritual it is dangerous.

But there is nothing Ccino could do to help him. Ccino doesn’t know magic. He can’t even do magic. He knows nothing about magic or what it all means. He was only able to hold Nightmare close until he fell asleep for the night. Ccino letting him sleep in his room with him to help him feel safe.

Ccino doesn’t know magic…

But Ccino remembers… He thinks he remembers at least… He believes that his mother used to sing… That she could do magical things with music. Ccino thinks their little house used to be filled with music.

His father had these... magical kisses? Ccino thinks so at least… That his father could give kisses when you were hurt or sad and everything felt better… Something about his magic only working because of Ccino and his mom…

Ccino thinks so at least…

He can’t really remember what his father looked like…

He just knows he is supposed to look like his mom… but he isn’t sure as he can’t remember her well either… It has been so long

Nightmare shifts before him and Ccino pulls himself out of his mindless thinking. Ccino turns Nightmare around and hums “The yellow looks nice on you…”

Nightmare pulls on his shirt anxiously “You think so? I think it looks weird… yellow fits Dream. Not me.”

Ccino smiles as he knows how to handle this easily “Really? I think it looks nice.” he gently takes Nightmare’s hands as Ccino ignores the scars on those small bones from his practise cuts “Yellow compliments purple after all. Makes your eye lights stand out more.”

Nightmare looks deeply embarrassed but has a shy smile “Really?”

Ccino smiles “Have I ever lied to you?”

Nightmare shakes his skull and looks a bit more relaxed as he looks back into the mirror. Ccino looks him over and smiles. Nightmare, and Dream, has grown into a fine young teen.

Ccino can’t help but be proud of both the twins. Ccino has always been closer to Nightmare as Dream had many others who seemed to want to answer his every request. Which meant that Ccino just focused on Nightmare when he could. Make sure the younger twin didn’t feel left behind.

Ccino is proud to say that he managed it. Nightmare is happy and never mentioned feeling alone. He mentioned missing his twin when he went to his classes but aside from that Nightmare was happy and healthy. Dream was too.

The twins adore each other and are the closest friends. Both are happy and healthy.

All in all. Ccino thinks he has been doing a great job with helping and raising them.

Ccino hums as he moves to Nightmare’s front and starts putting up the little golden and sun jewellery. Careful all in the right spots. Decorating his thin neck and the fragile wrists.

Last Ccino picks up the small silver crown and places it on Nightmare’s skull “Almost done my prince.”

Nightmare stares at him “We are alone.” And he waits.

Ccino blinks and smiles softly “My prince-” Nightmare frowns more. Ccino sighs but can’t stop smiling “Nightmare. You know I have to address you properly.” He can’t stop himself as he rubs the smaller skull and Nightmare leans into it happily “I am just a servant. People can’t see me disrespecting you like that.”

Nightmare frowns again “I don’t care.” And he glares more “and you are not just a servant. You are you.”

Ccino smiles and nuzzles him softly “I know you don’t care Nightmare. And I would like to not care either. But… it isn’t right or how it works…” he gives him a sad smile.

Nightmare frowns and mutters “Maybe… When Dream is king he can change that?” he looks a bit more hopeful.

Anxiety returns to his soul. Ccino doesn’t want to be important and known… He forces it back down as he gives a gentle smile “As king he won’t get the chance to do such things until much later Nightmare. He can’t risk being seen as weak or someone who is easy to disrespect. Once things calm down we can maybe ask him. Okay?” much later.

Nightmare frowns and mutters “Who would disrespect him? He would be a king and a god!” and he looks at Ccino.

Ccino feels bad. Seeing as he doesn’t respect Nim at all. And Nim is like that. Ccino instead gives him a tiny grin “Some people will just be like that. Even if they don’t have a good reason. And no matter how much you want them to you can’t change their minds.” He rubs his cheek “Which means you can only focus on what matters to you and the country.”

Nightmare frowns before nodding “I can do that for him. Help him.” He rubs his arm and whispers “Do… do you think the… the bad thing will happen?”

Ccino frowns “I am not sure Nightmare. I am so sorry…” he can’t help him when it matters… Ccino wasn’t even sure why he thought he could help either of them in a way that matters.

Nightmare leans into his touch and mutters “At least you believe me.”

Ccino feels a bit better as he speaks softly “And I always will. Even if no one else believes you. I will. I will be there for you. I swear.” It is an easy promise to make to him.

Nightmare actually smiles this time.

Ccino relaxes as he slowly gets the paint and make up out “Ready for the last finishing touches?”

Nightmare nods and takes a seat. Ccino gets the paint and gets to work. Ccino had to do these very early on for both the twins. Dream would want to get up and move around while Nightmare would patiently wait for Ccino to finish and for the make up to dry. Ccino never minded it of course. It was fun! It reminded him of finger painting and practising make up with his mom. It are dear memories.

Ccino starts with a bit of paint by Nightmare’s cheeks and his chin. To make sure the edges look softer and a bit rounder. Next he adds a very small line of golden yellow around the very edge of his sockets. Ccino hadn’t been lying after all, yellow did help make purple stand out more and with this is made the purple pop. Ccino then took the silver and with the utmost care he painted the phases of the moon from one temple to the other across the forehead. Making sure the full moon was at the very center. Ccino didn’t even need to redo it today.

Ccino smiles as he takes a step back “All ready.” He washes the paint and make up from his phalanges.

Nightmare hops off his chair and looks into the mirror “Will you have to also do Dream’s paints?”

Ccino shakes his skull “Not today. I believe the king is helping your twin prepare.” He finishes cleaning himself up and puts everything back to its spot.

Nightmare nods as he looks into the mirror anxiously “It is okay… it is fine… Dream will be fine…” he tugs on his shirt again.

Ccino joins his side and frees the shirt from the tight hold. After it he tugs it all back in place before stepping back “There. You are ready my prince.” And he gives a small bow “Very soon. Crown prince.”

Nightmare rubs his arm. Luckily the material the shirt is made of doesn’t crumble easily and it remains looking nice and puffy. Ccino needs to make sure Nightmare looks fine and no one can say anything rude to Nightmare about it.

Ccino joins his side and smiles “Hey… Nighty?” Nightmare immediately looks at him. Ccino keeps smiling. Praying it helps relax him “You are going to do amazing. You will look stunning together with your twin and you two have bright futures ahead of you.”

Nightmare gives a very slow nod before he mutters “Will you be nearby? I know it is private and only for the inner circle until the real crowning but… Will you please be near?”

Ccino smiles “Yeah. I will be close by.” For completely different reasons…

Nightmare relaxes and smiles brightly “Thank you… I need you there to feel brave.”

Ccino feels like his soul is gripped as he gives him a gentle hug. Making sure not to mess up Nightmare’s outfit or make up “You don’t need me for that Nightmare. You are the bravest monster I know. But I will be there okay? You will see me right there okay? And if you start feeling scared or unsure you can look at me and know that there will always be people who believe in you and are there for you. Okay?” He rubs the cheek.

Nightmare pushes his face more into it and lets out a soft purr “Thank you.”

Ccino smiles “I am happy to be there for you. Both of you.” He hears footsteps in the distance and quickly takes his hand back as he steps back. Nightmare looks confused for a moment before the door behind him opens.

Ccino bows to the captain entering “Captain.”

The captain, a bird monster by the name of Falks, dismisses him but that is alright. Ccino doesn’t mind at all. He knows that most of the higher ups kind of know the deal that is about to happen.

Captain Falks bows to Nightmare “Hello my prince. I am here to lead you to the king and the future king.”

Nightmare nods before looking back at Ccino “See you soon Ccino.” And he follows the captain out.

Ccino makes sure to remain in his spot until the door closes. When it closes he feels all the tension return as the need to hide in one of the tunnels returns. He doesn’t want to go there.

He doesn’t want to be at the ritual.

Because… That will be the moment that he…

That his…

He is right now the king’s after all. Nim just only had use for him as babysitter and servant. Ccino knows… he knows what the little apple patterns on his clothes mean after all.

Ccino feels his breath quicken as he grabs a hold on the vanity and gasps as his breath gets shorter and shorter. He stares at himself for a moment before looking away. He can’t stand the sight of himself. Seeing himself hurts… Seeing himself brings back memories he can’t quite remember and pain and fear from long ago. He can’t deal with that. He can’t.

Ccino gasps as he takes a seat on the ground and curls up more. This is it… today… he will be… he won’t…

He… he is never going to see Nightmare ever again? Is he?

He doesn’t know what the ritual does. Not exactly.

But Nim had pulled him aside and given him an idea. How it changes the person. How it increases their power and that with it came the knowledge that they were more important than any mortals. That their power and their ability to hold and manage that power is the proof.

That once Dream gets the power he will finally get the power he deserves. He will have the power and knowledge that will make him the god among people.

That Ccino will be there for him in any way he wishes. For anything he wants.

Any. Thing.

Ccino feels gross just thinking about it.

Footsteps in the hallway and Ccino has to pull himself together. He forces himself back to his feet even if his whole body shakes. Even if he can’t stand the sight of everything around him.

He just manages to pull his face into a more neutral look and slow his panicked breathing when the door opens. Some guards stand ready and mutter about bringing Ccino to the room to prepare him for the ritual.

Ccino follows the guards. His soul pulsing fast enough that Ccino is starting to feal dizzy. He keeps his breaths short as he follows the familiar path.

They end by the healing bay and he is left by the door. The door opens and two medics are there already. They rush Ccino in and comment about him being later than expected. Ccino apologises as he stands in the room.

He hears the two healers talk as he stares ahead of himself. Trying so hard not to hear. He doesn’t want to hear it.

Ccino stares ahead of himself. The other wall has shelves which hold a lot of different items and potions. Ccino knows that some of those are against exhaustion and to give more energy. There are health boosters and even a few that will just knock you out. All different colours.

The scents are making his already dizzy skull spin and pound. He may be starting to get migraine.

The doctor snaps “Ccino!”

Ccino blinks and turns slightly “Yes sir?”

The doctor, Nigel, looks annoyed while the other healer, Mar, giggles “Don’t be mad at him. Can you blame him? He will be the future King’s first mate.” They sigh wishfully “I am so jealous… I wish I could be the one who helped Dream like that.”

They disgust Ccino. Ccino doesn’t care that technically Dream is about to magically become an adult. He is a child! One who barely started puberty! How could they think about him like that? Like they are just waiting for him to grow up so they can… so they can think and do those things to him?!

Doctor Nigel sighs annoyed as he stares at Ccino “When did you last eat and what?”

Ccino needs to think. He hadn’t eaten that morning… He hasn’t had dinners in ages much like lunches. His last breakfast was… “Day before yesterday.” If he is correct.

The doctor looks annoyed “Seriously? You pigging out again? You know that you need to look your best.” He sighs as he shakes his head.

Ccino just looks down. He just had been so hungry. He had felt so empty and tired. He had thought… Maybe a little wouldn’t be bad? Just to get a bit of energy.

Nigel looks at him expecting “What did you eat?”

Ccino looks to the side. Feeling guilty “Had some toast… and some yogurt and milk.” It had been so good. He had felt full after it and sighed happily.

The doctor huffs “Pigging. Out.”

The other giggles “Oh let him pig out. Maybe then King Dream will see that he is not that much anyway. Let someone who is actually pretty get a chance to please our new lord.” They sigh wishfully again.

Nigel shoots his colleague a look “Stop it. You can try to get in his harem once he is established.” He turns back to side as he grabs a step stool “The first mate always dies quickly anyone. They are there for the king to test their power and magic after all. Rather painful from what I understand.” He points towards the step stool “Undress and on the step stool.”

Ccino feels sick and feels his soul pulse anxiously but his body does as ordered. He feels beyond exposed as he stands there. Staring downwards as the two doctors circle him and comment on things. He can hardly hear it. His skull hurts.

Doctor Nigel hums “Luckily none of the lashes gave permanent marks after all. It would be unsightly for our future king to see marks of disobedience.” He makes a note as he moves on and checks his ribs and spine. Touching it and Ccino tries to ignore how invasive it feels. “Age?”

Ccino needs a moment to think “Twenty.”

He hums and makes a note “That should fertile then. Good. Summon your ecto.”

Ccino really doesn’t want to. His soul is filled with anxiety but he tries.

Nothing happens.

The doctor looks annoyed “I said. Summon the ecto.”

Ccino doesn’t look up “I can’t… I don’t have enough energy or magic.” Maybe he can’t summon it at all anymore. Maybe it is broken? Would that mean he doesn’t have to worry about this whole thing anymore? If he is unable to summon the parts needed… If he is too broken to serve his purpose…

The doctor grumbles as he walks to the cabinet and searches through the bottles before pulling one out “Here. Drink it.”

Ccino looks at the bright orange liquid and feels sick just looking at it. It smells gross. It looks disgusting. It is much too solid to be a normal drink.

Mar laughs as they smirk at him “What is wrong? Suddenly not a glutton anymore?”

Ccino doesn’t want to… But he remembers the pain of the lashes. The way each one burned. They way they would wait between the hits. Until his back was fully healed before giving the next one. Healing it magically, fast and aggressive which left his back tender and hurting of pains that weren’t there anymore. Then the next lash would hit.

He still feels the pain sometimes. Which is dumb. Ccino knows he isn’t hurt anymore. It got healed years ago and it doesn’t hurt. There is nothing there that could hurt. Everyone told him as much. To stop acting as if he is hurt when he was fine.

Ccino downs the potion as ordered. It is gross and sticks to his throat and it feels unpleasant. The unknown and different magic in the potion makes him sick but he stands there.

Nigel nods “Now. That should give you enough magic and mana to at least last through the night for our new King. Now summon so I can inspect your ecto.”

Ccino feels sick but does as ordered. He focusses on his soul. Even if the pulsing of it is uneven and anxious it is better than to think about the hands touching his ecto. Hands he doesn’t want to touch him anywhere.

He stares ahead. Staring at the different coloured bottles. Two are purple. One is blue. There is a green one on the side. Most of them don’t have a colour and three are yellow. All on different shelves. None of them have labels.

Doctor Nigel steps back as he takes notes “Seems fine and stable enough. A bit too round but that is too be expected from your gluttonous nature.” The doctor makes notes.

The other giggles “Best hope the king likes them heavier.” And Mar giggle again.

Ccino hates it here.

The doctor shoots his colleague a look “Behave. It will not look good for you if the first mate doesn’t like your behaviour.” And he shoots Ccino a look “You can get dressed again. Others will come pick you up soon to get ready.” And he turns to his desk. The other doctor huffs and shoots Ccino a jealous look.

Ccino would willingly and gladly trade places. Do it. Take his place. He doesn’t want to be some offering to placate a newly ascended god. Ccino knows what everyone implies he will do to do that. He feels sick.

Either way he gets dressed in the much too soft cotton with the almost silky feel to it. It is soft as he tugs on it. His soul feels like it has permanently moved to his throat. He still feels dizzy, the other magic in his body makes him feel sick.

Everything about this makes him ill. He wants to hide. Just not go. Fuck it. Stay in the hidden tunnels and just keep hiding there until they give up on searching for him. No one ever found him in those tunnels anyway.

The image of Nightmare looking hopefully into the crowd when he feels nervous. Ccino not being there.

He can’t… He can’t break his promise to Nightmare.

The door opens and a few maids walk in. They all seem excited and happily tug Ccino with them. They talk about how lucky he is and how he doesn’t need to worry! That people will make sure he looks pretty and then the new King will not be able to keep his hands to himself!

Ccino just smiles and nods. Not sure if he can keep himself from throwing up if he starts talking.

They get to the large dressing room. Normally used for making and fabricating outfits for the royals and nobles. Ccino feels his anxiety returns as the maids leave him with the seamstress Sasha. Sasha looks beyond excited as she looks at different outfits.

She hums happily “I am so excited! It is the greatest honour to have been allowed to make your outfit. I made a few options and the current king and future king already expressed their preference!” she smiles brightly as she holds up different outfits “I have a few that were approved upon and I made sure they will fit the decorations!”

Ccino nods as he lets her talk. Everywhere there are flags and banners with little suns on them. The symbol of Dream. A small sun for the golden prince. Dream had been so excited when they picked his symbol when the twins turned ten. Nightmare had been excited about his own symbol in the form of the moon.

Ccino watches as the seamstress pulls out this beautiful dress. Lower back and cuts by the lower part and legs to enable easy movement.

Sasha smiles as she holds it up “I know I know. A dress is the go to but I wanted to try just in case! Please put it on.”

Ccino takes the clothing item and gets dressed. Feeling numb to the exposed feeling by now. He waits on the verdict.

She beams “Oh you are so pretty!” she looks excited as she rushes to the other outfits she laid out “But I think the dress isn’t your fit after all. Don’t get me wrong you look gorgeous but it just doesn’t seem right! It doesn’t show off your best sides well as it is designed to look good on people with more curves.”

Ccino is never sure what people want from him. Some say he is too fat and a glutton. Others say he doesn’t have enough curves. He really tried to do as ordered and only eat and drink what he is supposed to. He doesn’t understand why his body isn’t like they want by now. He swears he tried.

He is so tired.

Sasha brings out this pants and shirt set which feels a bit more comfortable. Ccino doesn’t like how open the back is as it gives him bad memories. The only times his back was uncovered was when they… they…

The shirt itself is very tight around his neck. And shows off most of his spine. The pants themselves hang low on his hip bones. Barely staying up as it is while the pants legs are long and cover him to the ankles.

