#I’m not ready to condemn them for it

[ridenwithbiden]

“After the killing of the CEO of United HealthCare,” wrote Moore, “the largest of these billion dollar insurance companies, there was an immediate OUTPOURING of anger toward the health insurance industry. Some people have stepped forward to condemn this anger. I am not one of them.

“The anger is 1000% justified. It is long overdue for the media to cover it. It is not new. It has been boiling. And I’m not going to tamp it down or ask people to shut up. I want to pour gasoline on that anger.”

Moore continued: “Because this anger is not about the killing of a CEO. If everyone who was angry was ready to kill the CEOs, the CEOs would already be dead. That is not what this reaction is about. It is about the mass death and misery – the physical pain, the mental abuse, the medical debt, the bankruptcies in the face of denied claims and denied care and bottomless deductibles on top of ballooning premiums – that this ‘health care’ industry has levied against the American people for decades. With no one standing in their way! Just a government – two broken parties – enabling this INDUSTRY’s theft and, yes, murder.

“And now the press is calling me to ask, ‘Why are people angry, Mike? Do you condemn murder, Mike?’

“Yes, I condemn murder, and that’s why I condemn America’s broken, vile, rapacious, bloodthirsty, unethical, immoral health care industry …”

“But don’t get me wrong. No one needs to die,” added Moore. “In fact, that’s my point. No one needs to die – no one should die because they don’t ‘have’ health insurance. Not one single person should die because their ‘health insurance’ denies their health care in order to make a buck or Thirty Two Billion Bucks.”

[dailyrothko]

No, the Popularity of Abstract Art is Not the Result of a CIA PsyOp

If you are unlucky enough to move around the internet these days and talk about art, you’ll find that many “First commenters” will hit you with what they see as some hard truth about your taste in art. Comments usually start with how modern art is “money laundering” always comically misunderstanding what that means. What they are saying is that, of course, rich people use investments as tax shelters and things like expensive antiques and art appraised at high prices to increase their net worth. Oh my god, I’ve been red-pilled. The rich getting richer? I have never heard of such a thing.

What is conveniently left out of this type of comment is that the same valuation and financial shenanigans occur with baseball cards, wine, vacation homes, guitars, and dozens of other things. It does indeed happen with art, but even the kind that the most conservative internet curator can appreciate. After all, Rembrandts are worth money too, you just don’t see many because he’s not making any more of them. The only appropriate response to these people who are, almost inevitably themselves, the worst artists you have ever seen, is silence. It would cruel to ask about their own art because there’s a danger they might actually enjoy such a truly novel experience.

When you are done shaking your head that you just subjected yourself to an argument about the venality of poor artists plotting to make their work valuable after they died, you can certainly then enjoy the accompanying felicity of the revelation they have saved to knock you off your feet: “Abstract art is a CIA PsyOp”

Here one must get ready either to type a lot or to simply say “Except factually” and go along your merry, abstract-art-loving way. But what are the facts? Unsurprisingly with things involving US government covert operations, the facts are not so clear.

Like everything on the internet, you are unlikely to find factual roots to the arguments about government conspiracies and modern art. The mere idea of it is enough to bring blossom for the “I’m not a sheep” crowd, some of whom believe that a gold toilet owning former president is a morally good, honest hard-working man of the people.

The roots of this contention come from a 1973 article in Artforum magazine, where art critic Max Kozloff wrote about post-war American painting in the context of the Cold War, centering around Irving Sandler’s book, The Triumph of American Painting (1970). Kozloff takes on more than just abstract expressionism in his article but condemns the “Self-congratulatory mood”of Sandler’s book and goes on to suggest the rise of abstract expressionism was a “Benevolent form of propaganda”. Kozoloff treads a difficult line here, asserting that abstraction was genuinely important to American art but that its luminaries, “have acquired their present blue-chip status partly through elements in their work that affirm our most recognizable norms and mores.”

