#BUT I MEAN HOW COULD I NOT EXPLOIT THE CHANCE

[meimi-haneoka]

I'm going to reply to the asks in the next days, promise! Today it was full day of shitposting for Kaito's birthday and some stuff I had to do for my CCS italian FB page 😂

By the way, I posted it on twitter and saw it had good reactions, so I'm just going to leave this here and slowly walk away.........(Those who have read the special chapter will understand)

[kohakuhibiki]

Ok but why do people think they can talk to me in an aggressive tone, but if I return the same energy then it's big no no.

[friendshiptothemax]

I was on a plane this weekend, and I was chatting with the woman sitting next to me about an upcoming writer’s strike. “Do you really think you’re mistreated?” she asked me.

That’s not the issue at stake here. Let me tell you a little something about “minirooms.”

Minirooms are a way of television writing that is becoming more common. Basically, the studio will hire a small group of writers, 3-6 or so, and employ them for just a few weeks. In those few weeks (six weeks seem to be common), they have to hurriedly figure out as much about the show as they can -- characters, plots, outlines for episodes. Then at the end of the six weeks, all the writers are fired except for the showrunner, who has to write the entire series themselves based on the outlines.

This is not a widespread practice, but it has become more common over the past couple of years. Studios like it because instead of paying for a full room for the full length of the show, they just pay a handful of writers for a fraction of the show. It’s not a huge problem now, but the WGA only gets the chance to make rules every three years -- if we let this go for another three years and it becomes the norm? That would be DEVASTATING for the tv writing profession.

Do I feel like I’m mistreated? No. I LOVE my job! But in a world of minirooms, there is no place for someone like me -- a mid-level writer who makes a decent living working on someone else’s show (I’d like to be a showrunner someday, but for now I feel like I still have a lot to learn, and my husband and I are trying to start a family so I like not being support rather than the leader for now). In a miniroom, there are only two levels -- the handful of glorified idea people who are already scrambling to find their next show because you can’t make a decent living off of one six-week job (and since there are fewer people per room, there are fewer jobs overall, even at the six-week amount), and the overworked, stressed as fuck showrunner who is going to have to write the entire thing themselves. Besides being bad for me making a living, I also just think it’s plain bad for television as an art form -- what I like about TV is how adaptable it is, how a whole group of people come together to tell a story better than what any of them could do on their own. Plus the showrunner can’t do their best work under all of that pressure, episode after episode, back to back. Minirooms just...fucking suck.

The WGA is proposing two things to fix this -- a rule that writers have to be employed for the entire show, and a rule tying the number of writers in the room to the number of episodes you have per season. I don’t think it’s unreasonable. It’s the way shows have run since the advent of television. It’s only in the last couple of years that this has become a new thing. It’s exploitative. It squeezes out everyone except showrunners and people who have the financial means to work only a few months a year. It makes television worse. And that is the issue in this strike that means everything to me, and that is why I voted yes on the strike authorization vote.

[euthymiya]

it always ends with i love you ft. wriothesley — in which you, a small floral shop owner, meet the duke of meropide by a chance encounter—and then you meet a bunch more too…but not so much by chance anymore

contains: 20.3k work count (please give it a chance i put my soul into it) ; female reader ; mature content—not suitable for minors ; strangers to friends to lovers ; flower shop au + florist reader ; reader has a small backstory regarding her dead father ; use of canon flowers and and lore, meaning i did my best so please be gentle on me with my botany facts ; heavy spoilers for wriothesley’s story quest and backstory, explores themes such as murder and hints at child exploitation and trafficking—all pertaining to his adopted home life ; slight oc’s because i gave a few of his adopted siblings names ; a fun neuvillette and clorinde appearance! ; a not so fun childe appearance + jealousy ; a short argument ; love confessions and getting together ; wriothesley is scared of love (anyone who had to kill their parents should be tbh) ; reader sits on his lap/lays on him ; there’s sex in every scene lol i got carried away—includes vaginal fingering ; cunnilingus ; nipple play ; hand + blow jobs ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie

the first time you meet wriothesley is by accident.

he doesn’t exactly come up to the surface regularly—he sees the sun frequently enough to remember what sunlight feels like if he tries to recall, but not enough that most people of fontaine would know he’s the duke of meropide just by looking at him.

he likes it that way. the duke is no small title, and he’d prefer the trip through the streets of the court without being stopped for idle chit-chat.

he doesn’t intend on stopping on his way to the palais, but you’re a bit of a unique circumstance.

he hears the smashing sound of something breaking before the scream, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the noise. nothing could have prepared him for a flower shop to be the source of such chaos—what could be chaotic about selling petals on a stem?

except you’re clumsily chasing after a man as he stumbles past your door, knocking over the potted plants on display in the process as you follow him.

the look of distress on your face as the pot falls and shatters compels him to investigate the scene. (of course, there’s a note of distress on your face before the pot falls, but the way it deepens when it does is almost criminal. your face is too lovely to have such creases in your forehead, even if he won’t admit as much out loud).

“stop! please,” you call, “you haven’t paid for those!”

thievery. wriothesley knows a thing or two about pocketing things that don’t belong to him.

first, it’s because he spends a portion of his life on the streets, surviving more than living. those moments reduce him down to a simple pocket thief at times. (he had standards for his crimes: never too much and only enough to survive for a bit. always from someone who dresses expensively and looks like they’re comfortable enough not to feel the damage to their wallets. and, of course, never from women).

second, it’s because people, on the streets or in the fortress, love to steal from those who are weak and vulnerable. people who are sleeping are of that classification of individuals, so wriothesley learns how to keep his things hidden and how to be a light sleeper. he’s never had too many things that are precious to him, of course, but he owns little enough that he’d notice his losses harshly should they come.

he hates thievery. partly because it reminds him of his past and the darkness that taints it, but mostly because it always involves someone innocent who doesn’t deserve to lose. not even a little.

his feet carry him over to the scene before he can stop himself—not that he would stop himself even if he did have control over his body, but it’s just that this particular circumstance seems to have him in some sort of trance. one that won’t allow him to look away from your face.

“please,” you follow the man past your shop’s door, “those are the last of my glaze lilies—i promised them in an order!”

the man running doesn’t seem to care about your pleas, snickering as he turns to give you an amused look, as if your distress is entertaining. he doesn’t make it far, though, before he bumps into a muscled chest.

“what the—”

wriothesley cuts him off, raising a brow. “i do believe the lovely lady here has asked for her flowers back. or did you miss that part?”

“and just who do you think you are, mister?” the man barks, glaring wriothesley up and down. (it’s a bit funny, considering he’s much shorter, so it takes a tad bit of effort on his part to give wriothesley the menacing once over it’s meant to be). “i don’t remember asking you what she asked.”

“oh me?” wriothesley cracks his knuckles casually, shrugging as he says, “duke of meropide at your service. i must say, i’m not very popular around here—not a lot of people know me, it seems.”

your jaw drops. the man’s face pales—which is a nice confirmation, at least, that he does have some sort of a brain.

“w-what? and just why would i believe that? you expect me to think the fortress’s duke is just prancing around the streets as if he hasn’t got duties? as if!”

wriothesley’s lips quirk up at the edges as he hums, fishing through the pocket of his shirt before he pulls out an envelope, sealed with the stamp of the iudex himself. there’s writing on it in clear letters, bold and italicized, as if just to mock the man.

to: duke wriothesley

from: iudex neuvillette

“that clear things up for you?” wriothesley asks, traces of a cheeky glint in his eyes as he raises a brow.

instantly, the man is clasping his hands, head bowing as a string of incoherent apologies flows past his shaky lips. “i-i’m sorry! i’ve never done anything like this before, you can check! my records are clean! i-it was a moment of weakness, but it won’t happen again, sir. p-please don’t take me to monsieur neuvillette. or court. or—”

“your first thieving gig, and you picked flowers?” wriothesley snorts, “i almost don’t want to bring you to court just save myself from the embarrassment.”

the man flushes, bashfully shrinking as he mumbles, “w-well i just…i just wanted to get flowers for my girlfriend for our anniversary and these…th-they’re her favorite you know? b-but they’re hard to come by since liyue is so far and…and the lady wouldn’t sell them to me so…you know…i uh…” the man trails off, wilting as wriothesley’s stares down, unimpressed. “i promised her i’d get them,” he adds, as if it’ll help.

“what a tragic sob story you got there,” wriothesley deadpans. “your girlfriend must love your honesty.”

“if i may interrupt,” you call from behind, making both men glance over to where you stand some distance away.

wriothesley forgot you were there, truthfully. but now that he’s taking in your appearance up closer, he can’t help but appreciate it. your features complement each other well—like an assortment of carefully arranged flowers, hand-picked one by one by celestia themselves.

“hello miss,” he nods, raising a hand to half-wave at you, “don’t worry, i’ll get this man out of your hair in a moment with your flowers too. just give me a sec—”

“no,” you say softly, “no it’s okay. he can keep some of them…i’m sure i can make do with a shorter hand than usual.”

he blinks. you couldn’t have possibly offered to let your thief keep his earnings at your expense, could you? he can’t decide if you're just that naive, just that foolish, or truly just that kind.

maybe all three, if he’s being honest.

“uh…are you sure?” he tilts his head in disbelief, “you want to let him keep the flowers?”

“partially,” you confirm, “it’s alright. everyone deserves flowers on their anniversary. especially their favorite.”

wriothesley decides you’re just that kind—and in some ways, it’s worse than being a bit on the naive side. at least you can sharpen yourself to become untrusting and skeptical if naivety gets you in trouble. kindness is as easy to take advantage of as it is to take for granted, and it’s not just something people like you can turn off like a switch.

“oh, thank you!” the man exclaims as soon as the words come out of your mouth, not wasting a second to grin at you as he says, “you’re really so kind! if you’d just tell the duke here that it was all a misunderstanding and that you’d like to drop all charges, then i’ll be on my way with partial the flowers—”

“make no mistake,” your hands find your hips as your face hardens with a certain strictness even he’s a bit startled by, “if you should come here and cause trouble again, i have the duke’s word to press double the charges next time. i would tread carefully if i were you—don’t ever let me catch you stealing from me again.”

wriothesley stares at you and gapes. he’s sorely mistaken about you—kindness is not the absence of your spitefulness, and the man shrinks back as you stare down at him expectantly.

“o-of course,” he says quickly, “it won’t happen again.”

“good,” you nod, “that’ll be five hundred mora, please.”

“b-but—”

“is there a problem?” you raise a menacing brow, making the man scramble to shake his head. 

“wow,” wriothesley snorts as the man scampers off after fishing enough mora from his pockets, “i suppose i underestimated your ability to handle the situation, miss.”

“i think i owe a good portion of my success to you, your grace,” you bow your head slightly, unable to meet his eyes as you nervously chuckle, “i don’t usually have robberies. the people in this area are familiar with me. they’re quite kind—i’ve never had someone as stubborn as him.”

“well, rest assured, if he bothers you again, you can come to find me for my word at court.”

“i’ll hold onto the offer,” you grin.

that chance meeting becomes history after a while. he comes and pays you a visit every time he’s at the surface, which isn’t all too often, but often enough that you start to look forward to at least one routine visit per month. sometimes, he teases you about whether or not you’ve had new thieves pay you a visit. other times, you make use of his strong hands and built muscles and cheekily order him around to move heavy bags of fertilizer around. 

he likes tea, you learn—he takes a very piqued interest in the jars of dried petals you keep on shelves, ones you tell him are good for making blends for tea, or to boil with water for natural remedies, or to make syrups for beverages like lemonade. it’s a slow, steady, blossoming friendship until, all at once, you feel incomplete without the routine visit from the fortress’s warden. you’re too reliant on the familiarity of explaining flowers, their origins, what stories they share, and what they mean—and likewise, you feel incomplete without his stories from the fortress, what the inmates are up to, and what changes he’s developing to make things better for the people under his wing. 

you like to think he feels the same way; otherwise, he wouldn’t come around as much as he does. 

sometimes he walks you home, and sometimes you invite him for tea. you drink coffee, but you don’t mind the trouble of brewing two beverages if it means some extra time with him in your cozy little home.

like today, where he sits comfortably at your dining table while you cut fresh bulle fruit as tea steeps in the hot water. he watches you with fond eyes, listening as you ramble intently about your recent endeavors at your flower shop.

“—and i think i’ve finally managed to grow a cactus from sumeru long enough to bloom my own henna berries,” you grin, looking at him brightly, pride settling into the crinkles of your eyes, “it did take some trial and error—fontaine rains far too often for cacti to survive, but this one i managed to grow indoors.”

“couldn’t you just get the berries delivered from sumeru? since you have plenty delivered from there already,” he asks in amusement. you huff, rolling your eyes as you walk over, setting the platter of fruit down before him. 

“of course, you’d want to take such a simple route—but plants are far more rewarding when you grow them yourself, you know. plus, every fruit i’ve managed to grow on my own here in fontaine has had a bit of a unique flavor as opposed to ones grown from their original nation. i’d like to see if that’s the case with these berries, too.”

“well, if that’s the case,” he hums, taking a slow sip from the tea you’ve brewed for him—it’s perfectly made to his liking, with two sugar cubes and piping hot just as you’ve learned he prefers. he closes his eyes and lets out a content sigh as the warmth trickles down his throat. “let me try one when they’re ready.”

“of course,” you brighten excitedly, as though the prospect of someone to share such a moment with is one you look forward to. there’s something that tickles in his chest, right beneath his ribcage, at the sight of your wide grin.

you chatter until the sun sets, warm, honeyed rays of orange and pink pouring through your windows and painting his skin vibrant hues. it’s about time for him to leave—you can tell even before he clears his throat and stands, grabbing the plate and mug and heading to the sink.

“i should go,” he says kindly, washing the dishes with so much familiarity that it almost feels domestic and natural to have him here. you shake the thought out of your head as quickly as it enters your head. “thank you for having me this evening.”

“oh, i think we’re past the formalities,” you huff a small laugh, “you’re doing my dishes.”

“technically they’re my dishes,” he chuckles, “since i did dirty them.”

you hum, walking over to where he stands as he turns the faucet off—until a small twist of your ankle has you gasping as you stumble forward. you brace yourself for the impact of the hardwood floor, but instead, you’re met with a firm yet soft chest as strong arms wrap around your waist and catch you before you can fall.

“oh,” you breathe as you open your eyes, staring into him with just as widened pupils as him. 

“are you okay?” he asks quietly, voice just barely audible as he whispers to you—he’s so close, so painfully close, you think the only reason you heard him was because of the proximity. 

“yeah,” you nod. it’s hardly a nod, really—if you were to move your head too much, you’d risk brushing your nose against his. or maybe even your lips. “i’m fine. thank you.”

“yeah, no problem,” his eyes are still trained on yours, and neither of you can find it in yourselves to pull away. you can’t, and he definitely doesn’t, and nothing seems to give as you stare at each other. you’re pressed against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around you, and there’s a strange beating in both of your chests that you think you can just barely make out.

they almost seem to beat in sync, rapid and untamed. so, so fast, you wonder if it’s even healthy.

you don’t know who does it first—or maybe it was the both of you. all you know is that one second, you’re staring at each other, and the next, your heads are tilted so that your lips meet tentatively. he hesitates at the first brush of your lips, but your hands cup his cheeks and pull him forward, making his eyes flutter shut as he shakily breathes into your mouth. it’s so slow, so dizzyingly slow, that you wonder if time has just stopped altogether to grant you a moment with no interruptions. 

he fits perfectly against you, the soft flesh of his cheeks spilling over your palms, your thumb rubbing affectionately into the skin as he nips at your lips, kissing you like he’s waited his whole life to feel you. the curves of his mouth connect with the curves of yours like pieces of a puzzle, like he was carved to match you from the same stone. 

you’re not sure how long you kiss like that, but slowly, it grows needier, more quick and hasty as your hands leave his cheeks to wander to his hair and gently tug at the strands as his hands wander to your waist and lower back, feeling every curve of you as he groans into your mouth. 

he tries to pull away, but you chase after him, unwilling to let go.

“w-wait,” he mumbles, “maybe we should stop—”

“you really want to?” you ask breathlessly, and all it takes is one glance down at your glossy, swollen lips for him to close his eyes and shiver.

“no,” he admits hoarsely, “i don’t. are…are you sure about this?”

“yes,” you whisper instantly.

he doesn’t waste a moment, quickly pulling you into your bedroom as you both collapse on the mattress. you climb onto his lap, crotch pressing against the semi-hardened erection in his pants, the press of your heat against his bulge earning a low, drawn-out groan from him that shoots straight to your clit with a dull ache. 

“sweetheart,” he says in between kisses, making you inhale sharply at the pet name, “you’re killing me here.”

“okay,” you smile against his mouth, pecking it sweetly before you add, “then let me do something about that.”

he doesn’t expect you to drop down between his legs, face to face with the obvious tent in his pants—wriothesley is a gentleman, a giver before he is a taker. his first instinct is to protest as he opens his mouth and starts to say, “hang on—you don’t have to—”

“i want to,” you pout, looking up at him, “please? i want to.”

when was the last time someone looked up at him like that, staring up at him like pleasing him is the only way they’ll survive? he doesn’t recall, doesn’t think it’s ever happened, in fact. he groans, head falling back against your bed frame as he nods slowly. 

“okay,” he concedes, lifting his hips up so you can pull his pants down his legs, leaving him in his boxers. there’s a wet patch where his tip meets the cloth, the evidence of pre cum drooling from his swollen head that makes you hum in satisfaction as you leave a tender kiss on the spot through the fabric. he gasps, hips jolting as his thighs clench at the teasing touch.

“can i?” you purr, hand rubbing soothingly over his tense thigh as he swallows and nods, looking anywhere but at you as he breathes harshly. 

“y-yes,” he grunts, “please.”

you’re freeing his cock as soon as he utters the plead, letting him spring free and meet the cool air. he hisses, gritting his teeth as his chest rises and falls erratically, labored breaths that he tries to use to calm himself as he stands painfully hard between his legs. 

“pretty,” you murmur, entranced at the sheer size of him—he’s flushed an almost painful red at his thick tip, leaking enough pre cum that you’d think he might have already had his release with the way it runs down the side of his hardened length. 

your hand wraps gently around the tip, thumb smearing the pre cum along the tip before coating the rest of his cock, using it as lubrication for the steady stroke of your hand along the girth. he throws his head back, groaning as his hips buck into your touch before he stops himself, frantically trying to keep himself still and let you take your time. 

“f-fuck,” he rasps, “that…that feels nice.”

“yeah?” you breathe, smiling as you press a kiss to his thigh as he chokes on a grunt while your hand slowly pumps him. “am i doing it right?”

“you’re doing just fine,” he assures, biting his lip as he finally can’t keep himself from bucking impatiently into your fist any longer, “feel free to do more, though.”

you giggle, pressing a soft kiss to his lip before gliding your tongue through his slit and watching as he melts against your bed frame at the gesture, body loosening up like he’s limbless as you slowly take him into your mouth, swallowing around his cock and bobbing your head, pumping the rest with your hand that you can’t fit down your throat. 

“shit,” he curses, hand cupping the back of your head as he guides you up and down his length, moaning your name when you swirl your tongue around the tip, “you…you’re so good at this, yeah? take me so well in that pretty mouth of yours.”

you hum around him, making him cry out at the vibrations around his cock, one hand running through his hair as he tries to keep himself grounded, the other still cradling the back of your head. he’s a gentleman, though, living up to one just as much as he always lets on to be when he doesn’t force you to take more of him by pushing your head down or burying himself deeper into your throat by fucking his hips into your mouth. he lets you do things at your own pace, and you think it’s enough when you feel the telling signs of his release as his panting grows harsher and his cock twitches in your mouth.

“w-wait, wait,” he says frantically, “i’ll cum—i’ll cum. not yet, not until i have you.”

you reluctantly pull away, a trail of spit connecting from your lips to his tip that makes him close his eyes and groan, clenching his jaw as his near-orgasm dies down to nothing again. his cock is achingly hard, hot and swollen and throbbing after denying himself for the sake of feeling you.

“c’mere,” he motions for you to climb onto his lap. you do, sitting on his thigh as he slowly trails a thumb under your shirt, rubbing the skin with a feather-light, heated touch that has you shivering against him. “you sure you want this?”

“i want it,” you whisper, leaning to press a kiss to his lips that he reciprocates with a low hum of approval, “with you.”

“such a sweet way with words,” he murmurs, slowly pulling your blouse over your head and unclasping your bra, tossing them to the side as he marvels at the view of your tits. “such a sweet view, too. beautiful.” 

you flush at the praise, looking away. but his hands grab at your breasts, large as they cup them and massage lightly, thumbs running over the pert nipples as you shudder and breathe out a light gasp. 

“wriothesley, need more—”

“give me a moment,” he shushes you, “and then i’ll give you what you want.”

he admires you like that for a bit, sat on his thigh as your eyes flutter shut and his thumbs tease your nipples, wetness pooling in your core that he can feel on his thigh—you’d be embarrassed, you really would, but it’s not as though his cock is any less leaky at the head. 

finally, he inhales sharply, sitting up slightly to unbutton his shirt, revealing the scars down his chest before he helps you out of your pants. you stare at the harsh, jagged lines that pain his skin, raised, discolored skin, the only evidence of some brutal, vicious past that he survived. 

your thumb traces down the lines, making him shiver at the fragileness behind the touch.

“where’d you get this?” you murmur, staring at him curiously. 

“hmm? oh the scar on my body? it's from a gash i got while battling a gigantic undersea monster that tried to take over the fortress of meropide…” he stares at you cheekily as you blink, looking at him unimpressed. “hah, just kidding.”

“do you ever take anything seriously?” you shake your head and huff, but there’s endearment on your face as you fight back a smile.

“on the contrary, milady,” he murmurs, grabbing your hips and pulling you back slightly, exposing your drenched cunt before he slowly sinks two fingers into your folds and curls them against the back of your walls, “i take this quite seriously.”

you gasp at the feeling, his digits rubbing against your walls and angling to hit a sensitive, achingly sweet spot at the back of your cunt. it’s precise, the way he pumps his fingers into you, slowly sinking in a third digit while you mewl and throw your head back. the heel of his palm catches against your clit, the sweet friction building your orgasm up slowly, slowly, until suddenly, you’re near the edge all at once. 

“c’mon, don’t hold back now,” he drawls, voice low and sweet and so attractive, you feel like the sound of him alone is enough to send you tumbling over the edge, “why don’t you be a sweet little thing and let go for me, hm?”

you do—instantly, you do, crying out his name is choked garbles as he works you through your orgasm with his fingers, still thrusting into you with a precise pace. finally, when you’re done clenching around him, he pulls his digits out, the slickness of your pussy coating them as he hums in satisfaction. 

“think you’re ready?” he asks softly, cradling the back of your head with his good hand as he pulls you closer, “or do you need one more from me?”

“i’m ready,” you huff impatiently, “i need you, need to feel you already.”

“okay, okay,” he laughs, amused but not anymore patient himself as his cock pulses between his legs, “i’m not trying to wait any longer, either. do you have a…uh…y-you know…”

you snort at the way he trails off awkwardly, flushing at the thought of asking for a condom as if he’s not completely nude under you. “no,” you giggle, pinching his cheek as he huffs, “but we don’t need one. it’s fine.”

“okay,” he nods slowly. his hands grab at your hips, firm yet so gentle with the way they lift you up and guide you to angle over his swollen cock, slowly helping you sink down on him as he chokes on a grunt when his head pushes past your folds. 

you gasp as soon as he intrudes into your tight hole, splitting you open on his thick girth as you take him inch by inch until you’re sat on his lap completely, buried completely with his length as his jaw clenches at the tight squeeze of you around him. 

“wri—wriothesley,” you sob brokenly, unable to say anything else besides cracked repeats of his name. he’s so big, buried so deep, and leaving you so full, you’re not sure if you have it in you to fuck onto him from this position. 

he takes things into his own hands, though—roughly grabbing your hips and pulling you back before helping you sink back down on him again, rolling his own hips upward to bury deeper into you. your head spins, and all you can think to do is weakly plant your hands onto his shoulders before you roll your hips, grinding down on his length and sloppily fucking yourself onto him.

he bullies past your folds, curves deliciously into the most intimate parts of you, fat tip slamming against the soft, sensitive spot that makes you see white. pleasure burns up your spine, building a coil in your belly that grows tighter, tighter, tighter—so close yet so far from snapping and letting you plummet into your second release. 

“that’s it,” he grunts, “fuck—you’re so tight, so good. i’ve…i’ve never felt anything so good. it’s like you were made for me, weren’t you? take me so well, fit around me so well.”

his hand moves to your clit, thumb pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves and rubbing merciless circles against it as you mewl, head burying into his neck as your nails claw at his shoulder. everything is so good—so hot and filthy and leaves you impatiently desperate for some form of release. the friction of his cock dragging along every ridge leaves your mind hazed, and the harsh press of his tip against your sweet spot leaves your vision blurry. 

you’re not sure how you even have the strength to rock yourself onto his stiff length, but somehow you manage, and he seems keen on helping you, too, with rough, bruising hands that grip your waist with a punishingly tight grasp.

“c-can’t hold on much longer,” you cry, voice a strangled sob that’s muffled into his skin, “i’m s-so close. please.”