The seamstress hums as she looks considered “This shows off your skeleton nature much better than the dress did! Your spine is so clean and pretty! I am sure the king would love to be able to see it easily! I will have to make a note of that for any future outfits!” she makes a note as she grabs the next outfit.

The shirt has shoulder pads this time and covers his spine a lot better. The sides are mostly open but it isn’t as short as the other one and it only shows a bit of his lower spine.

Instead of pants this outfit has more of a skirt to it. It still hangs low on his hips but there is a very short tight pants under the skirt to keep it in place. The sides of his legs are almost completely uncovered aside from the tight pants but the skirt part gives him at least the illusion of modesty.

Sasha hums as she looks between the outfits “I think that one is best.” She smiles a t him “Feeling pretty and ready to rock the new king’s world?” she is trying to hype him up.

Ccino gives a small smile and speaks softly “Mostly nervous.” Which is the most truthful and honest thing he can safely say.

She gasps “What? You don’t need to be nervous! He is going to be so happy to see you! You are so pretty he is going to be blown away!”

Ccino doesn’t feel pretty. He just feels sick and uncomfortable. It is so close now. Before he could mostly ignore it but now it is really going to happen. He is going to be promoted from babysitter to sex slave. And there is not a single thing he can do about it. Yet Ccino is the idiot and weird one for not being excited.

He wants to cry.

He takes his seat as the seamstress talks about his make up and what she picked out. It is mostly just some touch up. She mentions that putting much more on would just make him look fake and make him lose his natural beauty.

She disappears to the corner where she opens a locked box. There are golden chains in there. Well, not actually chains but necklaces and bracelets apparently, they may as well be chains though. Ccino watches as the other puts them on him. By his arms. His ribs. One as a choker. She coos and praises how pretty he looks. Ccino doesn’t feel like he is all there anymore.

Heavy steps and moments later the door opens.

The seamstress bows deeply and Ccino looks down as well. Making a bow as far as he can without disrupting any of the work done on him.

A moment of silence before a pleased hum “Good. You got cleaned up and made yourself look presentable. Come. We are about to start.”

As they walk Nim reminds him once more of what his role will be and what he will do. Ccino echoes the instructions back to her when prompted.

He is lead into the throne room and there is a silence. Ccino feels his arm start to shake as he makes his way towards his spot. Ccino tries not to panic.

This is it. There is no turning back now.

Ccino just stands in his spot. Near enough to step forwards when it is his time. Ccino tries not to think about what will happen to him after today. What his life will be after this. Ccino glances around.

There aren’t as many people as he would expect. The only people are the king’s advisors. The captain of the guard and a few extra guards. And Ccino of course.

None of the maids or servants are actually here with them.

Ccino glances around and sees people all getting ready. A priest as well. To perform the crowning of Dream as Nim will be unavailable.

Ccino… Ccino doesn’t like this ritual or what he knows about it.

From what he understand… the king will give up her magic. Make it form something for Dream to take and consume. Consuming the magic will give him powers and magic and the ability to ascend. Then. Once it is time. Something of great emotional importance is supposed to happen. That the magic will guide Dream to do what is needed for him to finish ascending.

Once ascended. Dream will be first crowned to the small select group here and then to the kingdom as a whole.

Ccino is supposed to step forwards when Dream finishes his ritual but before he is crowned. Ccino will join his side and remain there through everything.

Ccino still doesn’t understand how it will affect Dream. All the king ever told him was that Dream would within seconds grow from teen to an adult and all the feelings, knowledge and emotions that came with it would happen all at once. That it would make Dream ready to rule. The ritual would give him the understanding for what happened and how so he can perform it himself when the time is right.

Ccino thinks it isn’t right.

But maybe that is just him. He doesn’t like the magic in this place. His memories still see magic as the voice of his mother singing and some stuff moving on their own to help her with chores. Of his father holding him close and giving a kiss to his little bruises and them feeling better. They told him magic was about joy and love.

Here… they always spoke about rituals and blood and sacrifices. Ccino had seen them sacrifice animals before.

He doesn’t like it.

He hates it.

Ccino had had to clean up cuts on Nightmare’s hands from past rituals. All in preparation. Nightmare had been near tears as it hurt. Ccino remembers telling him that it can’t be actually that good of magic if it hurts him.

Ccino isn’t sure if he was even helping at this point…

Not that it matters… He probably won’t see Nightmare much after this… As he will just… be wherever and whatever Dream wants him to be and do and-

No. Stop. Don’t think about it.

Ccino tries to distract himself.

The hall is decorated with large banners. All with pictures and images of the sun and light. Gold in colour and making the room seem lighter.

Ccino suddenly understands his outfit colour choice. It seems to mirror the colours of a sunrise.

Nim steps out of the side door and walks towards her throne, her mask on her face. She stands before it as the hall is immediately quiet. Moments later Dream and Nightmare walk out together and stand on both of her sides, both wearing their own masks.

Nightmare looks anxious and Ccino manages to catch his eye through the tiny openings of the owl mask. Nightmare seems to relax a little.

That is good.

That is much better.

The King speaks up and her voice sounds out “We are here today. For the next step in our glorious kingdom. As I will ascend to take my rightful place among the stars. As my son will take his own rightful place. A god on this world. Like myself.”

Excitement rises in the room as Nim raises her arms and hands to her chest. And It lights up.

It is scorching hot. It is burning.

The light is bright as Nim holds out the light. It slowly condenses into a single form. A glowing apple. She turns slowly. Her body already starting to fall apart as she starts to dust. Her hand holds out the glowing apple to Dream.

Dream wiggles slightly in place before raising his mask to the top of his face to reveal the big smile before looking serious again as he steps forwards. He holds out his arms and hands.

Nim stands still for a moment before she places the apple in his hands but keeps holding on.

Dream looks determined and nods “Thank you. Mother. May you rise to be above the other gods.”

Nim nods and lets go of the apple. As soon as the contact is gone. She is gone. She falls apart and her mask falls on top of the pile of dust.

The apple is a perfect golden colour. It isn’t shining anymore but it reflects the light beautifully.

Dream steps forwards and smiles “Hello everyone. For this glorious day. As the old king and my mother takes her rightful place among the stars and gods. As I stand before you to claim my own place in the growing history of our family. To make them proud and do as they hava done before me.”

Ccino notices Nightmare looks nervous as he shoots him looks. Ccino gives him a tiny smile and Nightmare seems to relax before he gains a look of focus in those eye lights.

Dream smiles as he raises his arms up high.

Which is when Nightmare rushes him and tackles his brothers. The two twins struggle for a moment before Nightmare manages to grab the apple and take a few steps away.

Dream stares from his spot on the ground in shock “Nightmare?!”

Nightmare doesn’t say anything. He is shaking lightly before Nightmare finds his eye sight again. Nightmare raises his own owl mask to the top of his skull, he takes a deep breath and bites into the apple.

Something in his body changes. Ccino can see an almost hazed look on Nightmare’s face as he bites. And bites. And bites. Eating the apple even if he seems to almost choke on the mouthfuls.

And then the apple is gone. Core and all.

Nightmare stands there for a moment before starting to lean to one side before leaning towards the other. His body shaking. He starts to shake more and more as Nightmare rolls up as he hugs his own form. Then Nightmare starts screaming and sobbing as he falls to his knees.

Ccino feels his own body shake. Ccino feels himself take a step closer.

He is hurt… He needs to…

A guard stops him.

Ccino can’t look away from Nightmare. Nightmare is just shaking and sobbing as he stays on his knees.

A cracking of bones. The ripping of clothing. And large limbs burst out of Nightmare’s back. Ccino sees them move and wriggling around dripping of Nightmare’s blood. But Ccino watches as the red colour darkens little by little until it is a solid black instead. It continues to drip on the ground as Nightmare shudders.

Then he stops. Everything stops. The screaming, the shaking, the sobbing.

Silence.

Nightmare slowly rises to his feet. The goop moving and dripping slowly off his form to drip on the ground. Nightmare looks around the room. His clothes ripped in many places as parts of it remain on the ground covered with that same sticky black goop that used to be red and liquid and his blood.

“How could you!?”

Nightmare blinks and turns to stare at Dream. Dream glares at him as he shakes with pure rage.

Dream screams “How could you?!”

Nightmare however doesn’t react. He just keeps staring at his brother. Ccino… Ccino doesn’t like the look on his face. It is the same look as with the apple… Ccino also doesn’t like the look on Dream’s face. The open rage and anger.

Dream knows magic. Nightmare does not.

Ccino doesn’t think and rushes away from his spot. The guard who had a hold on him before had let go in shock. Ccino side steps any hands as he rushes to the raised platform and thrones. He rushes up the stairs and gets between the twins. Holding hands up to both of them as he gives them both a strict look “No fighting.” He would have wanted his voice to be louder. But he can’t. Even now he can’t shout at either of them. He never could.

Dream looks away with angry tears in his eyes. Nightmare freezes as he stares at him. Ccino looks back at him.

His face isn’t the same anymore. The sockets are all wrong and the eye lights aren’t right either. Nightmare is much taller and doesn’t look in anyway like he did. The magic that he emits is even different.

But… the angle of those shoulders… Nightmare is scared and confused.

Ccino needs to get them somewhere else. He needs to get them out of view of others. They need to calm down and they need to figure out what is next. Was… Was Nightmare instructed by Nim to eat the apple after all? But… that doesn’t make sense?

No. Focus. No use trying to figure stuff out when it isn’t the priority. Get the twins to the back. Get them situated.

Ccino takes a deep breath before turning towards the waiting crowd with a smile on his face. He makes sure to tugs his hands behind the small of his back as he speaks with his cheerful people pleasing voice “We will be in the back to clean up before we continue. Please excuse our new king and the crown prince for just a moment.” And he bows deeply before shooting Dream a look and motioning towards the back.

Dream still looks angry but does as told as he moves towards the back. Ccino rises and gives a deep bow to Nightmare “My lord?” Nightmare is king now… right? so he should do this?

Nightmare looks bothered. It isn’t the same face he pulls but it is the same reaction as before. At least that look from the apple is gone. He just looks confused and overwhelmed. Nightmare moves towards the back without a single glance into anyone’s direction. Ccino uses the general confusion to rush into the room after them.

Okay. Okay.

What now?

The room is quiet as Dream continues to glare at Nightmare. Nightmare frowns at him as he raises a hand “Dream… I…” he shakes his skull as that glint in his eye lights returns before he manages to shake it.

Dream glares as he shakes “How could you! I trusted you! Everyone always said you just wanted the throne! I defended you! Said you would never betray me! Yet you do?!” angry tears appear in his sockets as he glares.

Nightmare shakes his skull again. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to. I…” He frowns. So confused.

The door slams open and Ccino notices Nightmare flinch at the sound before Ccino is grabbed and turned around. Captain Falks is there glaring “What the fuck did you do?!”

Ccino blinks as two more guards join them. Ccino looks back at Nightmare and Dream “I… I got them out of sight? Stopped them from fighting.”

Falks groans “Yes! That is the problem! You stopped the ritual!”

Ccino feels any insecurity and nerves leave him as it replaces him with rage “Of course I did?! In case you didn’t notice! It went terrible! Of course I got them out of sight and calm before they could hurt each other!”

Captain Falks glares “The leftover prince was never supposed to take the apple! This is a disaster! He was supposed to just be there for the future King of Light Dream!” Falks glares at the twins before glaring at Ccino again “This is a mess and you made it worse.”

Ccino flinches as he looks to the side “What is done is done… We need to be quick…” he glances back and can’t help but notice that Nightmare is very much barely dressed at this point as he ripped out of his clothing and Dream is overdressed with the too large clothing. Swimming in the bright orange cape and the softer coloured dress pants and shirt. Ccino nods to himself “We will need to get them both ready quickly. A new outfit for King Nightmare is a must. He can’t be crowned when he is barely dressed. Dream will need cloths that are form fitted for him now instead of how he could have been.” His mind is racing as he looks over to the two guards behind Falks.

It are cadet Rogers and Cadet Miles. Okay. Ccino has seen them before and they are both ambitious but are loyal to the crown. Ccino looks at Miles “Miss Miles. Can you get back to the hall and keep the people calm? We may need more refreshments for them.” Miles gives a nod and Ccino focuses on Rogers “Cadet Rogers. We need to make sure we aren’t bothered. Can you make sure to stand guard?” Cadet Rogers nods with a salute and moves to the door together with cadet Miles. Ccino looks at Falks “Captain. We need the priest to remain here and remain ready to crown Nightmare and vow him in. While I get the prince and king ready you need to go to the priest and give him a small update that Nightmare will be sworn in instead-”

Falks glares “Who do you think you are to order me and my guards around?”

Ccino freezes before giving him a look “We need to act quickly and adapt to the change.”

Falks huffs as he looks disgusted  “I will not serve a fake king.”

A moment of silence and shock goes through Ccino. He also feels… rejected? Dejected? It doesn’t make sense. Ccino instead focusses on the moment “How is he a fake king?”

Falks huffs “You are an idiot. He was never meant to be king. He was there to make sure that Dream would rise to his rightful place. Not be a useless and jealous brat and take it for himself! He didn’t even finish the ritual!”

Ccino glares “He did.”

Falks smirks “Oh believe me. He did not.”

Ccino glares as he starts to recount what he knows “He ate the apple. Legends speak that anyone unworthy of absorbing the magic would perish. Nightmare survived and was able to gain the power it gave. Meaning the magic decided him worthy.” Falks blinks but Ccino continues “Nightmare is a son of the old king Nim just like Dream. Are you really disrespecting the royal bloodline?” Falks looks a lot more worried. Ccino goes for the finishing blow “Not to forget. The ritual spoke of a large betrayal. I do believe. That eating the apple and betraying his twin would count as such.”

Ccino may not agree with any of these thought and believes followed by these people. But he knows how to speak their language and play their game. “That means. That our new king is Nightmare. Who completed the ritual.”

Falks suddenly looks a lot more unsure before he hisses to Ccino “You best remember your place slave. And if I had it my way I would show it to your personally. Your pretty face can’t save you from all the consequences.”

Ccino doesn’t feel fear. He just feels rage. “Oh I remember my place just fine. My duty, as ordered by the old king, is to be by the new king’s side and help him in any way I can. I am doing exactly as I was instructed. I think it is time you remember your own oaths and vows Captain. As you are supposed to protect, guard and serve the ruling king yourself.”

Falks glares harshly at him “When this is over. I will take great pleasure in punishing you and your bratty mouth. Seems like the last twenty I gave you did not make much of an impression. Maybe with fifty lashes you will learn your place.”

Ccino raises a brow “Ask our king when it is calm. We both have our duties. Yours should be to make sure everything in the hall is still fine so we can move on to the coronation.” Ccino glares at him “The priest needs to be informed as I prepare our king.”

There is a silence in the room. The two cadets stare at Ccino and their captain but Ccino doesn’t care. He knows he will be in trouble for this. A lot of trouble and he does not enjoy knowing he will be punished later for ignoring the hierarchy and rules.

But Nightmare needs him now. Even if Nightmare doesn’t seem the same. It is still Nighty. Ccino used to tug him into bed with a  bedtime story. Ccino used to cut both Nightmare’s and Dream’s food into tiny pieces to make eating easier for them.

Ccino is not going to fail them now because some stupid birdbrain decided he wanted to try a powerplay when there is a crisis.

Falks breaks their eye contact first. He huffs as he walks to the door and hisses “Do what he says. We need to serve our king.” And he leaves the room. The two cadets follow.

Ccino glances back at the twins and is happy to note both seem too distracted to have noticed the captain trying his silly powerplay. The twins are just staring at each other and seemingly lost in their own world.

Ccino nods as he rushes to the wall. He finds the servants pathway and sneaks a look inside. Okay! Perfect! A sewing kit! He grabs it and takes it back inside before ringing the bell and leaving a message that he needs cloths in the colours of deep purple, dark blue, cyan or black stat. He goes back inside and looks around.

Now. What can he use to fix this mess? He searches the room and pulls out any tools he can find. Ccino knows that his fellow servants and maids all stash items all around the castle. To use when in need without having to travel far.

He manages to pull one of the large sun banners down and starts sewing it into a more casual tunic dress fit before managing to find a brown belt  to help give it shape. He goes to Dream’s side and checks the cape and clothes he is wearing. Okay he can let Dream still wear the large cape as it will go well.

Ccino pushes the clothes into his arms “Here. I am sorry it is rushed work. This will fit better.”

Dream stares before glaring as his sockets fill with tears “No! This… this isn’t supposed to be like this!” Dream glares at Nightmare “How could you?!”

Oh no not again.

Nightmare looks at Dream and that slight edge is back again “I just… I needed… I just wanted…” Each time Nightmare tries to speak he seems to stop as soon as he hears his own voice. Shock obvious on his face.

Dream glares “I can’t believe you would betray me! I trusted you! I thought we were a team!”

Nightmare looks so sad “We are…”

Dream shakes his skull.

Which is when Sera walks in. Great. This day just went from bad to horrible. And that is impressive as Ccino had believed he would become a sex slave.

Sera glares at him “Why are you making orders and what is going on?!”

Ccino just takes the fabric she brought and gets to work sewing quickly. He can’t make it complex or too detailed but anything fitting will be better than Nightmare being crowned while naked “Prince Nightmare ate the apple. I am preparing him for his coronation as quickly as I can.”

Sera looks shocked before frowning “You should not be this involved! Step aside as I will do so instead.”