While there were rumblings of agreements around Kozloff’s article of broad concerns, it did not give birth to an actual conspiracy theory at the time. The real public apprehension of this idea seems to mostly come from articles written by historian Frances Stonor Saunders in support of her book, “The Cultural Cold War: The CIA and the World of Arts and Letters” (New York, New Press, 2000). (I have not read this 525 page book, only excerpts).

The gist of Ms. Saunders argument is a tantalizing, but mostly unsupported, labyrinthine maze of back door funding and novelistic cloak and dagger deals. According to Saunders, the Congress for Cultural Freedom (CCF), an anti-communist cultural organization founded in 1950, was behind the promotion of Abstract art as part of their effort to be opinion makers in the war against communism. In 1966 it was revealed that the CCF was funded by the CIA. Saunders says that the CCF financed a litany of art exhibitions including “The New American Painting” which toured Europe in the late 1950s. Some of this is true, but it’s difficult, if not impossible, to know the specifics.

Noted expert in abstract-expressionism, David Anfam said CIA presence was real. It was “a well-documented fact” that the CIA co-opted Abstract Expressionism in their propaganda war against Russia. “Even The New American Painting [exhibition] had some CIA funding behind it,” he says. But the reasons for this are not quite what the abstract art detractors might be looking for. After all, the CCF also funded the travel expenses for the Boston Symphony Orchestra and promoted Fodor’s travel guides. More than trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes, it was meant to showcase the freedom artists in the US. enjoyed. Or as Anfam goes on to say, “It’s a very shrewd and cynical strategy, because it showed that you could do whatever you liked in America.”

For what it’s worth, Saunders’s book was eviscerated in the Summer 2000 issue of Art Forum at the time of its publication. Robert Simon wrote:

“Saunders draws extensively on primary and secondary sources, focusing on the convoluted money trail as it twists through dummy corporations, front men, anonymous donors, and phony fund-raising events aimed at filling the CCF’s coffers. She makes lengthy forays into such topics as McCarthyism, the formation and operation of the CIA, the propaganda work of the Hollywood film industry, and New York cultural politics—from Partisan Review to MoMA to Abstract Expressionism. Yet what seems strangely absent from Saunders’s panoramic history, as if it were a minor detail or something too obvious to require discussion, is the cultural object itself: The complex specifics of the texts, exhibitions, intellectual gatherings, paintings, and performances of the culture war are largely left out of the story.”

Another problem with the book seems to be that Saunders is an historian but not an art historian. For me, I sensed an overtone of superiority in the tale she’s spinning and most assuredly from those that repeat its conclusion. The thinly veiled message of some is that if it were “Real art” it would not have had be part of this government subterfuge. The reality is very different. For one thing, most of us know it is simply not true that you can make people devoted to a type of art for 100 years that they would sensibly hate otherwise. Another issue is that it’s quite obvious none of the artists actually knew about any government interference if there was any. Pollock, Rothko, Gottlieb and Newmann were all either communists or anarchists. Hardly the group one would recruit the help the US government free the world of communism. Additionally, this narrow cold war timeline ignores a huge amount of abstract art that Jackson Pollock haters also revile and consider part of the same hijacking of high (Frankly, Greek, Roman, or Renaissance) culture. If you look at the highly abstract signature work of Piet Mondrian and observe the dates they were painted, you’ll see 1908, 1914, 1916. This is some of the art denigrated as a CIA PsyOP, 35 years before the CIA even thought about it. Modern art didn’t come from nowhere as many would have you believe to discredit its rise. There was Surrealism, Dada, Bauhaus, Russian futurism and a host of other movements that fueled it.

Generally, people like to argue. On the internet, “I don’t like this” is a weak statement that always must be replaced by “This is garbage” or my favorite, “This is fake.”

It’s hardly surprising that the more conservative factions of our society look for any government involvement in our lives to explain why things are not exactly as they wish them to be, given the (highly ironic) conservative government-blaming that blew up after Reagan. In addition, modern fascists have always had a love affair with the classical fantasy of Greece and Rome. Both Mussolini and Hitler used Greece and Rome as “Distant models” to address their uncertain national identity. The Nazis confiscated more than 5,000 works in German museums, presenting 650 of them in the Entartete Kunst (Degenerate Art, 1937) show to demonstrate the perverted nature of modern art. It featured artists including Marc Chagall, Max Ernst, Wassily Kandinsky, and Paul Klee, among others. The fear of art was real. It was the fear of ideas.