“me too,” he pants, voice just as strained as yours as he moans through a cracked voice when you clench down on his particularly tightly, “me too, sweetheart. i’m right there with you, alright? let go—c-c’mon.”

once more, you cum around him—this time on his cock instead of his fingers, and if the first time felt good, the second time is devastating. your vision practically goes white as your walls spasm around him, slick and dripping with your release and mixing with his own as he follows you not long after. his cock jolts, pumping hot, sticky ropes of his seed deep into you, and both of your bodies are slumped against one another as you barely roll your hips, sloppy pace with no rhythm as you focus on getting yourselves through the ecstasies of your orgasms. 

his thumb is still pressing against your clit, and your hands have left his shoulders to bury into his sweaty hair, tugging fiercely at the dark strands and making him groan at the mix of pain and pleasure. 

finally, you both ride out the final few waves, him slumping against your bed as you fall against his sturdy chest, face still buried into his neck. sweat clings to your skin, but you don’t mind the feeling of his damp skin against yours, not when the warmth of your body makes the afterglow feel so sweet. your fingers thread through his hair, soothing over his scalp with the rake of your nails where you’d just tugged so harshly, and his palms glide up and down your hips, rubbing gentleness back into the parts where he dug bruises along the skin. 

“wait, is that watering can supposed to be a dog?” he asks out of the blue, making you lift your head and look over your shoulder.

“yes,” you quirk a brow, watching as he lets out a small snort as he looks at the watering can by your plants in wonder.

“it’s pretty ugly.”

“rude!” you gasp, pulling away slightly as he shakes under you in laughter, “i think it’s adorable!”

“do you now?” he bites his lips, attempting to suppress the smile that threatens to take over, “you have…interesting taste.”

“oh, you’re dead to me,” you spit dramatically, collapsing back against his chest as you bury your head into his neck again. “dead to me, i say.”

“my apologies,” he snickers. his hand rubs slowly into your hip, quietly humming for a moment before he asks, “what made you so passionate about plants?”

“i can’t just really like them?” you challenge.

“sure,” he shrugs, eyeing the watering can again as he smiles, “but you don’t give the impression that you just happen to just really like leaves, and that’s it.”

“there’s more to plants than leaves,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. and then, much gentler this time, “my father was a scholar from sumeru. an herbologist.” your voice is a quiet murmur, a low hum as you speak into his neck while his hands are still rubbing into your hips, “i used to be fascinated by his journals and all the plants he’d seen. he died when i was young, so sometimes…sometimes i try to grow them here in fontaine myself. just to feel close to him.”

“do you?” he asks quietly, staring at the various plants that decorate your small home. it’s cozy, he thinks, so lively and warm that it almost doesn’t feel like you’re the only inhabitant. “do you feel close to him when you do?”

“if it works,” you admit, “it’s not always easy to recreate the same conditions they’re meant to grow in.”

“i think you do an impressive job,” he praises, earning a slow smile from you that he can feel curve into his skin, “i’ve yet to come across a flower shop in fontaine with as much variety as yours.”

“you flatter me, your grace,” you chuckle, pulling away as you stare at him, the tousled hair from where his hand ran through, the swollen bottom lip where his teeth sank in, the flushed skin where heat settled. you take all of it in slowly, admiring him as he looks up at you through lidded eyes.

“do i? i meant it seriously, not in flattery,” he raises a brow and smirks, “if i wanted to try flattery on you, i think i’d have some other choice words.”

“don’t be so insatiable,” you gently swat at his chest, earning a chuckle from him. “will you be able to stop by tomorrow?”

“i’m afraid not,” he sighs, “i have a meeting with some people from the palais tomorrow at the fortress. it’ll run a bit late.”

“oh,” you try to hide the disappointment in your voice, but he seems to sense it instantly. “that’s okay. i just had a blend i thought you might like to try—for tea, that is. it’s um…i dried the petals myself, and it’s new. i thought i’d let you be the first to try it to let me know what you think.”

you try not to giggle at the way he perks up at the mention of tea.

“ah, i’m afraid i won’t have time tomorrow. but…” he coughs, trailing off as he looks away, contemplating his words.

“but…?” you press.

“but…well, i have a few guards returning tomorrow from the surface from a few tasks i gave them. i could have them stop by the shop to escort you down to the fortress if that works for you…it’s okay if you can’t, though! i can always come by sometime this week when my duties aren’t as—”

“that sounds nice,” you cut him off, grinning widely, something close to excitement blooming across your features, brighter than any set of petals in your shop, he thinks. “you can give me an official tour of the fortress, perhaps. i’ve only ever heard about it through stories.”

“as you wish, my lady,” he winks.

he leaves not too long after—you try not to focus on his lingering scent in your sheets once you settle back in after bidding him goodbye. it’s oddly peaceful, being surrounded by him even when he’s not there, and sleep lulls over you quicker than usual. 

the scent is faded by the time you wake up, so you take one last deep breath to inhale it before you set off to get ready for the day, counting down the hours before you get to see him again.

——————————

as promised, a group of fortress guards stop by your shop, politely waiting for you to close up before you join them on their return. 

the fortress is darker than you expected—but not at all as small as your mind anticipated. in fact, it’s huge. you follow the guards, making idle chatter as they take you up an elevator, up, and up, and up—until finally, you finally arrive on the floor of his office. 

you’re so busy taking in all you can of the fortress that by the time they escort you to his office door, you remember why you’re here in the first place. to bring wriothesley dried petals of sweet flowers that you grew yourself—flowers often make for a wonderful tea blend, and learning his passionate liking for the drink makes you feel compelled to share with him every one of the various floral teas you’ve learned about in your time as a florist. 

you knock on the door of his office—except, oddly enough, there’s more than one voice you can make out from the room. you didn’t think his meeting would still be in session by the time you arrived, making you anxiously regret the knock as soon as your knuckles leave the surface of the door.  

but he answers before you can think too much of it. “come in,” his voice calls. 

“your grace,” you hum, stepping in, “if this is a bad time, then i can…”

you trail off. both fontaine’s chief justice and champion duelist stand in his office, gathered around his desk as he sits and sifts through files. of course, wriothesley is a duke, which is no small title by any means, but you’re caught more than a little off guard as you step in and share the room with two of fontaine’s more important figures in the justice system.

“no,” he says casually, “come in, you’re right on time. i was just telling miss clorinde about the delicious tea blend you would bring for her to try. she couldn’t wait a moment longer.”

“if you want to try it so badly, just say so,” she rolls her eyes.

“fine,” he huffs, lips curling into a slight pout, “i’d like to try the tea you promised me. clorinde will pass, though.”

“i think i’ll try it, as well,” she chimes in, suppressing a smile as wriothesley crosses his arms.

“but you just said—”

you giggle, walking over as you hand him the bag with dried petals, grinning at the amusing dynamic, and murmur, “i believe it would be the polite thing to do if you made an extra cup for the madam while making yours.”

“picking her side, are we? such an act of betrayal won’t be forgotten,” he huffs. still, almost as excited as a child opening a present, he opens the bag to add the petals to the tea maker he keeps at his desk. you watch with fondness at the action. “you still owe me a present, by the way. and tea won’t do—i’ve just received a batch.”

“then i suppose i can gift you a new tie,” clorinde hums, eyeing the loosened tie around his neck and making him furrow his brows as he subconsciously straightens it, “something that fits your neck better so you look a bit more put together.”

it’s almost like she sees through the both of you, eyeing between you and him with a hint of a knowing glint in her eyes. wriothesley scowls, giving her a petulant glare.

“there’s nothing wrong with my tie. i look just fine.”

“i do believe it’s a stylistic choice,” neuvillette pipes up from the side, “it doesn’t seem to be an issue with the tie itself.”

you snort at the way the joke flies over his head. “you’re right, monsieur,” you join in the banter, “i do believe his grace has a rather…unique choice of style.”

“i wonder if he ever plans to properly wear the coat he always seems to keep hanging over his shoulders,” clorinde adds, the earlier grin she attempted to fight back now fully curled into her lips. you laugh, much to wriothesley’s dismay.

“perhaps he just values being prepared,” you hum, “one can never tell when the fortress will suddenly be too cold. someone as busy as the duke surely can’t afford the wasted time to go and fetch a coat.”

“ah,” she nods, “i suppose you’re right. he is too busy learning legal codes as of late.”

“i take it that my gift has been useful, then?” neuvillette brightens, turning to a miserable wriothesley as he rubs his temples wearily.

“most helpful,” he sighs, not bothering to explain to the iudex that he’s once more missed the point of the joke. 

“oh, we’re only joking,” you laugh, taking the tea cup sitting at his desk and pouring him a glass of the now freshly brewed tea, “it’s all in good fun, your grace.”

“wriothesley is just fine,” he mumbles, “as you can see, this isn’t a very…formal meeting.” 

he watches as you carefully make his cup, one sugar cube as opposed to his usual two—before he can point it out, however, you beat him to it. “i know you’re particular about your tea. i can see it on your face you’re about to insist i give you two, but this is a very sweet blend as it is. one will suffice.”

“careful when it comes to his tea,” clorinde warns, “he’ll be in a foul mood all day if it doesn’t live up to his standards.”

“not true,” he grumbles. as if to prove a point, he takes a sip, slowly blinking before he looks at you with an awed grin, “it’s lovely. you’re right, it is just perfectly sweet with one cube.”

“perhaps you’re the only person he won’t make a fuss with then,” clorinde teases, “he’s got quite the list of grievances if i make him a cup of tea.”

“that’s because you don’t know how to make proper tea,” wriothesley rolls his eyes, “there’s a set of steps you’re meant to follow, you know.”

“water is a most simple beverage,” the iudex cuts in, “one that has many complexities in flavor, as well. perhaps you should consider it as a fitting option if tea gives you too much trouble.”

“i would hate to think of the wrath the poor inmates would have to face if he were to miss a single tea time,” you grin, fighting back a chuckle as wriothesley takes a tired sip from his cup, resigning himself to his fate as the target of your banter, “water simply won’t do.”

“well, i believe we should be off,” clorinde looks at neuvillette, “perhaps we should leave them to themselves.”

“ah, yes,” the chief justice nods politely, “there are many more files for me to read through at the office.”

“do you ever take the day off?” wriothesley raises a brow, “wouldn’t hurt.”

“even his dreams are of legal cases, i’m sure. he wouldn’t last a day on vacation,” clorinde hums.

“i don’t typically dream when i sleep,” neuvillette frowns, still so serious that you choke on a snort as you try to hold back you giggles. wriothesley looks at you with an amused grin, biting his lip to hide a chuckle himself.

“i’ll be seeing you,” he waves as the two leave, “and hopefully with my present ready next time,” he calls to clorinde with a pointed look. she rolls her eyes, fondly waving as she heads out the door.

“i didn’t know you were friends with such important people,” you murmur as they leave, making him raise a brow as he takes another sip.

“friends isn’t the best title for it—consider us work acquaintances.”

“with banter like that, i hardly believe it,” you chuckle, earning you a half-hearted glare from him over the rim of his tea cup.

“did you have your fun at my expense?” he asks dryly—but there’s no real bite to the words, “it seems you got along quite well with clorinde.”

“monsieur neuvillette is lovely too,” you giggle, “even if he’s not exactly…the earliest to catch onto jokes.”

he laughs at that, setting down his empty cup as he stands, eyeing the door to his office quickly before stepping closer to you, eyes staring down at your lips as you chew on the bottom and wait for him to make his move. 

“thank you for the tea,” he murmurs lowly, lips just barely a millimeter away from yours, “it was quite sweet. i enjoyed it.”

“there are plenty of other floral blends i have for you to try,” you hum. 

he grins, hands finding your waist before he whispers, “surely i couldn’t take all that from you without offering something in return, could i? i wouldn’t want it to seem like i'm taking bribes.”

“oh?” you breathe, grabbing a hold of his tie and tugging him closer until your lips meet his in a slow, heated kiss. it awakens a sick, insatiable heat in your core almost instantly. “what did you have in mind, your grace?”

he groans at the way your voice teasingly lilts at the title, hungrily chasing after your lips again. it’s more tongue than it is anything, messy and almost too scandalous to take place in his office where anyone could knock and come in at a moment’s notice. he seems to know it, too, because slowly, he guides you backward, slow steps that don’t interrupt the lock of your lips until your back meets a door.

“why don’t i show you,” he breathes—and then the doorknob is twisted open, and you’re gently pushed in with an arm curled around your waist to guide you. there’s a bedroom connected to his office, you realize. 

not entirely a shock—you’re sure the duke of the fortress has his own quarters to sleep in away from the other inmates, but it doesn’t surprise you less enough that you don’t pull away to take a glance around. 

it’s empty, mainly. not too many things besides a few scattered files and another tea maker with a few cups surrounding it at a desk in the corner. the sheets are dark grey, plain, and neatly made, with two pillows and nothing else. it has no more than what he needs, no more than what’s necessary. no hints of anything that’s his, anything that makes the room belong to him outside of being a mere sleeping quarters. 

“not one for decor?” you hum, wrapping your arms around his neck as your fingers fiddle with the collar of his shirt.

“i only come here at night to sleep,” he shrugs, “never felt the need.”

“everyone needs a space that’s theirs, don’t you think? even a few flowers would brighten the place up.”

“offering me more business?” he chuckles, making you roll your eyes, “and they’d die. there isn’t much sun down here.”

“i can think of a few options that would thrive,” you murmur.

“so it is business,” he quips. sigh exasperatedly, and he grins cheekily at you before you’re gently pushed to fall onto his bed, his body moving to hover over you as your legs wrap around his waist. his cock is semi-hard through his pants, and you wiggle your hips to press against it, the friction making him groan as you feel him stiffen even more from your actions. 

“i think i’d like my payment now,” you hum, making him raise a brow.

“eager?” he asks, making your hand travel to squeeze at his bulge.

“and you aren’t?” you challenge.

“fuck,” he grunts, shuddering at the feeling, “looks like you got me.”

it happens faster than you can process—the shedding of clothes, the way his fingers slowly sink into you, pumping in and out expertly as your head spins from the way he brushes against your sensitive spots. he’s quick, the way he stretches you apart with his digits, adding a second and third finger with little to no time to waste. you hardly have time to accommodate the third when you feel a familiar ache building up steadily. 

“c-close,” you say shakily, voice brokenly whispering against his mouth as he drinks up your moans, “i’m going to—”

“i know,” he hums, “shh. just let go—you’re doing so well.” 

the praise shatters you—you break at the way he sounds so in awe of you, of the way you suck his fingers into your slick cunt, so tight and wet with every clench. your back arches, and your hips roll into his hand, whimpering as his palm rolls over your sensitive clit. “god,” you gasp, “wriothesley, please.”

“please what?” he drawls, “you already got what you needed.”

“please let me feel you.”

“such a demanding price for some tea,” he sighs, “alright. i guess i can afford it.”

the nudge of his cock against your folds is enough to make you mewl, a sweet, whiny little cry that he groans at—every sound you make leaves an ache shooting up his stiff cock in the form of a twitch, like your every cry calls out to him. he responds with a rough thrust of his hips, burying himself into the depths of you, so deep and so close you can practically feel his pulse alongside yours. 

“so full,” you gasp, panting as you try to adjust to the sheer girth of him. he waits a moment, jaw clenched and teeth grit as he waits for you to nod your head and signal him to move.

“and you’re so tight,” he grunts, moaning softly against your ear as he nibbles on your earlobe, “i wouldn’t mind it if you charged interest either, just so you know. i’ll pay it over as many times as you want.”

“oh be quiet, would you?” you roll your eyes at his words at first, but then they roll back at the feeling of his thick, swollen tip pressing against the deep, sweet spot in the back of your walls. he lets out a breathy laugh, kissing the corner of your mouth so he doesn’t muffle the precious little moan you let out. 

“sure thing,” he hums, “i like listening to you more, anyway.”

“oh,” you gasp, “oh—wriothesley!” his finger teases over your clit, making your walls quiver around him as you feel your second orgasm creep up on you. “w-wait—i’m close.”

“why would i wait?” he asks in amusement, “that’s the idea.”

“t-together,” you whimper, pouting up at him through swollen lips and watery eyes, “please. please.”

he curses, closing his eyes and inhaling shakily at the way you look so fucked out, so drunkenly hazed on pleasure from the drag of his cock along your every ridge. you ask so sweetly—and who is he to deny such an innocent request?

“fuck—okay, sweetheart. fine by me,” he pants, rolling his hips harshly as he works himself to his own orgasm. his thumb teases your clit cruelly, fast and merciless one second, and a slow, bare feather’s touch the next. it keeps you right on the edge, a drooling mess of broken pleas as he finally approaches his own high. “close?”

“so close,” you gasp, twitching as he buries himself deep into you again.

“me too,” his voice cracks, “c-cum with me—please.”

hearing him plead sends you over the edge again—your first orgasm pales in comparison to your second. you didn’t even think that was possible, but the thick of his cock bullying into you is infinitely better than his nimble digits. the blunt head hits all the right spots, curves in all the right angles, and fucks you through your high expertly without even trying. 

you both cry out each other's names like prayers, muffled strings of curses, and breathy gasps that you swallow up between slow, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. finally, when the last few twitches of his cock finish painting his release into you, he slumps on the bed beside your body, body shaking in slight tremors as he catches his breath. 

“you okay?” he asks through a labored voice, “didn’t hurt you?”

“i’m okay,” you breathe, smiling softly. he closes his eyes, relaxing into the mattress, pulling the covers to tuck the both of you in before he stares up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head while he seems to be deep in thought. “what’re you thinking about?” you murmur.

“just how good you got along with clorinde,” he hums quietly, almost in wonder. “she’s not exactly the easiest to banter with so quickly.”

“well, i guess it’s not too hard if it’s at your expense,” you tease.

“ah, yes,” he sighs, pretending to woefully shake his head, “i’ve been reduced to the butt of the joke one too many times today, it seems.”

he grins to himself at the sound of your quiet laughter, so soft and sweet, so perfectly filling up the quietness in the room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears like a symphony. you stare up at the ceiling yourself, eyeing the pipes, the dark amber metal that makes up his home. it’s quiet like that for a bit—not awkward or uneasy, almost like you’ve known him for ages. almost like this is natural.

“can i ask you something?” you murmur after some time, shifting under the covers to face him. 

he raises a brow, looking at you curiously. “you’re scaring me with that look. going to confess some wicked crime you want me to help you hide?”

“it’s not like that,” you huff, rolling your eyes. carefully, as if treading unknown territories (you are, in all fairness), your fingers find his bicep, running along the skin soothingly. it’s an affectionate touch—you and wriothesley only touch each other for physical pleasure, nothing more. this is new, something you’re freshly navigating with a weak compass that points back and forth between your heart and your head, unsure whether to follow logic or emotion. 

“well, go ahead and ask,” he insists, “you’ve got me curious, anyway.”

“what…what did you serve for? when you were an inmate,” you say quietly. he tenses under your touch, muscles becoming rigid as you instantly regret the question. your fingers pull away at the same time as you start speaking, “it’s okay if you don’t want to answer! i just got curious and—”

his hand catches your retreating wrist, gently pulling it closer, closer, until your hand rests on his chest. this is definitely uncharted territory—but his hand firmly lays over yours as he presses your palm over his bare chest. 

“it’s fine,” he mumbles, “it’s not exactly something people in my inner circle don’t know.”

“oh,” you whisper, “i’ve been promoted to inner circle, huh?”

“you’ve seen me naked,” he snorts, eyeing you with a hint of amused disbelief, “you’ve sucked me off, in fact. i think there’s a special other circle inside the circle just for you.”

“okay, no need to get all…”

“all what?” he teases, waiting for you to finish.

“all uncouth about our activities!” you huff, face feeling hot as he grins.

he laughs, wrapping an arm around you, pulling you against his side so your cheek presses against a muscled pec as his warm hand traces circles into your hip. you gasp slightly at the sudden gesture but relax all too quickly, your own hand moving to rub into his chest slowly, feeling the rough scars and tracing them with your fingertips.

“i was adopted when i was young from an orphanage. when i was a bit older,” he swallows, voice quiet, serious—so oddly vulnerable, you think you’re talking to a new version of him altogether, “i found a diary in my mother’s drawer. i didn’t…i didn’t mean to snoop. i was just looking for some paper for my sister to color with.”

“you had a sister?” you ask softly, looking up to see his jaw tighten slightly. 

“i had quite a few siblings,” he admits, voice strained. “older and younger. my parents would adopt a few children at a time and raise them until they were old enough to be adopted into families of greater means. and then they’d adopt more younger children. i thought they were perfect parents,” his eyes stare off distantly, unfocused as they look up at the ceiling, hand mindlessly wandering along your hip as you listen.

“until…?”

“until i read that diary,” his voice hardens, still strained as he clenches his jaw and swallows thickly again, “they were records. of my older siblings, the ones i thought were adopted off. all of their names were followed by prices, and the ones who didn’t have prices had been crossed off. i didn’t understand until i saw my own name and my brother antoine’s. we had blank spaces next to ours.”

“how come?” you furrow your brows, looking at him in jarred curiosity. 

“because we weren’t sold yet,” he smiles ruefully, “i realized we were being sold off like livestock. and i started to piece together why i had never heard from any of my siblings even when they’d promised to write. i…i never knew what became of them.”

“oh, wriothesley,” you say gently, so delicate, he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. you press a soft kiss to his chest under you, hand moving up to cup his cheek, “what awful people.”

“i…i should have kept it to myself,” he whispers shakily, “i didn’t…i couldn’t figure out what to do, so i told antoine—i thought…i figured maybe…” he trails off, eyes closed once more as he breathes heavily, trying to collect the composure he fights so fiercely to keep.

“it’s okay,” you kiss his jaw, “we can forget about it. i’m sorry for—”

“no,” he shakes his head. “i want you to know.”

it should make you feel special—maybe even a little happy that he trusts you enough to want to share. but nothing about this makes you feel anything but pain—you can feel his pain, every inch of it. from the way his hand clasps around your waist in a shaky grip to ground himself to the way his jaw is tight under your lips as they press a soothing kiss to the angle of it. every part of him is in pain, and you can feel it. deep in your own bones, like a lingering ache. one that runs years deep, living in the deepest, most intimate parts of your body.

you don’t mind it, though. you don’t mind sharing his pain, not if it’s him.

“okay,” you nod slowly, “okay.”

he inhales sharply, taking a deep breath before he continues. “i told him because i knew we were next. i thought maybe we could have figured out a plan together. but he asked my mother about the diary, what the prices meant, and why we’d never heard from the others once they’d left. he was gone the next morning—my mother told us he was adopted, but i knew. i knew he was merely disposed of. and it was my fault.”

“it was not your fault,” you turn your head swiftly, looking up at him in disbelief as he scoffs and shakes his head.

“if i hadn’t told him, if i handled it on my own—”

“then what? he would have been fine? you don’t know that, what if he was sold off for something awful? or found out on his own without you? you were a child, and you didn’t know that he’d choose to do that.”

“but i still could have kept quiet,” he chuckles dryly, voice cracking as he adds, “i could have gotten us both out of there. on my own.”

“you shouldn’t have to have done it on your own,” you cup his cheek, bringing him to face you as your forehead presses against his, “you didn’t want to be on your own, did you?”

“no,” he admits, lips trembling, “i didn’t.”

“and that’s okay,” you murmur, rubbing a thumb over his cheekbone, “you didn’t deserve to be alone.”

“maybe it was for the better, though,” he sniffles.

“a lot of things are. we can’t hope to predict everything for what would turn out better.”

“he died,” wriothesley chokes, “my brother. he died that night—i…i knew he did. so i ran the next day, when my parents were busy, i snuck off and ran. i didn’t come back until a few years later and i…” his breath catches in his throat, glancing at you for a moment. there’s something fleeting in his eyes. doubt, maybe—perhaps even fear.

you’re not entirely sure, but you press a kiss to his lips, soft and tender, so unlike your usual heated ones. something that’s shared not for the sake of pleasure but for the sake of knowing you’re there—that he has you. you’re both here, together, just the two of you. he can feel your warmth, and you can feel his. 

it eases the tension somewhat, making his rigid muscles relax as he pulls you closer. 

you pull away first, murmuring a soft, “i don’t care what you did. whatever it is.”

“you say that now,” he chuckles weakly, “but you don’t even know what i did.”

“i don’t care,” you say seriously, “i don’t. whatever you did, it was because you didn’t have a choice.”

“i killed them,” he says against your mouth, such harsh, dark words that don’t belong against your soft, pure lips—he thinks he might have just tainted them. almost like you know his thoughts, you prove you don’t care when you peck his mouth lightly. “i killed them and set the other children free.”

“you were just a kid,” you breathe, “a baby.”

“a teenager,” he huffs a laugh hoarsely, “maybe not that young.”

“a baby to me,” you say firmly, “no one that young should be pushed to such extreme methods.”

“you’re oddly calm about sharing a bed with a murderer. was the sex that good?”

you roll over, laying on top of him, pulling a soft oof from his lips—you know it’s exaggerated. he’s strong and broad under you, capable of taking your weight and then some as his hands find your waist to keep you in place, eyes boring into yours. so bare and so easy for you to look into, to read, to see so plainly for all he is. 

he doesn’t even blink—as if he’s offering himself to you, trusting you to see as much as you want, see as much of him as he can show you. 

“is that all you see yourself as? a murderer?” you ask seriously.

“of course not,” he denies, breathing softly into your hands as they cradle his face, “but it’s the part of me that matters most. that defines me the most. whether i want it to or not.”

“not to me,” you shake your head, “and not to you either, i can tell.”

“i know why i did it,” he tells you, staring at you so intensely, you feel like maybe he’s seeing you more than you’re seeing him, “i did it for my siblings. because i knew it was the only way to get them out. no one else would do a thing. but when you strip my title as duke from me, whether you put me in the underworld or put me in the overworld, i am a murderer. that won’t change.”

“and?” you raise a brow, “do you regret it? what you did?”

“never,” he says instantly. he means it. “but i’m aware of what i am to others. what they see me as. i’m not naive enough to believe my past will go away.”

“and it shouldn’t,” you shake your head, “i don’t think it should. i don’t think murder is what matters most about you—i think a child raised like livestock, betrayed, and taken advantage of, matters most. a boy who willingly gave up his freedom so his siblings would have theirs is what matters most. a man who served his time and chose to stay so he could make things better for everyone who followed is what matters. death was a kind fate for your parents, wriothesley—i for one, believe there were more fitting fates for them. far crueler ones than a peaceful demise.”

he chuckles at that last part, staring at you in wonder, in slight amusement, in so much awe that you almost feel shy.

