#I KNOW HOW TO DO EVERYTHING ; ( drabble )

[the-barefoot-hatter]

hurt people hurt people so give me everything you've got

“Hiya Fordsy!” Bill smiled.

“Bill, what on earth are you-“

“Well, I didn’t want to spoil your surprise, but come in, come in, take a seat!” the triangle bubbled, pulling Ford to the chair. Bill gestured to the array of tools on the table proudly. “You know how things between us have been weird since-”

“-you lied to me, trapped me between worlds, tried to kill my family and destroy my dimension?” Ford interrupted.

Bill’s bright yellow glow flickered and dimmed before the showman rebounded. “…Nail on the head, Sixer! Haha, speaking of…” he said, picking up a hammer- comically oversized in Bill’s tiny fingers- from the table and pressed it gently into Ford’s hand.

“What.” Blood rushed in his ears. Bill was talking, of course he was still talking he never shut up, but he couldn’t hear it properly…

“-and, OK, it’s summer, but you can lock me in the freezer! I already checked I can fit the big chest AND the kitchen one if I scrunch up, dealer’s choice, buddy! And the tattoos ARE tricky but I found a chisel and a mini iron and a dremel in Shooting Star’s craft bag, so we can give it a shot, and I got the car battery and jumper cables ready too, so-”

“…Huh?” Ford said, tearing his eyes away from the hammer and focusing on the triangle again.

“So we’ll be even!” Bill said, clearly repeating himself, playing with a nail. “I figured we’d start with a classic and work our way down the list! Or, or we could jump around, or double up, it’s up to you really-“

Bill was nervous, Ford realized dimly, staring at him. He set the hammer down, pinching between his eyes tiredly. “Bill…”

“OH, I get it now, of course, so dumb of me!” Bill laughed, a little too loud, tapping the side of his own head with the hammer. “You want ME to do it!”

Ford blinked.

Bill smiled.

“What-“ Things were moving syrupy slow. “Bill, that’s not what I-”

WHAM

A shaken, pained gasp.

“I… ok, yeah, maybe didn’t think this through,” the triangle wheezed, fingers twitching. Bill hadn’t picked a nail the same proportion to his hand as Ford’s had been. No, he’d picked the same size. Possibly the same nail-

And he’d nailed it too hard, right into the wood of the table.

“Ha, a- a little help, Sixer?” Bill said, smile twitching on his strained face. “S-should’ve put a book down or something…”

The silver blood welling up finally snapped Ford to action. “Bill, of all the stupid, idiotic, moronic- what were you THINKING-“

“T-that’s one way to get you hold hands again?”

“Try again!” Ford snapped.

Bill was quiet for a long moment.

“I… I thought you’d like this. I really… isn’t this what you want?” the triangle asked pleadingly.

Revenge.

Pain.

Tit for tat.

Bill’s blood on his hands had been what he’d dreamed about for thirty years, and now it was happening, here, in his home, offered up freely. “… No,” Ford said, softly. “It’s… it’s really not.”

[good-beanswrites]

es should go through the blender but my finger is tired of holding down the button. so i shall pass the blender to you (with an es nui in it). do whatever you wish with them.

Oh why thank you :) I will take the blender gladly :) *Tosses some T2 angst into the blender* *adds a little bit of funky structure/style* *gives it a little pinch of headcanons* *and another pinch of random angst I got from ace attorney at 14 and never forgot* :) BBBBBBRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

Caretaker Log J.16.7.2

Summary – The Warden’s condition continues to worsen since last entry. All decline remains self-inflicted. 

J.16.7.2-M – Sleep deprivation has resulted in mood swings and irritability. Though denied by the Warden, extreme distress, melancholy, and laughter have been noted. They lash out verbally and physically toward the prisoners (1) only to apologize at a later time. Observations (2) result in speculation that hallucinations are another symptom. 

J.16.7.2-B – The Warden's obsession with notetaking remains steady, though most pages of planning are merely rewritten versions of earlier notes. Their nightly ritual has grown more rigorous: four cups of coffee ingested in the time between dinner and the kitchen’s closing. A fifth cup is brought back to the courtroom, where the Warden will once again sleep on the ground. (Refer to J.5.5.2.B for initial detail.) 

J.16.7.2-P – Sleep deprivation and/or caffeine intake has caused shakiness and overall weakness. They show severe eyebags and have not changed into nightclothes in several days. Though they wash themself and fresh civilian clothes have been provided, they insist on returning to the uniform. Motor skills (3) and computation abilities have suffered.

J.16.7.2-S – The Warden spends their days around the prisoners, but avoids participating in all necessary conversations and activities regardless of invitation (4). They limit speech to the Caretaker only about their denied request (5), though they can be coaxed into conversation when fatigue overtakes them.

(1) After 005 offered the Warden something to help with their sleep, they threw the pills to the ground and shouldered past with force; 008 attempted to read the Warden’s notes, and they slapped her hand away.

(2) Flinched away from 003 even when standing still; shocked expression at 004's face despite nothing out of the ordinary; looked nauseous and refused to eat fresh fruit from the dining hall; interrupted a conversation with 010 to listen to silence.

(3) Handwriting has grown nearly intelligible; dropped one of their coffee cups and nearly panicked at the subsequent breakage and spill.

(4) Left the room when 002 began setting up a game; ignored 001's encouragement to join him for a meal; refused to answer personal questions from 006; snapped at 007 when trying to begin a lighthearted conversation.

(5) Request submitted on 30.8.2 for padlocks to fit supply closet and cell doors.

Appendix. Subjective caretaker commentary – Poor kid. I’m glad it’ll all be over soon. 

[msnihilist]

Screenshots somebody’s DNI and has one herself saying no antis or busybodies. Cool. It’s the internet. Anything goes. That means I can rb your fanfics and save them for editing the way you save art that isn’t incestuous.

I mean, if you want to download my fics and comb through all of that incest and underage smut, that's your prerogative, man. Hope you get a boner out of it, then maybe you'll calm down 💕

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — on the radio.

JULY 15, 1989

Marty sighs, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. He flexes his hands, rolling his shoulders, trying to work the kink out of his back before getting back to work. That’s pretty much the only downside of tinkering around with various unfinished projects of Doc’s; way too many hours spent hunched over. 

“That was Tom Petty with ‘I Won’t Back Down’ here on KWHV 108.3 and I’m your host, Jamie Lee.” The deejay’s voice is sweet and smooth, and he remembers, warmth creeping across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, that Jamie Lee was his first crush. As if it wasn’t enough she was the coolest girl inside the halls of Hill Valley High, outside of school she was the best basketball player and had the best music taste. A triple threat for sure. 

“Next up we’ve got something kinda special: a new group that’s been soaring through the charts and sent the music world spinning with their electrifying debut.” 

Marty feels his heart quicken in his chest and tries to tell himself to calm down, the radio static buzzing in his head. He drops the screwdriver, which clatters to the table clumsily. There’s no way. There’s absolutely no way in hell she could be talking about–

“So, without further ado, with their lead single ‘Strangerland’ off their album 88, give it up for Hill Valley’s very own hometown boys, McFly and the Flyaways!’ 

His stomach drops. He’d recognize that opening riff anywhere.

“Future sight can’t help me tonight, tired of waitin’ for time to restart–”

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “Holy shit!” he exclaims, leaping to his feet and not even caring that he hits his head on the way up. “Doc! DOC!” 

He only feels a little bad when the door gets kicked open and his best friend bursts into the room like he’s goddamn Batman, clad in safety goggles instead of a cape and wielding a fire extinguisher instead of a Batarang. 

“MARTY!” Doc cries, looking around like a man possessed, frantic in his search for some threat. “What is it? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

He runs to the scientist, grasping his upper arms. His face hurts from smiling so much. 

“Doc! Doc, listen!”

“—ghosts in my head, there’s a ghost in the mirror that I see instead—" comes his own voice a moment later. 