To a lot of people on the internet just the mentioning a “CIA program” is enough to get the cogs turning, but as with many things, the reality of CIA programs and government plots is often less than evidence of well planned coup.

The CIA reportedly spent 20 millions dollars on Operation Acoustic Kitty which intended to use cats to spy on the Kremlin and Soviet embassies. Microphones were planted on cats and plans were set in motion to get the cats to surreptitiously record important conversations. However, the CIA soon discovered that they were cats and not agreeable to any kind of regulation of their behavior.

As part of Operation Mongoose the CIA planned to undermine Castro's public image by putting thallium salts in his shoes, which would cause his beard to fall out, while he was on a trip outside Cuba. He was expected to leave his shoes outside his hotel room to be polished, at which point the salts would be administered. The plan was abandoned because Castro canceled the trip.

Regardless of your feelings on this subject or how much you believe abstract art benefited from government dollars, Saunders herself quotes in her book a CIA officer apparently involved in these “Long leash” influence operations. He says, “We wanted to unite all the people who were writers, who were musicians, who were artists, to demonstrate that the West and the United States was devoted to freedom of expression and to intellectual achievement, without any rigid barriers as to what you must write, and what you must say, and what you must do.” Hardly the Illuminati plot we were promised.

In 2016, Irving Sandler, author of the book that started Kozloff tirading in 1973, told Alastair Sooke of The Daily Telegraph, “There was absolutely no involvement of any government agency. I haven’t seen a single fact that indicates there was this kind of collusion. Surely, by now, something – anything – would have emerged. And isn’t it interesting that the federal government at the time considered Abstract Expressionism a Communist plot to undermine American society?”

This blog post contains information and quotes sourced from The Piper Played to Us All: Orchestrating the Cultural Cold War in the USA, Europe, and Latin America, Russell H. Bartley International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society, Vol. 14, No. 3 (Spring, 2001), pp. 571-619 (49 pages) https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20161004-was-modern-art-a-weapon-of-the-cia https://brill.com/view/journals/fasc/8/2/article-p127_127.xml?language=en https://www.guggenheim-bilbao.eus/en/learn/schools/teachers-guides/the-dark-side-of-classicism https://www.artforum.com/features/american-painting-during-the-cold-war-212902/ https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/modern-art-was-cia-weapon-1578808.html https://www.artforum.com/columns/frances-stonor-saunders-162391/ https://www.artforum.com/features/abstract-expressionism-weapon-of-the-cold-war-214234/ Mark Rothko and the Development of American Modernism 1938-1948 Jonathan Harris, Oxford Art Journal, Vol. 11, No. 1 (1988), pp. 40-50 (11 pages)

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

˖✧ Through my eyes

✦ Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem!Reader ✦ Summary: Karen explains Mary and Arthur's story to you. Saddened, you're convinced you could never compete with her until the man in question proves you wrong. ✦ Warnings/Tags: Self-depreciation from both sides, kissing, comfort, fluff. Reader has been with the gang for a year. Use of Y/N. ✦ Words: 3k ✦ a/n: This is the answer to this ask by the lovely @crystalofmoon19. I really hope you'll like it, dear! And thank you for your support, you've been really sweet to me and my work! As always, I got carried away and wrote way too much. And as always, please reach out to me if you spot any misspellings. Also idk why I made this in Colter, guess I just feel way too hot rn and want some fresh snow + Arthur's coat is perfect for comfort. Credits. Arthur's pic is from my playthrough. Other pics are not mine found them on Pinterest. AO3

“And in the end, she rejected his proposal, then a few months later, sent him a letter telling she was marrying some wealthier gentleman!”