“now i’m really questioning if the sex was that good—you’re really rationalizing my crimes, aren’t you?”

“oh, you’re such an asshole, do you know that?” you huff, “i think that’s what defines you best. a complete, utter, shameless assho—oh.”

he kisses you—abruptly so. his lips are pressed hard and firm against you, kissing with so much conviction, so much need, you’d think that you were disintegrating in his arms, that this was his last opportunity to kiss you and commit how you feel to memory. 

“you sure it’s not my stamina?” he wiggles his brows, “how about my—”

“i’ll see to it that this is the last time we ever engage in such activities if that’s all you can focus on—”

“okay, okay,” he laughs, pouting as he pulls you down to lay on him, your head tucking under his chin as he kisses the crown of your head, “enough sex jokes. i promise.”

“so crass,” you scold, “have some decorum, will you?”

“my apologies, milady,” he sighs regretfully, voice exaggerated and theatrical as he adds, “i won’t allow myself to forget my manners again. from here on out, i’ll make sure to discuss more…gentlemanly topics for your liking.”

“you’re a real handful,” you sigh, “poor sigewinne. such a sweet little angel to put up with the likes of you.”

“you met her?” he smiles fondly at the mention of her.

“briefly, yes,” you nod, “the poor thing must be tired of your antics.”

“i’m on my best behavior around her!” he insists, “you can ask her.”

“i don’t think she’ll vouch for you, you know.”

“yeah, you’re probably right,” he withers in defeat.

you giggle, kissing his collarbone softly before nuzzling against him as he relaxes. it’s comfortably silent, just your body against his, warmth seeping between the space that hardly separates your bodies, spreading across your skin. you share your heat, and he shares his. it lulls you, slowly but surely, and you can feel it lull him, too as his breath slowly evens out under you. 

sleep is just a breath away from clutching you when you mumble, “wriothesley?”

“hmm?” comes his sleepy hum.

“thank you,” you whisper, yawning, “for trusting me. enough to tell me.”

“go to sleep,” he grunts tiredly, “you can be sappy and sentimental in the morning.”

“okay,” you grin tiredly, pressing closer into him, “i’ll hold you to it.”

sleep comes quickly after that—so easy, so natural in his arms, you wonder how you’ve rested all these years without him. 

——————————

your routine to meet with wriothesley ebbs and flows between the surface and the fortress. sometimes, he stops by just like before, and sometimes, he sends for guards to fetch you when he’s too busy to make an appearance himself. your meetings more or less end the same—catching your breath together, bare bodies huddled together in a tired mess as you share quiet, whispered words into each other’s skin. it’s a routine that both of you are too used to by now, that even a short gap of not seeing each other makes the both of you impatient for the next time you’ll get to see each other. 

on days you can’t afford to see each other, your days at the shop drag by slower when all you can do is think about him. sometimes, the guards will be relieved to come to escort you, woefully expressing the awful mood the duke has been in, shuddering as they recall how unpleasant he is to be around when he’s unhappy. they seem to insist your visits are what help end his supposed awful temperament—your instinct is always to flush and insist they must be mistaken.

but it’s an intimate sort of development—the way the two of you slowly learn to depend on each other for comfort. you on long days at the shop, him after tiresome affairs with the fortress. every delicate touch and every saccharine word you exchange slowly peels away the harsh layers of the week, leaving you raw and bare to each other. 

it’s nice. something you’ve grown a bit dependent on, in fact. a part of you would like to be scared, but wriothesley doesn’t let you fear anything—it’s just the kind of guy he is. everything about him feels too safe for you to consider being scared. 

you miss him terribly, too. you haven’t gotten a chance to see him in over a week—it’s the first week of spring, the blooming season for a number of flowers. you have shipments from across the continent—cecilias from mondstadt, silk jades from liyue, sakura blossoms from inazuma, and padisarahs from sumeru. there are plenty more—too many for you to list off the top of your head, but those are the ones you’re sure will sell out the quickest. 

there’s a certain man who stops by every day, a mop of ginger on his head and an interesting aura about him as he asks you if you’ve received kalpalata lotuses yet—they’re for my sister, he tells you, i bring them home for her every time i visit sumeru. but i won’t have a chance for quite a while.

you learn he’s a harbinger, the eleventh in rank, and hardly one to step foot in his homeland for too long at a time. but he’s due back, he tells you, for a project that won’t allow him to leave for quite some time. mingling with a fatui operative is hardly on your list of possibilities for the week, but you realize even a harbinger can appreciate the beauty of flowers. so you promise him your batch's biggest blooms as soon as they are delivered. 

and he’s patient, coming every day in hopes that they’ve been delivered, helping you organize the deliveries you do get, going as far as to join you to loch urania amidst a terrible storm to assist in picking lakelight lilies when you’re low. you appreciate the small companionship you’ve formed with him—childe, as he’s called, he tells you. a code name for his place as a harbinger that you relish in being given the knowledge of.  

the day finally comes when the lotuses are delivered, and for all his help and kindness, you try to repay him with a free bouquet. 

he declines persistently. “no, no miss,” he chuckles, waving his hands in dismissal as you offer the beautifully bundled flowers, “i couldn’t possibly accept them free of charge.”

“oh, don’t be silly,” you huff, “you’ve done plenty for me. an extra set of hands in the shop is as rare as glaze lilies blooming in midwinter!”

“i was happy to help,” he chirps, “i had a good time occupying myself as i waited to depart fontaine.”

“and archons know when the next time you’ll return is,” you sigh, “which is why you should accept these as a parting gift.”

“a parting gift, huh?” your eyes widen at the familiar voice—wriothesley. it’s been almost two weeks since you’ve heard it, and you beam as you look over at his approaching figure.

“wriothesley!” you hum, “what are you doing here?”

“thought i’d come to pay a visit,” he says gruffly, eyeing childe, who grins tightly at the warden. “i wasn’t banking on seeing an ex-inmate, though. what a shocking surprise.”

“the fortress’s duke in broad daylight,” childe coos, “what a fascinating sight.”

it’s tense—you can feel the atmosphere shift all too quickly as the two men stare each other down. 

“i didn’t know childe was a prisoner at the fortress,” you murmur, making the warden scoff as he glares at the harbinger.

“well,” childe shrugs, eyes sharp as they gaze at wriothesley, “i like to consider myself wrongly sentenced. justice isn’t always fair in the courts of fontaine, it seems.”

“ah, is that why you escaped from your sentence early?”

“i believe my escape proved to be quite helpful in saving the people of this nation in the end, didn’t it?” he asks, voice low, almost predatory, as wriothesley grits his jaw, glancing back at you before crossing his arms. 

“is the fatui boy giving you trouble?” he asks, making you shake your head frantically as the harbinger lets out a dry chuckle from the side. 

“oh, no!” you insist, “no, childe has been quite helpful, i promise. he’s given quite a hand, in fact!”

“is that so?” wriothesley perches a brow, tongue poking his cheek as he glares to the side at the smug ginger. 

“oh, absolutely,” childe nods, “you see, i’ve been offering the lovely lady my assistance as i waited on my delivery. we even visited loch urania together to pick lakelight lilies for a bouquet she needed to deliver.”

“he treated me to lunch,” you beam innocently. you might have missed the way wriothesley’s jaw tightens, but childe certainly doesn’t, making his grin spread even wider. “he’s nice, wriothesley, i promise. i hope you both can sort out whatever differences you had during his previous sentence.”

“perhaps next time, you could join us for lunch,” childe drawls, “it’ll be on me.”

“a kind offer,” the duke chuckles dryly, a rueful grin on his tight lips as he adds, “but i’ll have to decline.”

“please, i really insist you take these lotuses,” you hold the bouquet out to the harbinger, and much to wriothesley’s dismay, there’s an evident amount of extra care put into the floral packaging. your careful handwriting in soft, looped letters spelling out his name across the paper, with a heart beside it as though you took time to thoughtfully scribble each letter just for him. “give your sister my best regards.”

“you know his sister?” wriothesley grits.

“oh no,” you chuckle, “but he tells me of her. the flowers are for her!”

“like i said,” childe hums, taking out a heavy pouch of mora and placing it on your counter—both yours and wriothesley’s eyes widen at the sheer amount of mora you’re sure is inside. it’s undoubtedly far more than a small, simple bouquet would cost, but he waves it off like it’s nothing as he says, “i insist on giving you the payment you deserve. you’ve certainly made my last few days here at fontaine interesting. it’s made up for the less than…welcoming treatment from the beginning of my trip.”

wriothesley’s eye all but twitches. 

“that’s far too much to accept for a small bunch of kalpalata lotuses, you can’t—”

“consider it a payment in advance for the next time i return to fontaine,” he winks, “i’ll be sure to visit for more of your lovely flowers. i’m sure my mother will appreciate a bouquet too.”

with that, he waves at you, walking off with a grin as you sigh and shake your head fondly, waving him off as you call, “you’re quite the handful, you know. do visit again next time you’re here!”

“oh, i wouldn’t miss the opportunity for anything.”

wriothesley scoffs at the final exchange of words, watching the retreating figure of the harbinger with hardened, distant eyes while you exhale softly and grab the pouch of mora. 

“are all harbingers this loaded with mora, do you think?”

“who knows,” he mutters, looking away as he swallows before adding, “i came to visit on my way back to the fortress. i had business with neuvillette.”

“oh,” you hum, smiling as you ask, “is he doing well?”

“fine,” is all wriothesley says.

“that’s good,” you nod, “we haven’t been able to see each other in quite a bit, huh? i’d have visited, but the deliveries all week have kept me busy.”

“good thing you had the harbinger to lend a hand, huh?” he remarks, raising a brow.

“well, yeah, i suppose so,” you frown slightly, watching as he takes a slow, deep breath before fixing his tie. “is everything okay?”

“yeah,” he says instantly. “may i walk you home?”

“of course,” you smile—it doesn’t reach your eyes, and he wishes he could find it in himself to do something to reassure the lingering worry in your irises, but he doesn’t. instead, he quietly waits for you to close the shop, so uncharacteristically silent that you can practically feel the tension in the air tangibly.

the walk to your home is just as silent. wriothesley doesn’t say anything, and you don’t have the confidence to break the silence yourself. you’ve never seen him like this, so bothered and visibly so. you’re not entirely sure what brought it on, either—but you are sure it has something to do with childe. 

you finally reach your home after a long walk, quietly standing in front of the door as you turn to him and inspect his face. hard-lined lips, distant eyes, and crossed arms. he doesn’t look like the usual wriothesley you know—the one who grins and gives you a slight bow as he says, we’ve arrived at your lovely home, milady. 

“thank you for walking me,” you murmur, looking at him carefully as he nods.

“sure,” he responds flatly, “my pleasure.”

“you didn’t have to trouble yourself if you were tired from your meeting,” you add.

“not tired,” he shakes his head. “it was no trouble to me.”

“are you sure?” you raise a brow, sighing as you cross your own arms, “you don’t seem too happy to be here.”

“what do you mean?” he shrugs lamely, avoiding your question, your gaze. you know that one look into your eyes is all it takes to make him spill, and normally, you don’t take advantage of that, but you think tonight you will. 

because you’re tired of dancing around half-truths and coded words you have to decipher. you want one straight, laid-bare conversation with him. so you reach over and tilt his jaw, making him inhale sharply at your touch as you force him to face you and look at you. 

“what is up with you? and don’t even think about saying nothing.”

“nothing is up with me,” he mumbles stubbornly.

“wriothesley,” you warn, looking at him unimpressed, “i was not born yesterday.”

“my apologies,” he says sarcastically, a rueful smile curling on those chapped lips of his, “i suppose i’m just a bit shocked i’m not the only customer you offer your affections to. i suppose that was silly of me—it must be good for business.”

“excuse me?” you recoil, staring at him in disbelief. a little hurt, too—he regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, flinching slightly at the implications. “how dare you insinuate i’m a common whore?” 

“that’s not what i was trying to say at all,” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, “it came out wrong.”

“then what were you trying to say?” you demand, looking at him expectantly, hands on your hips and a raise of your brows that almost mockingly tells him, i’d love to see you work your way out of this one. 

“you never told me you and the fatui boy were so close.” 

if there’s one thing wriothesley is good at, it’s shifting things to focus on other people. so he can observe. watch closely. take note of all the little things so he can figure out what he wants to know without asking at all. all without having anything told to him right out. it’s how he works—and you won’t entertain it. 

“the fatui boy has a name,” you point out.

“his name is not actually childe,” he snorts—there’s no real amusement in the action, just as sarcastic and sardonic as everything prior. “is that what you believe?”

“if you’re not going to say the problem with your words like an adult, i’m going to go inside,” you spit, “we’re both wasting time here if we’re just going to talk in circles.”

“yes, because i’m the one who’s not admitting things,” he chuckles dryly. 

you glare at him—because enough is enough, and you’re sick of taking one step forward just to stumble ten steps back. with one swift move, your hand grips his wrist firmly and yanks, pulling him to stumble into your home as the door slams behind him. you’re tired of having bystanders walk past you and listen to your pointless discussion, and you’re tired of getting nowhere the longer you stand outside. it feels like the more you talk, the less you know. every word he says confuses you more and more.

and that’s the thing about him—he never tells you things, not since that night he first opened up. you thought you broke some newfound trust, a new ground to walk on with him that leads somewhere further than just two people who seek each other out for pleasure. you feel something for him—and you thought he did too, but it’s always something vague or another with him and you’re tired of it. tired of wondering where you stand, what he wants, how he feels. you want to know, and tonight, even if it kills you, you’ll find out.

“what is it you want me to admit wriothesley? huh?” you scowl, “tell me so i can tell you what you need to know so you’ll finally answer my question. i’m tired of the back-and-forth game with you.”

“you don’t need to admit anything to me,” he shrugs, “it’s not my business.”

“you don’t even believe that yourself,” you scoff, “even i can tell that much. is this about childe? you don’t like me mingling with the fatui? he’s just friendly, that’s all. and good business.”

“right,” he nods slowly, disbelievingly. you almost see red—how dare he hint that you’re a liar. 

“what do you think i’m doing then?” you challenge, “let’s hear it. fraternizing with the fatui? is that the accusation you’ll pull out?”

“well, if he’s helping you pick flowers and buying you lunch, then you certainly can’t be strangers,” he smiles tightly, “perhaps next time he can join us in our canoodling too if you’d like.”

“so that’s what it is?” you shake your head exasperatedly, “you’re moody because you’re jealous?”

“i’m not jealous,” he narrows his eyes, “i have no reason to be.”

“i’d believe you sooner if you’d said the underwater beast really was the cause of your scars,” you scoff, pursing your lips. “why is it so hard for you to just speak your mind?”

“then let’s start with you,” he retorts, hands throwing up in the air as he takes a step closer and glares daggers at you, “why are you dancing around what your relationship with the harbinger is?”

“there is nothing between me and the harbinger! nothing at all, and i don’t appreciate you assuming things about me. i’ve only been intimate with you!”

“you don’t need to hide it,” he smiles bitterly. finally, as if the conversation has chipped away at his resolve enough that bits and pieces of his inner turmoil can show, you can see the lingering hurt in his gaze. the betrayal. the doubt and fear—all of it pools in his eyes, swimming in the many, many flecks of his eyes as you stare into them. “it’s not as though we’ve committed to anything here.”

“i’m not hiding anything,” you say firmly, “you don’t have to be jealous.”

“i’m not jealous,” he shakes his head. it feels like he’s convincing himself more than you. because more than you, admitting to himself he cares is hard. all of this is hard—you know that. the last time he dared to trust someone, to love someone, he’d lost more than he could fathom. more than he was ever ready to lose.

so you sigh, dropping your shoulders as you let the anger dissipate.

“i wouldn’t blame you if you were jealous,” you say softly, extending the olive branch with a slow, hesitant hand to his cheek. he stiffens, but he doesn’t pull away, “it would kill me, too, to think you were close to another woman. but the harbinger is a customer i’ve become friendly with and nothing more. don’t you believe me?”

he closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath as he hesitantly leans into your palm, letting your thumb brush soothing strokes along the scar under his eye.

“i was jealous,” he admits, quiet. hoarse. strained. it takes every ounce of him to admit as much to you—the progress makes you smile softly. “i…i was so jealous i couldn’t think straight. and i took it out on you. i’m sorry.”

“maybe it’s time we had a discussion,” you say softly, “about…well, us. what it is we’re doing. it’s long overdue.”

“i’ve been avoiding it,” he confesses. 

“i know,” you murmur, smiling tightly, “i know you have. that’s why i didn’t bring it up. but we can’t dance around it forever.”

“i’m no good at this,” he opens his eyes, defeated and so lost, you can’t help but lean in and press a soft kiss to his jaw.

“you’re not so bad,” you hum, “give yourself a little more credit.”

“no,” he shakes his head, “you don’t understand. i’ve never been good at this…at trusting people and getting close to them. i don’t even have real friends—i see clorinde and neuvillette every few months, and briefly at that. one of them was the judge at my trial, and the other knows as much about me as the files say. i don’t like talking about my feelings, and i hate sharing things about myself. i’m not jealous of childe because he threatens me—even i know you’d never give a fatui member a chance. but i’m no good for a stroll in the park, or picking flowers, or lunch at a cafe. i live underwater in a large prison that i run, and i rarely come up—at least, not often enough to be a healthy, functioning member of society, that is.”

“so what?” you frown, “i don’t care. nothing is easy at first—isn’t that why we try? who says you have to share all your feelings immediately? we can work up to that slowly. this was sharing, wasn’t it? what you just did? that’s a step in the right direction.”

“and look how much we had to battle for that little bit,” he lets out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh that makes your heart ache, “you’ll grow tired of me.”

“you don’t get to decide that,” you shake your head stubbornly, “i would never grow tired of you. never you.”

“i might be a duke now, but i was a murderer in the past,” he adds, a low and cheap attempt to convince you he’s not worth it. you roll your eyes at the statement.

“i’m aware,” you say blandly, “i don’t care, wriothesley. i don’t. those are all excuses—if you want this, if you really want this like i do, because you care about me just like i care about you and you feel the same way, then you’d realize these are all petty excuses your head is coming up with. i’ll wait for you to be better at communicating if you promise you’ll try. and your past is just a small stain on the cloth that we can ignore.”

“it’s murder,” he says in disbelief.

“i said what i said,” you huff. he blinks once, then twice before letting out a breathy chuckle.

“you’re insane.”

“thank you,” you nod, grinning, “and you being at the fortress is just a small obstacle. we’ll make it work, you and me.”

“how?” he asks, voice small and unsure.

“you act like it’s impossible, you silly thing. i’ll come see you, and you’ll come see me, and we can spend nights together wherever is most convenient for the time. why are you overthinking it?” you ask like it’s obvious. maybe it is—maybe his brain just doesn’t let him see how simple of a solution it really is.

“the fortress is no place for someone who’s used to the surface—”

“enough excuses,” you scold firmly, “i won’t have any of it.”

“you don’t know what you’re getting into,” he shakes his head—you cup his cheeks, pulling his face close as you press soft, delicate kisses along his skin. like he’s fragile. like he needs to be handled with care. 

no one has ever handled wriothesley with care. even as a child when he was defenseless. when his parents saw a commodity to raise and sell like livestock instead of a child to love and cherish. when the streets saw a rat with dirty clothes and nimble fingers only good for theft. when he woke up in a hospital bed with cuffs to his hands, wrists shackled, and a caseworker sat a comfortable distance away, even without his gauntlets. when they saw him as nothing more than a murderer on trial as opposed to a child with no other way out. when the world showed him no mercy and left him to fend for himself in a dark, ruthless corner of the nation under the sea with no sun, no grass, no fresh air, and no hope.

no one has thought to treat wriothesley with gentleness, with kindness, with grace—as if he mattered. not until he made himself matter, taking what he wanted through a pen, paper, and meaningless title. 

no one until you. 

“i know exactly what i’m getting into,” you whisper, “you know what i see? when i look at you?”

“what? big muscles?” he teases, voice weak. a last, feeble attempt at keeping himself guarded. it’s useless, and he knows it as well as you do. he’s already far more vulnerable than he’s comfortable with. 

“a good man,” you say firmly, “a good man who is worth the effort. one who has a good heart and no one to share it with. someone who knows when change needs to happen and makes it happen. someone who knows a thing or two about second chances. who shows people mercy if they’re willing to be better—because that’s all he wants. for things to be better.”

“you’re giving me a lot more credit than i deserve, sweetheart,” he says shakily, trying to give you his usual smirk. his lips wobble, much to his dismay—you kiss them to help him hide the tremor like the angel you are. 

he’s not sure why the archons, celestia, or whoever is in charge of fate would send him such a perfect, pure angel in his arms. but they did. he’s certainly not one to miscount his blessings—they’ve been few and far between as is. 

“no,” you murmur, whispering between kisses, “i’m not. i’m giving you as much credit as you deserve. because no one has ever told you these things about you, and it’s time someone did.”

“doing the dirty work, huh?”

“i wish you’d stop with that,” you smile at him sadly, “i wish you would treat yourself with the same kindness you treat everyone else with. that you treat me with.”

“you’re an angel,” he murmurs, pecking your cheek, “that’s the difference.”

“you can’t be that bad if that’s the case,” you grin cheekily, “what kind of angel picks such an awful guy?”

“one who thinks the fatui harbingers make good friends,” he snorts, “one who’s a little on the naive side.”

“i like to think of it as seeing good in people,” you wink. 

he laughs, arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against his chest as he kisses you. and kisses you. and kisses you—and kisses you some more until you’re forced to pull away and breathe. even then, he’s not satisfied, lips finding the sensitive skin along your collarbones, traveling up along your neck and finding your jaw, peppering soft presses of his lips until they hover over your mouth again.

“you good?” he asks smugly, “need a minute to catch your breath?”

“you’re such a pain,” you huff, pressing against his mouth and closing the gap as he hums against you. 

“what were you just saying about me just a few moments ago? something about a good man?”

“come here,” you sigh exasperatedly—and then you’re tugging him into your bedroom, stumbling and giggling as you both impatiently find the bed. you fall back, the mattress catching you along with him as he hovers over you and doesn’t waste a moment to nip at your neck.

“next time you need help with flowers in a dangerous, stormy place, you ask me,” he says lowly, breath fanning over your skin and making you shiver, “you don’t need the fatui boy.”

“okay,” you laugh, breathless as your eyes flutter shut when he nibbles on the sensitive spot over your pulse point, “you might have to temporarily drop your duties as a duke for that, though.”

“consider it done.” his hands tug your blouse over your head, doing quick work to toss it somewhere on the floor as he grins at the lacey red bra you have on underneath. “this is new,” he comments, “i like this.”

“of course you do,” you grin in amusement, “so predictable.”

“hey,” he pouts, “i’m an easy guy to please. just need you, maybe a few accessories…i don’t ask for much.”

“well,” you look at him in anticipation, “are you going to stare all day? or are you going to take it off?”

his eyes darken—hazed with lust and desperation as he quickly works the bra off of you and tosses it off to the side, too, but not before he stares at the label quickly. “chioriya boutique,” he reads, nodding, “remind me to give her my thanks. and business, too, in the future.”

“shameless,” you scoff, shaking your head.

“grateful,” he corrects, grinning cheekily at you. you don’t even get a chance to retort before his lips are around your nipple, teeth lightly grazing the pebbled nub as he sucks, making you gasp as your hands find his head, cupping the back of it as your own head throws back against the pillows. 

“wri—”

“you know what i see when i see you?” he hums, pulling away from one nipple and latching onto the other, tongue rolling over it slowly as his thumb finds the other, not to leave it neglected, “i see the woman i would defy the gods themselves to possess. who i would commit far worse crimes for, and serve time all over again for. one who commands my every thought. do you know how many times i’ve neglected my duties just thinking about you alone? when i see you, i see the one thing that’s finally mine—mine alone.”

you whimper as his lips reattach themselves to your breast, sucking and grazing his tongue around one nipple and pinching and toying with the other with his hand. your hands tug at his hair, pulling a soft groan from his throat as he pulls away and stares at you. you’re a panting, heaving mess already—he grins in satisfaction.

“pretty,”  he hums, nuzzling his nose against your throat, right where your pulse is erratic, “so, so pretty.”

“all this flattery, and you’ve yet to do something,” you rasp, just to rile him up as he lets out a deep, gruff sound of disapproval, eyeing you with a raised brow.

“oh, you want me to do something, is that it? i thought we’d take our time,” he grazes his finger along your waist, tracing the edge of your skirt before looping his finger under it, tugging slowly, “but if you insist, i guess we can pick up the pace.”

he pulls the skirt down your legs, eyes widening as he takes in the matching red laced panties from the bra earlier—you grin cheekily as he does. “like this one too?”

“oh,” he chuckles, breathless, “sweetheart, you have no idea.” wriothesley is a giver—you’re reminded of this fact as soon as his head buries between your thighs enthusiastically, kissing your clit through the lace as your breath hitches. “did you pick this little set up just for me?”

“don’t be silly,” you tease, “i obviously got this for myself. consider yourself a lucky witness.”

“and a lucky witness i am indeed,” he nods, humming as he slowly, carefully inches the lace down your legs, admiring the way it contrasts against your sweet, supple skin. “i owe chioriya boutique my life. i’ll even give my thanks to madame chiori myself.”

“please do not,” you say in horror, making him chuckle, “that would be utterly undignified.”

he’s not even listening, you realize. his lips attach to your clit as soon as the fabric is discarded somewhere to the side like the rest, a soft groan rumbling from his chest as soon as he tastes you, spreading your legs for better access as he glides his tongue to your folds, pressing between your folds and looking up to watch as your head throws back with a soft gasp. 