Marty bows his head, grip momentarily tightening. There’s a lump in his throat and when he looks up at Doc again, his blue eyes are watery.

“My song, Doc,” he whispers. An awestruck, dumbstruck, disbelieving smile on his face makes him look all of thirteen again and he couldn’t care less. He lets out a laugh that’s a little too close to a sob for comfort. “They’re playing my song.” 

The fire extinguisher falls to the ground with a thud as Doc returns the embrace, holding Marty at arm’s length so tightly he thinks he’ll wake up with bruises in the morning. If Marty thought his own smile was big and stupid, it had nothing on Doc’s. 

“Do you know what this means?” he murmurs. 

“You were right,” Marty replies. “All the stuff you said to me.” 

“If you put your mind to it…” Doc starts, gently.

“…You can accomplish anything,” Marty finishes. 

The chorus starts, crackly over the radio, but it’s the greatest thing he’s ever heard. 

“Oh, I’m lost in my dreams, fallin' apart at the seams, and time is slippin' through my hand

But I got somethin' to prove, so what have I got to lose?

I'm gonna make it outta this

Strangerland!

I gotta make it outta this

Strangerland!” 

“Woah,” Marty laughs, tears sliding down his face. “This is heavy.” 

Doc pulls him into a bone-crushing hug which he eagerly returns, the instrumentation that took them weeks to nail blaring in the background.

“You did it, Marty. You made it.”

“I made it,” Marty repeats, as if it’ll make it feel more real. He feels lighter than air and like he’s buzzing with electricity, like he’s flying over a thundercloud. “Holy shit, I made it.” A sudden realization shocks him and his eyes widen. “I-I gotta tell the guys!”

“Go on, go on!” Doc encourages, letting him go, watching him fondly as he almost trips over his feet and the rug trying to make it to the phone in Doc and Clara’s library and study. 

However, it’s already ringing when he gets there. 

“Yo!” he greets, out of force of habit.

“Marty!” his dad’s warm voice responds. 

“Marty, honey, turn on the radio, quick!” his mom jumps in. “They’re playing it! Your, um, your Stranger in a Strange Land song!” 

“It’s your song, kiddo!” His dad sounds full to bursting with joy. “And boy, does it sound great!” 

He laughs, using his thumb and forefinger in a fruitless attempt to try to stem the flow of tears.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Oh, sweetheart, we’re so happy for you. And so proud of you, too, so proud.” His mom sounds like she’s about to cry, too. “Linda’s taping it and everything and Dave has it playing at the office!”

“We love you, son,” his dad reminds him, “and you’ll be home for dinner, right?”

“Yeah, Dad. I will. Love you too.”

[keeps-ache]

'please i have a family !! of ocs'

[quietwingsinthesky]

Drabble 181 - Supernatural

If Kevin doesn’t look at it, it isn’t happening.

His body isn’t betraying him. The weeks and weeks stumbling, starving, painfully around translation aren’t changing him. He can barely breathe, so binding is out of the question. His hands shake too much for injections, anyway.

If he finishes this, he can be himself again.

He hates living in a body whose breaking can be witnessed. Hates that the Winchesters’s eyes skimmed over him once, but now Sam’s says him with a hard note, like he has to remind himself, and Dean rolls his eyes, complies to get what he wants.

[goldencuffs]

my love... what happened to your bodyguard au fic :(((

okay first of all...... i absolutely LOVE you for even remembering this au 😭🥹

and secondly..... the answer is I'M DUMB 😭😭😭😭 i'm not good at writing high stakes/action/mystery/thriller fics AT ALL which is the issue i ran into when writing this fic. it’s just floating around unfinished, plot absolutely thin and not very good at all….. especially the writing!!! it’s so weak 😃

it's also why i'm so sad i don't have the skillset to write the mafia au or even continue some of the drabbles i've started like the one where auguste is a ghost or the one where laurent starts writing to damen while he's in prison :(((((((((((((((((((((((

[ravencromwell]

Ros Vortalis trans headcanons

There are some remarkable trans Holland fics and headcanons, but can we talk about Ros Vortalis, whom all of his friends simply call Vor? Who, even when he’s _dying Holland calls Vor, to be expected, but also Vortalis which’s so much longer than Ros.

A bit of googling informs me Ros is “protector” in German, which’s chef’s kiss one hundred/ten no notes V.E. But it’s also, more frequently, a diminutive of Rosalind. Disclaimer before I start these that I respect and love! the headcanons of Makt as fairly gender nonrestrictive, with power being more of a defining factor of treatment. My Makt, however, is more complicated, with gender and gender transitions being imperfect but still a site where joy can be created, much like the rest of White London existence. Putting the rest of these beneath a cut with that in mind because as a trans person, I know some days I can’t handle transness as careful complication to be navigated and don’t want to inflict it on anyone unprepared. (Though, I promise! there’re fluffy as fuck nsfw Vor/Holland and Vor/friends headcanons in here to cut the angst.)

Ros retains a shortened form of his given namefor business purposes within the Shal—we know Shal means “market” in Red London, and I tend to think it means the same in White, such that when Holland calls him a “thug from the Shal” he’s referring to Vor being in the merchant/smuggling business. When he transitions, he’s relatively young and honestly to flagrantly demand a name change would be seen by too many as blood in the water. His greatest focus, always, is Makt rather than his personal happiness and he’d rather be burdened with the “nickname” Ros and be capable of rising in the Shal in service of becoming king.

There’re two ways of transitioning: the easiest and least painful is utilizing a spell similar to Astrid’s with Lila and stealing a face and voice. But that spell fades with death and though Vor understands that his body is likely destined for desecration once he’s gone as Makt’s people drain its blood and magic, there’s still this stubborn demand that they destroy a body without the face that made him shudder every time his child self caught a glimpse (he is so grateful for a lack of mirrors in Makt for much of his young adulthood.)

So he chooses the harder, excruciating method: finds a bone magician to permanently reshape his body. Session after session, over months traveling abroad on a ship with only the open sea and crew to hear him scream himself hoarse.

The first time they share a bed, Holland strokes along the broadened shoulders, runs fingers along the scars on his chest—eyes fixed on Vor’s all the while— and murmurs: “If they did not believe you would hold the throne, they were fools.”

“I’m flattered.” He’s bright-eyed, with that deep, rolling-sea laugh.

“After this, very little would stop you.” Fools have marveled at the extent of spells across his body, and inwardly he howls in hysterical laughter because there is very little to dull pain in Makt, and the shipboard pain was so vast it made everything else feel like pinpricks by comparison. He’s never bedded someone who would know that as intimately as the man who had done his damndest to use that same magic in stopping Vor’s fist before it connected with his face, and the admiration uncoils something deep in his chest. “Sometimes I’m certain I can’t keep it. One moment it will be there and then not.” He manages a farse of a smile “Foolish, after all these decades, but such is the weakness of your future king, Holland.”

“Lucky you would have an Antari to put it back, then.”

By the time he returned to London, voice rumbling deep from an expanded chest, people understood quickly to use “Ros” with the proper pronouns or see just how effective the runes on his hands were. But well…Ros is an easier shirt than Rosalind to slip into, but it will never sit comfortably. As he develops allies, he finds that Vor and Vortalis fit easier. And it becomes a good gauge for trust. Those who understand implicitly how painful his given name is and respect that, are people worth keeping. It becomes easier, as fewer and fewer people survive who remember Rosalind.

There are far too many moments to count when former friends or lovers try to use “Ros” as a weapon, with a little smirk that says: “You never said we _couldn’t call you that.” And he’s deeply glad he made a relatively small name fuss and provided only a small chink in his armor. (Those sorts of people tend, inevitably, to cause the use of his knives. As though letting them close and showing kindness is an invitation for open season. But such are the risks in Makt, and he is a man who craves touch and closeness. What good to craft the ideal body only to never have it appreciated. The way Holland simply…withdrew from people after Talya is something almost unfathomable. Whether they’re the closest of friends or both king and night and! king and beloved—which’s pretty much always in my head—there’s a deep, profound ache that he could never touch Holland enough to make up for too many years alone.