Your mouth hangs open in the air. Karen’s words enter through your ears and create a nice little nest for themselves in your brain. You had no idea. No idea Arthur had been this close to being married. That their relationship had been so strong, that, according to hearsays, he had reached his lowest after their break up, drunk most part of the day, fighting the rest of the time, obnoxious to everyone, even Dutch and Hosea.

“Y/N? You’re okay, there?” Karen asked you, disappointed her big reveal had left you reactionless.

You focused your gaze back on her. Her blonde hair is softly litten up by the setting sun, her breath exhaling a puff of steam as she breathes. Colter is a cold place, and it probably felt even colder because of the morose mood of the gang. You suddenly remember you’re supposed to be shocked. You are, of course, but in a very bad way. Not in an “Oh my God, I can’t believe this Karen, so much gossip!” kind of way.

How could you ever compete with that?

“Yeah, I’m alright. God, I had no idea so much happened between them.”

“Oh, trust me, it was definitely his biggest love story. Never saw him get into someone else after her. Not even Mary-Beth! Could you believe that?”

No, you couldn’t. You weren’t sure why but every word from Karen felt like an enormous stone falling into your belly and dragging you deeper and deeper into the sea. Your silly little crush on Arthur, when you first joined the gang a year ago, had turned into a way stronger attraction. Denying it at first, you had little by little let your emotions win, cherishing every moment with him, thanking Dutch for assigning both of you to the same missions, loving the quiet evenings where he would just sit next to you around the campfire to scribble in his journal while you would do your little hobby on your own. Silent most, but enjoying each other’s company, and so, so peaceful.

More than your emotions, you even had let your imagination take the lead, dreaming about a selfish future with him, seeing it every time he would give you a smile, or laugh at one of your jokes. A happy Arthur, relieved from his obligations, enjoys life's simplest joys. A house, a garden. Maybe a dog, considering he had loved having Copper. A marriage even. And why not a child? If he would feel ready. Something in you was telling you he would be a good father.

But now, you felt like this dream was rotten, condemned.  Like a broken match. The fire, the very thing it’s designed for,  not being able to be lit. Would never be lit. A wasted potential.

You tried to continue your gossiping chat with Karen, voice light but gaze elusive as you peeled the potatoes you were supposed to prepare while discussing, tedious tasks often ended up less difficult this way when you were working with the other girls. But behind your seemingly normal smile and hollow words, a haunting thought was hanging on to you as strongly as a rock trapped in a thousand-year-old iceberg. 

Arthur never fell in love again after Mary Linton.

Night had definitely fallen on the frozen mountains. After your endless vegetables centered-chores, you had helped Mr. Pearson turning them into a decent meal, his incessant blattering about the Navy giving you some sort of distraction. During dinner and after though, once you didn’t have any goal or job left to do for the day, your conversation with Karen came back into your wandering mind, her speech playing again and again like a used gramophone record.

Never fell in love again...

Sitting at one of the corners of the big cabin you had been sleeping in for the past few days along with the girls and some other gang members which mainly served as a common space, you were looking outside by a dilapidated window. A frozen World spread out before your eyes, every inch of surface covered in snow and ice, the landscape ending up looking like it was coated with a thick strange substance —dark blue colors Queen of this gloomy, misty horizon.

Arthur had returned from a very busy hunting day with Charles. Thanks to them, meat had been added to the vegetable paradise of a meal, resulting in a better-than-usual supper. He should have felt cheerful, but his mood wouldn't lighten. 

He had spotted you from across the room, noticing the hurtful absence of your smile on these sweet lips of yours. Smile he secretly loved. Lips he secretly fancied. 

Hesitating for a long moment, debating with himself, a self-depreciative rambling turning in his head like a well-oiled motor, he had ultimately decided to join you and investigate. Something pretty important must been bothering you, because loosing your usual little grin and eating your plate all by yourself really wasn't in your habits.

Approaching you, his boots and spurs clicking and stomping before you could see him, he plants them in front of you, standing there while his eyes lock on your face.

“Miss Y/L/N? Is everythin’ okay?”

“Oh, Mr Morgan. Yeah, don’t worry. Everything is great.”