Ccino shoots her a look “And what role gives you this right?”

Sera glares “I am the head of the servants! Including you!”

Ccino can’t help but smile brightly as he answers “Actually. As you very often told me. I am not a part of the servants. I am one of the king’s loyals.” He smiles brightly as he enjoys the shock on her face “And as you often told me. I don’t belong in your group.”

She sputters and glares “You have some nerve! You are nothing but a toy! Something to throw aside when the king is done with you!”

Ccino nods “Of course. But that is the king’s decision.” He makes sure to smile pleasantly “And you wouldn’t go against the king’s will… would you?”

Sera is seething but nods “I wouldn’t.”

Ccino nods “Good. Now. The guests will be forced to wait a little longer. I am sure they would appreciate some extra refreshments and food.” This time he downright smirks as he shoots her a look “After all. Your performance will reflect on all of us.”

Sera is furious. Ccino knows why of course. She must not enjoy Ccino echoing her own words back at her.

Sera nods before leaving the room.

Ccino checks his hands and is happy to note he got the basics done. This will sadly have to do. He walks over to Nightmare “My lord? May I help you?”

Nightmare blinks slowly at him before nodding “Yes.” He remains still as Ccino puts the newly made shirt over his head and carefully moves the slits he made in place. The tendrils move easily through it and seem to brush against his side and Ccino shudders. The goop is cool and sticks slightly. Still. He moves  with purpose as he gets Nightmare into his new shirt. It is a bit too tight for the other and Nightmare frowns as he looks down at it. Ccino starts messing with the seams as he tries to gain a bit more room for Nightmare to move around in.

Ccino eventually needs to abandon that as he has to focus on the other parts. The cloak he made is easy in design and has a hood attached for Nightmare to use if needed. He quickly stitches in the familiar pattern of the moon phases at the button and around the neck before putting it over his shoulders.

Shit. The normal strings would just not be impressive enough.

Come on think. Think. Think.

Ccino sees a glimmer of gold and looks down. His jewellery!

Ccino quickly undoes the chain around his neck and clips each end on the cape. It works and gives it a nice shine. Mmh.

Ccino is quick to remove all his bracelets and other gold items as he moves around Nightmare. Putting some on the tendrils, which seem to really like wrapping around his arm or leaning against him. Ccino gives them gentle pats each time he needs to move or he removes them.

At the end his own clothes are much darker thanks to all the goop but Nightmare looks at least a little bit like a king. Ccino hopes that the distance from the others will be large enough that it isn’t obvious that this is a very bad patch job but he did what he could.

Ccino nods as he grabs a spare outfit for himself and quickly changes. No longer the very clear offering but at this point Ccino thinks the best thing to do is to get the whole day over with before trying to pull everything back together.

Ccino nods to the twins as he speaks “Okay! That is all I can do. If we take much longer they will become impatient and we don’t need them to be mad.” It is scary how easy it is for him to fall back into this role. How natural it always felt to speak to them as babysitter, caretaker and, he only dares to think it, older brother. Even with Nightmare now being a deity it still feels natural. It feels easy.

“We will go out to the throne room and the guards will open the doors. More people will watch as the priest crowns Nightmare. After that they will party but it is fine if you two retire for the night at that point.”

Dream glares “Nightmare shouldn’t be crowned! I should be!”

Ccino flinches as he looks between the twins. Making sure to keep his voice calm as he speaks “I know Dream. But I don’t think anyone will accept that. Not while the ritual and powers accepted Nightmare…” because that is what happened. Even if people seem to refuse to see it. According to all the rules known of the ritual. Nightmare completed each step. He has a new form and new power. He was accepted and ascended. Both to king and to be a god.

Ccino doesn’t know if there are private rules he doesn’t know but he wouldn’t even know who would know. So this is the situation they have at the moment.

Dream shakes his skull and slaps Ccino’s hand away. Yeah he figured. Ccino doesn’t take it personally. “It is wrong!” Dream glares at Nightmare.

Nightmare still has this glint in his sockets but each time he stares for too long at Dream, Ccino can see that Nightmare also focusses on him and the glint disappears.

Ccino focusses on Dream as he tries to calm the other down “I know you are angry Dream. But please. We don’t have time to discuss this and-”

Dream shakes his skull “I don’t care!” he glares at Nightmare “How could you!”

Nightmare’s tendrils slowly rise “I don’t…”

Dream doesn’t listen and his hand finds an old bust and he swings it right against Nightmare’s skull. A loud crack of stone and bones as the bust falls to pieces.

Silence before shock overtakes any emotion Ccino feels. Ccino rushes over as Nightmare slowly rises to his full height. His new tendrils sharpening and rising themselves.

Ccino gets to them and stands between them again “No! Both of you stop that. Dream! You know better than attacking your brother.” He shoots Dream a look.

Dream shakes as tears run down his angry face “He stole my future!”

Ccino shoots him a disapproving look “And you just hit him with a stone bust.” He sighs as turns towards the door to see it slightly open. Of course this guy is listening in. Whatever! Ccino speaks loudly “Cadet Rogers. Bring Dream to his room and stand guard. Make sure no one can bother the prince as the prince remains inside the room.”

Dream sputters “You can’t! You can’t do that!”

Ccino gives him a disapproving look “You are hurting. I know that. But you hurting is not an excuse to hurt others. You know your brother better than anyone and you should know that he would never hurt you unless he had a very good reason for it or had to. Instead of trying to communicate you attacked him. For this reason it is best to separate you two while we move on with the coronation.”

Dream shakes in rage as he looks down “I was supposed to be king.”

Ccino doesn’t feel good about this. But too much is counting on this. They can work on mending their relationship when Nightmare has the crown and people remain loyal. Than they can talk and relax. Cadet Rogers takes the prince away to his room and Ccino turns to Nightmare.

He only now realises that he had his back to Nightmare the whole time. That he had his back to someone who had his tendrils sharpened moments ago. But Nightmare looks calm and… he is leaning against the hand Ccino had held out to signal Nightmare to stay back. Ccino hadn’t even noticed as he tried to manage Dream.

Ccino checks his outfit once more before checking the skull. He can’t see anything. The goop is all liquid and hiding everything and Ccino isn’t sure if he can wipe it away safely “Nightmare? Does it hurt?” They are alone now. Ccino is too distraught to bother with titles unless he has to. Which he will have to in a few minutes.

Nightmare keeps staring at his hand “He… attacked me…”

Ccino frowns and nods “I know…  I am sorry…” he should have expected something like this. He should have made sure they were both safe. He just… he hadn’t thought… He should have considered this a possibility as Dream had been hurt by this.

Nightmare shakes slightly.

Ccino feels so bad for this “Nightmare. I know this is a lot but we can’t wait. People are waiting and have high expectations. You need to be crowned. Do you understand?”

Nightmare is quiet for a moment before nodding.

Ccino sighs “Good… good.” He makes sure to stand tall “Let’s get to work.” And he leads Nightmare out.

-----

Ccino is exhausted. The whole day had been exhausting and Ccino isn’t even sure if he can still recall everything that happened. Ccino just…

He just wants to sleep.

He rolls up in his bed. Now dressed in PJs as he tugs his blanket around. It is much too late for him. But he will need to be up early tomorrow to help Night- their king get ready for his first official day as king. Not to forget he needs to visit prince Dream and make sure he is okay.

Ccino is so tired and-

A knock on his door.

Ccino frowns. That is unusual. He walks towards his door and glances through the keyhole. He stares in shock before opening the door wide and bowing “My king. What do I own you this visit?”

His king stands there. A frown on his face “My… My mother’s room feels… wrong… I can’t sleep there. Dream hates me and does not wish to share his room. I wanted to sleep with you.” He still struggles with his sentences.

Ccino feels his soul freeze for a moment with the last part but he can see Nightmare means it literally. He doesn’t want to be alone.

Ccino isn’t sure why he can still read Nightmare just like he used to. You would think that Ccino lost that skill when Nightmare gained a new body. But even if the body is different. Even with his face being different. Ccino can still read him like he always does.

Ccino nods “Of course. Please come in.” he holds the door open and Nightmare walks in. He stands in the middle of the room seemingly lost.

Right. He doesn’t have any clothes in his new size. Ccino adds that to the mental to do list for tomorrow as well. Making sure their king has clothes that actually fit him. For now Ccino opens his drawer and searches it. He has a few oversized dress shirts and hopes it is big enough. He hands one over to Nightmare.

Nightmare looks at it before undressing and dressing in the clothing item. Ccino grabbed a spare pillow from the cabinet in the hall before throwing that on his bed as well.

It takes a moment but then they are both in Ccino’s bed. Nightmare gives a full body shudder and tugs his face and skull right by Ccino’s neck and shoulder.

Ccino has the strongest sense of déjà vu. Of when Nightmare was much smaller and he had night terrors. How Nightmare would use the servants tunnels to get to his room and climb into his bed at night. How they would make little blanket forts on days when everyone told Nightmare he wasn’t good enough. How Nightmare would climb into his bed when he was sad.

Nightmare… Nightmare may not look or feel or sound like the Nightmare Ccino knows. But it is still Nightmare. It is still his little Nighty.

Ccino hugs the large being closer “Sshh… it is okay… I am here.”

Nightmare shakes and shudders “Please… Please stay… I am so scared…”

Ccino tightens his hold on the other and holds him close “I am here Nighty. I swear on my soul.”

That seems to do it as Nightmare just holds unto him tightly. Tight enough that Ccino can feel his nails grip into his back. Ccino can feel those new tendrils circle him and hold him closely. Ccino just keeps holding unto Nightmare, keeps him in an embrace.

Eventually Nightmare falls asleep. Ccino can’t even find it in himself to care about the rumours this will cause. About the rumours that will follow after Nightmare leaves Ccino’s room.

Ccino doesn’t care. He will help and assist Nightmare. Everything will be alright.

[lovemyromance]

Idk how people see that I have a Elriel blog where I tag every single post properly and come to the conclusion that I am trying to bait Eluciens/Gwynriels.

First of all, I'm well aware they stalk me regardless of how I tag all my posts. Second of all, pretty sure there's some bored housewife anon out there trying to rile everyone up by sending my posts directly into their inboxes. Now if they're stupid enough to believe it's an Elriel and answer the anon, feeding into the hate in this fandom, that's none of my business. But I'll just say I have been saying to just ignore these anons from the start and have not answered any troll asks. All this talk about reading comprehension and they can't even comprehend a troll anon ask

The only time I have interacted with an anti-Elriel is when they come onto my blog and reply to a post. I have never resorted to name calling or personal insults. That's not my style and I'm not going to insult a real person over my views on a fictional story.

That being said, I'm well aware most antis have me blocked. They genuinely cannot handle even seeing my posts, they cannot handle me refuting their headcanons and "interpretations" with actual canon text. So they get angry and whip out the "Elain is a fictional character" condescending diss. Like we don't already know that? They get so worked up when you hit them with facts that they immediately block, immediately just claim to anyone and their mother that Elriels are toxic and shameful and rude.

Rude? About what? I know they have a hard time backing up claims with textual evidence, but can any one of them point to a single instance where I personally insulted someone?

I guarantee they cannot because I don't do that shit. Pointing out they are wrong with actual canon is not "rude". If they can't handle that their hopes and dreams for this book are just headcanons, then they definitely won't be able to handle when the Elriel book is actually published.

And to clarify, I'm not out here posting on my Elriel blog to change anyone's mind about their ship. Ships are preferences. You are entitled to your opinion. You can ignore everything in the books and simply say you want Elain & Lucien together and that is FINE.

What is wild is attacking Elriels for reading the books as they are. Claiming things that are quite frankly not there because "that's your interpretation". It's a fictional story. A simple fictional story. I'm not standing out here on a soapbox trying to convince people to ship Elriel. I do not care. I am trying to enjoy my space in peace. Let me enjoy my corner of the internet and if you intend on trying to argue with me, don't act so surprised when I bite back.

[papercranepoets]

A wall of books surrounded Hermione. Books on wards, charms, messaging via magic and other means in the wizarding world. Draco was clever, but she could not wrap her head around this morning’s message.

Or the horrible dream she had…

Hermione had slipped halfway down the large wooden chair, her legs folded like a pretzel. Her wild hair acted as a cushion. Normally she’d appear proper while sitting. Despite her strong feminist ideals, she knew that she had to work four times as hard as every one else and any “improper” image would work against this hard work. However it was not even 6:30 in the morning. No student in their right mind would be in the library at this time.

So when a low and annoyed “Mione” can out of nowhere, she nearly jumped out of her skin, knocking the book on the edge of her knee down with a thud.

Ron was on the opposite end of the table, eyes wide, “sorry… Mione, I’m glad you’re here. Parvati said you never got back last night.”

Hermione sat up, eyes furrowing. “I didn’t know you could get up this early, Ron,” she drawled. Clearly Draco was rubbing off on her because Ron looked shocked.

She reeled it in, “Ron, excuse me, I’m positively pissed off. I was locked out last night because of our incredibly stupid argument.” Reel it in more, Hermione. “So, you can probably tell that I slept horribly.”

“Yeah, anyway, I was worried.” He mumbled looking away.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. He could have looked for her. Although… then he would have found her out. Still, him being worried was just words at this point.

“Ron, I appreciate your worry, but I’m a big girl. We’re fine. Just let me get back to my work and we can see each other at breakfast.” She quickly picked up her book and made to start her research again, looking away from a very exhausted looking redhead.

She heard a chair being pulled up to her and nearly groaned. Hermione refused to look up until a warm hand was placed on her thigh.

“Mione,” Ron whispered leaning into her, “that’s just it. We’re not fine.”

Hermione stared into his eyes. Although Ron fell into irrational thinking and was quick to anger, he was a smart guy… he was perceptive enough. She knew he cared deeply for her. Pain and guilt hit her like a ton of bricks. Ron may not know what was wrong, but he knew she was not just building a wall of books. Hermione had been distancing herself for quite some time.

“Ron, I’m so sorry. I haven’t been myself,” she touched his cheek and he closed his eyes leaning into her more. “None of us have been ourselves. Harry is more paranoid than ever…”

“For good reason,” he whispered bringing his hand to the back of her neck.

“Yes for good reason…” Hermione said. The three of them were scared. The order was scared… not that any of the older members would ever admit it around them. Hermione’s thoughts began to spiral and she was chewing her lip so hard she was sure the skin would break.

“Hey, hey,” Ron grabbed her face with both hands bringing her focus back to him, “we’re okay. We’ll get through this together.”

He leaned in to gently kiss her while rubbing her temples with his thumbs. And this is why she had started something with Ron in the first place. He could bring her out of those thoughts for a moment… he just couldn’t keep her out of them. And Hermione quickly realized that her puppy dog love was not romantic love but deep love for a friend.

Her heart hurt again, but instead of distracting herself with thought, she wanted to distract herself with touch. Hermione deepened their kiss, fully turning to him. She leaned into him as his mouth opened up for her to explore.

How could she even have started this thing with Draco when Ron could give her this comfort.

Draco. She remembered Draco’s hand on her hips and in her hair and… well, everywhere. A shiver ran up her spine and heat pooled in her stomach.

This. This was why. Ron didn’t make her feel like that at all. So when Ron started inching his hand up her skirt, she pulled away.

“Sorry, Ron…” Hermione saw the frown forming on his face, “not now. Not in public.”

“Of course. I just love kissing you Mione.” He squeezed her leg before sitting back. He panned his eyes over the 40 books stacked on the table, “what the bloody hell are you researching?”

“Oh, uh charms and messages and such. Nothing interesting,” she answered quickly. Going too far into it would only bring more questions.

“Right, I’m already bored out of my mind.” Ron chuckled. Hermione smoothed her features trying not to react in annoyance. She supposed this was her other reason. She needed someone who was interested in the pursuit of knowledge. Ron had checked out on schooling.

“See you at breakfast?” Hermione asked, wanting to get back to her reading.

Pushing his chair back as he stood, he gave her a final squeeze on her shoulder, “I suppose. See you soon. Maybe I can catch another hour of sleep.”

Ron sauntered off and Hermione let out a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding.

Hermione paced the library after hours needing time to clear her head after a row with Ron.

“Well, well, well… what do we have here?”

Hermione’s eyes snapped towards the uppity, sharp sounding voice.

“Shut up, Malfoy. Let’s not pretend you don’t know why I’m here.”

Malfoy smirked, looking her up and down slowly. Then he was crowding her space, grabbing her arms and pushing her against the table.

“Weasel couldn’t get you there??” He sneered grabbing her chin.

“I’m not here to talk.” Hermione stared into his icy eyes trying not to think about his other hand digging into her hip.

“Not here to talk. Is that right, Granger?” He hoisted her onto the table and stepped between her. Leaning into her neck, Granger fluttered her eyes closed. Now it was time for some relief.

Malfoy chuckled breathing onto her neck and swiping her mane away. No kiss came. “What if I wanted to talk?” He breathed into her.

Grabbing his shirt and pulling him closer, Hermione tried to shut him up. For gods sake, why was he not just kissing her already!?

He nuzzled his nose into her neck and chuckled again before pushing away.

“What the hell!?” Hermione was enraged. From Ron to Malfoy and his snooty, rich, asshole, strikingly handsome self, men were really pissing her off tonight.

She met his eyes, red painting her cheeks in embarrassment. Malfoy was already staring at her, eyes dark and predatory.

“First you want to talk and now you’re barely even breathing. Gods, you’re so fucking moody and weird sometimes?”