It’s the dimmest flicker every time he sees the “knight” and “Antari” masks slip, when Holland leans against his shoulder or puts his head in Vor’s lap, eyes half-closing at fingers in his hair. But, simply because the task is nigh on impossible, doesn’t mean he won’t do his best. Vor touches Holland Vosijk a hundred thousand times in those two years of rule—and so, so many more if they both survive—and is so very, very grateful he could take the touches the best of his lovers and allies offered over the last thirty years. (On a slashy front, can we also just talk about how, as a couple, there’s an incomparable way arousal and awe intertwine for Vor _every time Holland reaches out and shows affection: a kiss against his temple as Vor lets their foreheads rest together; a hand moving slow and easy down his back. To be trusted enough for the most guarded man he’s ever met—it took Vor _months to convince him to kill Gorst and he’s never had to work so hard or wanted so desperately for someone to say yes in his life—to touch him is such a valuable thing that he has immense responsibility not to break.)

Also in couple’s verse: If Vor has a small regret, it’s that the bone magicians are far more skilled with outward, above-the-waist presentation—because the best of them have not only done this for trans people, but for criminals etc. seeking a disguise. Thankfully, they had no trouble cutting him open to ensure he would never be with child—he doesn’t have the vocabulary for dysphoria, but the idea of his stomach rounded and heavy is one of the few things that can make him viciously soul-deep terrified. But the below the waist equipment well, it’s not a magic Makt has the luxury of learning.

By the time he meets Holland, it’s the very faintest of regrets: he has a collection of strap-ons for when he and a lover want to indulge in that particular fantasy—and is comfortable enough in his skin it’s an indulgence and not a requirement. It’s beautiful to watch lovers slide to their knees and take them in their hands or mouths or slide inside and watch them arch with pleasure. But oh, oh he wishes he could _feel it. It’s not a complaint worth voicing, and honestly after he becomes king, there’s very little time to indulge.

But one day, Holland comes back, smelling of flowers holding a box, tells the guards to wait at the end of the hall because he has crucial business from “the other London” for the king’s ears alone, which has Vor intrigued and concerned because he hasn’t come close to asking Holand to send a message. But before the concern can swell to anything beyond a flicker, he sees a flush so faint anyone would miss it who wasn’t watching. (Even before the Danes, Holland held his feelings and desires in an iron grip; Vor learned early in sharing a bed that Holland loathed the idea of being heard by those not his lovers when losing control: not merely a discomfort that could add spice to an evening, but viscerally, the way it would take everything Vor had to turn his back on an armed opponent.) This is pleasure, not business and he flicks his fingers in a silent command before they can even turn to look.

"Go get yourselves some dinner,“ he says for good measure, "If there is a foe Holland cannot protect me from, there’s little more bodies can do.”

When he opens the box…there are the usual straps but the cock. The cock feels like _skin. “The Arnesians-” and oh, there’s still so much contempt in those words “With their infinite supply of magic have learned to transmute. From earth to bone, and then something softer. There is an illusion for the Arnesians who want to forget the straps.” There were layers upon layers beneath that statement: neither of them wished, at least then, to go begging for scraps, but to _take a little of the bounty Arnes had hoarded,

“_Yes!”

Neither of them know how the illusion works: it is as mysterious as the fireworks Holland has seen that fool his eyes into certainty dragons fly across the unbearably vivid Arnesian sky. It does not matter; in those moments when Holland’s mouth is hot on skin, Vor is utterly, entirely certain Holland is swallowing down the cock he has always had.

It’s almost too much, leaves him speechless for the first time in decades, has Holland scrambling up and onto the bed even as his eyes are still glassy from watching the king come undone to wrap himself around Vor’s back until the world comes into focus again. “Is it only good once or-” he asks, finally and Holland’s smirk is wicked.

When he’s upending the Ost table and coughing up blood—, so much, too much kajt I hope Holland can take the throne because whoever these bastards are they can’t rule, the thing he clings to: more than “Stay with me"—though he _tries—, more than the raw panic in Holland _swearing—is the name. _Vortalis, he says when the table overturns—though it would be such a forgivable mistake to use Ros. Vor, he says while chanting stay and one of his blood spells. He will die as who he made himself, not as he was born.

The three threads of coherence for Holland are the blood spell. That Vor _has to stay. And that if he cannot be enough to stop this, he _will not let Vor die hearing him use the wrong name.

In verses where Vor lives, they both know the "thank you” when he wakes is not for the healing, though to be alive is a joy.

[iamther0t]

Everything Is Fine -- [ Marble Hornets Oneshot ]

Basically, a bit of the aftermath from after entry 87, from Tims pov! its very short T_T

Word Count: 530

Warnings: Pills, sort of vague gore, mentions of murder

Genre: Angst

POV: Tim Wright

Dealing with the aftermath of…everything had become quite the challenge for Tim.

He had a vague idea of how to deal with some of it; drowning himself in pills and trying to remind himself it’s over now were two things he’d grown comfortable doing.

Sometimes, they worked to help him, even if it’s just a little bit, but other times they just aren’t enough.

He’d resorted back to bad habits some nights where nothing else helped. But even that just numbed him, if anything.

He hadn’t had another night where he woke up in an unspecified location with a mask strapped to his face in a few months. Sure, it was great that it hadn’t happened in so long, but the on-edge feeling of not knowing when, or if it was gonna happen again was like a ticking time bomb; or a disaster waiting to happen.

Despite the constant worrying and anxiety, things felt normal for Tim.

Too normal.

It felt like every night he was curled up in the corner of his room, clutching whatever weapon was closest to him and just waiting for that thing to come back, things got both increasingly less, yet more normal.

His new doctor tried reassuring him that so long as he kept taking his medication, it wouldn’t come back. It wouldn’t just show up out of the blue.

While that helped with the paranoia of The Operator coming back, he didn’t have anyone to reassure him that Alex Kralie was truly dead.

Not Jay.

Not Brian.

Not Jessica.

Not even himself.

When he said that phrase over and over, Alex is dead. He’s not coming back, he felt it starting to work.

And when he started calming down, and feeling just the slightest bit safer in his apartment, he felt the blood on his hands.

His knuckles turning white from his grip on the tiny pocket knife as he plunged it deep into Alex’s chest.

Alex’s corpse laying there unconscious.

Passing out on the stairs.

That’s why he moved.

A fresh start, where he wouldn’t be swarmed with old memories and people that he wished he’d never met, for his sake and theirs.

Where, maybe, everything could be normal.

Tim had got his wish.

Everything was normal.

But he was still the same.

A new town wouldn’t erase his past and what he did.

He knows Alex deserved it. He knows it was his only choice. He knew the moment he saw Jay bleeding out on the floor, a bullet wound pierced through him.

Alex was dangerous, and so was The Operator.

Tim just wished he wasn’t the one to have finished the job.

These thoughts haunted him at night, and even at day, too. An increased heart rate, sweaty palms, hyperventilating as he tried to get out, get out, get out–

He’d grown to know the feeling all too well.

So, as he kept a normal routine, living in his apartment in a normal town while he worked a normal job and was surrounded by normal people, he had technically gotten what he wanted.

He wanted normal.

He wanted everything to be fine.

And, it was.

It is.

Everything is fine.