He doesn’t believe you and honestly, you wouldn’t have convinced yourself either. And Arthur is a stubborn man. A stubborn, and caring one. He leans against the cabin's old creaky walls, on the other side of the window.

“Come on, don’t lie t’me girl. Everyone noticed you’re not in your right mind.” He honestly doesn’t know about everyone, but he surely did. His words are accompanied by a small, polite smile.

“I don’t think… I don’t think you’re the right person to talk about it.”

Arthur’s entire body froze. The hands he had on his belt as always when he was comfortable, flew to his chest as he crossed his arms, his thick winter coat folding with difficulty. His encouraging smile flattened, his brows pleating in a harsh frown.

“Erm… Alright, I get it. I won’t bother you, I guess.” 

Without loosening his arms, he pushed himself from the wall, taking a step to leave you some space. You couldn’t have missed it. This change of behavior, the hurtful expression he had displayed, as if he was truly pained by your words. Disappointed, maybe even shameful to have thought he could help you at all. He was just a sad, ugly bastard, after all.

You felt like you could hear all of it from where you were, and see it in the shadow that had taken his face and the gigantic mass that seemed to have fallen on his shoulders.

No, you didn’t want this. Didn’t want him to feel like that because of you and your stupid feelings, or your own dark thoughts.

“Wait, Arthur!”

He turned around the second you talked again.

“I’m sorry it’s just…” You sigh and look at him with an uncertain expression, knowing your next words were going to be risky. “It’s about you and Mary Linton…”

His eyes turn into two literal plates, his mouth slightly opening in outer astonishment. This was really not what he had in mind. You could have been sad because of a hundred logical reasons, the death of Davey and the loss of Sean and Mac, the complete fiasco of Blackwater, the hundred of dollars lost, the terrible and tough conditions of the Grizzlies plunging everyone into an unbearable cold and a threatening famine.  Not mentioning Hosea’s alarming coughing, Dutch’s mysterious decisions, and Micah as a whole.

But you, out of all these things, were worried about Mary.

Once his eyes had grown as round as they could, they got back into an interrogative expression, the wave of surprise over.

“Wha’…?! How d’ya even know ‘bout her?”

“Karen speaks a lot when she’s bored…” You briefly explained, trying to sound detached.

Arthur rolls his eyes to the Heavens. Of course, folks talked, and you had to know about it all at some point. But this wasn’t ideal at all. He would have preferred to tell it to you himself, at a time he would have felt comfortable doing so, with his own words. He didn’t want this to change anything between the two of you.

“And erm… What exactly bothers ya?”

You open your mouth to speak, but your words are jammed. Explaining that you feel jealous of what the both of them had shared would just come down to confessing your feelings for him plain and simple. 

You felt completely stuck. 

He’s right there before your eyes, the very source of all your worries and your every joy. Looking at you with those confused blue eyes, wondering what is happening in this pretty head of yours. But the words still won’t come out.  You feel more and more powerless, and instead of a sound, your eyes take over to get something out of your body, slow and sad tears filling them like a lonely glacier fills a mountain lake on its own.

Arthur’s usual frown furrows, his wrinkles more visible, contrasted by the shadows from the warm lights of the fire. Suddenly, his internal melancholic speech shuts down, as if the view of a single tear streaming down your cheek were absolutely intolerable to him. No worries nor anxious self-restraints crosses his mind —it’s now only instinct. He sees you crying. He has to help you. This is as easy as that.

His right hand reaches to you by itself.

It feels warm but coarse. This big, big hand on the side of your face.

“Oh, Y/N. Don’t waste those pretty tears for a sour-faced idiot like me.” His thumb gently wipes the drops of sadness that had overflowed from your two delicate lakes. “Come on, les’ jus’ talk about this somewhere quiet.”

Arthur gently uses the hand he had on your cheek to wrap it around your shoulders, solid arm gently pushing you up. He then leads you through the door, other members throwing curious gazes at the both of you.