His nostrils flared as he looked at Hermione sprawled on the table. He looked like he could avara her on the spot. Her eyes widened as she straightened up.

“Stop using me every time you have a little fight with your boyfriend.” His jaw ticked. Was he actually pissed off? “Better, yet. Stop talking to me altogether until you’ve fixed that situation.”

Hermione’s brows stitched together, “fixed the situation? What…”

“Oh, please, don’t play fucking dumb. You’re much brighter than this.” Malfoy scoffed, “maybe we can resume this and move our little library rendezvous to something more comfortable. Dump your little weasel and we’ll talk.”

“I…” Hermione was completely bewildered.

“No.” He breathed sharply, “Send me a note when you decide what to do.”

And with that he was half way down the aisle.

Hermione didn’t realize she was holding her breath… so much for clearing her mind.

[slime-sandwhich-nom]

Ngl gumball is the type to not fuck around when someone says anything about his gf he's very obsessed with

the tags aren't letting me tell you how gumball literally brought an entire PERSON, probably a dead one of unconscious as a SACRIFICE to a fake cult made by his own teachers and classmates (they didn't take it well)

[lucienne-thee-librarian]

I really need to stay humble lol

Me: I DON'T get the Dream x reader crowd I mean you do you, I'm obsessed with him but in a I Want To Study Him way. I don't get it. I mean he's such an emotional disaster, big divorced dad energy. Like what's attractive about a walking red flag -

Also me, a known dumbass, sees them:

Me omg hiiiiii <3333 #steponme2k24

[cattatoir]

I think I have unpopular Sandman takes bc I'm usually on his side

[orcelito]

ok i am actually so very angry and there's literally nothing i can do to fix it. life keeps going on. she might even be happy. and fuck dude, i'll make sure im happy too, i was a fully developed person before she was in my life and i'll continue to be one without her. but God Damn, the fact that she can just do something so blatantly awful and unfair to me and then run off without any actual repercussions is just so fucking rankling to me.

like perhaps she feels guilty. she said she did when it was all going down. but it was just something she "needed to do". so obviously she didn't feel guilty enough or she wouldnt have done it like that lmaoooo

i really did deserve to have a good solid yell at her. but unfortunately, by the time i did see her in person i just wanted her out of my fucking life. so. no yelling was done, unfortunately.

[flippedorbit]

my mom’s about to be the reason i off myself exactly a week before graduation if she keeps bitching about every little thing

[wizard-mp4]

I don't have anyone to talk cars to and that sucks sometimes

[stellardeer]

TL;DR - How would you kick someone out of your house without involving police? and Should you?

My no-note blog is probably not the best place to ask this question, but maybe someone will come along and answer, who knows.

So in the ideal circumstance that we abolish the police, I've been wondering about a specific scenario. Say there is a person in your home, for whatever reason, who has no legal right to be there, and you do not want them there (again, for whatever reason) but they refuse to leave and you want to forcibly remove them from your home.

Most people nowadays would threaten to call the cops on them, and usually that alone is enough to get people to leave. I've never actually had this problem myself, but I've known numerous people who've talked about these kinds of situations (and coincidentally they were all middle class, if that tells you anything...) I, personally, would think twice (or a million times) about calling the cops on someone, especially if the person in question is particularly vulnerable to police brutality. So, even if the police aren't abolished, I still want to know the proper alternative to handle this kind of situation.

I'm a pretty weak, easily overpowered person, so my first instinct would be to like.. call someone I know or go get a strong neighbor or something to help me get this person off of my property.

I know that the specifics of the situation also play a key role here, too, on how to handle it. Like, if the person is reasonable, I would hope that just telling them to leave would get them to go - easy enough. But if they refuse to move.. what do I even do? If it's someone that I know very well, I might think to take a break and just walk away from them and hope we can sort things out once we've calmed down. If it's someone that I don't know very well, though, (not even necessarily an intruder, but just say someone who is overstaying their welcome) and especially if tensions are not even high, I wouldn't really know what to do. Some states even have squatters rights, so like.. sometimes you literally CAN'T do anything about this person being in your home, and in some cases they can even get you kicked out. I think it's kind of obvious that if the person clearly has violent intentions towards me, then I have a right to defend myself, but again, I am not going to be able to do that by myself, and I don't know what the legalities are around asking for help from another citizen, i.e. not a cop, if someone means to do you harm?

And what if you do ask for help and your helper ends up injuring the person in the process of trying to get them out?? I'd imagine it's still better than calling a cop, and risking getting a life-ruining criminal record, or worse, shot and killed. But I'd also imagine there could be grounds for them to sue if they get injured by the helper since the helper is not a professional of any kind and not protected in anyway. Only some states have protections against self defense anyway, and I don't know if it even counts if you invited the person into your home willingly and they weren't being violent to begin with. Like.. if they person is just stubbornly standing there and then your burly neighbor puts hands on them first, I don't think that even counts as self defense for the homeowner? At that point if the person fights back then they have a case for self-defense.

And I don't know what the leftist attitude is towards personal property like that anyway, like should we even have a right to our own home? I don't know the leftist view on that, I get the idea that individualism is not the move, but like.. do we still have our own personal space? Space that we are allowed to bar others from entering? Even if that space extends to the entirety of a 2-bedroom home? I'm asking sincerely, because I really haven't read enough socialist theory, so I don't know what the opinions are on home ownership in general. Like in an ideal society, would we supposedly just allow the person to stay for as long as they like, as long as they aren't hurting anything? That's another part of it, like what if they aren't doing any harm but I still don't want them there? Am I wrong for wanting them to leave, even if I don't know them? Supposing even if they are an intruder, if they haven't stolen anything or hurt me or my animals, but they just... won't leave, should I even be mad about that?

But again, forget an ideal society, let's take it back to reality, assuming that I live in the US and the laws are exactly the same as they are in this moment, police are not abolished, but I am choosing to not involve the police in this matter... what is the right thing to do???? Should I just resolve myself to accept that this person lives with me now?? I don't even live in a state with squatters rights, so I don't legally have to, but.. should I? (more thoughts and anecdotes if the tags if you feel like reading)

[negativepeanuthoarder]

.

[saetoru]

✩ ‧₊˚ ✩。yours, always yours

synopsis. satoru has always been yours—and he needs you to know you’ll also always be his

— word count. 2.4k (read the breakup fic first for better understanding, but can be read as a stand-alone)

— contents. fem! reader, college! au, rich boy! gojo, post-getting back together angst that gets a little heated <3, minors do not interact, fingering, unprotected sex, edging, satoru cumming too quick <3, creampie, tbh the smut is short and a lil rushed my b, it ends in fluff tho !! trust !! there is fluff !!

— notes. tbh this will probably get flagged rly fast but oh well u win some u lose some. anywayyyyy here is the make up sex bc yall nasties deserve it <3 jk love u guys

satoru falls first. and he falls hard. everyone knows it, it’s never been a secret.

“you want me to wash your hair?” you ask gently, kissing his shoulder as the water falls over his head. he hums, nodding absentmindedly as he stares blankly at the tiles of your shower wall.

“sure,” he mumbles, “don’t tug.”

“i never tug,” you roll your eyes, snorting. he huffs a small chuckle, but it’s not the usual laugh satoru gives you. it’s mechanic, almost—just there to fill the space. “baby?” you ask softly.

“yeah?” he asks, “oh, should i bend a little? sorry, i—”

“what’re you thinking about?” your hands cup his cheeks, gentle and warm from the hot water as it soaks his skin.

he shakes his head, trying to smile as he clears throat. “just how nice it is to be pampered. maybe i’ll let you break my heart every once in a while so i get my back scrubbed and hair washed like this.”

“satoru,” you insist. you know—and he knows it too. “tell me?”

“why’d you do it?” he mumbles, “why’d you listen to him?”

“toru, you know why,” you sigh, “you know i didn’t think there were any other options.”

“you could’ve talked to me,” he furrows his brows, “just because my stupid old man threatens you with my stupid inheritance doesn’t mean we have to break up.”

“i was afraid you’d choose me.” it comes out as a whisper, like a confession you can’t bear to admit.

“i would have chosen you,” he agrees, “why’s that bad? how’s that wrong—”

“you’re not thinking about the bigger picture,” you shake your head, “that company is yours. you’ve spent your whole life—”

“so what? was i supposed to give up the rest of my life for it too?” he asks tiredly—satoru’s defeated. he’s never been defeated, it’s the most magnetizing thing about him.

even before you date him. he asks and asks and asks no matter how many times you say no. because there’s always a chance you’ll say yes, and he’ll never stop as long as there’s a chance.

“i’m sorry,” you sniffle, lips wobbling, “i could have….i should have said something. i didn’t want you to make a choice young and then….and then regret it.”

“you think i’d regret you?” he’s wounded—absolutely wounded at the words.

satoru has always been careful, diligent and so, so meticulous to love you right, to love you how you need to be loved. hadn’t that proven enough? that he was in it for the long run—for forever? he’d been so sure you’d be his future, that the break up feels like waking up from a peaceful dream to a house fire—devastating, with smoke in his nose and lungs that he can’t breathe right, and everything gone within a moment before he can even register it.

he stares at the ashes in despair. nothing prepared him for the hollowness of not being yours—because satoru has never cared to make you his. all he’s ever wanted was to be yours.

you’re quick to remove him from everything, deleting pictures from your socials, untagging him from posts, removing him from your private stories and close friends list. he doesn’t understand how you could change your mind so quickly—and then he realizes you probably don’t. because he knows you—better than anyone ever has, satoru knows you.

so he’s comes to you, drenched from the rain, from standing outside your door even as the water pelts against his skin because he’s determined. he’s going to get an answer out of you, going to make you explain why you pulled him in so close, let him reside in your heart and fall asleep to the comforting rhythm of its beating—and then push him out like he’s nothing. what made you push him out?

and finally, when he does, when you let him be yours again and admit it’s never what you wanted, that it’s because it’s what his father wanted—well, satoru can’t keep his composure. don’t you know? hadn’t he always told you? hadn’t he poured his heart out and let you know every moment he’s always been stuck dangling from his father’s fingers? stuck somewhere between the sky and ground, too high to feel the floor under his feet but never high enough to feel the wind in his face.

you’ve always known, always listened—and fuck, you held him some nights too, let your fingers dip into his hair and soothe his sorrows of always being stuck.

satoru’s always been stuck, always had every choice made for him and every instruction carefully laid out on the table. and then you decided to make his choice for him too, walking away and choosing his future for him like he’s never had a say.

he’s always been stuck, but never with you—but now, he wonders if that’s changed.

“no,” you squeeze his cheeks, “no i don’t think you’d regret me….but satoru losing what you have is a big thing,” you mumble, “people work their whole lives not having a fraction of what you do. that’s a lot to let you lose.”

“i’ve never seen my dad kiss my mom,” he stares at you, hard and unwavering, his eyes stare into yours, “he’s never held her hand or made her laugh. and you know what she told me? that she would sell her share of everything to have what we do. why do you always look at me for what i have first?” he asks angrily, the water pouring over his shoulders as they shake, “why can’t you just look at me first for once?”

“i do look at you,” you insist, “toru, all i ever see is you—”

“then stop caring what he says,” he says louder, his voice echoing through the small bathroom of your small apartment.

everything about your home is small—smaller than satoru’s especially. but he loves it, thinks he’d rather be here than anywhere else.

because it’s yours. and as long as you’re here, the world fits into this tiny apartment, the galaxy too.

“okay,” you say shakily. and then you nod, looking him in the eye, “you’ll handle it?”

he nods, kissing between your brows, “yeah, i’ll handle it. who else is gonna take over that company anyway?”

“but what if he finds someone else? and then he—”

“he won’t. my grandpa will shred him.”

“but he’s old, and he stepped down, so what really can he do if your dad decides—”

“god, baby,” he groans, pushing your body against the wall gently, “i love your voice, but you talk so much. i’m wanna listen to something else.”

his lips find your neck, sucking gently at the skin, hand trailing to your tits before his thumb circles your nipple. it’s slow, deliberate, teasing as it rolls over the bud.

you whimper, clutching onto him as a breathy, “t-toru,” leaves your lips.

“yeah,” he nods, “that’s what i wanna listen to instead.” his lips are in a grin against your neck, kissing and biting until he reaches your collarbone. “anyone dm you after you took me out of your socials?” he asks bitterly.

“j-just one,” you admit through a stutter, “b-but i didn’t even open it! i wasn’t really—oh, toru,” you gasp as his finger finds your clit, spreading your legs as he lets out a soft growl at your words.

“what? just cause my face isn’t on your instagram suddenly you’re not mine?” he asks, thumb rubbing harsh circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves—you close your eyes, moaning as your arms wrap tightly around his neck. “you’re always mine,” he murmurs against your ear, low and careful so you hear him well, “yeah? got that?��

“got it,” you nod furiously.

“got what?”

“‘m al-always—oh, fuck,” you mewl as one finger prods at your entrance, gathering your slick before slowly sliding through your walls.

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he says firmly, “finish your sentences.”

“always yours, toru! always yours—please, please j-just…”

“just what?” he raises a brow.

“more,” you sob—it’s a broken plea as your hips thrust against his finger.

he’s quick to slide in a second, thrusting his digits mercilessly into your soaked cunt, his palm gliding over your clit as the slick sound of his fingers fucking you is almost drowned by the water in the back.

your water bill will be high this month. you decide it’s a sacrifice satoru deserves.

“you think someone could ever learn this body better than me? make you cum like i can? you think anyone will ever love you enough to learn you like i do?”

“n-no,” you pant, his fingers hitting that spot inside of you so perfectly, you feel that dull ache build up quickly. it’s good—everything with satoru is good. his other hand finds your chest to pinch a nipple, twisting and squeezing until your nails leave indents on his shoulders as you moan loudly. “no one—no one but you.”

“exactly,” he growls, “how could you leave me? how could you leave us?”

“‘m sorry,” you sniffle, whimpering when the tips of his fingers slam against that spongey spot of your walls, fluttering around him and squeezing him in. you’re close—so close that you almost don’t know what he’s saying anymore, too focused on the way your impending orgasm is approaching. fast. “i’m sorry, i’ll never—ever leave again.”

“say you love me,” he demands.

it sounds like he’s pleading, though, if you listen closely. there’s a small crack in his voice, a slight shakiness that makes you force your eyes open and stare at him and whisper, “i love you, satoru. i love you.”

and then he rips his fingers out—right before you’re about to cum. you gasp, pleading nonsense as you cling to him and buck your hips and search for something, anything to take you over the edge.

and then you hear a sniffle. is he crying? is that wet droplet on your shoulder a tear or the water? you’re too busy calming down from your orgasm dying before it ever came to focus.

satoru’s hard against your thigh, throbbing and painful to sink into you. he strokes himself a few times, whimpers as his thumb gathers the pre cum from the sensitive tip, smearing it along his length as he shakily lets out a quiet moan.

“f-fuck, i gotta feel you. please, can i? please—”

“yes,” you pull him closer, grinding your heat over his hard-on, “yes please, toru. more, need more.”

he’s sliding along your folds, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance and smearing a mix of your arousal with his. and then slowly, ever so gently, he’s pushing into your after that, pushing past your walls and bullying into your soaked cunt, curving into you perfectly.

it’s only been a week—you feel like you haven’t felt him in years. but it’s familiar. you remember every part of him, including every vein that drags along your walls and makes your head spin. he remembers every part of you, including where that spot is that he needs to angle his hips to find.

he slams into you, hard and rough and fast—doesn’t even let you adjust your position to hold onto him tighter before he’s thrusting his hips and fucking into you desperately. you can feel him, every inch of his skin against you, every part of him that’s touching you. and you can feel the way his cock nudges past your folds, the friction burning pleasure through ever nerve.

satoru knows how to fuck you, just like he knows how to love you, he knows your body—every dip and ever curve, every place to touch and every part that has you gushing around him. it’s just the way he is, too good at giving you what you want, what you need.

when he moans, it’s breathy and he’s panting as he lets out those soft whimpers that make your head spin. “feel that? feel me?” he asks, grunting as you squeeze around his length.

“yeah,” you breathe, “‘m so full.”

“i need you. please, please,” he murmurs, “can’t lose you, baby. never you,” he chants, the quiver in his voice tearing you apart.

“i’m right here,” you gasp, lacing your fingers with his and squeezing his hand. he squeezes back, just to let you know he’s there too, “right here, baby. you got me.”

and then he cums, just as soon as you whisper that—he spills right into you with a broken cry, his hips rolling, needy and desperate and so, so lost on the pleasure. he’s too busy working himself through his high, trembling over your body to care he’s cum too quick—and you don’t have it in you to tease him. you can feel the hot ropes of cum filling you, painting your walls white, fucking deep into you as the blunt head of his cock slams into you without a second of hesitation.

but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter that brutal pace as his hips slam into you, perfectly kissing your sweet spot every time. and before long, you break—your head pushes back against the wall behind you, mouth parted as you wail his name and cum—hard. you’re quivering and spasming around his swollen cock, enough that he whimpers at the way you’re so tight.

it’s good, it’s always good. satoru makes you feel good. he’s the best you’ve ever had—the best you’ll ever find.

and then you hear it again, the sniffle into your neck as he clutches you tightly. you know for sure that wet droplet is a tear this time, and your fingers tangle into his hair as you stroke the wet strands.

“i love you, toru,” you murmur, “my sweet boy. i’m sorry, okay? i’m so sorry.”