[anthromimicry]

oh, but imagining the potential for warmth and also perhaps some humor in the scenario that misao decides she wants to try to cook something for someone she loves while they're over is currently making my heart happy. like i'm not going to lie — misao has honestly not cooked a day in her life since she just simply never had the need to, being a jorōgumo and all, but she would want to at least try to show she cares for them by attempting to cook their favorite dish or something whenever they're over at her home. and this would still apply to her even if she ended up completely failing at it at first because one of misao's love languages is acts of service. thus, of course she would want to provide them with something as integral as food. but GAHHH, picturing it from misao's loved ones perspective is also equally as sweet to me, because them guiding her on what to do while reassuring her that it's okay? and them eventually just deciding to cook together because misao may or may not get overwhelmed by the fact that she has such little knowledge about what to do because she wants everything to be perfect is... idk. it can be either incredibly romantic, or make for a very wholesome platonic moment between her and another character, which i LOVE

[sysig]

Your Weekly TV Guide

On Monday you can expect:

2:30 PM: Just Desserts - Villainsona

And Tuesday:

2:30 PM: Star Control II

Wednesday:

2:30 PM: The Sims 2 - SCII

Thursday:

2:30 PM: SCII

Friday:

2:30 PM: Handplates

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2:30 PM: The Sims 2 - Handplates

Sunday:

2:30 PM: To the Moon - Rosawatts

Thanks for tuning in! (Patreon)

[strawnav]

"Hachi —"

"He didn't tell me. Not exactly. But he —" Jinbei's voice falters, and Nami fights to keep her shoulders squared and her expression smooth, when he says, "— he warned me, about the kinds of things I might do that he felt might...be upsetting to you. So that I could avoid those behaviors."

Some part of Nami's heart breaks, and she smiles, faint and almost sharp, at the idea of Hatchan trying to protect her in this small, simple way. It's kind, but it's something else, too. "And based on what he said, you've...guessed."

He doesn't pretend otherwise, and she appreciates it. "Yes. Not the finer details, but...some of it."

She sits, body suddenly feeling heavy, and sinks into one of the room's plush seats. It's quiet, in the library. Just her and their newest crew member, who she does not fear. Who she does not fear. But her body remembers. Suddenly she can do little else. "What did he say?"

Jinbei would clearly rather not say, but he sits, too, and respects her too much to lie or evade. "He said it might make you uncomfortable to see me using a firearm." Her mind fills with images and sounds, the bang of a gunshot / the sight of her mothers skull exploding, viscera falling out like a spilled bowl / Nojiko's scream. "He told me to let you eat first, before myself, if there was ever a situation where we needed to eat in turns." It's been years since she's been forced to skip a meal, either because her captors decided she wasn't worthy of food or because spending even a cent on a meal was selfish, but she remembers the clutching, devouring hunger and the way her ribs felt against her skin nevertheless. "He though it would be best if I avoided waking you at night if there was any other option." His voice twists, and she doesn't have it in her to wonder what he's imagining. The first six months were the hardest, as far as sleep goes, never being allowed more than a few hours at a time because Arlong wanted to break her circadian rhythm, forcing her up at random to redo maps she knew were perfect. The years after, when she'd wake screaming and be beat for causing such a racket, and the way now she can't scream when she wakes up at all.

She swallows thickly, does not try to force the memories away, does try not to let them settle.

"Was that all?" Nami asks, her voice stronger than she feels.

"And he...suggested I shouldn't come near you generally while you're working on maps."

That has her stiffening. A too - large hand against her skull, slamming her face to her work table, smearing wet ink on her cheeks and blooming bruises beneath it. The memories always float closest to the surface when she draws maps, and that makes her so fucking angry she still wants to scream some days, because drawing maps is her passion. She loves little more. And he took it from her, transformed the simple, warm joy into a source of fear and anger. It's hers, now, but it isn't just her body that he left scarred. It's her dream. Every day, the scars fade, and she believes that someday, it'll be all hers again, but that she has a scar to heal at all is all wrong.

"Hah. That was kind of him." Her hand raises, pressing idly to her tattoo and the jagged scar beneath it. "I kind of hate how weak it makes me seem, though. That he thinks you need to walk on eggshells around me, just because Arlong hurt me."

"Not weak," Jinbei says. "I know that you're the farthest thing from weak."

Nami smiles, not looking at him, and tries to remember that he's right. "I want to tell you about it. Everything that happened." Hatchan was being kind, to tell him this. Nojiko was being kind, when she told Sanji and Usopp. She understands. But it's not their story to share. "I want you to know, and I want you to hear it from me."

He stiffens, and she can tell even without looking at him by the way his breath skips. Fishmen and humans breathe differently. She knows that, too. She imagines hearing a fishman's breath at her back while she draws a map, and is forced to consider that at least one piece of Hachi's advisements may be wise. Jinbei nods and says, "Of course."

"I'm not telling you to hurt you. This crew is like a family to me, and that means you, too. I want everything to be out on the table between us." She looks at him, still smiling, tired but not lying. "And I think we both need the reminder that we're strong enough to bear the truth."

Jinbei smiles, too, and nods again. Nami inhales.

"The reason Hachi probably thought it might upset me if I saw you with a gun — the first thing Arlong did to me was invade my village when I was ten. He took it over, and demanded tribute from everyone. My mother, she — she only had enough money for herself or for my sister and I, and she chose to save us. Arlong — he shot her in the head in front of us." She's surprised at how even her voice is, even while he heart breaks at the memory. She'd tried to help Bellemere after; tiny, trembling hands reaching as though she could put her brains back in her skull, and Nojiko had held her back. Jinbei looks, again, like he may cry, and Nami feels herself grow more tired.

He starts, "I'm so —"

"No," she says. "Don't. It's not your fault. I don't blame you. You've apologized already, and I accepted it. You're not your brother, and I know that. Seeing you with a gun wouldn't scare me, because I know you're not like him."

Jinbei nods, lips thin. Nami looks back to the half - finished map resting on her work table. It's nice, that she can take breaks whenever she wants now. She lets her eyes rest there.

"After he killed my mother, he found a map I'd drawn. I don't remember what I said, but I must have gotten mad at him for touching it or something, because he realized I drew it. Even back then, I was good at it, and Arlong took me away. A man in the vilage who cared about me — he's like a father to me — tried to stop him from taking me, and he was...he got hurt, real badly for it. He almost died."

She doesn't look back at Jinbei. She thinks of Genzo's voice, ragged, barely - there, soaked with blood, I'll save you, Nami. She thinks of screaming, begging him to abandon her. It took her so long after to learn that she was allowed to let others protect her, that she doesn't get everyone who loves her hurt.

"Once he took me away, Arlong beat me and made me watch him sink the Navy ships that came close. I didn't understand what he wanted, but...he was just trying to prove to me that I was alone. That help wasn't coming. He said I could join his crew as their cartographer. I —" Her voice breaks, just barely, as she remembers the little girl, so scared, so small, who'd had to be so, so brave. She wishes she could hold her. She wishes she could tell her that it would be okay someday. "I told him I'd only work for him if he'd let me buy the village back from him someday. And he agreed."

"He did?" Jinbei sounds sincerely surprised, and Nami laughs weakly, eyes drifting to her knees.

"He did. I'd just have to earn one hundred million berries for him, and I'd have the town's freedom. And my own."

"One hundred —"

"I was still a little girl, so I — I didn't really understand just how big that number was. But I didn't...there wasn't any choice. I d - didn't see any other choice. No one was coming to save us. Either I protected the village, or...or they'd all die, like my mom did." She inhales raggedly. "It was all I could do."

"I'm sorry," he says again, and her head snaps to him but before she can tell him to stop, he says, "I'm not taking responsibility. But I am sorry that happened. That shouldn't have...no child should ever be put in that position."

He's right. Nami smiles, and allows herself a few tears. All of the others said the same, when she'd told them. It's a good reminder, that her pain was as horrible and wrong as it had felt. As it still feels, on the worst days.