But he doesn’t care. His priority, right now, is your well-being, and some privacy to allow him to finally whisper things in your ears he should have a long time ago. Not in front of everyone. Not with the other men looking at your sparkling eyes, and listening to the change in his voice he knew would crack, his usual intimidating persona crushed into a million pieces with only the sound of your own. Or with the other girls hearing the oh-so-important words he had to say. No. You would be the only one to witness this. 

He had brought you to the barn where the horses were kept. The snow was falling lazily, a few flakes passing through the holes in the dilapidated roof. The place is enveloped in a heavy silence, as if it was muffling every sound coming from the outside.

Once Arthur had closed the big wooden doors behind you and before he could do anything else, you finally burst.

“I shouldn't cry, I’m so sorry Arthur, I just… She looked like an incredible woman, so beautiful a-and distinguished, and me well… I'm just… me.” Your eyes fell to your feet. You like everything was coming out of you all at once and you couldn't contain it anymore.

“Stop it.” 

“How could I ever mean something to you? You've been with her for so long and even proposed to her and… and never fell in love again after her and…”

“Stop it, Y/N!”

Arthur cut your blabbering panic by pulling you against him. He held you so tightly you were almost crushed by his powerful arms, but it felt so good. Like he was holding together all the little pieces of you that had cracked, melting them with his warmth and molding yourself again with it.

“Now you l’sten to me, sweetheart. I don’t want ya to say things like this ever again.”

The sudden use of the pet name soothed your heart immediately. You buried your face into the furred collar of his big winter coat, the hairs tickling your nose. There, you can feel a little bit of his bare skin, your cheek finding shelter against it.

You stopped talking.

You just wanted him to continue to. His deep voice seemed to come directly from the inside of his chest, and you could feel it vibrating before actually hearing it.

“Ya know I’m no… Am no poet or, or good with words like Dutch…” He started, visibly unsure of what he was going to say. He’s relieved he had initiated the hug, this way, with your face in there, you couldn’t see his. The worried expression it was carrying, like a burden. “But lemme tell ya just how much I care about ya. Oh, my sweet girl.” 

This is it. He tries not to but his low tone begins to tremble. It’s so strange. It feels like forever since that happened for the last time.

“Yeah, Mary has been a real’ important part of my life, I won’t lie to ya. But it was so long ago, gorgeous. So long ago.” 

He knows he won’t shed a tear. He never cries. But his hands shake. His vocal cords vibrate in a vulnerable, softer, and higher-pitched quaver. His body tenses, heart as fast as if racing with a million wild horses galloping in the Great Plains. Even if his words couldn’t explain just how much you meant to him, you could have guessed by how you were affecting his entire flesh.

“Ya know what? It’s true. Our story ended badly. I never fell in love again after her.”

You sigh, more tears wetting your face and his blue coat, this truth so hard to swallow.

“Until that morning, when I saw you brushing Boadicea’s mane; your hair all covered in hay, the brightest smile I ever had the chance to witness on that sweet face o’ yours. That day, I knew my stupid foolish heart had done it all over again.”

You let out a single chuckle mixed with tears and emotions, so relieved. Even when you felt like you were at your lowest, he succeeded at making you smile.

“Grimshaw had forced me to groom all the gang’s horses to “get used to camp’s work”. Must have looked terrible.” You remembered with a smile, details of your first encounter with Arthur flooding your mind.

“You looked like a goddamn Angel, honey. T’was like the sun was shining jus’ for ya. Jesus, I knew it was too late for me.”

You pulled back from him just a little, enough for you to look at him in the eyes, but not for him to let go of you. Now that they had found you, his hands, still slightly quivering, refused to let go, their place on your back and behind your head feeling so natural and right. Your eyes behave the same way as them but with his face. He looks so moved that you have to pinch yourself internally to make sure you’re not dreaming this whole thing; never in your life you had seen him like this.

“I love you too, Arthur.” You confessed back to him, fingers cupping his cheeks in a delicate touch.