“don’t do that again,” he huffs in between tears, “that was so mean. so mean.”

“i said i won’t,” you chuckle, fighting back your own tears, “how long are you gonna hold this against me?”

“how long do you plan on being mine?”

“well,” you pull him from your neck, cupping his cheeks as you wipe away tears and peck his lips softly, “i think….forever.”

“well, get ready, then,” he glares softly, “i’m gonna hold this against you forever too.”

“okay,” you nod, “that’s fair.”

“and i love you too,” he adds, “but block whoever dm’d you. it better not be that zenin boy.”

“block those girls who’s pictures you liked,” you shoot back, glaring at him with a pout of your own.

“don’t yell at me,” he mumbles, leaning into your touch as your thumb strokes his cheek, “i’ve had a rough week. you have to be nice.”

dabitee anon. are u seeing this. did u see the satoru who cums too fast. did u see it. report back if u saw this. i repeat, dabitee anon report back if you see this

[hillsofuhhtennessee]

Just woke up from a dream where Gene was dressed as a parody of some robe worn by the Queen of England but it the text and symbolism was changed to “Queen of Freedom” as s protest against anti-drag laws

[hoseoksluna]

A CELEBRATION OF 2K FOLLOWERS — PLEASANT, GOOD AND MERCIFUL | jjk

pairing: non-idol!boyfriend!jungkook x f. reader 

genre: smut, angst, fluff — the whole package

word count: 8.9k

summary: jungkook wanted to make the night better for you—but what he didn't expect is that he would come across his true, unabashed self while doing so.

taglist: join | cp: wattpad, ao3

warnings: jungkook, physical violence, jungkook is wearing that mesh top and that exact outfit (god, help me) and he's horny (god, help me again), abandonment issues, dissociation, panic mode, fear, swear words, dom/sub dynamics, protected sex, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), deepthroat:), teasing, pda, jungkook smokes and jungkook uses his busan accent (you have been warned), religion, praying, anxiety, hyper-independence, trust issues, begging, a little bit of a praise kink — barely, cowgirl:).

note: because we hit 2k incredible followers, i prepared this for you, my babies. a full fucking package of drama, smut, angst and fluff—all from jungkook's own pov!!!!! this is all for you bc i love you sm. thank you, guys, so much for being here with me, sticking around and reading my stupid fics. enjoy this one shot and let me know what you think. i'm sending you so many kisses until you get sick of me. seriously. i won't stop. i love you. MWAHMWAHMWAHMWAHMHWA.

It is a lucid dream, really, the way the lustrous colors of the fireworks bloom across the charcoal sky. They intertwine with the darkened clouds, like vines of wild flowers, that try and fail to remain hidden and Jungkook thinks you burst with even richer, emotive colors. 

With your kaleidoscopic glitter on the high points of your cheeks, and the tiny stars that you stuck on each arch of your brow. 

He can feel the vibration of the deep bass, belonging to the music, coursing down your chest as he stands behind you, drifting his hands down the upper half of your body while the rest of the strangers are hypnotized by the rapper on stage that he has very little knowledge of. The reason why he paid for the tickets, pumped a full tank of gas, drove you all the way to the countryside outside of the normality of your daily life and never let go of your hand—despite the fact they grew uncomfortably clammy due to the stifling heat—was because you loved the man. The vulgar headliner, whose lyrics nearly made his eyes fall out of his sockets once he fully and consciously listened to the songs that you always sing when you do your makeup or hum at random times when you’re doing your own thing. 

And what’s worse, it made his dick hard when he heard you scream out the swear words and the filthy imagery painted in the vivaciousness of the songs.

You, who scarcely cursed. 

Who omitted the vulgarity when rapping along. 

He doesn’t think he ever caught those words coming out of your mouth. Not even when he was balls-deep in you. 

Multiple times. 

It had only been four months ago when he found you and his long silent heart gained your voice. It was the sweetest, most languid sound that ever graced his ears and in an instant, you became a fleshly sanctuary of serenity. One he would find himself needing more often than he liked because the truth is—Jungkook doesn’t date. 

He considers relationships an unnecessary house of pain. If he spends a long time there, he forgets what the outside world looks like. Forgets how to get home. Forgets the roads and the rules and moralities of life and society because, deep down, he lets go of himself for the girl. 

He would kill a soul if she found herself needing it. Or at least destroy one so she would have a peace of mind. 

Break hands and break noses of people who looked at her wrong. 

That’s who he is and as much as he tried to change it, he failed every time. Failed like the clouds up above. His effort to stay hidden from you vanished into thin air because you would invariably find him and his heart would start praying with your voice. The pathetic thing would beg for mercy from the world. His knees would wobble and he’d let them sink right in front of you—all because of your deeply inert calmness and briskness that would, strangely, pour the nectar of mollification over his bloodstream. 

And he gave in to you because you didn’t ask, nor expect, anything from him. 

You didn’t do what the others did. 

You were independent and so full of life, of a different world, one he wanted to take a peek inside. 

And what he didn’t predict was that the road would be molded for his feet. And once he kissed you and learned the ins and outs of your intellect and the chambers of your heart, he still remembered the streets that line the outside world—its names, even. He remembered the address of his own apartment building, the number to his door and to the pass code. 

And so did you. 

You didn’t ask him to kill for you. And you didn’t ask him for tickets to see your favorite artists. 

He did it because he unreservedly loved you. 

And here you are, giggling, rubbing your little ass up against his groin and he detects happiness prickling his nerve endings. His hands are enveloped, snugly, as if no one was around and the artists traveled across the country for you, around your waist while your hands are up in the air, pointed fingers erect, dipping up and down to the rhythm of the music. 

And what he could never predict, not even in a million years—he’s enjoying himself. Feels the traces of the same vibrations ricocheting off your back into his chest, where the song enlivens him. 

He’s enjoying himself because you are enjoying yourself, brimming with elation and the radiance of your smile as you laugh, dance and scream out curse words that he’s equally enjoying hearing. 

Jungkook makes a mental note to pull those sounds out of you later in the early hours. 

And then you turn around, surprising him. You cup the side of his neck while you point that index finger in his face, screaming out the lyrics. And Jungkook regards it so overwhelming that he can only stare. Doesn’t know the lyrics to scream them back at you and make your experience better, but he’s learning them as he’s consuming them from you, his eyes tracing over each movement of your mouth that engraves them in his brain. He feels your hips moving under his palm at the bottom of your spine and when you roll your body forward, colliding into his like a star that meets its lover once only to never see it again, and brush your lips against his—he’s so horny and so in love with you that his eyes wet, his emotions rushing in and clouding his sight. 

The background fades out, fully, into the charcoal of the night, the colored lights softening and it’s just you that is the distribution of incandescence for the people present—and for him. And then you go down, dragging your hands down his stomach and his thighs, only to spring right up, grab his hips and make that collision happen—against the laws of the universe. 

A different star. A special one. 

Out of his darkened peripheral view, he can sense the audience having a way better time than they did before you turned around to face him. But Jungkook doesn’t give a fuck. 

Not when his cock is so tight in his pants. 

Thankfully, you’re obscuring it with the shape of your delightful body. He thinks he’s going to run with you to his car, pump more adrenaline into your body, so you can refresh the drowsy grass with a pristine layer of dew through the sound of your laughter. He also wonders if you’re wet yourself underneath that gray dress of yours and just as he’s about to lean over and yell that question into your ear, you turn around and get ready for the next song. 

And catch the glance of some guy to your right as you do. Jungkook grits his jaw because you linger for a second longer that he doesn’t particularly like.

A certain fever poisons his veins, but at the same time he feels the pinpricks of a cold sweat at the top of his spine. Who the fuck does he think he is, staring at his girl like that? 

But when he follows that line of the half broken gaze, he finds the guy’s slender face scrunched up in disgust. 

Oh, Jungkook might be ready to throw some hands and get him kicked out of this place, tell the cops it was all him so you can continue enjoying yourself in his arms. He’s seen some people sticking their tongues down their partner’s throat and he’s giving you a dirty look for dancing? 

This can easily be his very last night alive. 

Instinctively, Jungkook bunches up his fists and he’s ready to go after him, but you scream out and emit out your excitement, taking a deep breath to go absolutely mad as the rapper begins to perform the song that he’s heard you jamming out to the most. You take his hands, beaming at him from behind, and uncurl them on your tummy. Your glance was too brief and there’s still a furrow to his brows and now he worries you think he’s being a buzzkill. He doesn’t want to ruin the night for you, so he draws in closer to the crook of your neck and begins to dance, softly, with you. Your hands intertwine with his and you bang them in the air, jumping up and down at the bridge of the song that the headliner hypes up. 

And then you’re singing in a different language and he’s done for, his heart tightening in his chest. The one he’s heard your mother talk in over the phone while you replied in English. Jungkook squeezes you so hard and you let him, your smile growing. Your voice is more throatier and low-pitched and Jungkook senses your foreignness swathing his cock and he knows there’s a bigger tent in his pants. He presses it against you, makes you feel it and you throw your delicious ass. 

His eyes nearly go cross-eyed as he rolls them back, tilting his head. The wind sweeps across the sweat of his exposed forehead, sifting through his hair and he can’t wait any longer. Desire has overpowered the poison in his veins in such a mighty way and he begins to stand in the middle of a crossroad. 

Wait forty five minutes until the rapper finishes the show and then get stuck in the crowd as everyone tries to leave at once. 

Or wait two more minutes and then bolt to the car to fuck your brains out. There’s a higher chance you and him won’t be caught sinning in the backseat. It’s midnight and the villagers are asleep. And in the forty minutes, while everyone enjoys the last show, he can make you come so many times and ascertain that your experience will be heightened and ultimately better. 

He’s also sure you’ll be able to hear him—if he leaves the window open a little bit. 

He’s ready to turn you around, the decision throbbing in his sternum, but you make the move first. Swiveling on your feet, your body faces him, though your head doesn’t. Once again, he follows your gaze. You scowl at the guy, your brows knitting and your glossy mouth rounding before moving into the shape of the lyrics. You throw a dirty look his way one last time and Jungkook laughs in pride, his heart constricting in the love he bears for you, and he pulls you in, disposed to kiss you. You wrap your arms around his neck and open your mouth just as he kisses you—and it’s you who darts out their tongue, rolling it against his. Jungkook squeezes your bum, slapping it gently—and it’s simultaneous the way you and him both peek at the guy’s reaction. 

The fucker is grinning. 

You give him a vulgar gesture, the moonless blue light enveloping around your middle finger. 

Jungkook laughs so hard that heads turn in his direction and he’s fucking delighted. You devour it with your mouth, sucking his lips so intensely that he stops breathing. He senses you sealing it in him and he can’t wait any longer. 

He needs you and he tells you. 

Breaking the lip lock, he peppers kisses on the sensitive spot behind your ear, wafting his hot breath there. He feels the gooseflesh on your arm right upon his ear, too, and electricity courses down his stomach. Fuck, he loves it so much. Thinks you’re so incredible and he wants to fuck that fact into your guts. 

“Let’s get out of here. I want you,” he rasps, drifting his hand up your bum to the ends of your hair, bunching them in his fist. “I want to give you this dick. You deserve it.” 

You suck in a harsh breath and withdraw to look at him. He bites his lip at the way his words painted a palette of such flushed beauty on your face, using colors this festival has never fucking seen. And his mouth ends rise in a prideful smile, not for his ability, but for your body. For the way it’s able to react to him so wonderfully. 

And he blushes when you begin to mouth the lyrics again while dipping to the seat of the amphitheater and sliding his blazer over his shoulders. 

He knows why you did that. 

And you validate his knowledge when you take his hand and lead him away from the concert, keeping close to him just to be cautious. 

You did it to camouflage the evidence of his arousal for you. 

And when you walk by the guy, you let go of his hand. Throw both middle fingers in his face. “You wish you had someone to leave with, huh?” 

The fucker puts his dirty hand on you, stopping you from walking away, and Jungkook doesn’t fucking hesitate. Like a bolt of lightning, he grabs his collar and fumes in his face. 

“What makes you fucking think you can touch my girl, huh? Juk go sip na?” he snarls, shaking him, his Busan dialect impulsively spilling out, darkening his voice and the latter question—‘Do you want to die?’ He watches a tendril of challenge line his eyes with murkiness and what happens next is too fast. 

Too fast for his liking. 

Knuckles collide with his cheek and at the rapid, unexpected and jarring contact, his lip ring cuts his gums. Jungkook grunts at the twinge that overpowers the throbbing on the side of his face, metal percolating through the aftertaste in his mouth, but he doesn’t let go of the guy’s shirt. In fact, he tightens his hold. Seethes. Is about to push him off and leave before things get even uglier, but then he feels your hands on his back and his heart stops, your voice mute, despite the fact your whole face twists in fear and is smeared with harrowing emotions that he’s never seen on you. Shrinks at the sight of your wet, bulging eyes. Of one singular tear grazing your lower lashes in a caress before plopping onto the wildflower meadow of the glitter on your cheek. 

“Get back,” he tells you, despite the swelling of his own emotions at your state of mind. But you don’t comply in time, unclench your fist and step back because far too soon, in the middle of the distraction, another collision bursts in this impenetrable darkness. 

Falling into you or falling for you even deeper, he can’t tell the difference within the numbing pain and his temper coaxes his exceedingly too easy tears to blur his vision. You don’t topple back on your hands, for Jungkook catches you in time with a strength that you somehow help him remember that he possesses. From the force of the guy’s jab, he was only pushed into you, but it doesn’t diminish the grave mistake he made. 

One he will pay for. 

Straightening you, Jungkook guides you towards the edge of the amphitheater and you step back, at last, startled. Turning around, he swings his fist into the guy’s face and he whimpers like a little bitch. 

One hit for your dignity. 

A second one for your tears. 

And the guy would’ve received a third and a fourth one had he not been held back by different pairs of arms all of a sudden. But he shakes them off. Pushes the guy back to his seat. He lands awkwardly on his tailbone with a hard thud and moans in pain. Suits him right for thinking he’s allowed to touch you, make you cry and remain unharmed. 

Jungkook shakes his head, his chest rising with heavy breaths and numbing, adrenaline-infused fury. “Sit here and keep your fucking hands to yourself, gaesaekki. Who the fuck do you think you are, making my girl cry by hitting me?” 

The music cuts out and the rapper hollers. Jungkook turns around and finds all of the attention of the audience and the headliner on him. Doesn’t want to put you on the spot like that, so he rolls his eyes in annoyance, finds your rounded ones and tips his chin further towards the exit, signaling to you to walk that way, so no one gets to look at you. You’re still standing by the edge of the amphitheater with your tear-stained cheeks and his heart aches, though once he sees that you’re covered by the shadows, he lifts a palm towards the stage and strides off, placing a hand on the small of your back and leading you towards the grassy hill. 

People are fucking testing him and he’s not in the mood. Not in the slightest. 

He’d go with his original plan—take your hand and run with you to his car, but he needs to cool off. His anger is sapping all the delight he gained from your microcosm of joy and he doesn’t want to ruin the night more than he already has. Jungkook curls an arm around your neck, tugging you flush to his side as you strut together with no one around. Lifts your chin so he can inspect how you’re feeling on your face. 

Your cheeks are glimmering, damply, carmine in the yellow light, accompanied by the faint burn of the stars up above, but your eyes have lost their great spark and you’re no longer beaming. They trace over his deadened cheek and mouth and you whimper, stopping dead in your tracks and burying your face in his chest. You wrap your arms around his middle, a hand stroking his back—and Jungkook feels himself drifting to a state of coma. The rapper’s lines decline the harder you nuzzle your face in his mesh-clad pecs and he can’t move his own hands, can’t hug you back, his panic cascading down his sternum, which he senses your warm weight upon. A ringing noise fills his ears, but he can’t wilt. He has to put you first and make things right. 

But his body doesn’t listen. 

He wills strength into his muscles, lifting his head towards the unmerciful heavens and letting your voice sound out his prayer. You evidently need physical support and emotional reassurement and he can’t give that to you out of his own weakened will. Not when he needs it so despairingly and eminently because he’s hollowed out on the inside. Not when he can’t hear a damn thing owing to the ringing in his ears. 

He can’t ask you for help, so he lets you pray through his heart to his father’s God. 

But nothing happens.

Radio silence. 

White noise. 

A feeble, miniature whine loosens from him. He’s not sure if you heard it and he hopes you didn’t, and for that sole reason—he does the unthinkable. 

He begins to pray with his own voice. 

Because there’s nothing else to do. 

Give me strength. To be there for her and not mess this up more than I already have. Fix me for her and help me make this night better for her. 

The tiniest of lights against your face unbolts ajar in him, vines of the flowers of mitigation blooming from that sliver of open space—right into his arms that abruptly lift and wrap around your shoulders, pulling you as close as humanly possible. 

The ringing lessens. 

And then his lips move. 

He kisses your forehead, dwelling there for a moment, basking in the fact that his prayer worked, and mentally, he ejects the trepidation and agitation away and out of his system, though the fear loiters in his ribcage. The fear that the mistake he made is unfixable. And there’s no thrumming of the bass to distract it. 

What’s worse, his lower regions still ask for a release. He might not be as hard as he was, but the pressure of an ungratified arousal still palpitates in his groin. The unlit disorder of his feelings encourages the blood to pump his cock erect, slowly, and his breath quivers—as well as his body. 