"Anyway, I ended up working for him. It was more like I was his prisoner than a member of the crew. He gave me a tattoo on my arm of his Jolly Roger, like — hah, well. I guess like a brand." Jinbei's face twists, a mixture of guilt and fury, and she thinks of Fisher Tiger's last words and understands, at least a little. "He was...awful to me. Almost the whole crew was. I went without food a lot. I got beat a lot. He didn't let me sleep enough or eat enough, and he almost killed me more times than I can count. I think he expected me to die. I think he wanted me to." It hadn't felt like an option to her. She was all that stood between Arlong and the village. "He let me stop wearing chains when I turned twelve. A birthday present." Jinbei's expression contorts further. She reaches out her free hand, hesitates, and then commits, resting it over his. His eyes widen as his head snaps towards the contact, then towards her face.

She smiles, trying to comfort them both. This aches, but she's told the story to the others enough that at least the wound isn't new. The hurt is like a stone, stuck in the center of her chest — whenever she tells someone, it feels like chipping away at it.

"He was...exacting about his maps. He locked me in a little room for a long time, didn't let me see any other humans for years. It was just work and maps and getting hurt whenever I tried to rest. I couldn't breathe. When he finally started letting me leave the island, I started stealing from — anywhere. Anything I could get my hands, to save the money to buy the island. Eventually, I started stealing from pirates."

Nojiko's horror, the first time she came home, blood dripping from her mouth and wounds across her arms and chest. Who cares that I'm hurt, I got ten thousand berries right here!

It's easier, to tell this part of the story.

"They hurt me, too, but...honestly, it was still better than being at Arlong Park. Nothing that any of them did to me could match what Arlong did." She inhales slow, exhales slower. Jinbei moves his hand beneath hers slowly, so as to not startle her, and flips it so her hand rests in his wide palm. She doesn't flinch, when he curls his hand gently around hers. "That was...my whole life. For eight years."

The number seems to wound him, and his eyes lower. Nami breathes, but does not stop. She must not believe herself fragile. She must not believe him fragile, either. "I had saved a lot over the years. Arlong figured out how close I was, and he had one of the Navy fuckers he was paying off steal my stash, so that I was back to square one. They shot my sister — she lived, thank god." She'd been so scared, mind conjuring images of Belle - mere's blood in the grass, another person dead because of Nami. "I — the villagers were so angry at Arlong, and so angry on my behalf, that they...they decided they'd rather die fighting Arlong and his men than live another day like this. I tried to convince them I could just...earn the money again, but..."

Inhale. Exhale. This part is hard. It had been so strange, to go from universally despised to so, so loved, and all in a matter of hours. To know that she was going to lose the people who loved her again. "The village loved me, even if I didn't know it. They wouldn't let Arlong get away with hurting me like that, and I think they...they thought that if they died, at least I'd finally be able to escape. I wouldn't have anybody left to save except myself." Her smile turns bitter. "Idiots. At that point, I'd have just died, too."

Her hand against her scar finally falls, and Jinbei's eyes fall to the exposed flesh. The scar is audacious and ugly, but it's mostly covered by the pinwheel. He seems to only now realize how extreme the wound is. "I was so angry at him, and so scared for my family, and so sick of — of having his mark on my body, this reminder that it wasn't really my body, just his tool, and I just — I snapped. I basically tried to carve his brand off of me." Jinbei winces, eyes shining, teeth gritting. There is no fear in her that the anger he expresses is aimed at her. "It's a miracle I can still use my arm at all, honestly. Luffy found me like that, and he didn't even know the story, he just...hated seeing me suffering like that. He and the others marched off to Arlong Park. And against all odds...they won. Luffy, he — he destroyed the room Arlong kept me in, destroyed all the maps I'd drawn in captivity. Destroyed everything connected to — what Arlong did to me. After that, after all that pain, I was...finally free."

Jinbei is silent for a long, long time. Nami doesn't rush him. She needs the quiet to swallow her tears, to let the memories wash through her and leave without drowning her. Fishmen hands feel different than human hands, but she's glad that holding Jinbei's hand doesn't chafe. It feels comforting. It feels kind.

Finally, the fishman says, "how long ago were you freed?"

Nami breathes out. "Almost three years ago."

"Three years of freedom after eight years of captivity and abuse from my brother. I don't fault you for being uncomfortable around me."

"Hey, stop that," Nami commands. "Listen. I'm not uncomfortable around you. We're holding hands now, and all that makes me feel is safe." Jinbei's eyes widen, head raising to look at her face. Her lips are set in a stern line, shoulders strong. "I'm not saying that there won't be bad days where I might jump when you greet me or something or feel anxious drawing my maps around you or the memories might make things hard. But it's not about you or about you letting Arlong go. I get that way about Sanji or Brook or the others sometimes, too." He doesn't look entirely convinced, but he squeezes her hand like he wants to be. "It's not about you. It's just the memories. We've both suffered a lot because of each other's people. But I don't blame you, and I know you don't blame me. There's no part of me, not a single one, that believes you'd ever hurt me the way Arlong did." Jinbei's eyes widen and shine and hurt. Softer, she adds, "There's no part of me that believes you'd ever hurt me at all."

The older man's voice trembles, breaking like the tears flowing from his eyes, when he says, "You are — far kinder than I deserve, and unimaginably brave." She smiles again, helpless this time, as she feels her own eyes begin to well again.

"Now you know my whole story. Thank you for letting me tell you."

"I'm a part of the crew," he says, still crying, but his voice is steadying. She thinks of the singular time she'd caught Arlong crying. He'd beat her for daring to see his fear and pain, and she knows that Jinbei is much stronger than him in many ways, that he is not afraid to allow himself to feel and cry and grieve. She is, too. "You said it yourself. This crew is like family, and there shouldn't be secrets." He breathes out a stuttering laugh, his tears slowing. "It's a bit strange to adjust to how close you are all."

"Give it a month or two," Nami shoots back, teasing a little now. "Luffy will have you so overwhelmed by how stupid we all are that you'll have no choice but to adjust."

"I hope to learn from all of you," he says, free hand wiping at his eyes. She releases his palm, and the other presses to his chest, and to the symbol that had frightened her in the early days "I hope that someday I may possess a fraction of your strength, Nami."

That draws a laugh from her, startled and shy. "The others on the crew are much strong than me."

"I don't believe that," he says, and he means it. He does. Her heart feels — light and heavy both. Floating on saltwater. She is strong, she knows. "To be strong enough not only to endure that hardship, but to have coped and moved on to the extent that you have...to be honest, I envy you. Arlong hurt you far more than he did me, and yet...the strength you display with regards to him is not something I can ever hope to match."

Her brow furrows. "He was your brother. He is your brother. That doesn't excuse him, and I'll always hate him for what he did to me. But it's a hell of lot easier to move on from a villain you hurt you than from the brother that you love."

Jinbei smiles joylessly. "Strange that the same man can be both, isn't it?"

She doesn't have a reply to that. All she can say, after a long moment of silence, is, "you're strong, too." To take responsibility for what is only barely his fault, to cry to a human even though humans have hurt him, to hold the love and the hate for Arlong together in his heart and not fall apart with it.

Jinbei smiles, not looking convinced, but doesn't argue.

"Do you want to — stay with me?" Nami asks suddenly. "While I finish this map?"

His eyes widen. "Are you sure you'd be comfortable with that?"

His concern isn't unwarranted. This conversation has memories bubbling to the surface, pressing against her head — Belle - mere, pain, years of abuse. The time Arlong drowned her and then crushed her hands. A fishman's breathing near her while she draws maps. It might be hard, but — "I'm strong," she says, because she needs to. "And I think I need..." She exhales, trying to think of how to word it. "I used to be afraid of pirates, you know? Much more than I was afraid of fishmen. When I started traveling with Luffy, I was terrified of him. But every day when none of them hurt me, the fear got...smaller. The memories of my crew being good to me drowned out the memories of the crew that hurt me. And I think...I think I need memories of maps and fishmen that are safe, too. To drown out the memories that aren't." She laughs quietly. "I guess I'm being selfish."

Jinbei smiles, almost paternal, eyes still red from his tears. "I think that makes perfect sense. I'd be happy to keep you company."