“wriothesley,” you gasp, pulling his hair in a tight grip to ground yourself.

you’re the most gentle with him when you handle him—but you’re also the roughest. the way you grasp him so harshly, mercilessly in your grip, makes his eyes flutter shut in a sick, twisted sort of masochism. he loves the pain, the dull throb in his skull from your pleasure. 

“yeah, i’m right here, sweetheart,” he chuckles lowly, “feels good?”

“yes,” you whine, “s’good—so good.”

“i know,” he hums, pressing soft kisses to your clit, along your inner thigh, until he’s back to your folds, hovering over them as he whispers, “i can tell just from the way you’re dripping. isn’t that cute?”

you whine in embarrassment, closing your legs around him as he grins against your cunt, grinding down on his mouth until he’s back to devouring you, tongue slipping deep into you as far as he can, exploring your tight, wet hole with fervor. 

“close,” you whisper, voice bordering on broken, “i’m s-so close—oh, wriothesley!”

you come undone on his tongue with one more roll of his tongue over your clit, shaking as he sloppily eats you out through your high until your whole body is a shaking, quivering mess along with your walls. 

“got anything else from that boutique you want to show me?” he murmurs, moving back up to hover over you, burying his face into your neck as your arms snake around his shoulders, rubbing into his back.

“maybe,” you say vaguely, grinning, “it’s a secret. maybe if you behave, you’ll find out.”

“yeah?” he chuckles, “consider me on my best behavior, milady.”

“then take this off,” you tug at his shirt, pouting as you add, “not fair that i’m the only one undressed.”

“as you wish,” he agrees. you watch as he strips—it’s not embarrassing like the first time or two when you looked away with a hot face and ears. now it’s intimate, watching him bear his soul to you, with every scar and imperfection, every flaw and tainted part.

his cock is hard, standing between his legs as it throbs, a bead of pre cum coating the tip. your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him close again as you feel his hardened length poke at your thigh, making you press against it and pull a groan out of him.

“i want you,” you whisper, “i’ve never wanted anyone else. not like this. not like you. i don’t think i ever will.”

“you can’t have met too many people then,” he teases.

“oh, i meet plenty of people. romantic ones at that—flowers are a love language, you know.”

“and you still want me? they must all be taken.”

“they’re not you,” you correct, pulling him into a sweet, slow kiss, taking your time to mold your lips against him and feel him against you, “nothing close to you. no one comes close.”

the bees should come to your lips for nectar, he thinks. flowers bloom from your mouth, delicate and sweet petals that light up his world and color him every shade of love. 

“in that case,” he whispers, pulling away from your mouth to press a soft kiss to your nose, “i’m the luckiest man in fontaine. maybe teyvat.”

“i would agree,” you wink cheekily, “aren’t i such a lucky catch?”

“oh absolutely,” he laughs, amused, fond, so deeply enamored. then his lips are back on yours, and his hips are angled so that his cock teases your folds, grazing the entrance of your cunt as he coats his tip with your dripping slick. 

you both shudder at the feeling, gasping against each other’s mouths as you exchange hot, labored breaths. 

“i want you,” you repeat, “please.”

“you have me,” he whispers, letting out a soft moan as he pushes the tip past your entrance, “as long as you want.”

“that’ll be forever,” you say breathlessly, “think you can handle that long?”

“i’m sure i’ll manage.”

finally, he pushes all the way through, buried to the hilt and stretching you apart until he splits you open on his cock. he presses so deep into you, you can feel him nudge against that sweet, spongy spot without even trying. it’s like he was made for you—like the laws of this land declared him yours from birth and made him fit you in every way possible. the slot of his fingers with yours, the mold of his lips against you, the press of his cock into your cunt. all of it fits you so well, you wonder if you’ve lived your life just to find wriothesley. 

you both moan into each other’s mouths, strangled sounds that you swallow from each other’s mouths as your lips sloppily press into each other. 

“wr-wrio—fuck,” you stammer, nails raking along his back as he rolls his hips, slamming into your deepest, most rawest parts.

“yeah, baby,” he pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, “m’right here, sweetheart.”

you sob when a rough, callused thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles into the bundle of nerves perfectly in tune with the harsh thrusts that fill you so deep. deep—he’s so far into you, you wonder if you can feel him in your throat, in your lungs, and in your heart, knocking the air out of you as you breathlessly try to call his name. 

“faster,” you plead, clinging to him, “more—please, need more.”

“think you can take it?” he chuckles, cutting himself off with a strangled grunt when you squeeze around him particularly tightly, “i think you’re falling apart as is.”

“more,” you whine, back arching as your hips desperately buck up to meet his in tandem, trying to feel him closer, deeper, harder. 

“if that’s what you want,” he hums—you want to scoff at him, but you’re too delirious. you’d tease him for acting like he doesn’t want the same, like the ache of his cock doesn’t crave more friction, doesn’t want to slam into you with little to no self-control outside of chasing his pleasure. you feel so good around him—so good, his head falls to your shoulder as he pants harshly into your ear, murmuring stammered praises. “s-so good, sweetheart. you always take me so good, like the pretty thing you are. how in teyvat did i score the affections of fontaine’s most radiant lady? o-only the gods could know.”

“why don’t you ask them,” you breathe, head pressing against the pillow as your back arches and your toes curl when he slams his swollen tip against your sweet spot once more, hips rolling in perfect precision, “ask them how you got so blessed.”

“maybe i’ll ask the divinity right before me,” he hums smoothly, chuckling when you mewl as his thumb rubs faster into your clit, “how did i get so lucky?”

“because i need you,” you whine, “n-need you—only you.”

“what a sweet answer,” he groans, pumping his cock into you faster, feeling the familiar twitch indicating he’s close—and you are too. he can tell from the erratic squeeze of your walls. “always spoiling me, right sweetheart?”

“wriothesley,” you cry, “i-i’m close. m’so close, please. please.”

“no need to say please, baby,” he grunts, “you can have whatever you want. when you want it, yeah?”

and just like that, you break—his thumb is still rubbing those harsh circles into you swollen clit as you cum, clenching down on him through your high as your mouth parts and your head presses deeper into the pillow. he’s fucking into you, still slamming his hips into you as mercilessly as before, riding you through your orgasm as you chant his name. 

“wri—wriothesley,” you sob.

“yeah, sweetheart? what is it?” he teases—it doesn’t last long, though. his bravado falls apart as soon as the first twitch of his cock indicates his own orgasm. you feel the hot, sticky, endless ropes of cum fill you up, coating your walls as he stiffens over you and shudders, groaning lowly as he empties himself into your sweet cunt. “f-fuck, you feel so good—you’re the only one. the. only. one.”

his hips thrust into you to punctuate the words, cock pushing his release deeper into you, messy and leaking down your thighs and forming a ring at the base of his length. it’s so filthy you almost think it’s a sin. but how could it be when it feels so right, so good?

finally, he slumps over your body, spent and panting as he finishes. you catch your breath under him, labored breath one after the other as your sweaty skin clings against his own.

“you’re beautiful,” he murmurs after some time, kissing the damp skin of your neck.

“i know,” you whisper cheekily, making him chuckle as he rolls over, pulling you into his chest.

“so humble,” he snorts.

“of course,” you beam, “but feel free to leave more compliments.”

“oh don’t worry, i won’t run out any time soon.”

it’s quiet for a bit, apart from your giggles and his low chuckles. soft, peaceful, and so painfully comforting, you wonder if heaven itself wishes for a place beside wriothesley. 

“when you first came up to the surface after your sentence,” you mumble after a few moments of quietness, tracing small loops into his chest as he silently hums for you to continue, “what was the first thing you did?”

“i got a croissant,” he answers thoughtfully, thumb rubbing circles into your hip where his hand is comfortably rested.

you blink, tilting your head to look up at him. his lips curve into a knowing grin.

“pardon?”

he laughs—it’s a beautiful thing. like a boy, eyes crinkled and lips freely curved so wide, you’d think his cheeks were endless with the way they expand to accommodate for such a large stretch. it’s the one time he doesn’t seem like the rugged man you usually know. something younger, more innocent, more raw comes out when wriothesley laughs.

“they go well with tea,” he shrugs, looking down at you, quickly stealing a peck of your nose, “and…” his voice is softer as he trails off, smile faltering.

“and?” you press delicately. so delicately, you’d think you were speaking to a house of cards, one word that’s breathed too harshly away from toppling over.

“and i wanted to visit a bakery i went to as a kid,” he murmurs quietly, voice dropping to a whisper as if he’s admitting something he’s never told anyone. something tells you he just might be. “there was an old lady who used to feed me sometimes when i was a kid on the streets. after i ran away. she’d give me a chocolate croissant and warm tea. i thought…i thought maybe there was a chance she’d still …”

he swallows, cutting his words off just before his voice has the chance to break. it’s a measured gesture. you know it is because you know him. just like you know the feelings of petals and thorns with your eyes closed, you know wriothesley. just like you can tell flowers apart from scent alone, you have him memorized. just like you know what every petal and its origin means, you understand him like it’s your job, too.

except you get paid to do this with something better than mora. with open-mouthed kisses and lingering touches. with coffee in a mug to complement the tea next to it. with strong arms to shield you when rain pours hard over your unsuspecting heads. with a gentle voice that learns to whisper back the language you speak better than anything else.

it says you’re the one i need the most, like rainbow roses. i miss you so much, i ache for you, like mourning flowers. i’d shed blood for you to live, like dendrobiums. you’re what i desire more than anything else, like romaritimes. each word is carefully formed, fragile as it hangs from a singular point. like petals on a stem, his words blossom from the tip of his tongue, falling one by one to your awaiting hands as your thumb traces his lips.

they all tell you one thing—whether he says the words out loud or not, he tells you he loves you through the things he does say. every little promise, every compliment, every form of praise. they say one thing—i love you.

you have always felt loved around wriothesley. you know he loves you, even if you question it sometimes, even if you ache to hear it, you’re always reminded he does when those eyes soften as they look at you, training on you like they never want to look away.

he loves you. he loves you not. he loves you. he loves you not. he loves you.

he loves you.

he loves you.

he loves you.

it always ends with he loves you.

“was she?” you whisper, finger tracing up his chest, along his neck and jaw until it cups his cheek tenderly. he shivers at the touch. “was she still there?”

gentleness isn’t something wriothesley is very familiar with. it raids his skin, takes over the territory that’s only known harshness, and conquers the scarred patches that are barren and empty from all the pain and desolation.

“no,” his voice is barely audible. “her son owns it now. the croissants still taste the same, though.”

“some things never change, i suppose,” you smile softly, leaning closer as your nose presses against his, “even when everything else does. it’s not so bad if you hold onto what you can.”

“and what if you have nothing?” he challenges, closing his eyes when you kiss his jaw sweetly and slowly inhaling a soft breath.

“i’m sure that’s never true,” you murmur, “there’s always something.”

“yeah? how optimistic of you,” he chuckles.

“i’m serious,” you pout, “there’s always a way to make do. look at cacti. they go ages without water, don’t they? and did you know naku weeds can survive being struck by lightning?”

“do you just compare everything to plants?” he asks in amusement, eyeing you with a charmed glint.

“of course,” you huff, “don’t you compare things to what you love most?”

he looks at you for a moment. really looks at you. grazes his eyes over your supple skin he’s traced so many times, over the small crinkles by your eyes permanently etched from smiling so often, over the curve of your nose and lips he’s pressed his own against, over the two eyes that stare back at him and see him more than they do look.

and then he nods.

“yeah,” he admits, “i do.”

your lips are as sweet as the warm chocolate that coated his lips and chin as a child. your touch is as soft as the hands of his mother when he thought he could trust her. your eyes are as bright as the sun when he first saw it after years of dark, rusted walls. everything about you reminds him of his past, the better parts and the worst. all of it.

some of it is healing, and some of it hurts so raw he thinks he’ll bleed out. but your hands are dipped in gold, he thinks. they’d make the most infertile soil rich and filled with life, letting him blossom new again right where his blood spilled.

he’s reminded of you in everything he sees. tea reminds him of your coffee with too much milk. paperwork reminds him of how distressed you are by wasted pages and killed trees. his gauntlets remind him of your hands so small in comparison. he’s doomed, he thinks. cursed, even.

cursed to always remember you in everything.

so, of course, he compares everything to what he loves most. because why else would you reside in his mind so endlessly, taking up the space from one end all the way to the other? why else would you remind him of you in even the mundane of things if he didn’t love you so deeply, so purely, so easily, that you’re everywhere all at once, even when you’re nowhere in sight?

he presses his forehead to yours, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply before letting out a slow, shaky breath.

“i lied,” he admits, making you frown.

“about?”

“about the first thing i did when i got to the surface,” he says quietly. “i went to my parents' graves.”

“to visit them?” you raise a confused eyebrow.

“no. to make sure they were really dead.”

“oh,” is all you say, staring into his eyes as he waits for you to say something more. “well, were they dead?”

“yes,” he snorts, closing his eyes and huffing out a small laugh. “very much so.”

“well, that’s a relief,” you giggle, “otherwise, you’d have served a sentence for murder for nothing.”

“good thing i didn’t, huh?”

“good thing you didn’t,” you nod, grinning as he stares at you softly.

“i’ll take you one of these days,” he hums quietly after a moment. you look surprised, eyes widening as you process the words.

“to your parents' grave?”

“to the bakery,” he rolls his eyes, letting out a breathy laugh. “i don’t think my dead mother would appreciate me bringing back a woman after i killed her.”

“oh, very funny,” you scowl, glaring at him.

“you think so?” he winks, laughing when you gently shove his face away, making his hand grab at your wrist and bite gently into the skin.

you squeal, giggling as he nibbles into your skin. “stop that, you brute!” you demand in between laughs.

it’s quiet for a moment as the laughter settles down, just you and him. him and you. silence echoing off the walls and warmth radiating between your bodies, the sheets clinging to your bare skin. you can feel his bare hip brush against yours. it’s intimate—far more intimate than either of you are used to, but not unwelcome.

he turns, pulling you into his arms and pressing your foreheads together. you think that’s his favorite position to be in—when your faces are so close, they touch. when his eyes can bore into yours. when he can feel the warmth of you tickling his skin as you breathe, as you talk, as you exist before him.

“you’ll like the croissants,” he adds quietly, thoughtfully, “the blackberry ones are particularly nice with the lemon and mint tea—”

you cut him off. before you can think. the words fly past your lips, swept with the breeze like dandelion seeds, and carried through the room as they find shelter in every little crevice. they’ll be here, in every corner, in every little place, a memento of your first real confession.

“i love you.”

he pauses as you cut him off, blinking as he stares at you. something flashes in his eyes—fear, excitement, a small bit of shock and doubt that makes your heartache. you can read him like a book.

it’s not doubt because he thinks you lie. it’s doubt because he thinks it shouldn’t be him. you know that, and you’re prepared to patiently prove him he’s wrong. little by little. day by day. one kiss at a time.

“that’s really enthusiastic,” he shoots you a teasing grin, too easy and too practiced for your liking, “if i knew you liked croissants that much—”

“no, wriothesley,” you say gently, like your words could rock the boat and topple you both into a dangerous, unforgiving current any moment. “i love you. i love when you tell me things you don’t like sharing, and i love when you show me things that are hard to revisit. i love you. because you try, and you’re good at trying. and that’s enough.”

“getting sentimental on me?” he asks hoarsely, smiling tightly.

your hand cups his cheek again, pulling him in so you can kiss the corner of his mouth as you whisper, “yes.” your lips find the other side of his mouth, still at the corner as you whisper again. “because you deserve to hear nice things. even the cheesy ones.”

his eyes close. one moment turns to two, and you let him take his time. let him swallow as he takes a shallow breath before he opens them again and looks at you.

he’s laid bare before you. in more ways than one. being nude is easier than being seen—he trusts you enough to let himself be both.

“you deserve to hear nice things, too,” he admits. it’s not the same as admitting he loves you too, but it’s as close as he can get—still difficult enough that his voice breaks. like it’s hard for him to confess something like this.

it is.

it’s hard for him to tell someone he loves them. the last time he did, he felt the sucker punch of betrayal in his guts, so young that he hardly understood what it meant to be betrayed at all. he watched the same eyes he used to think were his saviors die out as blood spilled in the living room, where his tiny feet padded across as he ran around and played. he misses them sometimes, even now.

his mother’s beautiful green eyes that greeted him in the mornings as she kissed him awake, warm and gentle on his forehead. his father’s deep blue ones that would look at him proudly as he grew and grew, clasping his shoulder with that firmly affectionate grip.

sometimes, he misses them, misses what he thought he had. other times, he’s glad he did it. sometimes, in the dead of night, when it’s just him, he mourns the old him. the one that didn’t have blood on his hands, the him that didn’t have to take two lives to set so many free. the version of him that was allowed to be a boy who existed freely, no taxes to pay for the love he so desperately wanted.

love is wicked like that—it creeps up on you, takes pieces of you, and changes you until you can hardly recognize yourself. until you can hardly recognize everyone around you. how long has it been since he’s seen his siblings? can he even still call them that? do they remember him? would he even recognize them?

he still loves them in his own way. his precious little sisters camille and lucie, and his sweet baby his brothers alexandre and nicolas—he came back and set them free just before it was their time. he didn’t want to leave them, but he had no choice. there were ones who left before him, a time that he can hardly remember anymore. a time before him and antoine. but he recalls them being so delicate with him just as older siblings should be. did they make it out of whatever fate they were sealed to? were they disposed of with no witnesses to bring their demises to justice? he doesn’t know. it’s easier not to know.

it’s easier not to love at all than to open up the risk of hurting. every person he’s ever loved has caused him pain. even the innocent siblings who did nothing wrong—all he’s ever known is pain. the pain of not having them around anymore. the pain of their quiet demise. the pain of setting them free and letting them go. the pain of never having them to himself like a proper family.

loving is so hard for him, so hard on him. so unforgiving to him. so cruel and harsh to him that he hides away behind guarded fists and loaded punches. and you know it, too—he knows you do because you reward his confession with the softest kiss you’ve ever given him as soon as he spills the words.

“i love you,” you murmur the sweet words into his mouth between warm kisses, “i love you. i love you.”

“say it again,” he pleads. it’s easier to let you love him than it is to love you—you don’t mind letting him be a little selfish. he deserves it, in fact.

“i love you. more than anything i’ve ever loved.”

“promise me,” he begs.

“i promise,” you say firmly. “and you don’t have to say it back, not yet. but i want you to know it because you should know you’re loved.”

all at once, the vines wrapped around his chest release, one petal blooming across his heart and arteries at a time until the nectar is running through his veins.

it’s warm. it’s sunny. it’s soft. it’s so, so safe. it doesn’t hurt. it never does with you. you never let it.

“i love you too,” he croaks. he shivers as he says it before he’s grinning slowly, chuckling in wonder as he lets the words sink in before he repeats again, “i love you.”

“yeah?” you beam, eyes crinkling as joy tucks itself into the crevices.

he nods. “yes. and your weird nature lectures.”

you pout, making him laugh. “hey—”

“and your annoyingly aromatic house with petals everywhere—”

“they’re not everywhere—”

“and that ugly dog watering can of yours—”

“it kind of reminds me of you, so—”

“i love them all, and i want them for the rest of my life. i hope you take it easy on the snapdragons, though. i think i’m allergic.”

“such a romantic at heart,” you grumble, rolling your eyes. but they’re glassy, swelling with unshed, precious little tears.

he kisses your eyelids as you close your eyes, murmuring, “i’m doing my best here. cut me some slack, i’ve never dated someone before.”

“oh, wriothesley,” you sniffle, tears coating your sun-soaked skin. and despite the evidence of tears, he’s never seen joy on your face like this before—so clear and radiant. “who taught you about romance? you’re hopeless.”

“hopelessly in love with you,” he shoots back smugly, wiggling his brows.

“i’m doomed,” you snort, letting out a watery chuckle.

“yeah,” he says cheekily, “you are. i hope you’re prepared.”

you kiss him in reply. he kisses you, too. you kiss each other. flowers bloom everywhere your lips touch—wriothesley swallows every petal gratefully.

you love him. you love him not. you love him. you love him not. you love him. you love him not.

you love him.

you love him.

you love him.

it always ends with you love him.

and he loves you, too. you both love each other. the words bounce from both of your tongues like you take turns tasting them, feeling them, familiarizing yourselves with them.

it doesn’t matter who whispers the words first or who murmurs them last. no matter who breaks the silence, it always ends with i love you.

ITS FINISHED. WOW. i never thought a flower shop drabble was going to turn into this—i actually had a completely different flower shop au idea that was going to be a long fic but i just wanted to write a tiny practice round drabble to get the itch out my system before i had time to sit down for the full fic. well as you can see…the practice run kind of took a mind of its own so now we have this. LOL. i think perhaps i will also write the other idea but we will see!!! this one kind of replaced the other one in my heart as flower shop wrio lore lol 🥸

ANYWAY!!! i hope you all enjoyed this as much as i enjoyed writing it. idk if wrio was ooc or not or if i did his past and trauma justice but i certainly tried!! all the things about his past with the siblings and his mother's diary and the croissant at the bakery are all headcanons i carefully crafted and hold so so so dear. they are my truth!!! and they make me fall in love with him so much more deeply :( anyway! if you liked it then as always, reblogs and comments are appreciated. now if you’ll excuse me, i will be doodling his name in pink glitter pen with hearts in my diary and giggling.

[thelikesoffinn]

„Astarion ending as the Vampire Ascendant is the correct ending for him, because it is what he wants.”

That is a claim I’ve been seeing pop up more and more often these days. And I think it’s both a very bold and a very odd claim to make.

But first things first: Hello, I’m a licensed social worker! So far, I’ve worked with children, refugees and youths with behavioural issues stemming from bullying and or abuse.

Please be aware that I will be mentioning different kinds of abuse, coping mechanisms, and victim/abuser relationships. If any of this is difficult for you, don’t force yourself through it. My jabbering about a traumatised vampire is not worth your wellbeing, not ever.

I will, however try to stick to Astarion and not use other examples. If, in any case, I do use a non-Astarion example, I’ll add a warning beforehand so that you can skip the part. And I’ll make it clear what will be discussed in the next bit, so that you have a chance to skip it entirely.

This is an effort to make this as accessible as possible for everyone that wants to indulge on a mad woman’s rambling – and I know there’s a few people that like this sort of stuff!

And, uh, there's obviously spoilers for all three acts. Serious spoilers, even.

Before I can get into the whole ‘why Astarion didn’t really want to ascend,’ we need to understand him a little more. And to understand this pretty boy’s brain, we first need to understand the gist of what we’re talking about when we throw around the word ‘abuse.’

“Abuse” is when someone is treated with cruelty, violence, or neglect – often to bad effect – on a regular basis. Repetitively. Check’s out for Astarion, I’d say, but we all knew that already. I mean, if one thing was obvious, it was this.

1. Astarions Abuse

Next we need to look at what kind of abuse Astarion faced over his long years of torment, seeing as different types of abuse will have different effects on the victim.

Not that that is anything we have to worry about with him – Astarion won the abuse lottery, to put it bluntly. In a horrible game of fate, he got everything. He himself indirectly mentions all the types of abuse he faced, albeit never using the correct terms.

The first we properly notice – fitting, seeing as it is often the most obvious form of abuse – is the physical abuse. Astarions scars are probably the biggest tell Larian could shove down our throats, only underlined by Astarion’s tale about the night itself. About how Cazador ‘misspelled something’ every time he flinched or screamed and had to do ‘many corrections. On top of this, Cazador locked Astarion up for months on end and tortured him – or had him tortured – on a regular basis both as a rite and as a punishment.

Next up, we have the fact that Astarion was forced to basically prostitute himself repeatedly. This is what we call sexual exploitation.

“I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master.” – Act 2

Two hundred years is a long time, filled with great many people. Now, we don’t know how many of those people actually tapped into the sexual exploitation and how many he could just lure back with other means, but the fact that it happened a lot is undeniable.

Next we have a form of abuse that we often disregard in adults: Neglect. It sounds odd, I know, saying that a fully grown adult was neglected. They can care for themselves, can they not?

Well. Yes and no.

Adult neglect is proceeded by the condition that one adult has to lean on another adult to fulfil their needs for whatever reason. This could be anything, from disability to income-based issues.  

Seeing as Astarion had absolutely nothing, while Cazador had everything, we can assume this was the case. Cazador had the house, the money, the power. Astarion owns but one pair of clothes, assumedly, that he has fixes over and over again. Fair to say, that’s pretty neglectful. (And it’s one more reason to shower the guy in pretty armour and camp clothes. Go ham, people.)

Last we have the form of abuse we actually get to witness later in the game – emotional abuse.

Once again, it’s undeniable that this happened. Especially since we’re all seeing it in the flesh upon meeting Cazador in his crypt.

“Have you no respect for yourself?”

“I strove for perfection in all things. Even those as imperfect as you.”

“A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts.”

“A pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything.”

All Act 3, Crypt

Here we have just a few examples of things Cazador throws in his face. It’s like reading a textbook on emotional abuse, this one (and it’s definitely a reason to throw hands).

Blaming the victim, keeping their sense of self and their self-worth as tiny as possible to make them cower and flee. A true classic.

This pretty much shows that Astarion suffered all forms of abuse we commonly see and it is implied – once again by Astarion himself – that at least a few of those instances were ritualistic.

Now, what does that mean exactly? Well, I fear I need to use a real example here, so please skip the next paragraph.

Ritualistic doesn’t refer to a proper ritual – it can, but that’s mostly a thing for those in a cult. So, we’re not necessarily talking about a ‘Vampire Ascendent Ritual’. A husband, beating his wife every evening after his third bottle of beer is also called ritual abuse. It happens regularly. It is part of a routine. Both parties know what will happen.