You had to stand on your tiptoes to reach his face, but his arm helped you, your lips gently discovering themselves, brushing against each other in a soft and shy caress. Even if both your mouths were chapped by the biting cold, it was the most gentle kiss you had shared in your life, a satiny embrace that left you completely dreamy and light-headed.

The snowflakes silently swirl around the both of you, Nature the only witness of your souls melting into each other.

Opening your eyes again after this moment out of time, you're met with the happiest smile Arthur ever had on his face. He looked like and idiot in love, and you were sure you looked exactly the same.

“Please darlin’, don’t ever compare yourself to her ever again. What’s in the past stays there. And I wanna have a future with you.”

Your dreams sprang back straight from your heart to your mind. The visions you had about the both of you were more alive than ever, reinforced by his own needs shared with yours.

“You’re sweet, you’re funny, you’re so smart and stunningly gorgeous. And, you wan’ a proof?” He playfully asks you, taking his hat off his head, a thin layer of snow falling from it.

Turning it over, he carefully pull a piece of paper out, hidden between two leathered segments in the inner part of his hat. His cut and reddened fingers unfold it and he gives it to you, his big smile turning into an embarrassed and sheepish one.

It’s a sketch of you.

You’re mesmerized by the details of it, the blades of hay messily tangled in your hair, the sparkling in your eyes, the exact clothes you were wearing that day. This smile, you’re more than certain he drew it way more beautiful than it really is. Arthur even had added some lines traced from your head to the end of the paper, as if you were the Sun itself and were emitting your own light.

This was impossible this was the same person as you, her beauty was too radiant and fascinating.

But no matter what you thought about yourself, seeing his work curled your lips in the exact same way as yourself on the drawing. With snowflakes replacing the twigs, you had turned into the living recreation of it. Arthur laughed when he noticed, and realized just how much he had loved you and continued to since that morning from a year ago. He bent towards you to put a small kiss on your forehead.

“Arthur it’s… It’s beautiful.” You find it difficult to find another word, speechless once again. 

You also had no idea of how talented at drawing nor attracted to you he was. This day definitely was full of surprises. You chuckled fondly before taking a last look at your portrait and giving it back to your lover. But Arthur’s large palm wrapped around your hand.

“No, please, keep it. This way, you’ll always remember how you look through my eyes.”

More tears threaten to escape your own, even though those were a direct extract from the immeasurable happiness you were experiencing.

“And... Now that I don’t have to hide myself while sketching ya, I’m going to draw lots of new ones.”

tagging: @a-court-of-valkyries Thank you for reading all of this! Also, I didn't know this was a thing but if ever you want to be tagged in my works too, let me know! It would be my pleasure.

[babejinxy]

In love with you - part 3

Pairing: Powder x fem!reader

Warnings: friends to lovers, SMUT, kissing, fluff

Synopsis: Powder had been your best friend for years, the two of you met when she was running from the cops when she and her brothers broke into and blew up an apartment in Piltover and you helped them escape. What you never imagined, is that the love of your life was always right there in front of you…

A/N: This is a fic about Powder from the alternate universe, it has nothing to do with Jinx.

🌟 English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any mistakes.

Part 1 Part 2

💙 @brocoliisscared @bbybubbles @cattjull

You went after Powder who was leaving the last drop, “hey Powder, wait a minute”, you called her and she stopped looking at you with a frown and crossed her arms. “Look, I'm sorry okay? I should have told you, I know you're mad but…”, you didn't have time to finish because she interrupted you, “I'm not just mad, I'm upset too… why...Why her Y/n?”. She actually wanted to ask, “Why anyone else and not me?”, but she held herself back, she wasn’t ready for that, maybe she was too scared for that.

What would you tell her? That you still loved Cait? Maybe you did, or did you think so? Would you say that you were confused and didn't really know how you felt, or would you just say that you couldn't be alone for too long? Yes, your best friend knew all of this, she knew about your potential to easily give yourself to anyone because... because you had this fear of ending up alone, this fear of not being good for anyone, the fucking fear that no one would ever be able to love you.