Nami grins. She's sure it might ache. But she's sure, too, that he won't hurt her. Even now, years later, what a relief — to know her crew won't ever hurt her.

"Thank you."

[sxcret-garden-archive]

,

[thebonepirate]

y'know i still have no fucking clue what goes on in honkai whatever because my starlight sucks at explaining things but i do know that the pink one is my favorite

[99020448]

OMFG. THIS IS THE ABSOLUTE BEST SUKUNA SERIES I HAVE EVER READ. I LOVE HOW HE IS STILL O CLOE TO HI ORIGINAL CHARACTER AND HOW SMOOTHLY THE TRANSITION FROM HIM BEING EVIL TO BECOME SO SOFT AND HUMAN FOR THE MAIN CHARACTER IS. TO TAKE SUCH A DIFFICULT AND CRUEL CHARACTER AND TO TRANSITION THEM LIKE THIS WITHOUT FALTER OR HICK UPS IS AMAZING. IM FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM MORE AND MORE EACH CHAPTER. ALSO IF I COULD GET ADDED TO THIS TAG LIST, I WOULD CRY BECAUSE IM SO IN LOVE WOTH THIS CHARACTER AND HIS DEVELOPMENT. AND IM NOT TEYING TO TELL YOU HOW TO WRITE IT BUT IF THERE IS EVER A CHANCE OF THERE HEING A SCENE WHERE SHE GETS TO SEE HOW CRAZY HE GOES, WHETHER ITS DUE TO HER GETTING HURT OR JUST TO PROTECT HER OR SOMETHING, I WOULD GO ABSOLUTELY FERAL.

i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend

sukuna x reader summary: you persuade sukuna to play go fish. the two of you have a small disagreement (he really can't stay mad at you). he confides in you about his past as a sorcerer. w/c: 3.4k tags/warnings: the teeniest bit of angst. mostly fluff. banter. cursing. aged up!yuuji. slight yuuji x reader. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers. a/n: the first section could be read as a brief(ish) stand alone. and for context, the world's shortest frankenstein synopsis: victor frankenstein brings a creature to life using dead body parts and thrusts him into a world he doesn't understand, then promptly abandons him and wishes him dead. alone and regarded as repulsive by every human he comes across, the creature begs frankenstein to create a wife for him too. when frankenstein refuses, the creature is further driven to hatred and violence. series masterlist // masterlist

"we should play a card game!" you exclaim as if you've just had the world's greatest idea.

"i'll pass."

sukuna sounds listless, like it's quite possibly the worst proposition he's ever heard.

"why's that? scared i'll beat you?"

"i'm opposed to mind numbing boredom, more like."

"you really need to expand your horizons," you suggest, making your way over to where you keep your playing cards. "all you do is read and brood."

"it's gotten me this far."

you don't respond, too busy rifling through your bookshelf. just as you spot your cards, a book catches your eye and you pull it from its place.

making your way back over to him, you drop it in his lap. "since you found jane eyre so insufferable, here's one you might actually like."

he surveys the cover, which reads: frankenstein or the modern prometheus

you take a seat across from him at the kotatsu table and shuffle the deck, while sukuna flips through the pages with new found intrigue.

"what's it about?"

"the dangers of playing god. should be right up your alley."

"your subtly never ceases to amaze."

"i'm just kidding." you laugh. "there's a lot more to it than that— revenge, loneliness, personal responsibility..."

he turns the book over. "it's written by a woman?"

you raise your eyebrows at him. "what, you don't think women have enough depth to write about those kinds of topics?"

"no, it was just an observation," he says off handedly. "you are evidence enough to the contrary."

he doesn't say it as a compliment, more so as a statement of fact. you hope your astonishment isn't written all over your face.

clearing your throat, you begin dealing while explaining the rules to him.

he takes up his cards and seems to understand the game after only a turn or two, but you're narrowing your eyes at him soon thereafter.

"go fish," he says for the fourth time in a row.

your gaze shifts down to his hands. there's just no way. "show me your cards."

"wouldn't that defeat the purpose of this stupid game?"

"not if you're cheating, now let me see."

"no."

you reach across the table, hoping to snatch them from his grasp, but he just holds them out of your reach.

swiftly rising to your feet, you launch yourself at him in a sad attempt to catch him off guard.

with only one arm extended, he easily fends off your attack. "do you actually think you have a chance here?"

you sink to your knees in defeat and sit with your legs folded beneath you. "not really, but i have to know if you'd stoop this low."

"that so? had you believed me to be above cheating?"

you gasp. "so you admit it?"

"i told you i didn't want to play," he deadpans.

"that doesn't mean you had to cheat! now we have to start over!"

he carelessly tosses the cards onto the table. "i don't think so."

"please?" you lean forward, jutting out ur bottom lip.

he just stares at you with an air of disinterest.

sukuna can be so haughty sometimes, and frankly, it drives you a little crazy. you'd give anything to wipe that look from his face— to prove that he doesn't find this as miserable as he lets on.

leaning forward even further, your hands meet with the carpet to support your shifting weight. now he's watching intently as your face approaches his, your eyes flicking down to his lips.

unbeknownst to you, sukuna's breath catches in his throat once he sees your gaze shift, though his mind struggles to catch up. it happens so fast that he hardly registers the quick peck you place on his lips (though maybe it's not the speed of the occurrence, so much as his shock).

"please?" you repeat.

he looks off to the side and stays silent, though his demeanor is indicative of some heated internal debate.

sukuna can't let you win, not that easily. you'd be under the impression that you actually have power over him! and for what? some measly kiss?

no, he simply will not allow that. "i already told you—"

grabbing him by the chin, you cut off his words with another kiss, but this time it lasts a few beats longer. your lips don't move against his, they just linger there in a way that that makes him question whether all of the oxygen has vanished from the room.

when you pull away, you're looking at him expectantly with the same pout still playing on your lips.

"fine!" he barks, grumbling something afterwards that sounds a lot like "evil little minx."

"human earthworm two is definitely still the best."

you're walking home with yuuji after a late night showing of the newest movie in the series.

"no way," you contend. "this one was even better."

he gawks at you. "in no world is the seventh film in an anthology the best! you're crazy—"

sukuna's mouth appears, always eager for a chance to undermine his vessel. "she's right, brat."

yuuji can't believe his ears. "what?! you haven't even seen it!"

"i don't know," you interject slyly. "i'm willing to look past that. it really seems like he knows what he's talking about."

"you mean the guy who's existence predates cinema?" yuuji asks, his eyebrows furrowing as a thought occurs to him. "what'd you do all day anyway? watch plays?"

"..among other things, yes." sukuna answers.

"if you look at it logically," you reason, "we probably wouldn't have movies without theater, so we should definitely consider him an expert in this case."

"oh please, baby. when the topic is ancient civilization or being a homicidal maniac, i'll be sure to solicit his opinion then."

"i resent that," sukuna declares, his conviction forcing a giggle from your lips.

"why?" you question. "was it the part where he called you old as shit, or the part where he called you a murderous lunatic?"

yuuji brings a hand to his mouth to stifle a snort, but you're freely laughing now.

sukuna scoffs indignantly and bites back a comment about how partial you seem to be toward said lunatic. "and to think i defended your opinion."

his response has you clutching at your sides and struggling to see through teary eyes.

but perhaps karma is real, because not a moment later you, you step off the curb in a way that sends a sharp sensation through your leg.

you gasp in pain and brace yourself for the impact of falling to the concrete, but it never comes. instead, you're left with fingers clamped tightly around your wrist and a strange sense of deja vu.

you turn your head just before the dark lines fade from yuuji's arm completely.

"tch, watch where you're going idiot," sukuna scolds, his mouth disappearing as soon as he finishes speaking.

"are you okay?" yuuji asks worriedly.