I can’t find the exact quote, so I’m working of my memory here, but at one point he said that when Cazador invited him to eat and he said yes, he would be served a putrid rat. If he said no, he’d be beaten.

The way it was phrased made it clear that it happened more than once and that Astarion clearly knew what would happen. So, this can be classified as ritualistic abuse.

2. A Note on Conditioning and Compliance

By default, abuse victims are conditioned to behave a certain way or in a certain fashion. This is a natural response to avoid further abuse.

In Astarion, the thing we see most often is his inherent need to please. Not literally, he doesn’t mind being an arsehole. But he initially feels the need to follow Tav’s orders, even if they go against his own wishes.

This can be clearly seen in the conversation with Araj Oblodra. Astarion very clearly doesn’t want to bite her. He doesn’t. But he will do so, if Tav tells him to. This behaviour is not conscious – he doesn’t know why he does it, he just does – and it is to be expected. This is how he kept himself save for two centuries, so of course he will fall back into his usual pattern when the pressure is high.

This goes hand in hand with the fact that most abuse victims don’t fight. Maybe initially, but not after long term abuse. Especially not after two fucking centuries.

This is true in Astarion – offered by his ‘siblings’ during act 3 and unhappily acquiesced by the man himself. Astarion stopped fighting and, once again implied, cowered, and did as he was told in order to survive.

3. The Astarion we know and love

Obviously, all that abuse does have an impact on our vampire boyfriend. He shows various common signs of abuse and just like with the forms of abuse, Astarion raked every coping mechanism he could find. (Not really, but it feels like it.) It’s also important to note that nearly all of the following things happen inwardly. Astarion is not one of the victims, that tries to rationalise and minimise the actions of his abuser. Quite the opposite, actually.

I’ll note from the beginning, that rationalisation will not be covered in this bit, as most examples will be important later on. But he definitely does it.

One of his biggest skills is to hide every ounce of fear or hurt behind sarcasm and snarky theatrics. He doesn’t seem to hide his anger much, though, so that’s something! Our boy is cool with anger, not so much with being afraid.

“Ahahaha, now that you mention it….I might have done…that.” – Act 3, regarding the Gur children

“The thing that will decide my fate forever more? Yeees, it’s been on my miiiind. Why?” – Act 2, regarding the Ritual

And there’s many more instances that prove this. Honestly, half his dialogue is sarcasm, so it would really be too long to get into and we all know what I mean, right? We have alltalked to the guy before. It’s obvious that he’s sarcastic to a fault.

This goes hand in hand with his penchant for defensiveness. I would personally state that he’s simply not really good with guilt. When talking about fear, he usually just opts for sarcasm or avoids the topic completely, but guilt especially has his defences going up. This is also when he’s most likely to shove all the blame off to Cazador.

“Don’t look at me like that. Cazadors orders.” – Act 3, Crypt

“I just did what I had to!” – Act 3, Crypt

And don’t get me wrong, he does that anyway. And with good reason. Astarion didn’t have a choice for the most part, but he’s still easy to shove things off.

This kind of connects to his penchant for denial.

Astarion doesn’t really like to talk about most things. He firmly believes he is an ‘action’ sort of person that just does instead of plans, which invertedly just means he’s great at pushing the thinking stuff away. He also likes to get rid of stuff, so that he doesn’t need to face it ever again.

“I never want to see these little scraps of misery again. The world doesn’t need to know my shame.” – Act 3, about the children

And yes, this partly rings true. He’s probably ashamed and doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s done. But it’s also very clear that he himself simply doesn’t want to face his own actions, something that is just  underlined by his extreme willingness to red rid of the other spawn.

As mentioned by Astarion himself, he’s big on manipulation. I mean, I don’t think there is much explaining necessary. The guy is willing to do a whole lot in order to get what he desires – which mostly revolves around safety and survival, to be honest – and he’s not really shy about it either. And that’s despite the fact that he doesn’t really like intimacy – especially in form of sex.

It’s not a secret that Astarion is not big on sex and anything surrounding it. This goes far enough for people to consider him either ace or ace coded.

A claim that, personally, I’m not super in line with.

Now, it’s not entirely wrong and if this is your head cannon I’m surely not going to stand in your way – but on a larger spectrum, I think he’s more traumatised than ace. And while those go hand in hand sometimes, it’s a bit difficult for the ace community if you attach traumatised characters to them because it can fuel a whole lot of stigma that is honestly neither needed nor wanted. But I digress!

If it comes to his own behaviour, he’s great at minimising his mistakes. Honestly, he’s a master of minimisation. A very obvious and famous example would be:

“’Killed’ feels like a…strong word. Not many corpses have your vigour.” – Act 1, after killing Tav

Astarion. You literally sucked poor Tav dry and left them flopping around, cold, and dead. Killed is exactly the right word and we all know it.

“Quite the deviation from my usual routine. Capture, not lure. I didn’t bring them in with sweet rolls or anything.” – Act 3, Gur Children

This is another attempt at minimising what he did, if a bit less obvious because at this point there isn’t much he can say. But at least he didn’t sexualise the gur children, right? They’re still spawn but whoo, at least that didn’t happen.  

The next point would be dissociation, which is extremely common in abuse victims – of all forms of abuse.

Astarion himself mentioned certain moments that could be classified as dissociation over course of the story, which is probably the coping mechanism I personally expected the most.

The pale elf has a penchant for violence, but he’s not entirely shameless or abhorrently vile, which gets clearer the more the story progresses. So, two hundred years of forced prostitution, torture and doing whatever other horrible things? Yeah, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t dissociate.

Examples of that would be:

“A moment of disgust to push myself through and then I could’ve carried on, just like before.” – Act 2, after Araj

“I felt nothing the moment I handed them over.” – Act 3, Gur Children

“Did you enjoy it? It felt like you weren’t fully there.” – Act 1, Tav after Sex

The latter is generally more of an assumption than actual prove, but with context it does make sense.

The last common sign of abuse we find in our boyfriend would be his low self-worth. It’s a consistent trait that stays over the course of all three acts, noticeable in many different conversations.

We can see it in his reaction to wanting to break up before finishing his story. We can see it in his genuine surprise when Tav picks him over any of the other characters. We see it in his insecurity whenever Tav asks to sleep with another character. He’s fine with it, but he still worries their decision to sleep with someone else is based on something he did.

It eases up ever so slightly after Cazador is dead, but even then he’s still struggling which is once again perfectly illustrated if you try to break up with him.

“Oh shit. I- Did I do something wrong?”

That is the first thing he asks and I think it speaks for itself. He genuinely doesn’t believe he has much to offer and for Astarion, it’s likely that Astarion will always be the problem.

4. "Oh, I tried them all none of them answered.”

Another big thing that’s important to note, is that Astarion was never saved. No one came to save him from Cazador. There was no darling boy on a white steed riding into that castle to rescue him and princess carry him away. Not even the gods answered his desperate calls.

So, he never received any kindness or luck. To him, the world seems as cruel and horrid as before because he didn’t have the chance to experience goodness in two centuries.

But worse than that, he didn’t even get to save himself. Astarion didn’t stand up to Cazador, he didn’t run out of his own might.

He was beaten to near death and ‘saved’ by Cazador, who would become his abuser.

He tried to save someone and, in turn, was locked up and starved for an entire year.

He was abducted by mind flayers, i.e., saved from Cazador, only to end up tadpoled and on the cusp of getting a fancy, squiddy beard.

Anything that’s good, any kindness, any selfless action…it all came with a ginormous price tag.

5. Over the Course of the Story

Astarions behaviour changes a whole lot over the course of three acts – which is important once we talk about his quests climax – so let’s review what we’re working with!

Act 1 Astarion is guarded as fuck. The man has walls around him that are so high, even the gods can touch them.

A lot of his behaviour in act 1 revolves around staying save and staying liked. He lies, manipulates, and flutters his lashes in order to get what he wants and needs. Instead of asking, like Wyll, Karlach and Gale do, Astarion uses all he has to offer to get by. He is still very much in survival mode and tries to weasel his way through an unfamiliar situation with familiar methods.

On top of that, and most notably, he’s absolutely not fond of kindness or selflessness.

#I saved a child and now my boyfriend is mad

Here, we are most likely to gain disapproval for doing the decent thing – unless you sent him outside for a minute whenever you’re being a good person.

And I’d assume that this is because of two things.

First: The very traditional ‘Why not me?’

As I mentioned before, Astarion wasn’t saved. He hasn’t experienced kindness in a very long time so seeing that the world is literally filled with kind people is hurtful. Why didn’t anyone save him? Why was he left to his own devices for so long? Why should he care about others when it’s so clear that no one ever cared about him? No, dead to all of them. If he didn’t get it, neither will they.

“And what am I owed? What about the injustices I suffered? Am I not entitled to anything?” – Act 3, Crypt

“I was in the prime of my life when I was turned. Everything was taken from me too.” – Act 3, Crypt

And secondly is the fact that, as I mentioned, goodness always has a price. And it’s one most people won’t be willing to pay. That’s how his life has been, so why would theirs be different?

This is precisely why Astarion may disapprove of kind actions, but he mostly neither approves nor disapproves if Tav asks for payment. That’s just how the world works.

Once you venture out into act 2, after getting to know him a whole lot more, he starts to mellow a bit – if only towards Tav.

“He’s afraid, so afraid, of everyone but you, who she should fear the most.” – Sceleritas about Astarion

His approval is a lot easier to gain – or at least keep! – and he tends to approve of some more proper actions. He doesn’t throw a fit if you promise to find Mol, he approves of Tav being kind to His Majesty, of saving Aylin and he even approves of Durge apologising to Isobel after threatening to rip her to pieces.

He's slowly starting to open up, allowing Tav to see some parts of him he previously kept hidden. He accepts their offer to help, if hesitantly and, by god, the man starts experimenting with boundaries.

The social worker in me is shedding tears at this. It’s my favourite thing to see in my clients and it’s no different here. Yay to saying no!

Of course, it’s still a bit hit or miss. If Tav urges him to bite Araj, for example, he will only to later notice that he didn’t fucking have to. He recognises this on his own and he calls Tav out on it. Just like he calls them out on not helping him with his Orthon quest.

Good job, chap. Good fucking job.

And the growth-train won’t stop going even as we reach act 3.

In act 3, there’s not many things he disapproves as of right now – those he does, mostly have to do with how Tav treats him and not with anyone else. In fact, he’s more likely to approve good behaviour now, like giving Yenna food or money.

And yes, we need to consider that this could simply be because he gets used to Tav’s behaviour and just learns to roll with it. But it’s also highly likely that he notices that there’s truly good people around. At least one person. And that person is not only good, no, they’re in the process of helping him break free once and for all.

They’re helping him save himself.

By act 3, he has learned that he can absolutely say his piece where Tav is concerned and he’s more likely to disagree with them on certain things. It’s seen during a lot of small dialogue that he’s no longer terribly afraid to be honest with them, willing to listen and talk and he’ll ask for help if he needs it.

“I can do this. But I need your help.” – Act 3, Crypt

Something that can be viewed both positively and negatively is that he’s definitely loyal to a fault. He will stick by Tav’s side, no matter what.

“I really hoped we could avoid being pawns for a dark god, but here we are, I suppose. I’m with you, my dear, wherever this might lead.” – Act 3, After Jaheira confronts durge

As I said, this can be both positive and negative. On one count, it’s a recipe for disaster, seeing as he could be waltzing into a really bad situation for Tav alone.

But on the other side…this is a man who only cared about himself because that is the only person he could afford to care about. He needed to survive. He now has enough room to breathe and the capacity to care for someone else and I’d be inclined to count that as a good thing.

6. The Crypt

All the progress he made in act 2 and 3 is nearly tossed into the wind as soon as the crew enters Cazadors castle.

It’s not an immediate thing, of course.

At first, Astarion tries to stay light and simple and he hides behind flippant tones and relaxed faces. The way he recounts this is almost comically disinterested and the façade is actually quite good.

It’s start’s cracking after we meet Godie, one of the people who tortured him on more than one account, but he mostly manages to remain as upbeat as one can honestly expect for the first half of the journey.

All that, however, is done for the very moment we meet Sebastian. His mask not only slips, no, it full on shatters and there’s none of his apparent lightness left.

Which, of course it does.

The man is suddenly faced with years and years and years of victims. Innocent, unlucky people he lured back to his master over two centuries. People he liked, people he pitied.

“It’s sickening, seeing them again.”

It’s basically a room filled with guilt, exclusively for Astarion. And, as we mentioned before…Astarion is not great with guilt.

The guilt, however, is not where it ends.

No, he���s also faced with reflections of his own past. The spawn pose as reminders of what he did, sure, but also as reminders of what he was.

Weak, desperate, hungry.

There’s an abundance of images of his worst moments, reflected back at him in the thousands. It’s probably like staring into a funhouse mirror, but instead of seeing yourself in a funky way he just sees everything he so desperately doesn’t want to be.

“It should be [who I am]! I don’t want to be like them. They’re pathetic, horrible…”

He’s forcefully made aware of how darn weak he can be, which claws at all the wounds he’s barely had time to close. Something, he of course won’t admit if asked.

“THEY DO NOT [remind me of myself]. That weakness in me is dead, IT’S DEAD. I have a higher purpose.”

The high pressure of the moment brings out all of his act 1 traits in but a few moments. You can pretty much watch how he starts to shut down mid conversation, one of his old walls snapping back into place to remove himself from the situation.

Thing is though, walls usually become a bit brittle after disuse. Especially when talking to a person you don’t usually want to wall out.

Or, in his case, when talking to Tav.

After meeting Sebastian, Astarion shows extreme reactions to Tav nudging any of his weak spots. His reaction varies on whatever choice you make, but it ranges from aggression to defensiveness, to denial and even to downright begging Tav.

“Don’t hate me. I just did what I had to. I swear I did what I had to.”

This probably the most shocking out of all of them, since that is not something we got to witness before. The begging is likely a mixture of intense fear of losing Tav, his low self-esteem and pre-Tav behaviour, since we can assume that Cazador made him beg more than once.

Another old coat he puts back on would also be the least surprising of them all.

Manipulation.

He falls right back into it, using Tav’s affection to get what he want if we trigger the right action.

“If they die and I ascend, I won't have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I'll be free. Truly completely free. Isn't that what you want?”

This, to me, was probably the biggest tell that Astarion was back in survival mode. He’s panicking, for fucks sake, and who can blame the guy? He’s back. He’s about to face down his abuser.

Of course he’s fucking panicking.

Panic leads to an increased craving for safety and, in his case, power. This is why he clings to Tav, why he begs them to love him still. And this is why he jumps head first into the rationalisation pool.

“I will need to sacrifice them all if I want to perform the ritual. - [You can save them.] – What’s the point? They're as good as dead! I thought they were dead. If they are unleashed, they will cause incredible carnage. […] They must die. Better they serve a purpose.”

Another textbook example.

They must die anyway. They’re basically dead. No need to save them now. They’re dangerous, I’m doing the right thing by sacrificing them. I already thought they were dead, so it’s not changing anything for me. They’re a lost cause and I deserve  all this power. I deserve it, because I suffered and nothing will change if they die.

So, seeing as we already spoke about his usual behaviour in act 3 – behaviour he showed after we allowed him to breathe and be himself for a while – I think we can fairly easily conclude he’s not thinking straight.

Astarion is right back in survival mode, where all that matters is he himself. If it weren’t for the seven thousand spawns, he might have moved through this more gracefully, but seeing those tipped the scales and Astarion is absolutely losing it.

Remember that for the last section, per favore.

7. The Ascension

“Astarion wants to ascend and Tav manipulates him into doing what they want.”

That is basically the essence of what people often claim and I can’t help but shake my head at such a blatant disregard of everything he has become. This is completely ignoring the change and growth he has gone through over the course of their journey.

Astarion wants to be free. He wants to be safe. That does not mean he wants to ascend.

And the claim that Tav manipulates him into doing anything is even more baffling. We are all aware that Tav is not manipulative by nature, yes? That is entirely on you. You decide who your Tav is.

And then let’s remember: Astarion is panicked. He’s afraid and he’s not thinking straight. His abuser is on his knees before him and he still feels so weak. And there’s seven thousand spawns that need handling.

Astarion is very much not okay right now.

In fact, reading his thoughts just proves this theory.

“You can see the fear in his eyes but also the hunger. The thick smell of blood in the air and the promise of power being so close is intoxicating to him. All he can see is the power of the ritual and the freedom that power brings. The freedom to do anything. To be anything.”

Tav, however, has none of those problems. They can actually see beyond the current situation and they are fully aware what the consequences are. Astarion is not. As we previously established, Astarion is a doer. Not a thinker. He didn’t think this through, not at all.

The only thing Tav is doing – the persuasion roll – is reminding him of the very real consequences he is facing. The consequences he hasn’t thought about before.

"I know you think this will set you free, but it won't. This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador."

And that is the kindest thing Tav could do in this situation. They’re not bodily dragging him away from Cazador. They’re not even telling him to not do it. They’re just offering him the truth. He can do with that information whatever he desires.

“Astarion cries when he doesn’t ascend, that just shows that it was the wrong choice.”

A hare-brained point that I thankfully have only seen once so far.

That crying? That is healthy crying.

That is him, crumbling under the stress that suddenly dissipates. That is him mourning two hundred years of torment. That’s him letting out feelings he hasn’t been able to for centuries.

And, for the love of god, try to put yourself in his shoes.

Two hundred years of torment, ended in but a moment.

Astarion was abused and tortured for so long, afraid for so long only to see his tormentor die just like that.

Cazador died within a moment and all Astarion needed was a darn blade. Of course he fucking cries.

Seeing how pathetic a being the very core of your life’s misery actually is hurts. It hurts like hell because not only are you finally free – free! – no, you’re faced with the fact that this pile of nothing, the thing that’s bleeding out right in front of you…this was what tortured for so long.

This thing hurt you so much. That guy took everything from you, everything you once were, and broke it again and again and again over years.

You were so scared of this thing.

And yet he has the gall and the gumption to die just like that.

It was so easy.

And yet you suffered for so long.

8. Evil Playthrough?

An evil playthrough is really a different setting altogether.

All of this, as you can probably tell, is really only applicable on a good playthrough. Realistically speaking. I’m not sure how the game mechanics handle it.

On an evil path, Astarion never really gets to experience kindness and goodness. Evil Tav will just prove him right in his believe that the world is a vile and cold place, meaning that he realistically would be more inclined to actually want to ascend.

9. Final Conclusion

I think all of this should be enough to make it clear that no, ascended Astarion is not the best ending for the guy. In fact, it is probably the worst. Because it’s just him, running away. He’s running into a lonely and cold state of being, where cruelty and power lord over everything else and he’s running because he’s terrified of being hurt again. He’s running despite desperately wanting to stop running.

“I'll spend the rest of my life running watching the shadows, never feeling safe…no, this has to happen. Here and now.”

And, the worst part is: Nothing about Astarion is left after he ascends. Even his tone of speaking gradually changes, his theatrics fading. He’s slowly losing himself, until there’s nothing but an evil caricature left.

So, in the end, ascension will have proven him right.

That version of him is dead.

[artinvain]

in the midsts of hellfire (pt 1) (wc: 3.2k)

pit fighter!vi x reader & sevika x reader

cw: angst and toxic relationship (with vi). smut

the days had blended into a blur for Vi. she knew pain and it was the only thing that kept her sane. every time she sees a flash of blue hair in the crowd she allows her opponent a chance to get her mouth bloody. when she heard the soft lilt of cait’s voice the punch to her gut doesn’t feel like much but it knocks her on her ass and she loses the fight. except vi doesn’t hear the bell toll signaling the end of her match. 

her ears are ringing with the sound of the bomb powder had set off - to kill her. powder, her pow hated her - what had she done? vi doesn’t realise she’s screaming maniacally, tears staining her cheeks as she picks a fight with her opponent. and because it’s the pits - she can and since her opponent is willing - the game continues.

it’s gorey, her back tooth is knocked loose. she pops some blood vessels in her opponent's eye. her hair is matted with blood to her forehead and when she stumbles into your apartment she finally collapses into your waiting arms. 

in her new reality vi had allowed herself only two pleasures - sex and the comfort of a home. she hadn’t bargained for her feelings to grow so exponentially, though she never told you about her past, how it haunted her. and looking up at you as you worry over her, she realised that there could be a time where she tells you that she loves you and truly means it.

you are the prettiest girl in the undercity without a doubt, a flower anyone would love to pick and for some reason you had settled for vi. she still questions you - whether or not you were really on her side. sometimes she waits in the evenings with baited breath for enforcers to barge your door down and take her away. almost every night she imagines it's caitlyn that is at your door.

though looking over at you now, your eyes flitting around under your eyelids, your skin dewy with the heat of vi’s body so close to yours, god she regrets ever dragging you into her shit, you didn’t deserve to be second place to anyone. vi could appreciate how great you were, but she promised herself she would never let her love break anyone else. and yet, here she is, about to do it again.

“baby,” she whispers, her calloused hands brushing your cheek and easing you awake with kisses to your neck and jaw. “I need you, please wake up” she breaths into your ear, her lips tasting yours before you can interject and still you do - 

“are you sure?” your voice laced with sleep and still under that - lust. she wondered how it is that you managed to care so deeply for her when she was so withholding. 

“I’m patient,” you had told her when vi said she wasn’t ready for a relationship. you waited for months for her, let her cry in your arms. you let her tell you about her exploits - she was trying to make you jealous and when she had enough - vi came home to you and let you have her.

“I’m sure,” she breathes, clambering between your legs as you open them for her. “I love you,” she chokes out between kisses to your throat and it’s all you need to let go. vi rarely said it and to you, that meant when she did say it - she really meant it - really needed you. so you let her have you.

In the morning you wake up to a note pinned down by a small bag of coins. 

“gone back to pits, buy something nice,” 

you rolled your eyes - even on a saturday, vi remains relentless.

you take yourself to the last drop after your shift and you’re glad it’s still empty considering it was a saturday afternoon. it always was when you and sevika planned to meet. you didn’t know sevika had bought out half the bar so that it was emptier for you. she knew you hated crowds and she didn’t want half of zaun oogling at you - as if you didn’t get that enough on a daily basis. no one would know she did it because she was jealous, she didn’t want a full bar dividing your attention between her and the rest of the world. nor did she want her men to see how her eyes softened around you.

The two of you were unlikely friends, that is because sevika isn’t really friends with anyone but you. sevika adored you, the only girl who actually made her laugh, you were the only girl who looked at her like you wanted to hear what she had to say - not because you were afraid or being paid. sevika’s soft spot for you deepend every time she saw you. 

when you plop down beside her in the booth, she lets you see a small smile. her stretched lips showing off the tiny gap between her teeth you often told her made her so pretty. no one ever called sevika pretty and it made her blush every single time. 

“you smell nice,” she whispers, handing you a joint and lighting it for you as you bring it to your lips. “I smell like kitchen grease, which is incredible because i don’t even work in the kitchen,” you laugh and sevika exhales gently through her nose. “still smell like flowers,” she mutters and before you can reply - “how’s vi,” sevika spits her name like it’s hot ash in her mouth.

you were well aware of sevika’s dislike of your girlfriend though she never explained it to you and vi never liked to talk about sevika. Of course she had wanted you to stay away from “the scariest lady in zaun” but if she didn’t listen to your warnings about getting her face beaten in  every day. you decided you didn’t need her approval on who to trust.

sevika masked her dislike for vi with the fact that you always seemed so sad because of her. not because she was head over heels in love with you. of course, vi had no idea you were so close with sevika and sevika used that to her advantage. she could be a sounding board for all your relationship issues and all it did was give sevika material on how to be a better girlfriend to you. because there was no way sevika was letting this shit go on any longer.

“she’s fine - she’s just -”

“absent? was she mean when she got back from the pits again this time?” sevika grunts and passes you the joint as you scoff at her. Even though she didn’t treat you right your eyes told her how much you cared about her. she wondered if you would look at her differently after she’s done with vi.

“no vika, that doesn’t happen that often-”

“but it happens” sevika interrupts you and doesn’t back down when you give her a look. “I hate what she does to you,” she continues. 

“I don’t know why she treats you the way she does, but you don’t deserve it bunny,” sevika smiles when you stop scowling. you loved it when she called you that, curled her arm around your shoulder like she is. It made you feel safe and allowed you to be fragile as you were. and every time you sink into her chest, it takes all your strength not to let those feelings bubble over. the one’s you’d been denying since the moment you met sevika. you swallow down your guilt at the way your heart flutters when sevika gently caresses your cheek.

sevika knew it would break your heart, to hear the enforcers banging on your door - see the way that vi looks at caitlyn when they finally find each other again. at first sevika wanted to turn vi over to regular enforcers and see her shut in a cell again - serves her right for getting out and trying to turn zaun upside down.

it pissed sevika off - vi on her high horse as if she had never done a bad thing to survive. she waltzed in and halted sevika’s plans to turn zaun around with her anger and childish violence. If the girl had taken even a moment to talk to sevika then she would have known that the brutish woman had a plan to save her home after all. 

“I know you don’t like her, but thank you for always hearing me out,” you say, taking sevika’s hand and now she’s no longer thinking about vi. only how supple your hand in hers is, the look of your soft lips as they shape her name. 

“I’d do anything for you bunny,” sevika noses your forehead and gingerly presses a kiss there. your breath hitches, your face rising to look up at sevika as she looks down at you. sevika can heart her heart pumping in her ears, her face heating with need and your proximity. 

“I love you,” sevika says softly, she’d never said it before, to any other woman and she doesn’t know how or why she lets it slip. but when your lips stretch into a grin, she takes a deep breath. 

“I love you too sevika,” you bury your face in her neck and pull her arms over you in a hug. a poo attempt at masking the sincerity sevika already saw in your eyes and heard in your voice. you both knew what it meant, and that something should change or you should jump apart like teenagers being caught kissing but you don’t.