The shakes are back. He knows them, intimately, from his past relationships. Feels the long-gone ghost of abandonment catching up to him—and he fears, terribly, that you’ve somehow learned its ways and you’re about to use them on him because of the way he ruined your night. Cover him from head to toe until his mind numbs and he forgets, foolishly, the direction to his home. 

To solitude. 

He lets go of you and nudges you towards his car. Lets you walk the rest of the short way. But he notices that your forehead, the place he poured his frail love upon, is smudged with blots of blood, the little stars on the arches of your brows crooked and devalued. He’s barely able to get out a cigarette out of his pack and place it in the center of his parted lips, his heart cracking and turning painfully. Though, somehow he does it—he gnites it to life, takes a big drag and hides his hands behind his back. Hides his shakes away from you. Because it’s easier to ruin yourself than it is to give. 

You don’t know about them. And in the four months he’s been dating you, he didn’t have a reason to tell you about them. Thought they were lost for all eternity, the tables turned—them forgetting about him. 

But now he realizes how naive he was. Begs his shoulder to stop trembling from the impact of his deeply-embossed issues. Wishes they were as beautiful as you when you gaze back at him with the weight of your love and he feels it, swiveling to lean against the side of his car. 

It’s a life jacket that straps him down. Abates his shakes. And he’s able to take another drag, pursing his lips in a small ‘O’ when he exhales the smoke, so it doesn’t get near you. 

Your hands are behind your back, too. They support your tailbone against the solidness of the vehicle. It reminds him that he’s glad he hurt the guy, but now he wishes that you weren’t such a delicious brat because he could’ve made you happier and pinker with the amount of orgasms he would’ve given you. Would’ve driven you home and washed you clean. Would’ve made you a late night snack to bed and held you while you replayed the songs in your head. 

Nevertheless, it’s him who needs to be held. 

Foolish, his sensitivity. Another thing you don’t know about. And he’s not too sure, at this very moment, if he’s able to let you in this closely. Let you hold him and stop, ultimately, his shakes. The fear of possibly letting that happen, only to get left behind after, paralyzes him on the spot and even though he can’t breathe, he still manages to flick the ash off his cigarette and puff on it, desperately. Needs the smoke to hold him down, mollify the raging disorder in him—the macrocosm that is too gritty and stony for your delicate feet. 

He allows a full, audible sigh to leave him and he hangs his head, but he shouldn’t have done that. 

Because he divulged to you how fucked up he is. 

You lift a hand to him. “Come here, Oppa.” 

But he can’t. He can’t get close. His legs are numb and the thick-soled boots his feet are shod in are too heavy. His fear keeps them planted that safe distance apart. And Jungkook plays it cool. Licks his lips, lifts his head and sucks on his cigarette. Feels something dripping down his jaw and he wipes his hand on the bone. His cheeks hollow out and the smoke gets in his eyes, stinging them, blurring the spots of blood on his fingers

A different type of wetness coats them now. 

“You wanna go home?” he asks, then cringes at his stupid words. The smoke makes zig zag patterns in the air as his hands shake harder. And then the breath he takes is too difficult. His chin wobbles, the tears rush in and he can’t stop it. “They’re still—” A soft sigh, a whimper. His breathing speeds up because it seems as though his lungs ask for too much air and he can’t inhale enough of it. The tears threaten to pour out and crown his fear. Ruin his life. But he keeps going as if nothing is happening. “Making hot dogs in that food stand over there. The night’s not over.”

And then he’s sobbing, sinking to his knees as his legs give out under all that weight of his issues compressing him. The cigarette burns on the concrete, as abandoned as he soon will be. And his hands feel the rough material of his jeans, needing something to bring him back to a painless reality. He’s tasting blood and the fumes of the smoke and then he sees your sneakers in front of his knees, the pink Calvin Klein shoes that he bought you last week, and he sits back, feels his head being lifted, feels himself being pushed to a point of absolute submission. 

And that’s not something he’s able to stop either. 

You sit down on his thighs, sinking your fingers behind his ears and into his hair, forcing him to look at you and he has to blink multiple times in order for his sight to clear up. Sees, while he whimpers pathetically, his bloodstained, fearful girl seeing him. The real him. The flawed, broken him. 

“Gguk, Ggukie, what’s happening? Talk to me, baby, please.” 

He only sobs. Can’t get a word out. Because you’re here and you’re going to leave him—now that you’ve seen that he’s not a half of the man you pertain him to be. That he’s weak, pathetic and emotional. That he has problems that he doesn’t like to talk about. Unresolved issues that will affect you and guide you out of his life. 

You press him to your neck, holding him to you, and you shush him, gently, rocking him from side to side. Run your wet hand up his hair on the back of his head while the other one rubs large circles on his back. The light opens wider in him—and as he listens to the lullaby of your voice, it distracts him from the fear. It stills the ringing in his ears and blesses his arms with strength that he uses, without thinking, to wrap around you. 

Something lukewarm plops onto the side of his aching cheek as he, little by little, calms down, and he realizes it’s your precious tears. The salt to his wound. 

You’ve cried too much when you should’ve been laughing so hard that you’d be sick from it. 

“What happened? Tell me.” 

Your hand caresses his bad cheek, careful around the bump that your feather-light touch traces, and it’s how he finds out it’s even there. He finds out his bleeding is from his mouth because you wipe at it and clean your fingers on your dress. And then you’re back to stroking his hair, your long fingernails scratching, tenderly, his scalp, spreading alleviation down his body. 

You’re patient and gentle, tolerant and kind, despite the fact you deserve an explanation and he’s unable to give it to you. 

It’s what makes his rationality snap back to normalcy and he tugs your dress down, withdrawing from you and helping you stand to your feet. He’s here to make your night better, not unleash his problems at you. He takes your purse dangling from your hand, replacing it with his palm, and hauls you towards his car. 

But you stay put and he bounces back to you as if he were on a leash. 

And maybe he is—because you stayed at the horrendous scene of his worst. Bound to you in a way that he’s too drowsy to comprehend. Even his fear is tired, scurrying away to some shadowed corner of his soul, instead of attacking him and remaking the scene. 

“Give me my purse back and let me buy you that hot dog,” you say, with a hint of a remarkable harshness that makes him submit to you on a higher level. Something positive that he can’t pinpoint breezes through his clavicles and he wipes his knuckles across his eyes, shyness encasing him like steel—like a shield, giving him the hope that maybe, just maybe, he can overcome this with you. 

You didn’t leave. You didn’t disappear. You didn’t wrinkle your nose. 

You held him. Cleaned the blood off his mouth. Put him, somehow, back together like a puzzle piece. Knew how to do it without needing to look at the full picture. 

He hands you the chain strap of your purse—and it’s more of a symbol of his submission to you. Of the acquiescence and the meekness that you seeped into his pores by your touch. And, oddly, he feels whole. 

His walls are broken down, but he feels whole. Confident, soft, and manly. 

Because he has you and you’re here to take care of him. 

You’re quick on your feet as you yank him by the two of his fingers. He follows behind you, but all he can look at is your pendulous, brown, leather purse, suspended from your small hand, and how that shift of the dynamic in yours and his relationship occurred by that exchange. How it’s felicitous, pretty and sturdy. How he can come back to it and remember it—if he ever wavers. Remember that it’s the cure to his shakes. 

Letting himself be taken care of by you. 

The festival has ended and the ladies at the food stand are packing up to leave. It overwhelms him how much time his issues have stolen, but when he watches you go from nice to bratty in a millisecond, convincing them to make that last hot dog from him because he feels faint and needs some greasy food in order to get home and they comply, his love for you rises sky-high. Your own expression of love for him tidies up the debris from his broken walls and he’s so warm all over that he feels as though he’ll explode. 

You pay for the hot dog and leave a huge tip, thanking them with a smile that makes his heart quiver in a way that is pleasant, good and merciful. You hand it to him and it’s another exchange that wets his eyes, that makes him dip to your mouth and give you a chaste kiss that you more than deserve. You coo, deeply, into the kiss, and it’s a sound that he’s never heard from you. A dominant, prideful sound that stirs the butterflies in his stomach that carry your name on their wings to beat so ferociously that he can’t breathe. 

In a different way now. Pleasant, good and merciful. 

You walk away from the stand and sit with him on the sidewalk. Jungkook lets you have the first bite, sliding your leg over his as he holds the hot dog to your mouth. People are exiting the amphitheater in hefty crowds, but he doesn’t care. Can’t peel his eyes off of you as you open your mouth as wide as you can and take a big bite, whining and fanning your mouth due to how boiling hot it is. He can see the half chewed up sausage on your tongue and if he didn’t love you, he’d look away now, but he can’t because he does love you and your secret, indecent ways enthrall him enough that he can’t help but to kiss you again. Kiss the ketchup and mustard off of your upper lip. Clean you up like you cleaned up his debris. Blow on the sausage in your mouth a little to make you laugh and you do more than that. You chortle so hard that you nearly choke on it and he laughs, too, strangely. 

Thinks the hot dog is the best one he has had in a long time solely because you had that first bite. 

It fuels him with energy, yet he feels lightweight. Feels as though everything’s going to be okay, despite the fact those issues in him are a persisting threat and they can be triggered anytime. But something tells him you can handle it. 

You weren’t afraid to throw your middle fingers in a guy’s face because he had a problem with your public display of affection. Weren’t afraid of Jungkook’s ugliness. Weren’t afraid to fight the ladies so you could fill up his stomach with his favorite food. 

You can handle it. 

It’s all he thinks about as he drives you to his apartment with his hand on your thigh. 

And it’s all he thinks about when he kneels before you while he takes off your sneakers and lingers there, scattering kisses just below the hem of your dress. And you know where this is going because you pull him back by his hair and as he looks up at you like this, a peasant to a queen, his heart hammers so intensively that all he wants to do is cry while he makes love to you. 

He came across his salvation—in the worst of it all. 

“Let me clean you up,” you hush out, and Jungkook doesn’t understand because you already have. Internally. And outwardly all the same. He can’t postpone this any longer. He has to give back to you, give you his gratitude on a silver platter. He needs to do it because if he doesn’t, he’ll crumble. 

“No,” he rasps in a whisper, closing his mouth over the inner of your thigh, placing a singular kiss there before he returns his gaze back to you. “Let me, please.” 

Maybe you can see his desperation in the glossiness of his eyes and it awakens your pity for him, for in a blink you nod, and for the second time today—he doesn’t hesitate to do the next thing. He fists the fabric of your dress and yanks it up over your tummy, nuzzling his nose into your clothed mound. Pink, like your sneakers. 

He inhales you. Inhales the beginning of your arousal—and the beginning of a brand new scene that will color his life in a soft manner. 

Dragging the waistband of your panties down your legs, he tosses them on top of your shoes. Yearns for your legs to part your royalty for him and in order for that to happen, he carries you, bridal-style, over to the white of his bedding. Pretends it’s clouds that he’s laying you down upon because he’s about to make sure he’ll bring heaven down to you. 

The heaven that helped him give back to you earlier in his worst. 

He hooks his fingers under your socks and slides them off, one by one. Makes you sit up to rid you of your dress. Ruins your ponytail in the process, but he quickly fixes it by lugging your hair tie down your length, rubbing his blood away on your forehead with his saliva-coated thumb once he places you back down. 

And it’s not an expression of his dominance, the way he disburdened you from the daytime. That has long ceased to exist in him since that exchange. 

It’s an expression of his servitude to you. 

Of his lessening and your heightening. 

And it’s pleasant, good and merciful. It doesn’t feel as though he’s giving all of himself. On the contrary, it feels as though he has just discovered his true self. 

He won’t forget the address of his home because he’s not staying over anywhere. 

He is at home. 

And your folds revealing your royalty as he spreads your legs is the feeling of homeliness. His mouth on your warm, swollen clit is the epitome of all domesticity and the only thing he can fear at this very moment is his future homesickness if he rips his mouth off your cunt. 

And you getting wet so easily just from being taken care of like a queen confirms and validates all that he’s feeling. 

And he lets you know. 

Peasants are savages and he eats your pussy like it. Sucks on your clit with a verve that surprises him and makes his cock tight uncomfortably in his pants, especially when you make those deep, guttural noises of yours. You’re not the soft girl he knew that omitted swear words in her favorite filthy songs. You’re a vulgar woman, rolling her hips into his mouth as he lets you use his tongue. 

And he stops—just to beg for those words. 

“Let me hear you swear for me, please.” 

You whimper, flopping into the mattress, only to raise your torso using your elbows. You grip the hair on the back of his neck and hump his mouth, but then you suck in a breath and draw back, sobered up all of a sudden. 

“Does your lip hurt?” you ask, rounding your brows in pity and Jungkook’s heart quickens at the portrayal of your care towards him. His senses flick to that faint throbbing on the side of his pierced lip and he perceives that he forgot about his physical pain. His cheek throbs as well, but it’s all bearable. 

You help him remember. 

“It doesn’t hurt, baby.” 

But the hand that gripped his hair slides over to his lip, caressing it with a thumb. “But it’s swollen. I don’t want to hurt you.” 

He also remembers that he was bleeding from the same place and he checks your folds if he spattered them. With the same digit, he runs it over them, finding no taints of it. Sends a quick, internal thank you to God. 

You’re pure—he doesn’t want to mar you. 

“You’re not hurting me. You’re saving me,” he utters without a breath, the words more raw than anything he’s ever said to you, alongside his first, secretly sensitive I love you. And while he doesn’t let his lungs lift, you inhale all of the air for him, wafting it over him as you pout ever so slightly. And then you caress him—the good side of his face and he does something he’s never expected to do. 

He invites you in. 

Rests his head on the apex of your thigh while you continue to brush your hand in circles. Over his cheekbone, his temple, long strands of hair and ear. An ouroboros of love so unsullied and intact that the world’s upcoming destruction could never afflict it, never even come near it. Jungkook pushes your leg back and darts out his tongue. Mirrors your circles over your clit and the gentleness he uses to do it with pull such alluring moans from the bottom of your throat that he’s nearly at the peak of his own orgasm. 

And it just makes him hungrier. 

He turns you over to your side and closes that leg of yours over his head. Flattens his tongue over your clit and eats it like his life depends on it, one hand holding yours while the other slips to your heat, rubbing the hole until you go mad. And he’s not holding your hand to keep you bound. He’s holding your hand to keep his sanity and not come in his pants like a boy. 

You move your hips so his fingers enter you and you scream out at the sudden fullness. Jungkook drips in sweat, your walls slowly stretching around him sending tingles down his spine, and he’s moaning when you fuck yourself on his digits. 

It doesn’t take long for you to come. 

It is the final piece to your own puzzle and your orgasm thunders through you, the swear words tumbling out of your mouth like refreshing raindrops. You interweave them into his name, adorning it, making it prettier, and Jungkook is so overwhelmed with pleasure that all he can do is suck on your clit until you convulse so hard that you can’t take it anymore.

You may have lost your spark earlier, but now that you’ve come so magnificently, you’ve become it. The star of light isn’t something that gets attached to your eyes whenever you’re happy anymore. 

You’re the queen of all firelights and constellations. 

He lets you lie on your side as he hauls himself up to face you. He touches your skin besprinkled with the beads of perspiration, kneading the fleshy parts and ending up at your neck. Your eyes are closed when he reposes his head on his pillow besides yours and he detects his pleasure creating a new kind of joy within him, one that etches a lopsided smile on his face. 

You said the words for him while your orgasm coursed through your body. He wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Thank you,” he whispers against your lips, kissing you with a certain roughness that makes you whine and withdraw. You give him a playful dirty look, fragrant with your love, and Jungkook’s smile deepens. 

“Gentle,” you reprimand, fluttering your eyes back shut. “Don’t be a masochist.” 

He laughs through his nose, his heart constricting, and he kisses you with the gentleness you spoke of just to show you he can do it. 

You hum in appreciation and Jungkook thinks this must be the best day of his life, despite all. 

“There we go,” you praise, sleepily. “Gentle, so your boo-boo doesn’t hurt.” 

He caresses your face in circles in your fashion, watches you visibly relax and your eyes close all the way, your eyelashes brushing against him. His sleep-kissed queen. 

“You wanna sleep?” he asks, fondling the shell of your ear. He doesn’t mind if you’re too tired to take him; he’s willing to study the way your mouth parts and lets out long, restful breaths as you drift off to dreamland. 

He thinks it would be an honor. 

Everything had changed. The way he sees you, the way he loves you, the way he senses yours and his connection. The pupils of his eyes have been purified and he’s acknowledging himself with the ins and outs of his own relationship. 

Everything is new. 

You shake your head, humming out a sound of disagreement. “No, give me a second. You made me come really hard.” 

He nods, even though you can’t see him, and he sifts his fingers through your hair. Trails his kisses from your cheek to your neck and shoulder, dwelling there as you recuperate from your intense orgasm.

And then you’re swinging your leg over and straddling him. Your lids are so heavy from your little eye-shut that he silently coos at you, but your tiredness doesn’t stop you from mouthing kisses down his mesh-clad chest. From unbuckling his belt and freeing him from his pants. The mesh shirt is the only thing you keep on him. You bunch up its hem in your fist, stabilize his cock with your other and you swallow him. 

Not all the way, though. 

You rid him of his sanity because you pop your mouth, over and over, on the tip of his manhood. He feels the sound deep in his groin, right beneath your hand, and his chest can’t help but to shudder with each suction, his face scrunching. He unabashedly whimpers for you and you like his noises so much that you give him what he never asked you for. 

You do take him all the way. 

And your throat is your scent floating through the air of yours and his home. 