"absolutely," you claim, but when you try to put weight on your left foot, you let out a hiss.

yuuji's hands find your waist, hoping to keep you steady. before you know it, he's crouching in front of you with his back turned and beckoning you to wrap your arms around his neck.

once you do, he hooks his arms under your thighs and easily stands up. "this okay? you comfy?"

"yeah. i can't believe i just did that." you hide your face in the space where his neck meets his shoulder. "thanks, yu."

when you get home, yuuji sets you up on the couch with icepacks, heating pads, three different drinks, two different books, and the tv remote.

he still asks if you have everything you need several times, then kisses you sweetly before heading to bed.

around thirty minutes later, sukuna's leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"hey," you greet. your eyes never leave the tv, as you're privy to the slight tension between the both of you.

he skips the evening's pleasantries. "i could heal it, you know."

you finally turn to face him. "really?"

"of course." he rolls his eyes. "some of us can actually use reverse cursed technique."

"and you've just let me hobble around the past hour anyway?"

he shrugs. "you pissed me off."

you blink at him a few times, rubbing at your temples. "well what about now?"

"i don't know," he begins, making his way over to you. he towers over where you're seated on the couch, so you have to crane your neck to look up at him. "just doesn't really seem like something a homicidal maniac would do, but maybe if he were to receive an apology..."

you cover your face with your hands and groan. "i didn't say that. this is really something you should take up with yuuji—"

"i don't make a habit of conversing with the brat, so if that's the way you're going to be..." he turns on his heel and starts for the bedroom, but you grab onto his sleeve just before he's out of reach.

"wait. please don't go."

just like that, your words have his resolve crumbling and any of his lingering irritation ebbs away. he urges himself to stay strong though, especially after the go fish debacle.

when he doesn't speak, you let out a breath.

"i'm sorry, sukuna." he can tell right away that you're being entirely sincere. "i would never purposefully hurt your feelings. i only meant to tease you, but i can see how i was being mean."

are those... are those tears swimming in your eyes? are you in that much pain, or did he just make you feel that badly? in any case, he endeavors to remedy it immediately.

moving around the couch until he's in front of you, sukuna kneels between your legs. he grabs your left foot gingerly, situating it on his thigh before hovering his hand over top of it.

he sighs. "i don't care if you tease me and you weren't being.. mean." the words sounds so juvenile to him.

you weren't necessarily wrong either, goes unsaid.

well, he'd like to consider himself a little more sophisticated than 'maniac' would imply, but that's beside the point.

"then why are you upset with me?"

his jaw flexes as he tries to find the right words. "i would prefer you do that when it's just.. us."

"oh." realization dawns on you, as does another heap of guilt. you know he despises being trapped in yuuji's body, and you completely failed to consider how ganging up on him might make him feel. "i'm... fuck. i'm really sorry, sukuna—"

"stop apologizing," he urges you in a low voice. it's partly because what he just said makes him feel pathetic, but more than that, it's because the look of self reproach you're wearing is akin to a thousand needles in his chest. "it's fine."

he can't believe you're sitting there with so much remorse over a man like him because you... what? wounded his pride?

he probably deserves it anyway.

why should you give a shit when he's done things a thousand times worse, a million different times?

oh, right. because you care about him.

you can't see the cursed energy at play, but you can tell it's working as your pain begins to dissipate.

once he's finished, he carefully moves your foot to the floor and looks up at you. it's not unlike the way a person might gaze at one of the wonders of the world, like they're lucky to be there in the first place.

with the intensity of his gaze, it feels like he can see right into your head— read your every thought and pick apart every emotion. has anyone ever looked at you like that before? you're having a hard time remembering. you're having a hard time thinking of anything at all, really.

so it goes without saying that you don't think about it when you lean forward and kiss him.

it's not at all like when you were trying to convince him to play cards. no, this isn't light hearted or frivolous.

and it's not like the other two kisses you've shared either. it isn't heated or desperate, nor does it leave you gasping for air.

it's tender. it's so fucking tender, in fact, that sukuna wonders whether he's going to crumble beneath your touch.

he grips the area just above your knees, as if needing something to tether himself to before he withers away completely.

his lips move with yours in a way that's slow and careful.

your hands are on either side of his face, ghosting over his skin as a testament to your hesitance— like you're not certain if this is something he would want.

he wonders how in the world you could ever second guess yourself.

when you pull back, you examine his face for a moment before a small, shy smile tugs at your lips and you murmur, "thanks 'kuna."

he just peers at you wordlessly and it makes you nervous, so you attempt to fill the silence. "it feels so much better. a-and i'm sorry again abo—"

his hand finds your the back of your neck, pulling your lips against his for a moment longer. "don't mention it, angel."

ever since you gave sukuna your copy of frankenstein, he's spent a decent portion of your nights together reading, his brows drawn together in concentration.

upon finishing, he stares at the page after reading the final line: "he was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance."

he's deathly quiet and wearing some unreadable expression. his eyes seem far off.

you leave him be for a little while, as it's clear he's lost in thought, but eventually you grow a bit concerned. it's been nearly half an hour since he last moved.

"sukuna?"

he turns to you. "why did you think i would enjoy this particular book?"

you consider his question carefully, his mood evoking your own seriousness. "it's... elegant and tragic. i guess i appreciate the moral grayness of it. why do you ask?"

"no reason."

"did you enjoy it?"

"yes."

"why?"

he ignores your question. "frankenstein— do you like his character?"

you can't help but feel like you're answering some sort of riddle. "i think he's foolish and arrogant, but i guess i pity him to some degree."

"and the creature?"

"i'm much more sympathetic toward him. he's very... complex and certainly less culpable for the events of the novel than his creator."

you're surprised when he laughs. "of course you would think that way."

and with that, he's flipping through the pages of the novel. you move to sit next to him and once he finds what he's looking for near the middle, he begins reading:

"remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my joints more supple. but i will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. i am thy creature, and i will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me. oh, frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. remember that i am thy creature; i ought to be thy adam, but i am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. everywhere i see bliss, from which i alone am irrevocably excluded. i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. make me happy, and i shall again be virtuous.”

his voice is strangely even, almost bordering on robotic. you're struck with the notion that he's attempting (with rare difficulty) to mask his emotions.

you regard him quizzically and wait for him to speak. the last thing you expect to hear tumbles from his lips.

"you know they called me the disgraced one?" you nod. "do you know why?"

"i know the story that sorcerers have passed down."

he hums. leaning back into the couch, he looks fixedly at the ceiling before continuing. "i was just a boy when i was orphaned and no one knew anything about my heritage, including me. jujutsu society took me in and raised me as a sorcerer."

"and you didn't care for it?"

"oh, quite the opposite. i reveled in it. my strength was unprecedented, that much was clear from the start. i surpassed my teachers with ease, and eventually, i took to training alone— reading primitive texts and honing skills that they couldn't teach me."

your hand finds his thigh, hoping to offer him some consolation before beckoning him to continue. "then what happened?"

"the men who had been my teachers, who had been the only.. family i'd ever known.. they scorned me. deemed me reckless and dangerous to jujutsu society. plotted my demise."

your voice is small when you ask, "were they right?"

he wants to hate the question— wants to hate you for asking it— but he knows that it's warranted.

"no. i admit i was forward thinking and a bit.. unorthodox, but i wasn't..."

"what they thought you were?" you offer gently.

he nods. "not until they made me that way— not until they abandoned me and backed me into a corner like some animal."

you struggle to find the right thing to say, if any such thing even exists. you're amazed that he's confiding in you, and while it makes your heart swell, you really don't want to fuck it up.

he looks back down at the book, his eyes scanning the paragraph before repeating, "i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend."

he says it as if he's coming to terms with the circumstances of his life for the very first time.

"the creature was remorseful at the end of the novel," you recall somewhat bravely. "are you?"

sukuna thinks for a great deal of time before replying. you wait patiently for him.