It feels more natural than it ever has, the way sevika’s hand comes to rub up and down your back, the sky kiss you lay to her cheek. her hand playing with yours in her lap.

“I should get going,” you pull back with an air of sadness and sevika packs the left over joint in a bankie for you. 

“I’ll see you friday,” she replies and sits back in the booth to watch you go.

you’re shocked to find vi sitting on your couch when you get home. she doesn’t look up when you greet her. Instead she trains her eyes on the opposite wall, her pocket knife clicking in her hand as she skillfully plays with it. you sit on the couch beside her and gently lay a hand on her thigh, she tenses.

“you were with sevika,” she says finally, and you take a deep, nervous breath. had anyone seen you two together? had they seen how close you were?

“someone told me you were at the last drop today,” you exhale relieved that that’s all she has to say. you nod your head and try to say what you had practiced for this scenario, but vi doesn’t let you get a word in before she’s throwing your vase across the room with a yell.

“do you have any idea how stupid that makes me look? she is for everything im fighting against,” she yells and you furrow your brows,

“you don’t know her like i do, she’s trying to fix things.” your voice is shaky but the statement is bold. you know sevika, and she hadn’t told you everything but you know enough to confidently say sevika wasn’t ever just silco’s lackey. she was powerful and smart and making changes in zaun – starting with a centre for shimmer recovery.

“excuse me?” vi asks, anger making her breath shudder. 

“I’m just saying you have no idea what’s going on in zaun anymore, your head is still in the ring vi, it always is,” you say.

and you’re right because vi can hear the toll of the bell in her head, the fight had started and she was feeling jealous and cruel. 

“you don’t know how stupid you’re going to look when she drops you for someone who will actually open their legs for her. or maybe you’re easier than i thought,” she spits without looking at you but she can hear your jaw drop with a gasp.

she’s half expecting you to fight back. tell her she was being an asshole - that she was still in the pits. the usual and instead she’s filled with dread at you silence. 

“I think you need a few days alone,” you say as you stand and go to put your shoes back on. vi jumps up to follow you to the door,

“are you really just going to leave me? like everyone else?”

you pause and turn to look at her. 

“I don’t think you want me here,” you say, gently clasping your hands over vi’s and she drops to her knees, tears beginning to pool in her eyes. her arms wrap around your legs and she starts to cry into her belly.

“please don’t leave me,” she whimpers, resting her cheek against you. Your hands come to mindlessly play with her hair. 

what she really wanted to say was “please don’t leave me cait,” 

but you weren’t cait. you stayed. you were a placeholder that vi has grown dangerously attached to and she wondered now about finally sending that message to cait - whether or not she should do it. because maybe this is better, maybe this is what she deserves and her only reprieve is you - her angel.

“I’m sorry, i’m so sory i fucked up,” vi screws her eyes shut and holds you tightly her voice more honest than it ever has been.”i promise you things will be different, please just - please don’t go,” you try to pull vi’s arms off of you but she tightens her grip and you’re not in any position to challenge her strength.

“vi, you’re hurting me,” you grunt, but her arms stay locked. pain is the only way vi had ever known love. so surely, surely vi believed there was a part of her that could love you, get over cait and focus on you, on her new life.

a resounding knock echos in your apartment and the door handle rattles with effort to open in it. 

“vi?” 

at first she thinks she’s imagining it. but then cait is screaming her name, banging on your door and vi gets up past you, shoving you behind her and opening the door.

you know with the look in her eyes that vi never intended to stay, or to love you like she promised. she was filled with real calm, relief that you had never seen before. Neither of the girls take notice of you when they embrace, even less so when they kiss and by the time vi realises what she’s done, you’re moving past her into the street.

“no, no wait,” she runs after you and cait locks your door to follow her. vi pulls you back by your arm before you can duck into the crowds moving in the streets. 

“It’s not what you think,” she sighs and she gives a look to caitlyn when she scoffs. 

“This is - she’s from my past and -”

“and you’re in love with her, that’s where your mind has been this whole time - not in the pits - with her.” you frown with the restraint of keeping your tears back. 

“I don’t ever want to see you again,” you swallow and wretch your hand from hers. caitlyn’s hand is on vi’s shoulder as she tries to pull her away from you.

“we have to go vi, now,” caitlyn looks around the streets wearily.

you nod your head, “go,” you say, 

“I’m coming back for you,” vi says, as she starts to back away with caitlyn. her words thinning with the distance between the two of you. “I promise,”

and then she’s gone.

***

when you get to sevika's home you stumble into her arms, tears never-ending as you blubber and she hates to see you in pain. but it worked. cait had taken the bait and vi was gone for good.

she held you in her arms until you could breathe, and instead of falling asleep like she assumes you will, you're turning your face upto her from her chest.

"vika," you breathe and sevika's heart flutters at the need in your voice - "make me forget,"

sevika handles you into her lap and presses a

kiss to your mouth with vigour. She moans at the taste of you when she finally licks into your mouth. Your hips grind down on hers and sevika whines, so embarrassingly close to cumming and she has to reach under your top to grope your tits. she tastes your groans as she rolls your nipples between her fingers and loves the weight of your tits in her hands. 

“never letting you go,” she groans into your neck as she turns you over in one swift movement, her muscles taking all of your weight and she appreciates you beneath her. Your soft hips and thick thighs pressed around her hips. She can’t help when she claws your clothes away from your body.

“m’sorry bunny, just need to see you - you’re so beautiful,” she moans, kissing down your body, “finally get to taste you,” her words of praise for your taste muffles as she buries her head in between your thighs and sucks your clit into her mouth.

you moan, all thought of vi clearing your mind as sevika sinks two fingers into you, curling them - “god you’re so fucking wet, and so needy for me,” she groans feeling you tighten on her fingers. “fuck fuck, m’gonna cum,” sevika whimpers and the sound alone from her - so vulnerable and soft beneath you, you’re cumming and so is she, feeling and tasting your pleasure.

she’s quick with the way she tears her own clothes off and secures her strap to herself. “I love you, and i will never let you go,” she whispers as she sinks into you. Her eyes trained on yours - lids lowered as you look up at her.

“I love you,” you gasp as she snaps her hips against your gspot, sevika smiles and pulls you in close so that your foreheads are pressed together. sev can feel your pussy pulling her in, the base of her strap rubbing and bumping up against her clit so deliciously.

“you’re mine,” sevika moans and you whimper in agreement, “yours, please cum with me” your words slurred as sevika speeds up her hips and holds your thigh up. “you’re so beautiful,” she gasps, looking down at you and when your back arches, you both cum with a groan, moaning and whining - bodies sweaty and intertwined. 

“I could die happy now,” sevika groans after taking the water she’d given you and taking a sip herself, 

“shut up…” you laugh and start to play with her hair, her head resting on your belly, she presses occasional kisses there. “how long have you-”

“since the day i met you,” she replies. 

***

In caitlyn’s hideout, vi can’t keep her head straight. her eyes trained on your little red tracking do at sevika’s home. 

“come to bed,” cait whispers, her hand gently squeezing vi’s shoulder. she swallows down her jealousy and tries to pull vi to bed. 

“In a minute,” she says quietly, waiting to see if you would move though you hadn’t in the last four hours.

“I thought you’d be excited to be home,” cait snaps against her better judgement and vi has to restrain herself, cait isn’t sued to the monster she is now and she didn’t think now would be the right time to introduce her. 

“you’re right,” she huffs and puts her phone down, vi steps away from the window and follows caitlyn to bed. 

vi thought it would be different. Whenever she imagined this moment, she was always happy and probably fucking and safe but all she felt now was empty, and a longing pull for something familiar. you had seen all the darkest parts of vi and still loved her, and she didn’t know now, why or how she ever imagined she could let you go.

sevika tags: @archangeldyke-all @sexysapphicshopowner @sevsbaby @iamaboringrattat @lavendersgirl @opropheticsoul @ariariarr @femme-historian

[envy-of-the-apple]

older reader?? SAY NO MORE

you're a confident, popular, charismatic lady in your 30s. you catch a pretty, barely-not-teenage gojo at a bar about to get roofied and rescue him.

you're neither a paragon of moral virtues but apparently you do still have some maternal instincts because you take him aside, help him sober up, and give him a stern but well-meaning lecture about watching drinks, staying safe, etc. maybe he gets a headpat and a caring look while you do this.

that's where you thought this would end but to gojo had absent parents and is starved of all forms of affection, including maternal, so he absolutely cannot let this end here and he will exploit his prettiness, his pitifulness, AND your maternal instincts to the max.

if wires get crossed and he manages to get you to bang him (and hopefully feel so guilty about taking advantage that he can get you to stay with him) then even better!!

omgggggyou know me so well-

(Warnings: manipulation, guilt-tripping, large age gap but both characters are 21+, implied non/dubcon, implied drugging)

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Bad Night

When you open your eyes, your head is pounding.

Last night is a blur, but you get the big picture. You drank too much, and you brought someone home.

He's a cuddler, pressing you against his bare chest, a long arm wrapped around your naked body. It'd be a cute way to wake up if you weren't so sweaty and already in a bad mood.

You're debating on how to kick him out when he shifts behind you. He yawns, one hand reaching up to draw circles on your waist.

"You wake up pretty early."

It's not a stranger's voice. You know him.

You turn your head, almost afraid to look. He gives a sleepy smile.

"...Satoru?"

"Mornin'." Taking advantage of your shock, he gives a quick peck on your lips.

It's a jumpstart for the memories of last night to kick in. Satoru had invited you out, you had a bad day at work and you took the offer, you took shot after shot, one thing lead after another and then-

Shit.

"What's wrong?" He asks, and you doubt you're managing to hide the horror off your face all that well. His usually carefree attitude melted into concern.

"Feeling' alright? I wasn't too rough last night, was I?"

When you open your mouth, the only thing that comes out is a strangled 'I'm fine'.

"That's good." He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck. "I was worried I hurt you or somethin'. Last night was perfect, by the way. Everythin' I dreamed of, baby."

Baby. You want to throw up.

"Oh, you must be hungry." Satoru frowns, clicking his tongue. "Uh, wait here, I'll go whip somethin' up."

Another kiss, this time on your cheek, before he's sliding off your bed. He's naked. You squeeze your eyes closed when he starts to put on his pants. You keep them closed until the door shuts behind him.

What the fuck did you just do?

You know what you did. You just had sex with someone more than a decade younger than you. You can't even remember it, but the evidence was all around you. Your panties laying crumbled on the floor. The ache between your legs. The bitemarks on your chest, your legs.

You fucked up.

Satoru was by chance You weren't supposed to talk to him, let alone meet him. You were at the right place, at the right time. You happened to catch smug asshole putting something in the oblivious kid's drink. You happened to grab it right before Satoru could, before dumping it on the asshole's face.

Looking back, it wasn't your finest moment. You nearly got the police called on you, but ever since that day, Satoru clung onto you like Velcro. He didn't leave you alone for the rest of the night. You thought your lecture would have embarrassed him enough to leave, which kid wants to be scolded by a thirty-year old? If anything, that might have sparked his admiration for you.

He was determined. Before you knew it, Satoru was everywhere. He spammed you with texts everyday, when he couldn't call. He'd constantly invite you to places adults way past their college years should not be going. Despite your absolute refusal to visit his dorm, you found yourself reluctantly letting him into your house, picking him up from parties when he was too drunk to drive. He'd told you things he'd never told anyone before.

You knew what was happening, you weren't stupid. And unhealthy infatuation. Young, starved for attention, eager to please. You saw the signs, you tried to set boundaries, but you thought you could help him somehow. Your savior's complex grew too big...you thought you could help him.

And then, you ended up sleeping with him.

It wasn't illegal. You knew he was over 18, at the very least. You still feel nothing but nauseating disgust. When you looked down at your hands, they felt dirty.

You needed to fix this, somehow. You needed to tell Satoru that this was a mistake. Rip the band-aide off, nice and clean.

You ignore the crumbled clothes on the floor: your flimsy dress, Satoru's shirt. Instead, you go to the closet and pull out baggy pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt. You needed to hide as much skin as possible. To preserve the remnants of dignity you had left.

You stayed in the bathroom for ten minutes, practicing what you were gonna say over and over again. I'm sorry, it was a mistake, I was drunk, I took advantage of you, it's not your fault. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.

When you step outside your sanctuary, you smell something that makes your stomach growl.

Satoru's standing over a sizzling pan with a smile on his face. He knows his way around your kitchen because he's been here before, doing homework on your countertops. You feel sick all over again.

"Hey." He pouts when you inch closer. "I told you to stay in bed, didn't I? Silly." He reaches over, pinching your cheek in affection.

You swallow and you finally manage to steel yourself.

"Satoru, we need to talk-"

"And done!" Satoru cheers, setting down a plate. "Hungry? You gotta' be, right? We did a whole workout last night." You cringe at his choice of words, wishing he'd stop mentioning your biggest blunder.

When you don't move, he picks up some food with his fork, hovering it close to your lips.

"C'mon. At least try it." He urges. "I promise it's good. Please?"

You look into his baby blue doe eyes. Wide and earnest and eager. When you accept the offering, he glows.

He feeds you like this, one forkful at a time. When you ask why he isn't eating, he just shakes his head.

"I don't think it'll stay down." He admits. "I'm so happy, it almost feels like I'm dreaming."

You clear your throat. Hopefully, you can steer this conversation into something more productive. "Satoru, about last night-"

"Did you like it?" He suddenly asks.

"What?"

"Last night." He says with a sheepish smile. "Did-did you like it? Was I any good?"

You stare at him, utterly bewildered. "I-"

"It was my first time!" He blurts out with clear impulsiveness, and your heart stops. "I-I was pretty nervous. 'Had no fuckin' idea what I was doing, but it looked like you liked it. Right?"

He looks at you with those wide eyes, filled with genuine sincerity and you want to throw yourself off a ledge because not only did you not remember having sex with him, you don't remember taking his virginity.

You were a horrible person.

"It...was a nice night." You mutter quietly.

He beams again, it does nothing to assuage your guilt.

Fuck this all. You needed to put a stop to this. You needed to stop stringing this poor kid along. You needed to be the bad guy.

But, like always, Satoru makes the first move.

He rounds the countertop, coming to a stop by your chair. Satoru kneels to the floor, taking your hands within his owns. If it were anyone else, you would have melted.

Not him. Anyone but him.

"I meant what I said yesterday." He quietly says. "I know you still think I'm young, but I'm 22. I'm more than old enough to treat you the way you deserve to be treated." Oh God. When you turn away, he's reaching out, placing a hand on your cheek. You're forced to stare at him.

"Thank you for giving me a chance." He smiles. "I-I always thought you'd never see me that way, but then you said you liked me too and-"

"Wait wait, hold on." You interrupt. "What?"

He suddenly looks unsure, his gaze darting around. "At the bar last night. I confessed, and you said it back."

That doesn't sound like you. If anything, when you're drunk, you're annoyingly honest. You've never seen Satoru as more than a kid how could you have said that to him?

But he can't be lying. Not with those eyes. Eyes that were suddenly starting to fall like dying stars.

"Oh..." He trails off. "Did you not mean it?"

He handed you your chance on a silver platter. It was a mistake. I was drunk. I've never seen you like that. I took advantage of you.

You can break his heart, here and now. You take in a breath.

"No." You smile. "Of course I meant it. I...really really like you, Satoru."

His smiles returns and he's leaping up. You can't stop him from kissing you, but he's quick, flitting away just as quickly to give you a hug.

"I'm so glad." He whispers. "I'll make you happy, I promise. I'll do anything for you."

You pat his back, still in a daze.

Satoru is smart. He's a physics major, he's got to be smart. You just need to pretend to date him for a while before he realizes that you're too old for him. Then, he'll leave you for someone his age.

He'll snap out of it eventually, right?

[srslylini]

what made season 1 so stunningly good was that every scene could be explained with stuff that happened on screen.

Why did Vi know where to find Vander after Silco took him? well of course because of Ekko who was established in the first few minutes of the first episode to be the character to be on look out.

Why did Powder follow the others to the abandoned building? why because she wanted to feel useful, she wanted for her stuff to work and she wanted to help. She wanted to not be the Jinx. This was all established through character moments that were natural and normal human interactions.

Why did Mel invest in Jayce? Why because first of all her own mother sent her away so seeing Jayce's mother stand up for her son must've hit her. And we see her talking about having to find new investments. Of course she would. He sounds interesting enough. Why not try it? If it doesn't work banishment is still on the table.

Why did Viktor help Jayce? Because he didn't want to stand in Heimerdingers shadow as just an assistant anymore. He was sick and knew the problems of the undercity first hand, he wanted to help. Of course he would, if there was a chance hextech could do it.

Why did Marcus continue to help Silco even after Graysons death? Why, because of his daughter or course. He could be threatened, molded and used. He wanted to establish big things, and was hasty in his youth, and we see 1. Silco exploit that and 2. Marcus regret that.

Why did a shimmer induced Huck help Caitlyn out? Why because as early as the very first episode in Vanders first speaking scene he gets help from Vander and well why wouldn't he then show that help for Vi, knowing he can?

literally every scene makes sense, everything can be explained with stuff that we SEE in the show. There isn't anything "off screen" or just not there.

Now tell me

Why did Caitlyn suddenly switch sides again in season 2 act 2? Why and how did Mel know that her brother wasn't actually her brother? Why did she know how to solve the puzzle? Why is Viktor suddenly floating in the universe? Why does Ambessa just ignore her daughter being abscent outside of that one throw away line? Why do Maddie, Loris and Isha exist? Every chatacter existed for a reason that wasn't just Plot even if they sometimes were just for Plot in season 1. But Maddie, Loris and even ISHA for gods sake, really are just Plot. Isha not as much as Maddie and Loris and thank god for that but still, her character, while I still hope it isn't true, existed to die and further Jinx's pain.

it's just so ugh

Edit: A lot (and I mean a LOT) of people have told me how Kino did make sense and I agree with that now. Though I stand firm with my opinion that we should've gotten to know him before so we could have figured it out even easier with Mel, there were actually signs I didn't notice myself before. Thank's for that.

Plus I will not back down on the fact that Mel just knowing the solution to the puzzle "makes sense cause sHe WaS ShOwn TO Be gOoD WiTh PuZZLes" is stupid. Yes, I know she is smart and good with that. But that's like a whole different thing. It's such a leap I don't know how some of you don't see it.

[pin-k-ink]

your fics r amazing..... can i req for some hoshina dubcon something ahahahaha

......thanks.... no pressure... ✌️

company policy // hoshina soshiro

tw ⇢ dub-con, obsessive behavior, kinda sorta blackmail?,mentions of violence, injuries and threats, breeding kink, fingering, squirting, praise kink, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of lactation and pregnancy, dirty talk, male masturbation, virginity loss

wc ⇢ 4.2k

a/n: i finally remembered that this man had a kansai dialect. but i kept giggling while writing his dialogues because i kept hearing him saying it in a southern accent. almost turned this into a non-con too

"Sleep well, my lil' warrior..."

Soshiro's fingers hovered over the glass, aching to reach through and brush aside the unruly strands of hair splayed across your face. To think, after all these months of silent admiration, of doing whatever it took to keep you off the battlefield, here you were - bandaged and bedridden because of his actions.

A pang of guilt twisted in his gut, quickly smothered by the relief of knowing you were alive, recuperating safely away from harm's reach. He'd made the tough call, purposefully restricting your combat suit's capabilities before the mission so you’d be forced to take it easy. Soshiro was well aware how you'd rail against such coddling...if you ever discovered the truth.

But that was a chance he was willing to take. Seeing your battered form encased in the med bay's healing pod, he knew he'd made the right call. He'd gladly endure your fury if it meant protecting you, his secret obsession.

A rueful chuckle slipped past Soshiro's lips as his gaze drank in your peaceful features. "Who'd have thought I’d fall so damned hard for a feisty recruit I ain't never properly met?"

His fingers curled against the cool glass longingly. "One day, darlin'..." he murmured, the depth of his affections laying unspoken. "One day, you'll understand why I gotta do this."

With a regretful sigh, Soshiro tore himself away from the window and your oblivious, slumbering form. But he knew he'd return soon, compelled as always by the inexplicable hold you had over his heart.

Soshiro nursed his cup of coffee, gaze fixated across the bustling room to where you sat amongst a group of fellow recruits. Even from this distance, he could make out the weariness weighing on your features after yesterday's intense healing session.

"Keep on pushin' through, darlin'," he murmured under his breath. "That fightin' spirit of yours is one helluva turn-on."

His eyes shamelessly trailed over the curves of your face, the delicate line of your jaw, the fullness of your lips as you laughed at something your friend said. Soshiro's chest clenched with a heated yearning, imagining what it might feel like to capture those plush lips with his own. To finally sate the burning curiosity about how you tasted, how you'd melt into his embrace.

A gruff noise rumbled up from his throat. As tantalizing as such fantasies were, he knew pursuing anything more than distant admiration would only lead to your ruin. The life of a Defense Force officer was no place for fragile things like romance.

No, his duty was to shield you from the harsh realities of battle - by any means necessary. Even if that meant ruthlessly exploiting your weaknesses during training to have you discharged from active duty. The ache of losing your radiant presence would be preferable to watching you be torn apart by vicious kaiju.

Soshiro's grip tightened around his mug as you rose, tray fully empty, and began weaving through the tables towards the exit. Soon you'd report for training, ignorant of the torturous "learning experience" he had meticulously planned.

"Forgive me, darlin'," he rasped, allowing himself one final lingering look before you disappeared from sight. "But a couple bruises now are better than losin' ya for good later on..."

Soshiro's jaw clenched as he watched you struggle valiantly against the onslaught of small yoju, desperately dodging and firing with the dampened capabilities he'd restricted your combat suit to. A flicker of pride sparked in his chest at your tenacity, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

But that flicker was quickly extinguished as the timer hit zero, klaxons blaring to signal your failure to neutralize the targets in time. With a few taps, Soshiro locked the yoju away, leaving you panting and sweat-drenched in the center of the training ground.

"Not good enough," he barked out, the harsh edge to his drawl making the words cut deeper than intended. "Everyone else, dismiss'd! [L/N], stay put - we need to have a lil' talk."

You froze at his order, eyes widening slightly at the uncharacteristic sternness emanating from the vice-captain. As the other recruits filed out, he could practically feel the nervous tension rolling off you in waves.

Once the room was empty save for the two of you, Soshiro stalked forward, letting his presence loom over your smaller frame. "Just what in the hell was that pathetic display, hmm?" he growled lowly. "I expected better from someone of your alleged skills."

"V-Vice Captain Hoshina, I...I gave it everything I had," you stammered meekly, unable to meet his suddenly intense gaze. "The yoju were just too much, especially when something is wrong with my suit."

A derisive snort escaped him at your excuse. Of course the weak yoju were far beyond your temporarily reduced capabilities - all to drive home this harsh lesson. "And d'you think the kaiju'll take it easy on ya when we're out in the field?"

Unconsciously, he stepped even closer, drinking in the fearful sheen glistening in your eyes, the tantalizing scent of your exertion surrounding him. "This is the reality you'd face if you can't hack it, [L/N]. A harsh, brutal reality that will slaughter the weak without hesitation."

Soshiro's chest heaved with each ragged breath, barely restraining the urge to reach out and grab you, to shake some sense into you before you got yourself killed with this stubborn insistence on fighting. But he held himself rigidly in check, letting the heat of his words instead try to drive you away from this deadly path.

"I suggest you get your act together," he bit out grufly. "Before these small kaiju ain't enough to prepare ya for what's comin'..."

As Soshiro turned to stalk away, your uncharacteristically defiant voice rang out behind him.

"With all due respect, vice-captain, I don't think the training was fair today." You straightened your shoulders, holding his narrowed gaze. "I train just as hard as anyone, but those yoju were far too overpowered for a standard exercise."

A low, rumbling chuckle reverberated up from Soshiro's chest as he slowly turned to face you once more. In an instant, the mocking grin slipped from his lips, replaced with a predatory smirk that made your breath catch.

"Oh? And what would a silly lil' thing like you know about 'fair', hmm?" He closed the distance between you with heavy, deliberate steps, eyes roaming insolently over your sweat-sheened form. "All yer meant to know is how to follow orders without that pretty lil' mouth flappin' so much."

Soshiro loomed over you, his powerful frame radiating scorching waves of dominance that had your knees quaking. You shrank back reflexively, but not nearly far enough to evade his sudden grip on your arm, wrenching you flush against his rock-hard body.

"P-Please, vice-captain..." you squeaked out, feeling utterly dwarfed by his commanding presence, the earthy musk of his body surrounding you.

"Please what, [L/N]?" he purred darkly, warm breath fanning across your face and sending a shiver down your spine. "Use yer words carefully now...unless you'd prefer I just shut those pretty lips up for good."

His free hand drifted up, calloused fingertips grazing your jaw teasingly before thumbing at your trembling lower lip. The urge to simply seize your mouth with his, to ravage that insolent pout into sweet submission nearly overwhelmed Soshiro.

A harsh groan rumbled up from deep within him as your bodies molded instinctively closer. Feeling the tantalizingly soft curves of your form against his rapidly hardening cock proved too exquisite a temptation. With a muttered oath, he abruptly released you, putting distance between your intoxicating heat and his tenuous restraint.

"Don't flatter yerself, [L/N]," Soshiro bit out roughly, fighting to temper the raw hunger blazing through his veins. "Startin' to think my standards for this Division were set too damned low if you made the cut..."

He paced the confines of his room like a caged animal, calloused fingers raking agitatedly through his tousled hair. The memory of your trembling form pressed flush against him, deliciously pliant and alluring, had awakened a white-hot need that could not be ignored.

"Goddamn stubborn woman..." Soshiro growled under his ragged breaths, futilely trying to banish the images of you whimpering beneath his towering frame, rosy lips parted so enticingly. With a guttural snarl, he flung himself onto his bed, fingers already working furiously to free his painfully strained cock.