Heady, oriental and feminine. 

You slobber all over him, running your tongue sideways upon the veins along his length and Jungkook slinks in and out of his conscience. The pleasure you’re blessing him with brings him to a rose garden when you gag around him. The pink petals tickle his stomach, encouraging his shudders, and all he sees is you in the middle of that garden. A mighty statue of its queen—with a mouthful of cock. 

And then he has to physically pull you away from him because if he felt the tightness of your throat one more time, he’d be spurting ropes of cum down your esophagus. 

You’re feral, staring him down with a maddened smile, returning to your original position on his hips. And as delighted as he is to have you be in charge, he remembers something. 

He hasn’t put a condom on. 

“Wait.” 

Jungkook holds your waist as he rummages in his bedside table and once he finds the package he was looking for and rattles it, he finds it empty. Cold sweat trickles down the back of his neck, but he remembers something else as well. 

“Did you not put it in your purse?” he asks, the scene where he hands you the last square of the rubber for you to keep in your purse in case you get in the mood during the festival shooting out before his eyes. 

You nod. “Yeah, I think so. Can you go get it?” 

He sits up with you and kisses you, gently, prolonging the kiss until you whine and he thinks twice before provoking you. He can’t help it—you just keep saving him. 

Walking through your corridor, he sees your pink sneakers first, embellished with your panties of the same color. A smile tugs at the aching corner of his mouth, but he doesn’t mind. Thinks it heightens the experience. Bending to pick up your brown purse that he set beside your shoes, the time seems to slow down as he’s reminded of the exchange out there in the countryside. The shift of dynamics that liberated him. Jungkook grows emotional, his feelings liquifying and prickling his eyes. 

And it’s automatic and absolutely instinctual—the way he dips his mouth and kisses the leather material. 

Gently. 

Opening it, he fishes out the white square and hangs your purse on the hook among his jackets. Gives it a long, meaningful look before he returns to you. 

And you’re the one who wants to put it on him. You’re so diligent, tugging the peak of the rubber multiple times so you’re unequivocally certain that you did it right. And when you tug him, he whimpers so inferiorly that you emulate his hunger. 

You depict it so eloquently when you fight through your residual overstimulation and sink down on him, little by little. And the more inches your walls squeeze around, the more his new role settles within him. 

Peasant with his queen. 

You ride him like it. 

You bounce on him with such hard thuds that it provokes the pressure in his groin. His balls tighten so rapidly and the cinematic view of your breasts slapping against each other doesn’t really help slow down the incoming explosion of his orgasm. A glistening ring forms around his cock from your slick—and Jungkook genuinely considers, right here, right now, buying you a promise ring that will be an eternal reminder of this sublime salvation. 

And you’re as aware of the shift as he is because once you reposition your weight onto your feet, you pin his hands back and use them as leverage. Intertwine your fingers with his. His vision gets filled with spots of white. You clamp down on him with each stroke and even though he can’t move, he feels unshackled. There’s no ending to his moans. He’s so close, the pressure deepens in his groin, and he needs one more thing. 

One more thing and he’s done. 

“Kiss me,” he rasps, and you slow down, crying out, your orgasm catching up to you just the same, but he needs your attention, so he begs. “Please, baby. Kiss me.” 

Lowering yourself onto your knees, you lean forward. “Fuck, I love it when you beg. I’d give you anything you ever wanted.” 

His stomach spasms. Your nipples sail over his chest and you shudder, the mesh fabric stimulating you, and then you’re swirling your tongue around the arc of his open mouth. 

Teasing him, like the vulgar, bratty woman you are. 

Extra careful around the lip ring and his swollen flesh, healing it in a way. 

Jungkook whines your name. “Please.” 

You kiss him just once, but he needs more. Lifts his head off the pillow, chasing your mouth. You begin to swirl your hips in circles on the tip of his cock, just like your tongue, and the intense pleasure he gets from it forces him to bang his head back. 

You go for his neck. His collarbone. His nipple. 

And Jungkook can’t hold back anymore. 

His orgasm bursts in his groin and all the roses in the garden swell with freshness. He imagines he’s filling you up, instead of the condom and it elevates the momentous shocks of the explosion descending down all of his nerve endings. He hiccups and that’s it for you. You let go of his hands to massage your clit and you follow him out into that garden, his name and curse words trickling out of your mouth that lowers to his in a final, years-long kiss. 

His last rope oozes out of him at the feeling of your soft, wary tongue and he wants to weep due to the density of your care. More shrubs of roses bloom around your statue in that garden—and once again, he can’t peel his eyes off of you. 

Can’t stop brushing your hair back to see more of you. More of your rose-flushed complexion. More of the spark of your being that irradiates you from within. More of your care and love. 

And you give it to him. 

You wash out the dried blood on his face in the shower. Brush his teeth with extra care, which makes it more than difficult for him to stifle his tears. He lets you be a witness to his sensitivity and you welcome it, cradle it, hold him while the toothpaste foam numbs his achy lip. And it scares his fear away, most peculiarly. 

You hold him in bed, too, amidst the crisp, flower-scented linen of his fresh bed sheets, and you apologize. 

“I’m sorry for what happened tonight. If I hadn’t said a thing, you wouldn’t have ended up bruised and swollen,” you croak out, shifting the cold compress lower on his face, and you break into tears that trigger his. He had wished you weren’t a brat, but for a far different reason, and he tells you. 

“It’s an honor to get punched in the face for you.” He smiles through his tears and you sigh, removing the cold compress. “But I did wish things ended differently. I wanted to fuck you in my car. Keep the window open so you would hear your favorite rapper. But if things went according to my plan, you wouldn’t have healed me.” 

You sniffle, your eyes rounding at the onrush of your tender emotions, and Jungkook watches the waterfall of your tears. His own flows and mingles with yours, joining in unity. 

“What happened to you when we left?” you ask and Jungkook knows he wouldn’t avoid this question for long. Deems you deserve to know because of all what you’ve done for him. And he readies himself, pausing before he bares himself, fully, to you. 

“I got into panic mode because I blamed myself for ruining your night and…” he trails off, aware of the fact he needs to be more specific, and he takes a deep breath, wiping his tears with one hand before slapping it back on the duvet. “I have a constant fear that the people I care for will eventually leave me,” he explains and a wisp of pride envelops his bones for managing to get those words out for the first time in his life. You snuggle closer to his side, placing your head on his shoulder, and he gazes down at you. His fingers find your ear on their own and it comforts him enough, to touch you like that, that he’s able to continue. “I got left behind a lot of times in my past, which is why I swore off love. It just hurt too much and I stopped having the capacity for it. And when we left the concert, I thought you’d leave me, too, after what I’d done.” 

You press the cold compress back to his cheek. “I could never leave you, you’re mine,” you whisper, and another stream of tears soaks through the dish towel wrapped around frozen vegetables. Jungkook doesn’t take your words for granted. He puts great meaning to them and hides them, safely, in his sternum. “And you didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t ruin my night. It was all me and for that I’m sorry.” 

He squeezes your arm. “Don’t be sorry,” he says and means it. Lifts his head and plants a cold kiss to your lips. 

Gentle. 

“I love you, Ggukie. It’s me who should be fighting for you now.” 

Jungkook laughs through his nose. “No, I’ll keep protecting my queen.” One more kiss, gentler. “I love you,” he adds and means it. 

And he falls asleep like this. With you clinging to the side of his body while keeping the cold compress intact and unmoving with your forehead. One that he removes in the middle of the night and warms up the iciness of your skin by smothering it with his body heat. 

Returns to the rose garden and gapes at the statue of you, hand in hand with you—as a changed person, a sensitive, flawed and submissive person that is loved and accepted. 

Finds it hard to believe even in his dream. 

And you’re there when he wakes up. 

Drooling, indecent and vulgar as you are. And he wouldn’t want anyone else.

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah,@fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth, @jungkoock, @cinmmongirl, @hobiberrystuff, @kam9404.

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

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[ DRABBLE ] 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 ! ( tenth installment ) in which you find toji fushiguro’s number off a sugar baby site .

୨୧˚ part; one. two. three. four. five. six. seven. eight. nine. ten. eleven.

୨୧˚ incl; toji fushiguro

୨୧˚ cw; sugar mommy! reader , sugar baby! toji , profanity , prostitution , drug and alcohol abuse , smut , allusions to hypersexuality , bisexual! toji

୨୧˚ an; okay there is seriously something wrong with my ability to tag people, certain blog names don’t come up when i search them it’s pissing me offfff SO SORRY if you’re on the tag list and you didn’t get tagged😣

୨୧˚ join my discord server ! we share headcanons, fanfic recs, color roles, and more drooling emoji

Thunderous bangs against his apartment’s front door rouse Toji from comatose. He wakes with a sharp inhale, eyes screwing shut because the sunlight that flooded through the bars of his dusty blinds singed his retinas. There’s a beat of silence, one that makes Toji believe his guest has walked off, and he cuddles back into the sofa with solid intentions of returning to dream state, however those plans go up in flames when more aggressive knocking chimes. The man groans, fingers clawing into the scrappy throw pillow his face is currently buried into. 

“Fuck off!” Toji growls. His voice is muffled and crackling with excess exhaustion. He is so not in the mood for company right now. 

“Fushiguro cut the shit, I’m not playing with you today.” Ugh, that voice. “Open the damn door, don’t make me bust it down.”

More pounding, and the rusty hinges creak from the pressure of it. Given no other choice, Toji peels himself off his crappy little couch and sits for a moment, dragging a heavy hand down his face. There’s a half empty can of Coke perched on the coffee table, amongst a plethora of other trash, and Toji snags it. It’s lost carbonation, totally flat and lukewarm, but it satiates his thirst good enough. 

The knob twists, clinking against the lock impatiently. “Untwist your panties, I’m comin’,” He barks before muttering Jesus Christ under breath. It’s no surprise to see Shiu Kong when he draws open his door, standing erect with his arms crossed in irritation. Toji scowls, “what do you want?”

Shiu knocks shoulders to his when he grants himself entrance, much to Toji’s chagrin. “So you are alive?”

“Still kickin’, yeah.”

Shiu stands in the middle of the living room, flitting over the unkempt scene. It’s a mess, littered with crushed cans and hollowed take-out boxes and dirty laundry. Heavy glass bottles lined the floor near the sofa, some filled halfway with translucent, amberish liquid, some bone dry. “I see you been busy,” the man inquired, sarcastic as all Hell. 

Toji sighs. “Yep.”

“You should crack a window or something, man. It reeks like the inside of a flask in here.”

“I’ll do that,” no he won’t, “what do you want?”

Shiu scoffs at his gall, but Toji wants him out of his place as soon as possible. He knows why his handler has come to visit, it’s most likely a work thing. Fuck work. Fuck Shiu for barging in and interrupting his afternoon nap. Fuck his apartment for being embarrassingly filthy. 

“You’ve been ducking my calls. I don’t appreciate that.”

“Y’know, most people would take that as a sign to fuck off.”

“I’m not most people, though, am I?” He takes a seat on the couch. Toji doesn’t follow suit, choosing to stay leaned against the wall. “I’m technically your superior.”

“You think that title means jack to me?”

Shiu ignores the attitude; he’s used to taking shit from Toji for the better part of a decade now. “It should.” Silence cuts in, and he leans down to pluck one of the thick bottles off the floor by its neck. Liquor sloshes around in the constraint of glass, and Shiu holds it up to the light and skims the label. “This is cheap shit.”

Yeah, it was stupid cheap. Toji swiped it off the clearance rack at the gas station around the corner from his complex. They started tagging the alcohol, made it more difficult to steal, so he exclusively bought the least expensive liquor he could find. “Don’t gotta be smooth. Don’t gotta be much of anything, s’long as it fucks me up.” He didn’t drink rum on a Thursday at 3:42 pm for the taste. 

Shiu hums, looking oddly unnerved. Still holding the bottle, he jerks it up in a slight gesture. “What’s the occasion?” Followed by an awkward chuckle. Toji itches the base of his scalp, pushing down his bed hair. 

“Dunno.”

He was just sort of… regressing. Backsliding into the open arms of his beloved vices. Day drinking again, sloshing himself into liquor-induced unconsciousness that puts him to sleep for days. He starts hitting the casinos more frequently, tapping into poker games and betting away money he doesn’t have because the adrenaline of it all is orgasmic. Drugs have weaved themselves back into Toji’s routine as well; he’s been snorting the pricey shit that gets him numb in the face and leaves that nasty taste dripping in the back of his throat. Shit he hasn’t fucked with since his wife’s death. 

Well, he supposes he’s always been like this. Clinging onto some sort of substance to distract himself from the pain of being alive in a Zenin’s body, no matter how damaging or problematic it may be. His childhood looms over him, even as a grown man, and it’s so terribly pathetic to still be hung up on shit that happened over two decades ago. But he apologetically is. Toji is a pathetic, woeful piece of shit who is forever haunted by memories. 

Distractions. They weren’t always mutilating. Not all of them tore apart his body and soul. Sometimes, they were beautiful. 

His tongue twitches in his mouth, aching to curl around a cigarette. 

Shiu huffs, setting the bottle back down near his feet. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” Toji nods curtly, licking at his dry lips. “I’m straight.”

“Right,” his handler responds slowly, entirely unconvinced. “You’ve been skimping out on your assignments. It’s fucking me over, Fushiguro.”

Toji hasn’t taken up a job in nearly three months. Not since the night he left your place and walked home in the pouring rain. It was funny—he hadn’t thought it was a bluff when you threatened to call the police. No, Toji expected his apartment complex to be swarmed with officers when he returned but… nothing besides crickets. That night was seared into his frontal lobe, every motion engraved and vivid behind his eyes. Still soaked to the bone, he melted into the couch and stared up at his water-damaged ceiling for hours before slumber pulled him into its embrace. 

Toji hasn’t slept in his bed since. 

“Oh, so that’s why you came to visit. Boss is cuttin’ your pay with me gone.” Toji smiles bitterly, then juts his lower lip out in a mock pout. “Aww, that must be so hard for you, I’m sorry. You can cry about it on the ride home in your fucking Bentley.”

“Hey asshole, this isn’t just a me thing. Your slacking affects both our paychecks.” Shiu rakes a hand through his gelled do, and Toji is acutely aware of the luxury watch glinting on his wrist. “I mean, shit, where have you even been getting your cash from lately? How have you been keepin’ the lights on in this shithole?”

That last question is a mystery to Toji, as well. Truth is, he hasn’t put a penny towards rent since he came back. Eviction was inevitable, he’d ride out the days he had left and then figure out what to do when he received his week’s notice. Only that pink slip of paper never appeared taped to his door. Surely, you weren’t still covering it… Not with the way you and him ended terms so roughly… But what the fuck else could it be? Toji wanted to ask you about it; wanted to use this entire situation as an excuse to contact you, but he couldn’t muster up the courage and resolve. Talking to you again sounded so fucking sweet, but so, so fucking painful. 

Toji didn’t answer, and Shiu grimaced at his quietness. On the couch, Shiu shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward to rest his elbows over his thighs. “You’re not,” he struggles for a moment to find the words, squinted eyes drilling holes into Toji’s. “Tell me you ain’t whoring again.”

Sex was Toji’s grimiest form of escapism. He started fucking other people again. 

Mostly women, with a few men sprinkled in between. Gender was irrelevant; genitalia didn’t matter much to him in the grand scheme of things, Toji only fucked casually for the sensation of a warm body to hold onto. Vying for satisfaction with a partner, competing for release; it became a damn near nightly procedure at this point. Scouring bars in the dark hours for any willing participant, then fucking one out in the filth of the public restroom. His sweaty back against the stall, or him seated on the lid of a toilet. It was gross, he was gross. 

Again, Toji is silent, and it speaks volumes. “God, man.” Shiu holds his face, pinching his brow bone, maneuvering the muscles in his jaw. He doesn’t sound angry or annoyed, just disappointed, and it makes Toji feel unnaturally immature; like he were a child again, getting a scolding from the family’s housekeeper for accidentally knocking the vase at the center of his dining table over and shattering it on the ground. “That’s—you can’t be doing this again.”

“Yeah well I don’t exactly got the resume for a nine to five, now do I?” He was forever tainted by his past. No employer in the country would hire a man with four jail sentences, drug misdemeanors, battery charges, no education, no work experience… the list of Toji’s fuck ups could fill a dictionary front to back. 

“You cannot go back to that.” Shiu looks pale in the face. I’m making him sick to his stomach. 

“Money is money. Don’t hear you whining when you got me playing assassin for you, but God forbid I suck a coupla’ cocks for cash.” Toji pushes off the wall and stalks towards the tiny kitchenette on the far side of this cramped living space; this conversation is irritating him, he needs something to quell his cotton mouth. “Fix your morals, then we can talk.”

Shiu’s argument was mind numbingly idiotic. Comparing slaughter to sex for money, the absurdity nearly made Toji burst out laughing. Sex never killed anyone. 

He’s rooting around in the fridge. It’s practically bare, housing nothing more than a few take out boxes and some lager, but that’s alright. Toji tears a can of beer from the plastic six-pack ring, and when he pops out from the refrigerator, Shiu stands there with his hip against the small counter. “You’re self-destructing.”

The can cracks open. Beer carbonation pops and hisses. “Am I?” Toji sniggers, tossing back a swig. Shiu’s eyes flit to the beverage, nose wrinkling. Toji catches on and nods to the kitchen sink. It’s full of dirty dishes. “Faucet’s fucked. Water’s full of lead. This is the only drink in the house and I’m thirsty, so hop off.”