"no," he answers decidedly.

looking over at you for the first time since he began his story, he's relieved to find your face is free of rebuke. instead, there's a warm willingness to understand him. a sadness because of the way he was alienated.

he's curious whether anyone would be able to read the sentiment on your face, or if he just knows you better than most.

is that a privilege he's worthy of? he doubts it.

"you didn't deserve what they did to you," you whisper, reaching up to rake your fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp before your palm rests against his cheekbone.

his head leans almost imperceptibly into your hand, and any regret or unease he may have felt at relaying his past to you disappears. watching a single tear slip down your cheek, he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

he means to say "don't cry. not for me," but the words die in his throat.

for once, your tears are for him rather than because of him and it's utterly riveting. the fact that someone like you would cry on his behalf seems to contradict every horrible thing he's ever been told about himself.

he could sit here and bask in the feeling forever— he's always known himself to be selfish after all. and you know it too, don't you?

his eyes flicker between each of yours, studying your face. "do you want to know why i don't regret the things i've done?"

you tilt your head to the side. "why?"

"because even if it's made me into a monster..."

for a moment, he contemplates not saying anything more. he considers forcing to himself to pull away from your touch, even if it's the only comfort he's been given his entire life. he might still be able to salvage whatever tiny, laughable pieces remain of his pride—

"all of my actions have led me to you."

your eyes soften before you're wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body to his. he returns the gesture after a few seconds pass.

you know he's awful. you know he's cruel. you know that what he's been through doesn't excuse his actions. but still— you want so desperately to take away his pain. to make up for all the things in his past. to wipe the blood from his hands.

as you embrace such an incredibly complicated man (one who is infamous for unrivaled wickedness, yet has his face buried in your hair), you ponder the creature's plea: "make me happy, and i shall again be virtuous."

a/n 2: if you're still w me, thanks for reading!! i'm not sure how i feel abt this part, so feedback is both welcome and appreciated!! also, how do we like sukuna using angel?? in my head he picked it up from the "my good angel" line in jane eyre, so i hope it doesn't seem too unnatural. alsoooo, highly recommend frankenstein. it's one of my favorite books!! mary shelley popped off and literally created the entire genre of science fiction at 21! anyway, thanks for all the love yall, it means the world<3

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[hypnagogics]

You should definitely write for Vi bc oml she’s so fine 😮‍💨

DO U EVEN KNOW THE WAY IM TWEAKIN OVER HER like omfg. my poor moots getting bombarded with fucking piles of edits upon edits of her and my thirsty comments...yeah...i gotchu, you don't needa ask me twice ♡ tbh feel like this is one of the better short smutty thingies i've written, lol. it was really fun.

nsfw drabble—dom!vi + spit kink. originally i was gonna make this three smaller blurbs, but decided to just smash em all into one longer drabble situation. cw: praise, bossy vi, finger sucking (r! receiving), oral (v! receiving), vi bush mention RAHHHH, yapping... yk how it is by now. + 1.1k wc.

you were gazing up at her with watery eyes, kneeling by vi's seated form, trying your hardest to ignore the deafening ache between your thighs.

vi is loving, and she knows how to treat you well. she always provides you with tons of care and happiness, however—she also possesses a dirty side to her.

a bandaged hand swipes at the bottom of your chin, her thumb prodding at your pursed lips. there was a smirk playing on her scarred lips, her powder-blue eyes twinkling with pure lust at the scenario playing out before her.

“open.” she says roughly, and who are you to deny her? you were willing to take anything she'd give you, so you obediently part your lips, allowing her to fully push her digit inside your hot mouth.

almost instinctively, your puffy lips wrap around her thumb and you begin to suck, your eyes rolling ever so slightly at the taste of her salted skin. she hums, “atta girl—keep going. just like that, until i say you can stop, alright?” you open your eyes and nod in approval, wishing to commit her expression to memory.

see, vi wasn't one of those mean, degrading doms with an icy exterior who get off on hurting you an excessive amount, and in moments like this where she's got you in a position of submission under her, her natural “switchiness” peeks through. you see it in the way her throat bobs as she swallows, her unsteady, shallow breathing coming out in rasps, and the distinct furrow in her flaming brows while she struggles to maintain eye contact. regardless, you both enjoy toying around with various dynamics, she makes it fun.

you get lost in a daydream while staring into her eyes, but are startled out of it when she strongly presses down on your wet tongue, and pushes her thumb further inward until you gag.

it surprises you, but you know she would never overdo things. tears well up in your eyes, their presence only widening her voracious grin.

then she soothes, her now-soft voice caressing your ears, “exactly, just like that. good job, baby. you're so perfect f'me—yeahhh.” she continues rolling her thumb around your wet muscle, every so often dragging the pad of her finger over the ridges of your teeth, then pushing experimentally up against the roof of your mouth.

saliva has been gathering all this time, and she hasn't given you a moment to swallow it, so it dribbles out of your mouth and down your chin, decorating your chest as it slides down your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps along its path.

her face gets impossibly redder as she observes the sight, still while playing with—rather, using—your mouth. her movements speed up a touch, and she triggers your gag reflex once more before abruptly stopping. she pulls her hand out of your mouth with a pop, and throws her head back as she tries to steady her breathing. “you're so fuckin’ hot, god—i can't.”

you smile up at her, reveling in her break of character and being pleased with yourself. she's panting, and examines her hand; it's shiny and dripping with your spit, she's mesmerized by the sparkle it emits in the low light. her periwinkle eyes gloss over and suddenly there's a flash of fabric flying by, and you realize she has undressed herself in one fluid motion, throwing everything on her bottom half across the room. she’s so desperate, you can’t help but sneer at her horny distress, even though technically you were the one being overpowered.

your eyes drop, meeting a wild tangle of vermillion and crimson, her muscular thighs separating east and west to make space for you.

she leans back and gently nudges your head towards her tender, drooling core, her chest heaving at the way you're just melting under her touch. turning to jelly, you let her guide you where she wants. needs.

vi groans quietly, her breath hitching, “c'mon angel, you know what to do.” and you very much did. with her assistance, you advance and bury your face in her center, tongue finding her scarlet pearl—twitching and ready for you to obliterate.

you flick, you suck, and you moan at the heavenly taste of her essence, revel in the noises she's producing above you. she pulls you further in, bucking her hips frantically to chase your skilled mouth. you push your tongue inside her quivering hole as far as it'll go, taking as much of her in your mouth as you can, and ignoring the lack of oxygen you're experiencing—you would be more than pleased if you were lucky enough to die this way.

she's watching you intently through half-lidded eyes, chewing on her rosy lips. when you meet her gaze from in between her legs, her face contorts and she releases a guttural whine, more slick leaking from her and filling your hard-at-work mouth.

her grip on your hair tightens and her abs tense, providing you with an image that's worthy of a climax just on its own. her head falls back, her lips parting to allow for pretty, high pitched and pathetic pleas to grace your ears. “ple—please baby, just like that. you're so fuckin' good, don't you dare stop—ah!”

without any warning she makes a vulgar mess of your face, the vice grip on your crown causing you to wince, but just as she requests, you don't dare move.

you tilt your head to get a better angle, practically making out with her swollen pussy. you drink up her cum, the near-sickly sweetness clouding your mind, coating your thoughts in a drunken haze.

the high is rippling through her at such an intensity her loud moans are replaced with pornographic whimpers, the sensations utterly ruining her. she squirms and arches, caging your head between her thighs until she gasps.

"hah—okay, okay, oh—fuck.” she stutters while she pushes you away, the tremor in her body evident. you sit back and examine your work, feeling proud of yourself, her fucked-out condition proving you did a good job.

she's sprawled on the bed like a starfish, still trying to slow her racing heart but manages to chuckle, basking in the aftershocks of a mind-melting session.

her words are slurred, yet satisfied. “did so good, that was so good…love your mouth s'much babe.”

you guffaw, and throw at her through chuckles, “i know, i am the best.” that sends her into a fit of giggles as well, and once she's calmed down she confirms.

“yeah, you really are.”

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