There was only one way to douse this all-consuming burn you'd stoked within him. As Soshiro's rough palm wrapped around his throbbing length, he allowed himself to fully surrender to the forbidden fantasy of pinning you beneath him. To hear your gasps and mewls as he roughly spread those thighs and laid claim to your tight, quivering pussy...

A punched-out groan tore from Soshiro's lips as he stroked his cock with fevered urgency, sweat beading along his brow and muscles straining against the tide of pleasure relentlessly cresting over him. He craved nothing more than to bury himself to the hilt in your velvety cunt, to mark and rut you into sweet, whimpering submission until you screamed his name.

With a hoarse roar, Soshiro's release finally scorched through his veins, painting his chest with thick ropes of creamy cum. Harsh pants wracked his heaving frame as he caught his breath, the echo of your imagined cries still ringing blissfully in his ears.

"Hah...maybe that'll...clear my head for a lil' while," he rasped out, slowly coming down from his high. "Though knowin' you...darlin', it won't be nearly enough..."

Soshiro's boots pounded down the med bay corridor, jaw clenched so tightly it creaked. He didn't even bother trying to mask the frustration rolling off him in waves - not after hearing you'd gotten injured out there...again.

This was exactly why he'd fought so hard to get you discharged from active duty! How many more of these terrifying hospital visits could his heart withstand before it gave out from the stress?

Without ceremony, he barged through the door to your recovery room, cold fury simmering in his piercing gaze as he took in your banged up form. You startled awake at the commotion, eyes widening upon recognizing your intimidating visitor.

"V-Vice Captain Hoshina! I...what are you doing here?" you squeaked out, frantically trying to pull your sheets up to preserve some sense of modesty before your imposing superior.

Soshiro felt his bravado falter for just a moment at the naked surprise and confusion shining in your eyes. Of course you had no idea about the lengths he'd gone to in secret - tampering with your gear, ruthlessly pushing you past your limits, all in hopes of forcing you from the dangers of active duty. To you, he was likely just another high-ranking officer, his motivations as enigmatic as his exterior.

But that careful illusion shattered the moment he drank in your form. A familiar feeling of cold dread and gut-wrenching fear lanced through Soshiro's core, quickly transmuting into an explosive surge of heated frustration. How many more times could he endure the torment of seeing you blown back through those med bay doors, hovering on the edge of death's embrace?

"What am I doin' here?" he growled out, taking an aggressive step towards your bed until his looming frame cast you in shadow. "I'm here cuz you constantly insist on putting yourself in harm's way with this bullheaded defense force crusade of yours!"

Your lips parted, clearly wanting to protest, but Soshiro barreled forward before you could unleash whatever platitude about duty and sacrifice. "Don't even try feeding me that self-righteous drivel about 'protectin' the people' or any other heroic claptrap. You're just a damned adrenaline junkie who can't seem to resist the urge to throw herself into mortal peril at every possible turn!"

He could feel his ragged breaths sawing in and out, pupils blown wide with scarcely restrained emotion as he drank in the fearful flutter of your lashes, the unconscious nibble of your plush lower lip. In that moment of searing intensity, a shocking new idea blazed to life in Soshiro's mind - one that could potentially solve this agonizing conundrum once and for all.

After all, the Defense Force had strict policies about pregnant recruits being prohibited from active combat...

A cruel, predatory smirk slowly curved Soshiro's lips as he leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of your prone form until his face was mere inches from yours. "Tell me, [L/N]..." he purred in a low, sinful timbre, unable to resist trailing the tip of his nose along the heated line of your jaw. "How badly d'you wanna stay part of the Defense Force? Enough to take...more permanent measures to keep that lil' body of yours off the battlefield for good?"

Soshiro's calloused knuckles grazed your flushed cheek as he cupped your jaw firmly, forcing you to meet his smoldering gaze. "I asked you a question, [L/N]. Are you that damned set on keepin' your spot with the Third Division? Enough to do whatever it takes to make sure that sweet lil' body of yours stays outta harm's way for good?"

You tried to protest, to put space between yourself and the scorching intensity radiating off his towering frame. But Soshiro's iron grip held you immobile, thumb digging possessively into the softness of your lower lip as his obsidian eyes bored straight through you.

"I-I don't under—" Your words tumbled away into a pathetic whimper as he leaned in impossibly closer, lips brushing the sensitive shell of your ear.

"Shhh..." he hushed you with a deep rumble. "I'm done suggestin', darlin'. From now on, it's my way or no way at all."

The broad expanse of his chest pressed against you, pinning you to the cot as his hand slid up to tangle almost painfully in your hair. You were utterly surrounded by the woody, earthy scent of him, making your head spin deliriously.

"Pretty soon, that cute lil' belly is gonna be all nice and round," Soshiro murmured, voice gone low and molten with the filthy promise laced through each word. "Then you won't be allowed anywhere near the battlefield - not while you're carryin' my baby inside you."

The way your eyes blew wide, teeth worrying that plush lower lip sent a possessive surge of heat lancing through him. Soshiro chuckled darkly, relishing your innocence for just a moment more before shattering it entirely.

"Ain't no other way to guarantee your safety besides stuffin' that tight pussy full of my hot seed, darlin'..." With an animalistic growl, he slanted his mouth over yours in a demanding, claiming kiss.

His calloused palm roamed boldly down the dip of your waist, over the flare of your hip until finally cupping your thigh and hitching your leg up to bracket his hips at the most intimate angle.

You gasped against the searing onslaught of his questing tongue, offering the perfect opportunity for Soshiro to truly plunder the warm haven of your mouth as he rolled his hips meaningfully against you. His engorged length dragged tortuously against your clothed cunt, sending delicious jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

"See, now?" he murmured breathlessly against your bruised lips. "Your lil' body is already beggin' me to fill you up, darlin'...and I ain't a man who can deny a lady her desires."

With a wicked chuckle, Soshiro's large hands tugged at your infirmary gown, practically ripping the garment apart and baring you completely to his ravenous gaze. Your protests melted away at the heat in his expression, the sheer, undeniable hunger for you that blazed from his blackened pupils.

"You're a goddamned vision, you know that?" Soshiro growled, gaze drinking in every inch of newly exposed flesh. He licked his lips as he palmed the full curve of your breasts, relishing the breathy mewls spilling from your lips at the contact.

"I can't wait to see these all nice and heavy, filled up with milk just for me..." He leaned down, capturing one peaked nipple between his lips and suckling deeply, reveling in the sweet gasps falling from your lips.

"Ahh...s-stop, we can't..." Your fingers tangled in his hair, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer, deeper. Soshiro chuckled darkly, tongue swirling a tantalizing pattern around your areola before releasing the pebbled bud with a lewd pop.

"You can't deny it, darlin'..." His fingers trailed possessively over your hip, dipping down between your thighs to tease your slick folds. "Not when your body's already beggin' me to breed this sweet pussy full, nice and proper."

Before you could form a coherent response, Soshiro's thick digits plunged into your soaked cunt, a throaty moan tumbling past his lips at how perfectly you swallowed his fingers.

"Hah...damn, darlin'...you're so wet and tight around my fingers already," he rasped out, pumping and curling the digits at an agonizingly slow pace, just enough to drive you wild. "Bet you'll feel even better when I'm stuffin' my fat cock inside ya."

"Mmmh...V-Vice captain..." Your head lolled back, lost in the sensation of his skilled fingers filling and stretching your needy pussy. Soshiro's thumb began working your clit in teasing circles, bringing you dangerously close to the edge as he nipped and kissed his way down the column of your throat.

"Don't tell me you've already forgotten my name, darlin'," he groaned lowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the heated juncture where your neck met shoulder. "Not after I've worked so hard to keep you alive this long."

Your brows furrowed at his words, but before you could fully grasp the meaning, his fingers hooked up into your sweet spot, wrenching a keening moan from your lips. Soshiro drank in your blissed-out expression, the way your cheeks flushed so pretty, how your swollen, spit-slick lips parted on each desperate gasp and cry.

"Fuck, I can't wait another second..." he muttered, fingers slipping free of your clenching heat. You barely had time to protest the loss before Soshiro's calloused palms grasped your hips, easily maneuvering you onto your stomach.

A surprised squeak spilled from your lips, but before you could voice any objections, Soshiro's warm breath was fanning across your shoulder, a strong hand grabbing you by the back of your neck and forcing you down against the pillow.

"Keep that ass nice and raised for me, darlin'," he coaxed darkly, fingers teasing the soft globes of your rear, dipping into the slick pooling between your thighs. "Gotta make sure I get as deep as possible to really knock you up, after all."

"Wait, please..." you whimpered, trying and failing to twist around and catch a glimpse of him. The head of Soshiro's throbbing cock nudged at your dripping folds, the blunt pressure making you mewl. "I-It's my first time, Soshiro...please be gentle!"

A pleased rumble reverberated through him, hearing his name spill so sweetly from your lips. His hand drifted from the back of your neck, trailing tenderly along the elegant curve of your spine.

"Ain't that just adorable, darlin'," Soshiro murmured, voice gone unbearably fond. "You think I could be rough with somethin' this sweet and precious?"

Without warning, his grip tightened on your hip, jerking you back against him in one smooth thrust. You cried out at the sudden invasion, his thick cock bottoming out in your needy pussy with a filthy squelch.

"Hah...shit, yer even tighter than I imagined," he hissed, the overwhelming heat of your velvety cunt nearly bringing him to his knees. He had to force himself to hold still, to give your trembling body time to adjust to his sizable girth.

"M-Move..." The hoarse plea slipped out before you could stop yourself, feeling so incredibly full, deliciously stretched by the man whose presence both frustrated and intrigued you.

"So damned bossy," Soshiro muttered, but a smirk tugged at his lips nonetheless. His grip shifted from your neck to tangle in your hair, forcing your spine into a delicious arch as he drew his hips back before snapping them forward again.

"Ahh! S-Soshiro, that's—!" Your words dissolved into a litany of whimpers and moans as he began pounding into your quivering cunt, setting a brutal, punishing pace that had the cot beneath you creaking ominously.

"Oh, so this is what it takes to shut you up?" he growled lowly, leaning forward until his sculpted torso pressed flush against your arched back. His other arm wrapped around you, fingers splayed over your stomach to feel the impact of his thrusts as his cock bottomed out inside you.

"God, darlin', look at how well you're taking me," Soshiro crooned in your ear, pressing a heated kiss to the tender spot just behind it. "Your cute little pussy is squeezin' me so nice and tight, practically beggin' for my hot cum."

The filthy words spilled past his lips without a second thought, too focused on chasing the tight heat of your cunt. His pace only increased, the wet slap of skin against skin and your mewls of ecstasy echoing through the room.

"Fuck, you're perfect, you know that?" His grip in your hair relaxed, allowing him to cup your jaw and force you into a breathless, passionate kiss. The taste of him, the sheer dominance of his embrace had you melting, cunt clenching tightly around his pulsing length.

"Mmph...y-you can't, not inside...!" Your protest was weak, half-hearted at best, drowned out by the overwhelming pleasure crashing over you. Soshiro's tongue traced the seam of your lips, the heady scent of him flooding your senses.

"Oh, I'm definitely cummin' inside," he rasped out, a dark, animalistic glint in his eyes as he broke the kiss, his hips pistoning at a frenetic pace. "Gonna stuff that sweet pussy full and then some, 'til it's dripping with my seed, and you'll be carryin' my baby inside ya."

"Ngh, ahh! Soshiro, I-I'm—!" Your body shuddered against him, a scream of his name tearing from your lips as the waves of pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in bliss. Soshiro's hand clamped over your mouth, muffling your cries as he rutted his hips forward once, twice more before burying his cock to the hilt and unleashing his release with a strangled roar.

Hot ropes of cum splattered your inner walls, his hips bucking reflexively with each spurt as he emptied his balls. Soshiro's chest heaved with exertion, the haze of lust slowly dissipating as he drank in the sight of you pinned beneath him, his seed spilling out from around his cock, trickling down the curve of your ass and coating your thighs.

"My babygirl, my good little warrior," he murmured, brushing a kiss over the back of your neck before reluctantly withdrawing his softening cock. You whimpered at the loss, body collapsing in a boneless heap, too spent to resist as Soshiro carefully flipped you onto your back and settled between your legs again.

"Look at you, darlin'," he purred, calloused fingertips ghosting up the inside of your thigh and gathering the mixture of fluids seeping out of your thoroughly claimed cunt. Soshiro's gaze darkened as he spread your thighs wide, watching his cum leak from your fluttering hole, staining the sheets beneath you.

"Hah, fuck...that's a beautiful sight, right there." He gathered up the mess, pressing two thick digits back into your cunt, the wet squelch nearly obscene in the quiet room. Soshiro's dark gaze bore into yours, smoldering with possessiveness as he leaned over your prone form, lips grazing your ear. "But this ain't enough, not even close. Gotta make sure I get my good girl nice and pregnant..."

You moaned, the sound muffled as his lips slanted over yours in a searing, demanding kiss, tongue plundering the depths of your mouth while his fingers pumped steadily. Soshiro's palm ground against your hypersensitive clit, drawing a sharp cry from you as he continued the ruthless, steady assault on your spent cunt.

"Mmph, Soshiro, please...!" you whimpered, hands scrabbling uselessly at his muscled back as he curled his fingers and pressed them relentlessly against your sweet spot. Your body jerked, cunt clenching around his thick digits in a desperate attempt to stave off the overstimulation.

"I know, darlin'," he murmured huskily, nipping along the column of your throat. "Just one more, then I'll let you rest, alright?"

The sensations were so overwhelming, his fingers buried knuckle-deep in your cum-slicked pussy, his warm lips and tongue trailing fire across your sensitive skin. Your toes curled, body writhing beneath his insistent ministrations, every muscle tensing, a scream caught in your throat...

"That's it, come for me, babygirl..."

His teeth sunk into the delicate juncture of your neck and shoulder, sending a bolt of white-hot pleasure surging through you. The tension within you finally snapped, a wave of bliss crashing over you as you squirted helplessly around his fingers, drenching the sheets with a fresh flood of your combined release.

Your chest heaved with exertion, unable to even muster a noise of complaint as Soshiro withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty and gaping, his seed slowly trickling from your puffy lips. But you didn't have the energy to fight him as he slowly began to slip his cock back into your oversensitive cunt, murmuring praises against the shell of your ear.

"Shhh, I know, darlin'...such a good girl, makin' me proud." A strangled groan spilled past his lips as he bottomed out inside you, the delicious squeeze of your pussy nearly driving him to the edge. But Soshiro forced himself to keep still, letting your quivering walls adjust to his length before beginning a slow, gentle rhythm.

"Gotta make sure I get a few loads nice and deep," he grunted, relishing the way your walls gripped him like a vise. "Get you nice and pregnant so I won't have to worry about my pretty girl anymore..."

[spider-stark]

SPIDER-BOY

Pairing - Peter Parker x Reader

Summary - Thinking he has no chance with y/n as himself, Peter begins approaching them as Spider-Man.

friendly reminder - the best way to support writers on Tumblr is to reblog their work or comment <3:)

// masterlist // send me your thoughts //

Two months. 

That was how long it had been since Peter first indulged in his ridiculous idea of talking to you under the guise of Spider-Man. Of course he hadn’t meant for it to last this long, promising himself that it was just to help him build his confidence–maybe even learn a bit about what kind of things you liked–so that he could actually ask you out as himself. Unfortunately, though, things hadn’t gone quite as he had planned. 

Spider-Man offered him a type of courage that he just wasn’t able to muster as Peter Parker. Under the cover of his mask he was able to come across as easy-going and flirtatious, never failing to leave your cheeks a deep crimson from the playful banter. Yet, when he did manage to speak to you as plain ole’ Peter, all of that was suddenly lost on him, leaving him a complete and total bumbling mess. As far as he was concerned, Peter Parker had no chance to be what any girl wanted, especially you. But Spider-Man was a different story.

And so he continued to exploit Spider-Man, using the masked hero as a means to continue getting closer to you, pretending to be oblivious to the fact that he wouldn’t be able to hide behind his secret identity forever. To be fair, he would rationalize to himself, Spider-Man had taken a lot from him, it was only fair that he got something in return. 

Plus, the interactions had been mostly innocent. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself, opting to ignore the many times that coy attitudes began to border on actual sexual attraction. He tried not to think about those times (though there had been many nights where he purposely let those interactions slip into his mind, reliving them from the privacy of his bedroom), instead just promising himself that he wouldn’t let his romantic escapades as Spidey go too far. 

“So,” your voice filled his ears, his heart skipping a few beats at the sound, “at what point should I start to wonder if you’re stalking me?” 

Peter chuckled at the question, his fingers gripping the railing of the balcony to your apartment, effortlessly hanging from it. “Do you feel like I’m stalking you?” 

“Hm,” you placed a finger against your chin, pretending to be deep in thought, evoking even more laughter from the boy. “Maybe a bit.” 

“Oh yeah? What did I do to give that impression?” 

“Well, to be fair, you’re currently dangling a couple hundred feet in the air off the side of my balcony.” You told him matter-of-factly, gesturing to where he was still hanging from the railing. 

His brows furrowed beneath his mask, an expression that was barely noticeable due to the fabric covering his face. “And that makes me a stalker? I thought you’d find it romantic, a sort of Romeo-and-Juliet moment.” 

“Romeo threw pebbles at her window, he didn’t scale an entire apartment building dressed in spandex.” You reminded him, “But, actually, it’s more so that I don’t remember ever giving you my address.” 

Peter froze for a moment, having not thought about the fact that your previous run-ins with Spider-Man had always been in public spaces–catching you after work or just happening to bump into you on the street while patrolling–never at your home. He only knew where you lived because you had told him, but as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man, when the two of you were assigned to a project together last week. He mentally face-palmed at his own ignorance. 

“Superheroes keep up with where all the pretty girls live. One of the lesser-known parts of the job.” He quipped, hoping that flattery would keep you from thinking too much into it. You only rolled your eyes at the comment, luckily not pressing any further. 

“So what did I do to deserve a surprise Spidey visit this time?” You hummed, leaning back against the cold brick of your apartment building.  

Peter hoisted himself over the edge of the balcony so that he was standing across from you, his arms finally beginning to ache from holding up his bodyweight for so long. “What, I’ve gotta have a reason to stop by and see my favorite civilian?” 

“Civilian?” You snorted. “And here I was thinking you and I were friends.” 

He dramatically placed his hands on either side of his face, feigning shock at your words, “Oh God no! You and me? Friends?” he let his hands fall to his waist, an exaggerated breath leaving his mouth, “No, not at all. I think that would be a conflict of interest.” 

You cocked a brow at him, “How so?” 

“I mean–I just think it would really interfere with our whole superhero slash damsel-in-distress routine, ya know?” 

“Damsel-in-distress?” You gasped incredulously at the claim, though the corners of your mouth were still quirked up in a smile. 

Peter nodded, “Uh, yeah. That’s literally our whole thing, isn’t it? You constantly running into trouble, me swinging in and saving your life.” 

“You haven’t had to save my life once Spider-Boy.” Peter scoffed at the name, acting like he was insulted. 

“Oh c’mon!” Peter dragged the word out, practically whining as he took a fraction of a step towards you, the movement enough to leave only a few inches between the both of you due to how small the balcony was. “You are literally always getting yourself into danger.” 

“Okay,” You crossed your arms over your chest, craning your neck so that you could actually look up at him, the masked vigilante having several inches on you, “give me an example then.” 

Peter rolled his eyes, a gesture only evident by the dramatic way his head moved along with them. He reached a gloved hand to your face, letting his fingertip gently brush against the semi-healed cut along your forehead. “You literally got this by tripping over your own shoes and banging your head against the counter at a coffee shop. Not to mention the fact that you spilled your entire coffee on yourself in the process.” He trailed away from the cut, moving to brush a stray hair behind your ear. He didn’t take his hand away, though, letting it rest against the side of your face. “You are always in danger because you are the danger.” 

Your eyes widened for a moment, so quick that he didn’t even notice the reaction. He was right, you had done that, an unfortunate consequence of being the clumsiest person alive. But, still, his words left you confused; remaining silent for just a moment as you turned them over in your head. When you finally opened your mouth to speak you were cut off by the sound of distant sirens, a groan immediately coming from him, knowing that your interaction would now be cut short. 

His thumb brushed against your cheek, acting as an unnecessary silent apology. 

“Sounds like somebody needs Spider-Man.” You told him as he let his hand fall from your skin, forcing himself to the railing. If he didn’t go now, he wouldn’t leave at all. “You better hurry, it could be one of those pretty girls you keep tabs on.” You shot a teasing grin in his direction, referencing his earlier comment. 

“Ugh, they just never give me a day off.” He joked, swinging his feet over the balcony railing before gripping onto it and allowing himself to once again hang from it. “Try not to trip into anything dangerous until I’m back.” 

He turned his head and reached one hand out, likely to shoot a web at the building across from yours, but hesitated when he heard you speak again, a sudden panic filling his body at your words, “Be safe, Parker.” 

The sirens continued blaring, growing closer with each second, but all he could hear was the sound of his own heart wildly thumping against his chest. “What?” He sounded completely dumbfounded, his head slowly turning back to look at you, only to find you standing with your own finger pointing to the cut he had traced on your forehead, a wide grin on your face. 

“Spider-Man wasn’t there the day that I fell.” You shot a knowing glance in his direction, one that had his cheeks heating up. He had never been more thankful to be wearing a mask, aware that his face was likely beet red. “I asked Peter to meet me there so I could borrow his biology notes.” 

Peter didn’t speak, too stunned by his own stupidity for slipping up and not thinking about how he was there that day as himself, not Spider-Man. This time you were the one to take a step forward and close the gap between you, having to lean down just a bit in order to be face-to-face as he dangled from the railing. 

“You’re a lot more confident in the suit.” You mused, your hands finding the base of his mask, lightly tugging the material up to reveal his face. Even though it was dark out you could still see that he was blushing. “But I prefer you without it.” 

His jaw fell slack, words getting caught in his throat as a million thoughts raced through his mind, though one thought in particular was a lot louder than the rest: I prefer you without it. 

“You should definitely go.” The sirens were now close enough that you could actually see the faint red-and-blue lights a few streets over. He looked in the direction of them but still didn’t make a single move to leave. You seemed to recognize his hesitation, tugging the mask back down over his face. “If you ever remember how to talk then you can come back when you’re done. But ditch the mask.” 

Peter nodded at your words, his eyes remaining glued to you as you straightened back up, turning your back to him to go back inside your apartment–leaving him to go off and be a hero. Once you were inside he couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head as he forced himself to get into motion, swinging in the direction of the police lights. 

Turns out Peter Parker did have a chance.

[ennn]

Unpacking the Deals of Ep 8: Why and What They Mean

So episode 8 is... let's say a bit of a mess. I know there's some confusion around why Agatha proposes her terms for the first deal, why Rio flipped into cackling villain mode, why Rio makes another deal, etc.

Here's my read that hopefully helps draw a line from point A to B to C.

Let's consider the context of the first deal: Agatha's not having a good day. Two coven members who Agatha never expected to care about have died trying to protect her – a thing that has never happened before. And Death happens to be a person she can blame.

Death, who is pressing on that bruise ("Your coven is shrinking") and making her shitty day worse because she wants the kid Agatha is hardcore projecting on (and also didn't plan to care about) to die. Just like Nicky.

But Agatha then realises she has leverage on Rio. For the first time in forever, she has an advantage she can exploit. She can be in control.

And it's almost instinctive for Agatha at this point: finding the best buttons to push, the best terms for her given the opportunity.

Agatha: If I deliver Billy, you let me go. Rio: You will eventually die, Agatha. Agatha: But I want you to stop pursuing me. I want you to stop making my life hell. And when I die, a long, long, long, long, long time from now, I don't want to see your face. Rio: ... Okay.

The terms that Agatha sets out seem cruel because they are. She says what she does because she wants it to hurt. Agatha's not only rejecting Rio's continued presence in her life, she's denying all the love that Rio's given her, building on what she's said before ("You gave me nothing.")

From Rio's POV, Agatha's cutting words aside, this entire deal sucks. Because the options are:

(a) Agatha doesn't hold up her end, which Rio knows might happen: Rio knows Agatha cares about Billy ("I know how you feel about him"). Rio's constantly reminding her he's not Nicky. She was already doubting Agatha would deliver her usual number of corpses. She saw how affected Agatha was after Alice's death.

If Agatha doesn't help, she'd be choosing a boy over everything Rio's done again – and this time another woman's.

And if Rio somehow manages to take Billy anyway, Agatha will end up hating her twice forever.

(b) Agatha does hold up her end, which might also happen: Rio knows Agatha's manipulative and smart and capable. More than that, she's well aware Agatha hates her. That Agatha still doesn't see what she's done for her ("No one in history has had special treatment like you").

That she knows Agatha does care about Billy but maybe hates her so much that she's willing to go through with this to cut her out from her life. Billy would be a dear price but one Agatha's maybe willing to pay.

Even if it was a 50:50 chance for these options, I think Rio realises her relationship with Agatha is doomed either way.

Either way she does her job, with or without Agatha's help, she's going to be rejected and lose. One's just a slower path than the other.

I think that's why Rio gives in to her rage and bitterness and spite. Agatha thinks Rio's been making her life hell? She'll show her hell.

And Agatha, well I think there's some merit to the thinking that she didn't expect Rio to fold that quickly and completely.

Now for the context of the second deal, it's not clear whether Rio knows what happened with Tommy. I assume Rio doesn't – not yet anyway – as she doesn't mention it at all and seems focused on squaring that one life Billy stole.

Now here's where it gets a little squirrely, to borrow Schaeffer's language. Because if you don't look too closely, it seems to make sense: Billy stole a life so to maintain the natural balance, Rio needs to take a life, the one Billy has now.