“You’re self-destructing,” Shiu repeats once more, not matching Toji’s humorous lilt. “I’m serious, Fushiguro. You’re off.”

“What do you want me to say to that besides fuck you?”

It grows quiet again. The air is warm and thick and rife with apprehension; it presses on Toji’s chest like a sleeping cat. “So what?” Finally, Shiu speaks. “That’s it?”

He shakes his head contentedly. “That’s it.”

“You understand this is going to be Hell for me from now on. You’re the best hired gun on my roster, the boss is gonna have my ass if you quit.” 

Toji takes a long sip of beer. “You’re tough. You can handle it.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Shiu breathes, but there’s no real malice behind his words. “If you’re really serious about quitting, then fine. Fucking fine, I’ll—” He groans, massaging his temple, “I’ll handle it. But I’m telling you, this is the best it gets for guys like us.”

The best it gets is killing men. Leaving wives widowed, leaving kids fatherless. “Can’t be.” Toji feels nauseous at the thought. “There’s gotta be more.” There has to be. It’s the only affirmation that stops him from knocking back the whole bottle of vicodin in his bathroom medicine cabinet and calling it a night. 

“This is how the world works. This is us being punished for being shitty people.” 

Toji doesn’t have anything to say to that. He refuses to acknowledge it. 

Shiu rubs at his nape, pushing off the counter. “Look, I only dropped by to get on your ass for playing hooky, wasn’t exactly expecting… all of this. But, uh,” despite their expansive acquaintanceship with one another, they never really got a hang of the whole sentimental bit. Shiu tries for a moment, mouth opening and closing a few times as the words die on his tongue, before finally settling on a long exhale through the nostrils. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks, squaring his shoulders. “Just stay safe, would ya?”

Toji salutes lazily. “Aye aye.”

Shiu ducks his head in a wide nod. “Good, good. And uh, you got my number. So use it if you need to.”

Toji can tell that Shiu is trying to dole out formalities in the most unconventional way possible, so he helps him out by chuckling. “Get the fuck outta my house already.” Then, he drains the last few ounces from his can before crushing the aluminum in his fist, tossing the litter carelessly to the floor. He’ll get it later. Or not. Probably not. 

“Yeah, okay.”

The hotel room is pitch black, not even the moonlight reaches through the window. Toji stumbles through the door first, dragging another person in by the waist. He kicks it shut with the heel of his boot. A woman—mid 20’s, pretty, about two heads shorter than Toji so he’s forced to crane his neck uncomfortably low when they kiss. Some random he found off an anonymous hookup app he downloaded, a consenting body three miles away for him to use. They coordinated a time and place—midnight at this shitty motel—which brings us to the present. 

“Wait—” She struggles to speak in between wet kisses, patting Toji's bicep. “Wh—get the lights.”

He shakes his head. “Leave them off.”

Humidity stickied the air, clinging to his skin alongside sweat. He was coming down from something—some upper he popped hours prior to this—and because of that, a thin tremble rattled in his bones gliding through marrow. It’s so hot. He’s hot everywhere. It almost hurts, the heat.  

She doesn’t put up much of an argument and takes his bruteness like a champ. Let’s him hoist her up and jerk her onto the stiff motel mattress, its blankets coughing a plume of dust into the atmosphere when their weights fell upon it. The scratchy comforter reeked of mildew and clawed back at the jagged callouses sitting in the divots of Toji’s weathered fingers when he grabbed handfuls of bedding. 

He finds himself drafting comparisons in the moment, as he often did. Comparing his present to a better time; when he wasn’t slutting himself out to strangers for a fix of warmth or money, in this case the former. Your bed—God, no not tonight, he shouldn’t be devoting another night to you—smelled of a sweet concoction; your perfume, your laundry detergent, your shampoo, just you. There was no catching or pulling at his marred hands when he clawed at your bedsheets, no, the satin was gentle on his most rough parts. 

“How do you want me?”

Toji blinked in succession, snapping back to cold reality. It was easy to lose himself in his delusions, muddying the lines between his dreamscape and actuality. Maybe the liquor finally seeped into his brain and this was neurosis’s way of knocking at the door. What a hilarious thing to think about. Toji slips a hand beneath her back and maneuvers the smaller body himself. 

“Hands and knees.” He doesn’t want to look at her face.

Neither of them had even bothered to undress—this truly lacked all semblance of intimacy. Hands reach behind herself to inch suffocating denim down past the shelf of her ass, Toji thumbs down his own waistband just past the half-mast erection he sported. Everything felt robotic, it was a wonder he could even get hard in such a lifeless domain. 

“You brought a con—” 

“Yes,” he responds pointedly, eager for the talking to cease. He didn’t care to hear the whispers of a strange woman asking about whether or not he had protection on him. Of course, he had one. It goes quiet again. In the dark, dank air Toji kneels behind a wet, willing hole and yet all he can think of is you when he stroked himself to total hardness. 

“Are you kidding me?” You gawked at him, disbelief evident in the obtuse look you gave him. He was splayed out on your kitchen tiles, ducked back beneath the sink, working at the drain pipe with a rubber-gripped wrench. His ass ached from sitting on hard floors for too long, back groaned under the pressure of being bent backwards, neck stiff and knotted thanks to the awkward tilt he was forced to wear, but seeing the awe scribbled on your face made the pain dull. “I had two handymen take a look, neither of them could find the issue. But you just knew exactly what to do.”

He had to laugh at the ridiculousness. “You’ve just got yourself a fucked supply line. Ain’t rocket science, I’ll get you right.” Toji slips out from the cupboard, looking up from the floor through pin straight bangs. Scratching a brow with his thumb nail, “you hired a couple of idiots.”

You retort in a groan, unable to thrum up a defense. “I’m the real idiot, I suppose. You think they were just trying to scam me or what?”

“Probably.” Back under the sink he goes, wedging the wrench around the circumference of the pipe. Toji’s forearm tenses with each crank of the tool, and he doesn’t stop until the bolt is fastened as tight as his strength can manage. “Doesn’t matter. I’m here.”

Though he can’t see your face at the moment, Toji hears your sheepish smile wrapping around each word. “My hero.” The sarcasm was eminent, tongue-in-cheek and you nudged his foot with your own. He kicks you back, heel to your bony ankle. “Hey!” You’re laughing now. 

“Don’t get smart.” The drain pipe is secure, and he’s satisfied with his labor. Toji pulls himself to his feet, flicking the stainless steel lever on the sink’s tap with a knuckle. Crystal clear water flows out evenly from the faucet, collecting in a puddle at the basin, swirling down the drain. “Watch, look,” Toji points with his toe to the pipe under the cabinet, and he can’t quell the lofty smirk that tugs at scarred lips when there is no leakage. A successful repair; you look astonished for lack of a better word, and it gives the man a strange swell of pride hanging in his belly. 

He did that. He was useful to you in a way he hadn’t been useful to anyone in a long while. He didn’t have to kill, didn’t have to fuck; fixing a leaky kitchen sink seemed beyond good enough for you. Foolish.

“I’m impressed.” You turn to him. “Thank you, Toji.”

You blathered on some more, speaking such things of how generous you planned on being in return. Something about money in exchange for the service, but Toji wasn’t really listening past your declaration of gratitude. It was just straightforward plumbing work of the most basic level, and yet you thanked him like he hung the stars in the sky.

“Sure. It was no problem.” And he smiled back. 

That did it. He’s stiff, cock cradled in his fist with nothing less than a bruising grip. The condom was pre-lubricated and slick with odorless oil. Toji went through the practiced motions—hooking the ringed entrance over himself, pinching the tip of the condom, rolling it down to sheath every inch. 

“Oh,” she gasped, lurching forward at the feeling of Toji’s head sliding up and down between her legs. Between her folds. She’s wet for him. Hips whined back into his groin with avidity. “Put it in.”

He slaps her with an open palm, connecting with an asscheek. She moans again and reaches back to paw at Toji’s navel with blunt nails. Free from any of that fancy acrylic stuff. 

This time around was torturously similar to every other fuck he’s had in recent date. Everything is fast-paced and unforgiving, leaving not much room for anything else. Toji fucks to forget. He fucks to remember, too. 

“Y/n,” he groans shamelessly. There’s a muffled reply, but it’s murky and muffled and unable to be understood because Toji had taken the humble liberty of holding his conquest’s face into the flat, fluffless pillow. He doesn’t care for a response, to be corrected or called a piece of shit for being so inconsiderate as to not remember her name. It was Mandy, he wants to say. Maybe Maddy? Who gives a fuck. 

“That’s rude, you know.”

Toji pouts theatrically, forcing his bottom lip out in a way that has you playfully rolling your eyes. In his hand, a bundled ball of blanket that he’d stolen from you and hoarded to his side of the sofa. “Aww, I’m sorry.”

You sigh, throwing him a scathing glance. “No, you’re not.”

Movie night, or so you said. Sitting in the lonesome of your quiet penthouse just the two of you, watching some new finance documentary that just dropped on Netflix. It sounded absurdly boring to Toji, but you’d been keen on hyping it up all week long, offering him an invitation to view it together. Really, Toji couldn’t give a shit about a bunch of old guys talking crypto-bullshit for two hours straight—but it’s not like that’s what was really going to happen anyway. Toji had convinced himself this was all a ploy to snake your way into his pants at last. Naturally, he accepted your invitation. 

“Just gonna have to sit closer then,” Toji posed gruffly, eyeing down the gap between your bodies on the couch. Sitting at opposite ends like a couple of children who still believed cooties was a prevalent issue. He nods toward you,“come on.”

“You’re terrible.” Despite that, you scoot closer, invading his bubble of personal space and snatching your half of the blanket back. Focused on the Netflix explore page, tongue poked out between two rows of teeth as you enter the title of the documentary into the search bar, you miss the way Toji observes you. Watching. Waiting. 

And waiting. 

And waiting. 

For what? Who knows. Maybe Toji prepares himself  for the inevitable moment when you slip a hand beneath the blanket and drift over to his thigh. Ready for that familiar squeeze at his crotch, the same tango so many other curious hands have danced in the past. But he’d let you proceed without any qualms. He’d encourage you. 

“You’re bored, huh?” You chuckled halfheartedly midway through the film, pressing pause. Bored didn’t even begin to describe his pure disinterest. 

Toji shrugs. “Maybe.” His arm rests on the back ledge of the couch, not quite around you, but so close that it might as well be. He shifts, touches his right thigh to your left one, and tilts his chin down. “Listening to a bunch of rich fucks whine about the stock market doesn’t exactly captivate me.”

Frowning, “that’s only surface level. The audience is supposed to infer—” Fake snoring cuts you off. Toji rolls his eyes shut, hanging his jaw to fake the most obnoxious slumber. His head lolls onto your shoulder. You don’t shy away from the physical contact. “You’re not funny.” He begs to differ, what with the way nasally snorts crack from your sinuses. The shoulder he presses his cheek to stutters with stifled dissipation.

“Stop movin’.” Toji nuzzles closer, facetiously dumping body weight against you if not for anything other than to hear the struggle squeeze at your throat when you wrestle to keep upright. “I’m comfy like this.”

“You’re never this affectionate.” 

He’s not usually. But Toji’s hellbent on his premonitions. You want him. Everyone wants him. It’s been months of banter, months of getting spoiled by financial stability. You give him everything. You take nothing. His nose caresses the junction where shoulder and neck meet. Why won’t you just let him fucking give you something? You swallow hard. “Toji.”

“I constantly feel like I owe you. Like I got dues to pay.”

“Do I… make you feel that way?”

“All the fucking time.” It swelters beneath the blanket you share, and sweat starts to collect at the creases behind Toji’s knees. Bathing in the shared body heat, letting the convection hug his hips. He sighs, backtracking. “I know you got good intentions, ‘s what you keep telling me. And I like it, the way you reassure me. It’s… reassuring.” He titters into your neck, blinking slowly. 

“Then why do you keep doing this?” A ginger hand graces the rear of his skull, not forcing him closer, but not tugging him away either. It just sits there, scritching as calm as your voice. 

“Don’t know.”

This wasn’t the first time Toji succumbed to that shrill, little whisper in his head, the one that told him to spontaneously initiate closeness. It feels like common knowledge by now; to reciprocate in kind to any form of benevolence like a trained dog, because that was the expectation of him. To get on his knees and worship until bruises hammered into his joints and the hinges of his jaw grew sore from overuse. This transaction is familiar. It brings him a twisted sense of comfort, and you ripped it away. For better or for worse, Toji had yet to conclude.

“It’s like muscle memory.” That was the best way to describe it. Toji ached to give you the pleasure that felt long overdue in this affair. To offer some sort of repayment in the only way he knew how. Lips ghost over porcelain flesh—he’s never been so tempted in his life. Sex had always been the most exhausting and emotionally depleting aspect when he dealt with these kinds of unconventional financial relationships, but now as he unfurls his candied tongue and laves a stretch from collar to jawline, Toji has never wanted to be inside of someone more. Deft fingers were quick to pull him back by the scruff.

You studied Toji with unreadable eyes. He stares back, wiping excess saliva from his fatty lower lip with a thumb. 

“I don’t want this for us,” you speak up finally, meandering eyes roaming around his facial features. You look at his lips, then his nose, then between his eyes. “Are you listening? I’ll write it on my fucking forehead if that’s what it takes for you to understand.”

“What if I want it?” Toji breathes.

You’re shaking your head. “You don’t.”

Who the fuck are you to decide what he does or doesn’t want? And how fucking dare you be right about it. Because in all this build up—the panting, the heat, the licking—Toji hadn’t so much as twitched down there. It’s like his mind and body were completely detached, separate entities trying to cohesively navigate through an avalanche of generational trauma. Trying and failing miserably. He palms himself to confirm his limp appendage. 

“Fuck.” A bucket of ice water dumped over his head, washing away the illusion of lust and leaving behind reality in its wake. What the fuck am I doing? “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” Toji doesn’t really understand what you’re apologizing for. You’ve got no need to feel sorry when he was the one who threw himself at you so abruptly. But he doesn’t ask, either. It felt eerily nice to be on the receiving end of an ‘I’m sorry.’ 

You still hold his nape. The film is long forgotten at this point, set on the backburner, and dimmed with the Are you still watching? notification blanketing the screen. 

“Your movie.” Toji cocks his head, beckoning towards the gigantic television pinned to the wall all without tearing his eyes from yours. “Press play.”

This has the beginnings of a coy smirk straining your lips. “I thought it was boring you?”

He shrugs. “It’s not so bad.”

And so you resumed the documentary, if not for anything other than to dissolve the serious tension that palpated in the air. You didn’t force Toji to explain himself, you didn’t hound him for answers about his hypersexuality. You didn’t distance yourself, you didn’t act appalled when his thigh brushed yours again. You didn’t pity him, you didn’t treat him like a child. But you did stroke his neck. You continued to laugh with him. You let him fall asleep on you that night and didn’t wake him ‘till morning. 

You let him trust.

His orgasm doesn’t have any anticipation. It crashes down on him all at once, splitting down the notches of his spine and sending bouts of electricity zapping down to his curled toes, still encased in thick, mud soaked boots. She cries below, contorting in the direction of the pleasure, but Toji holds her down while he fills the rubber.

It’s unsatisfying. 

“Oh my fuck—” The woman pants on her come down, trembling around him. She clearly enjoyed herself, giggling stupidly into the pillow now sopping with drool and tears. Toji pulls out with little grace, sneering at the viscous mess of bodily fluids slicking up his navel. Proficient fingers work the sticky condom off, tying the end in a balloon knot.

It’s gross.

He folds, dropping onto the bed beside her. Sweat glues bangs to his forehead. His chest rises, then falls, then rises again with exertion. Sleep threatens to rear itself, weighing down his eyelids.

It’s tiring.

The body beside him stirs, rolling on her side. “How was it?”

“Good,” he lies through his teeth for the sake of sparing feelings. She smiles, feeling over his chest. 

“It was good for me, too,” she tells him like he asked. “Really good. Oh, also my name’s Maria by the way, not Y/n.” Maria chuckles like it was just a silly mix up. 

She drags him into mindless, post-sex banter. Rambling on about workplace drama, about her two pet cats and about her shity landlord. Mindless rattling that falls on Toji’s deaf ears; he’s disassociated, lying face-up on the terribly hard bed, fixated on the grime weighing down his lap. When an opening arises, Toji hauls himself up and claims the shower.

An intense wave of queasiness materializes in the centerpoint of Toji’s stomach when he closes himself in behind the bathroom door. The aftermath always felt this awful—bitter and lonely and degrading. Toji takes a moment to just be, perching on the lid of the toilet with his head in his hands, swallowing down sickness lest he subject Maria to a concert of his disgusting gags if he retches into the bowl. 

When Toji stands to fiddle with the shower handle, he becomes hyper aware of the weight in his sweatpants. There’s an awkward sag in the fabric, bunching around the object that sits heavy in his front pocket. His cellphone—he never bothered to remove it. Giving a sniffle to the air, Toji fishes out the device and taps the screen with little interest.

Oh.

He looks away. Looks at the sink, then the wall, then the glass door of the shower cubicle. Then back at his screen. Back at the very real notification that sits there idly, begging to be clicked.

Toji’s heart races at a perilous speed, something lethal for an old man like himself. He can feel the beat rumble his insides, blending everything up like a bloody smoothie. 

Yielding, he clicks.

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