But how does Agatha's life work as a substitute for this imbalance (“This means you’re coming with me”)? Would any other person’s life work? Could Rio have swapped someone else's life to save Nicky then? Agatha would have been all too happy to arrange for that murder.

I doubt the show is ever going to explain this so I offer few possible theories to deal with this weirdness:

Billy Maximoff is a product of chaos magic, so his existence and everything he affects already throws off the natural order, just to different orders of magnitude. Agatha’s life works as a substitute because his life is now intertwined with hers e.g. his hex probably saved her life from the Salem Seven and has the potential for greater imbalance

Rio is aware of Agatha’s tendency towards chaos and defiance of the natural order. Rio bent the rules of the universe only for Agatha. Taking her life would protect the balance in the larger scheme of things – if only so Rio won’t be further tempted to give her special treatment.

When Rio’s torturing Agatha it’s before she presents the second deal. So she’s still intending to go after Billy, she’s just removing Agatha as an obstacle while lashing out in rage and heartbreak.

In this moment Rio probably thinks Billy's in the wind. She saw how upset Billy was with Agatha at the end of episode 5. And Rio knows the reputation Agatha keeps ("Why do you let them believe those things about you?"), Rio probably thinks Agatha deliberately drove him off to keep him safe.

Then Billy pops up and Rio sees that Billy and Agatha care about each other and they're both aware they care about each other.

Fuckin’ great. Rio's not bitter at all.

Looks like you two are finally on the same page. So I'll let you decide. One of you stays with me. The other walks free.

Agatha proposed a deal designed to hurt her? Now it’s her turn.

From Rio's POV, I think here are the possible outcomes:

(a) Agatha sacrifices herself for Billy: Not impossible I think. Rio knows Agatha cares about the boy but she also knows Agatha will do anything to survive. She thinks she's above death. But again, I think Rio also knows Agatha would have sacrificed herself for Nicky if she had that choice.

What did Lorna want from the Road? To save her daughter.

This isn't an ideal outcome for Rio but she’s already resigned herself to losing Agatha I think, one way or another. This way if Agatha wants Billy to live so badly, this is the price she has to pay. The high cost of living.

(b) Billy steps up and sacrifices himself: Very possible given that Billy’s a young heroic sort and already showed up, risking his life to power up Agatha. Rio gets to do her job. Agatha will probably hate her more given the Nicky trauma but Rio’s already resigned to this on some level already, which is why she's raging.

Either way Agatha's going to hurt, and Rio's going to hurt.

It's interesting that when Billy does volunteer himself and Agatha seizes the opportunity to remind Rio of their earlier deal, Rio just shakes her head and looks amused.

You can also see for a brief moment Agatha looking almost remorseful about doing this before slipping her theatrical villainous mask on, overcompensating for her true feelings.

Do you remember pain? It kinda tickles doesn't it?

By the letter (not the spirit or intent) of the first deal, Agatha did ultimately fulfil her part:

I can arrange that. I can get him to the finish line and deliver him to you.

This is an opportunity that's almost impossible to resist for someone as calculating and ruthless and selfish like Agatha. She has power (chaos magic no less), she can have Rio leave her alone forever (she knows Rio honours her word), she knows Billy cares about her but can she really trust him?

But Agatha ultimately decides to take a risk. A calculated one sure, but still a risk.

I think the beauty in the kiss and her sacrifice is how – despite her calculating the odds – Agatha is choosing to give in to what she feels and wants in that moment.

Because she does want to protect the boy in a way no one did for her when she was young. She wants to save Billy like she couldn't with Nicky. And she does want Rio so much despite everything that's happened.

[welcometowhore-rrorville]

I AM LIVING FOR YOUR SLASHER HEADCANONS, esp the last post!! but i have a question: what do you think michael would do if the next time he wants to fuck, they’re like “nope, don’t want to, you didn’t make me cum” and is generally just provoking him and saying shit like “i can just find someone that CAN satisfy me” and other dumb shit. would he not care?? get jealous? knife through the door?? so many possibilities

Thank you thank you!!! <3

𝒞𝒶𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝐹𝑜𝓇

Featuring: Michael Myers

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: oral sex, fingering, rough sex, overstimulation, general nsfw things, mdni, i got carried away, unedited because I didn't think i'd write this much

As for your question(s):

I think it definitely depends on how long you've known him. The only way he'd give a flying fuck about what you think is if he was down bad. Especially if we're talking about the OG Michael. RZ Michael is easier to convince to actually give a shit what you want in bed, but it's still not a priority for him. Still, there are certain personality traits you can exploit to get what you want. . .

-

When you first brought up that you were unsatisfied in bed, it was a very soft comment after he was done and zipping his jumpsuit back up.

"I didn't even cum. . ." you mumbled, staring at your bare abdomen and leaking cunt. It was all him. You didn't even have the chance to pleasure yourself; it was too difficult with him constantly flipping you over and manhandling you. Your body was sore and bruised, but you laid there, discontent.

You moved your gaze to look at his masked face. Judging by the way he stopped his movements, he'd heard you. You bit your lip, turning your eyes away and down to your hands which fiddled with each other. You knew he didn't care, but it would be nice if he did.

"Just get out, okay?" you spoke, embarrassed and a little angry. "I'll just get myself off since you can't seem to do it."

Your tone had him walking around to the side of the bed, grabbing his discarded knife from the nightstand. You flinched, but didn't bother to run. If he wanted to kill you, he would have already.

Just as you figured, he turned back around, trudging out of your bedroom with the blade in his grip. You rolled your eyes. You were half tempted to call up and old friend of yours for a night, but realized that might end in bloodshed. Michael was much too possessive for that.

Suddenly, an idea crossed your mind. You knew Michael was selfish, but he also always had something to prove. He wanted to, no, needed to be the best at everything. Nobody could escape, outrun, or hide from him, and he knew that. So what if. . .

It was a few days later when he came back, heavy footsteps on your porch alerting you. Still, you pretended not to notice, phone up to your ear as you chatted. You were leaned against the kitchen counter, occasionally popping some popcorn into your mouth.

The door to your house creaked open before shutting again. You paid no mind.

"Go out? Ha," you spoke, fingers moving around a stray popcorn kernel absentmindedly. "If I want to get drunk, I'll do it in my own home, thank you very much."

At this point, he was looming in the kitchen doorway, but you didn't even bother with a glance.

"Oh, go out to meet someone, huh? Yeah, I guess that would be nice. . . I mean sure, there's a guy that stops by, but I'd be lying if I said I was satisfied." You leaned against your fridge, his massive form still lingering just a few feet away.

"It's just. . . other people I've been with have gotten me off four, five times a night, but this guy? Not once. Yeah. You heard me. Not once."

You made sure to emphasize that last phrase. You knew the dangerous game you were playing, but you didn't care. "Talk to him? Girl, I've tried. He's like a brick wall. Doesn't even say goodbye. As soon as he's done he's out the door. Rude? Tell me about it. Sure, I've had better, but he always keeps crawling back looking like a kicked puppy. I just kind of feel sorry for him."

You didn't have time to speak again before the phone was ripped from your grasp and tossed carelessly across the kitchen, plastic pieces shattering across the tile.

One hand wrapped around your throat while the other rested just beside your head, almost denting your poor fridge with the force. The choke was painful but not deadly, and you locked eyes with the culprit, staring intently.

He pulled you against him before slamming you back against the fridge, and you winced at the sudden force. "What's wrong with you?" you sputtered out, your hands trying to fight the grip on your throat.

He glanced at the destroyed phone, and you had to stifle a smirk from appearing on your lips.

With another slam, he finally released his hand from your neck, and you took in a few shaky breaths. Still, he loomed close enough to leave you pressed against him.

"You're angry," you spoke, rubbing the marks forming on your neck. "I assumed Michael Myers never got angry."

He looked to the shattered telephone again before looking back at you. He wanted an explanation.

"What do you want me to say? It's true. And I'm pissed about it. All you ever do is use me then leave. I haven't had a proper orgasm in weeks!" You pushed your hands against his chest angrily, but he didn't budge. "I know you're not a good man, but it still isn't fair. I can't even call anyone because you'll have a knife through their neck before they can get their pants off."

He let out a breath, both hands finding purchase on your hips. "Now's not the time," you huffed, moving to push his hands away. His grip tightened. You headbutted his chest, forehead resting against the rough material of his jumpsuit. How could he be raring to go at a time like this? "Unless you've got anything planned for me tonight, I'm not interested."

He didn't falter. You looked back up to try and read his face through his mask. It did not work. You could tell he was. . . different than usual, but he was probably still pissed off from your words over the phone.

His fingers nestled behind the waistband of your shorts, and in one fell swoop they dropped to the floor. You stayed silent. He never had the decency to take your clothes off. It was always ripped or sliced, and there was never any time taken. Hell, he'd never taken your shorts off without your underwear going with.

You stifled a laugh. Was he actually. . . trying?

He slid a knee between your thighs, pinning you. One hand explored your upper half, sliding under your shirt until he hit your bra. His other hand travelled downwards, slipping underneath your panties. You felt a rough digit slide against your clit and let out a sudden breath. Quickly, he backtracked, moving back up until he found that same spot.

You had to bite your lip to prevent a gasp from leaving it. You couldn't remember the last time you'd been stimulated there. It was suddenly all too-sensitive.

Two fingers caught the small nub, and you had to grip his shoulders to prevent yourself from falling. The digits toyed with it, squeezing and brushing like he was testing something. Your forehead pressed against his chest as heavy breaths left you.

One hand worked at massaging your chest, running a thumb against your nipple, while the other played with your clit harshly. You didn't expect him to be gentle in the slightest, but it still had you shimmying your hips in discomfort. It's not that you weren't aroused, and in fact, you were all too turned on. He'd never shown any interest in any part of you besides your cunt and mouth, and even then it was only to slide his dick into. This? This was all new. This feeling of rough hands overtaking your body, touching your skin, pleasuring you for the first time. . .

You pushed your hips forwards, trying to gain friction. With any luck, you could actually get off tonight.

Suddenly, all hands were off of you and he stepped back, tilting his head.

You rushed to hold yourself up, knees wobbly. You shot daggers at him, eyes burning. He stopped. Why the fuck did he stop?

He stared at you, waiting for something. You crossed your arms over your chest, looking as put-together as you could with wetness creeping down your thighs and shorts discarded on the floor.

"I'm not apologizing, if that's what you want," you muttered. "Congratulations, you found the clit. Took you long enough. You'll have to work a little harder if you're looking to clear your name."

In a flash, he had you hauled over his shoulder, and you let out a gasp of surprise. You could only sigh as he took you to your destination.

You were dropped onto your bed, legs dangling off the front as he pushed you down into the mattress. You cocked a brow.

In an event you'd never thought would happen, he kneeled down in front of you, hands spreading your thighs apart. Was this a dream? You were in shock. There's no way he was going to. . .

You were pulled out of your thoughts when your panties were slid down your legs and tossed aside. It didn't take long before one hand was back between your legs, rubbing your clit as the other pressed against your stomach to keep you in place. You couldn't move your thighs which were locked apart, blocked by his shoulders.

You couldn't sit up with the way he had you pinned, and so stared at the ceiling, hands gripping the sheets.

A new sensation startled you, and you tried desperately to sit up enough to see, but it was no use.

It was his tongue, dragging up your folds until he reached your clit. He took the nub in his mouth, and you had to slap a hand over your mouth to prevent the noise that threatened to come out.

That old and familiar feeling built within you, like a spring coiling and coiling, ready to snap. Your mind went blank as a tension built within you. It was like everything but your cunt was numb. There, feeling was in overdrive. Every swipe of his tongue, every prod of his fingers inside of you, swiping forward to push against your favorite spot: it was too much.

You came with a breathless gasp, back arched as your hands dug into the sheets. Even without seeing, you knew your cunt was a mess. You could feel your cum seeping out. You could smell the scent of sex in the room. Your thighs shook, pussy clenching around nothing.

You expected him to pull back, but instead you felt his tongue licking at your cunt, swiping up any spill into his mouth. You let out a whine as he prodded inside, tongue lapping up your wetness.

Digits were back to circling your clit, and you moaned, still much too sensitive. Despite this, he had no intentions of stopping, instead switching out his fingers for his mouth as he thrust a finger inside of you. You had no time to process before another joined the first. Your head pressed desperately against your bedsheets.

"Slow down," you gasped, voice shaking. He didn't heed your words, and in fact, sped up the way his fingers pushed in and out of you. You whined. The tension was already back and ready to snap within you.

"Michael," you cried, eyes clenched shut. "Please!" You weren't sure what you were pleading for.

You came again, more violently than the last. Over and over your cunt pulsed, leaking your cum to pool at your enterance, only to be pushed back in with the shove of his fingers.

"Okay! Okay! You win!" you panted, wiping the sweat from your face.

When he still showed no signs of letting up, all you could do was let out a weak groan. You got what you desired, you supposed. But it seemed he found something he liked as well.

All this because you decided to talk a little shit about him. You didn't dare tell him there was nobody on the other line.

[ninadove]

Hello there.

[Slides elegantly into the tags]

Do you ever think about Emotion?

Of course you do. How could you not. But do you ever think about this exchange specifically:

“You’re not Adrien!”

Because Adrien is sweet, and forgiving, and kind. In fact, kindness is his defining quality — Marinette herself made sure of it:

“I’ll never tell another boy I love him before I know everything about him! Whether he’s kind or not, thoughtful, what he does outside of school and with who… I’ll know everything.”

But.

Do you ever think about Adrien’s development in S4 and especially S5?

Overtime, he has grown resentful of a system that exploits him relentlessly.

Of the people he gave countless chances to, only to be let down over and over again.

Of the web of lies and half-truths he constantly finds himself tangled into. A web that is only growing bigger, stickier, and trickier to escape.

And the Senticousins. Do you ever think about them?

Do you ever think about how they are each other’s reflection, identical and opposites all at once?

“When you bring a living being into this world, you have a responsibility towards them. Your duty is to protect them, love them, help them discover the true meaning of their existence. To deprive them of that… is monstruous.”

“To have a child is to help them blossom, to grow, to find themselves and to be free!”

Do you ever think about their opposite character arcs in S5 — one learning mercy and trust, the other developing a rage so strong it could destroy the world?

Do you ever think that if Felix can now have this exchange with his mum, and mean it:

“They’re all monsters!”

“Not all of them.”

Then there’s nothing stopping Adrien from saying this:

“Look closer, Marinette. They’re the monsters.”

[aida-sparks]

Eddie pining in secret over Buck seems like a legitimate thing.

There's subtext in many scenes that make me think Eddie has secretly pined over Buck to some extent. I also see more than one reason why Eddie might never act on all those warm feels he doesn't know what to do with. Just one of those reasons is that even if he has finally accepted that he himself has feelings for Buck, he simply doesn't see how Buck could ever reciprocate.

Why would Eddie think that? Eddie's understanding of Buck's sexual life is shaped by what he's heard. (And what he hasn't!)

Eddie was never around to hear Maddie's comments that imply her brother might like men the same way he likes women.

Maddie to Buck in 2x4: "So does this boy crush on Eddie mean that you're finally ready to move on from Abby?"

Maddie to Josh in 3x12: "Oh no, I like you too much to set you up with my brother." Unrelated to Maddie but still key: Eddie also missed TK's comment to Buck in the Lonestar crossover episode, where TK assumed Buck was either gay or bi and that Buck was hitting on him.....

2. Instead, Eddie was around to hear all about Buck's firehose exploits back in the days when he was a self-described "sex addict". Yes, Eddie knows about Buck 1.0.

In 3x12, When Chimney suggests Eddie try talking to a therapist name Rosie, Buck asks, "Is that the one I slept with?" Eddie responds, "You slept with your therapist?"

Most recently in 6x13 Eddie listens to Buck try to calculate all the women he's slept with.

No one can convince me that the look on Eddie's face here is simply exasperation. He truly looks a little crestfallen, like Buck's words stung him.

It's just another reminder in Eddie's head that Buck is different from him when it comes to sex. Pair that with the head canon that Eddie is demisexual (everything in canon points to it, in my opinion!), and it's easy to see why Eddie would think he has zero chance with Buck. Buck once described himself as a sex addict. Eddie, on the other hand, got with Shannon in high school and hasn't ever been shown to go looking for any casual flings or want even a one-night stand. I don't think Eddie judges either lifestyle; he just recognizes they are very different. So, no matter what Eddie may have come to realize about his own feelings toward Buck, it's easy for him to think he could never be enough for Buck. And so Eddie pushes down those warm feelings, and he settles for whatever he can get with Buck. As long as Buck's in his and Christopher's life, that can be enough for Eddie. And that's still so sad to me, because it means that Eddie still isn't following his own heart.

It would be interesting for Eddie to be in earshot the next time Maddie makes a comment about a male date for Buck, though!

[k-ru-h]

i know i said earlier that my interpretation of curly as a victim of jimmy's manipulation as well wasnt necessarily implied in canon but im gonna double down and say it is. ESPECIALLY with the how fish is made dlc.

curly doesn't only enable jimmys behavior towards anya - he enables jimmys behavior tomwards himself. we know jimmy doesn't fulfill his duties to standard, we know curly was putting up with his shit since day one on the tulpar. curly was the only one implied to also be trained as a pilot, meaning that he took on significantly more work rather than confronting jimmy. he let every awful comment jimmy made towards him slide - he let jimmy put him down and villainise his desire to be happier in life. like, its fucking crazy to get mad at your friend for wanting to change his career to be happier? especially on his birthday?

this isnt to say any of that is as bad as literally being raped like anya was, but what little we know of jimmys and curlys dynamic is that jimmy was bitter and spiteful and would take it out on curly, blaming curly for wanting better for himself. curly never pushes back, implying he's accepted this dynamic - he's accepted jimmys tendency to do awful things and then take no blame (no responsibility) as a quirk, as something entirely acceptable.

if you've ever deeply cared for your abuser, chances are you know that desire to view them as innocent. everything harmful they do to you is fine, and thus everything harmful they do to ofhers has to be fine, because you just cannot reconcile these two ideas in your head. they cant be innocent if theyre harming others, and if theyre harming others, what are they doing to you? curly doesn't behave like an enabler, he behaves like a victim. the men who support rapists everybody labels curly as would push back at their friends actions towards themselves. curly never does this.

as curly is effectively unable to communicate after his injury, we dont get his point of view after being directly violated and forced to acknowledge jimmys abuse within the game itself. the game paints very clear parallels between anya and curly - both pregnancy (especially as a result of rape) and disability (especially as a result of violence) result in a loss of autonomy, unwanted and uncontrollable changes to ones body and in this case- the perpetrator getting away with it. like, the way jimmy twists the tale to make curly out as the bad guy is purposefully reminiscent of men who blame women for "asking for it" when accused of rape. curly caused the accident - jimmy is just an innocent victim of his.

in the last one and then another, curly regrets ever joining the pony express. his thought process sounds a lot like that of an abuse victim (because he and everybody working under pony express is a victim of their abuse, of course): "We're defined by our past, but not slaves to it. We said tomorrow will be different. Today would be the last day. The last one. The last one and then another. And another, and another, and another... " its the cycle of forgiving your abuser because you believe they can change, because you believe you can change and break the pattern, and pushing through day by day, never giving up on them. even if curly wasnt abused by jimmy and jimmy was "just" toxic towards him, its clear he has this pattern of thought deeply engraved in him. we don't know everything jimmy did to him, we barely know of what he did aboard the tulpar, but at the VERY LEAST he exploited curlys trauma for his own benefit. it could be argued curly shouldnt have passed the psych eval, but neither should have jimmy.

lastly, anya and curly clearly serve as parallels in the game. anya is an incredibly capable doctor, she wasnt unable to give him medicine because of disgust - she bandaged him herself, thats far more dirty work. she related to him too much. she saw herself in him - somebody who lost their body and their voice. even without knowing the same man did this to both of them. theyre both victims of abuse, of violation, of a man who could never take responsibility, of a sistem that allowed all of this in the first place. curly shouldnt have enabled jimmy, but curly shouldnt have had anything to enable in the first place. jimmy shouldn't have raped anya, he shouldnt have crashed the ship. pony express shouldnt have abused its workers. whichever regime holds power over it shouldnt have allowed it to happen in the first place. you can acknowledge somebody made a mistake, and yet understand they were abused too. jimmy was exploited by the capitalist society he lived in. if he had access to mental health services, he couldve gotten better. everybody in this game is a victim of circumstance, but jimmy hurt people nonetheless. curly hurt anya nonetheless.

anyways im going to set everybody who says curly "deserved it" on fire to prove their point.

[sugar-grigri]

It's all about the number 2 

Asa and Yoru, Nayuta and Denji, two Chainsaw Man, two camps of worshippers versus detractors, two protagonists, a second part, the two identities of Denji, a high-school student and a hero himself, both demon and human: Chainsaw - Man. 

But before we balance all that, let's take a closer look at this chapter.

First of all, I'd like to say how rich chapter 140 is. I see a lot of people criticizing Fujimoto's writing as someone who simply sets up absurd situations when absolutely nothing is left to chance. We're reading a manga by a film buff, so get your head around Chekov's rifle. 

I'd like to remind you that Chainsaw Man is set in Japanese society. 

Ejecting a sect from a building, or even belonging to a cult that has nothing to do with a dominant, ancestral religion, is more common than in the West. 

I've seen plenty of people wondering who could be at the head of the church for making people believe such a stupid story as a violet-ray weapon that would make adults stupid.

When it's the other way around, the church is exploiting the fact that high-school students are just thinking too much. And if there's one thing that saves Denji, it's that he thinks less. 

Let's put things in context: this is the '90s, and even if the idea of nuclear weapons has been erased by Pochita, meaning that the Cold War has surely taken a different form in Chainsaw Man, Fujimoto has never denied geopolitical tensions. 

Whether it's the mention of the USSR with Reze, Makima's instrumentalization of Japan, the history of weapons, the fact that the American government sought to eliminate Makima or that countries share the remains of the weapon demon...

Countries are in tension. The church exploits this atmosphere of anxiety among teenagers who are beginning to form opinions that dissent from their parents. 

Adolescence means coming into conflict with your parents' ideas, so come up with a story about how a gun makes them stupid. It's simply targeted manipulation that exploits the vulnerabilities of individuals in the midst of an identity crisis. 

Becoming a teenager also means freeing oneself from a certain carefree attitude and better understanding of the world around us, hence the mention of Americans on the same level as adults. 

I'd like to point out that this is not just a collection of absurdities. But for that, a bit of history... I hope I'm not teaching anyone that Japanese society has been turned upside down by the United States.

Without going into too much detail, during the 19th century, Japan went through the Meiji era. The Meiji government pursued a policy of modernization with the ultimate aim of bringing Japan up to the level of the Western powers. 

To compete with Western powers such as the United States, the government relied on centralized power to control citizens as much as possible... and this involved reforming the matrimonial system. With the popularization of "love marriage", the Meiji government changed tactics: the polygamous system was replaced by exclusive "love marriage". 

The church used the same method of control as the Meiji government: reforming the matrimonial system by overturning institutions. From now on, it's no longer sex after marriage, but before it.

It's this kind of talk that just digs into the cracks that allows them to be brainwashed. But talk has never worked with Denji, who thinks concretely with what he can grasp. A date with a pretty girl, steak, sex, feeling the buttocks when he does the chair. What one would point to as perversity is what saves Denji. He thinks through his senses, his literal needs, not the abstract. 

We can't say that Miri, who thinks he's free when he's being instrumentalized, repeating that it's the Americans' fault again, or asking Chainsaw Man if he's sure he hasn't picked up any ultraviolet weapons... that he’s stupid. Because weapons have lost their memory, they have no loved ones, no stories to refer to. 

Miri convinces himself he's free, filling the void of his own forgotten history with false stories. The lack of education, of pillars, of history is what had tortured Denji, who was so easily manipulated. I'd go so far as to say that Reze is the most striking example of this. 

It's impossible to determine Barem's psychology, but he still demonstrates a third reaction to manipulation: while Denji evolves, Miri locks himself in denial : Barem manipulates in return. Revenge, reproductive mechanism, any number of reasons could explain why Barem exploits one of Denji's weaknesses: Asa. 

Now you're thinking, yes, that's all very well, you talk a lot... but what's that got to do with the number two?

The scale is the very image of dichotomy, of a relationship between two forces, two weights, two entities. And what does it have to do with manipulation? Several things.

First of all, manipulation also means taking on ideas that are not our own. It means no longer questioning them, confronting them with dissident ideas that would contradict them, or balancing them. 

To balance is also to confront two options in a dilemma. Something that's come up several times, first initiated by Yoshida, then taken up in his own way by Barem: embrace his identity as Chainsaw Man or continue his normal life as Denji?

The manipulation since the start of Part 2 has been to split up Chainsaw Man. To have separated what constitutes his essence: human and demonic. To have split his nature, which has always been that of two beings in one. 

And what if I told you that the answer lies in chapter 2 (yes, man). Here, Makima clearly explains to Denji that Pochita is not dead but continues to live with him, that he has two smells.

Fami's project is openly to separate Chainsaw Man, to cut its essence in two: the reunion of two beings. 

That's why this chapter talks about marriage, which refers to the reunion of two individuals. 

Barem would have us believe that these two choices are antinomic, that they are contradictory and cannot be fulfilled together. Only Denji can have both choices, he had already answered that. His sign of strength is two fingers. Two is Denji's strength. Becoming two is what literally allowed him to be reborn. 

Of course, Denji doesn't want to marry; he's already one with one being through a contract: Pochita. 

Pochita had merged with him so that he could live a normal life. It was never a normal life, but the life Denji wanted to live. Chainsaw Man is literally the means, a better life, the end. 

The secret to surviving the manipulation then lies literally in Denji's heart.