“I went out with her last week, we went out to dinner and then we went to her house, it’s just… a casual encounter is no big deal.” If you knew how you were breaking Powder’s heart into a million little pieces at that moment, you would definitely condemn yourself.

“It’s not a big deal?”, she said perplexedly opening her arms, “Y/n we’re talking about the girl who cheated on you, she hurt your feelings, if you don’t remember how you felt at the time I do, I comforted you… your whole life I was the one who was by your side and not her, I’m the person who would never leave you alone, never”.

You approached her and held her hands, “I know and that’s why I’m so grateful to have you in my life, you’re my best friend Pow Pow, I love you and I don’t know what I would do without you.” She squeezed your hands in hers, knowing that you loved her in some way meant a lot to her. “I just want to see you happy, I don't like Caitlyn sorry honey, but I don't like her especially after what she did to you.” You started to wonder, “why is it so hard to find someone like Powder?”, someone like her would never hurt you, she was wonderful, but she was your best friend.

“You know Y/n, you deserve someone who likes you just the way you are, someone who knows how to value you, someone who knows how lucky they are to have you, you know someone who… who wakes up every fucking day and says “holy shit, I’m dating Y/n and no one else in the world is that lucky only me”, do you understand that?”.

You felt like crying. Powder always made you feel special. She was the only person who made you see your own worth. You held back your tears and pulled her into a tight hug. You felt her wrap her arms around your waist and hold you close. She was so close to your face, she just needed to move a little more and her lips would be on yours.

You pulled away from her, “Thank you for that, sometimes I need someone to remind me of that.”

“Yes, I know… and I’ll always be here to make sure you don’t forget.” She smiled and caressed your cheek with her thumb. fuck she wanted so badly to drag you to the dark corner and kiss you right now, maybe you would kiss her back, maybe you two would reveal your feelings, then she would take you to her house and taste you, maybe she would…

“Oh there you are,” Ekko’s voice took her out of her reverie and you looked at him - who you soon noticed was sad - Powder rolled her eyes and put her hands on her waist, he always appeared to interrupt the moment and that was already making her irritated.

Ekko approached you and held out his hand handing you a piece of paper folded in half. “Someone wants me to give this to you,” he said, his voice still dejected, he didn’t look at Powder once. You took the paper and frowned, “what is this?” you asked. “I have no idea, a guy asked me to give this to you, and before you ask, I don’t know who the guy is either, I’ve never seen him around here before.”

You were a little confused, curious and at the same time worried that this could be something serious, but Powder knew exactly what it was, some guy at the bar flirting with you and wanting to buy you a drink, how she wished she could tell all of them that you were not available because you were hers. “Well, good night girls,” Ekko walked away from you two and continued on his way with his head down.

You ignored the note for a second and looked at your friend, “You dumped him, right?” You were referring to Ekko. She shrugged, “Sort of… but he wasn’t like this when we got here.” You curled your lips, “So what happened?” She had a hunch that maybe he noticed her advances on you, but she couldn’t tell you that.

“You really don’t like him, do you?” you asked curiously. “He’s just my friend, the fact that I went out with him once doesn’t change anything… wouldn’t you go out with any of your friends?” You didn’t quite understand the question, you didn’t know if she wanted you to answer or if it was just a rhetorical question. In fact this was just a way to know what you would say even though she was afraid of the answer.

You thought for a second, you never went out with any of your friends, maybe because you liked them just as friends, maybe you just needed to think a little more or just look at Powder right in front of you before saying what you said. “I wouldn’t go on a date with any of my friends, those things rub the friendship”.

Powder felt a tightness in her heart, maybe after that the best thing to do was for her to try to get over you and have you just as her best friend, but how would that be possible when you were her dream? And every day that passed, this passion for you only grew and took over her every second she spent by your side. “Well, I guess it depends on how both feel about each other,” she said finally.

“Yeah, maybe… I mean… no,” you closed your eyes, getting confused about your words, “I don’t think it’s that simple… anyway, let’s see what’s here?” you said, opening the piece of paper in your hands as quickly as possible, ignoring your heart beating erratically once again. Of course you blamed it on your anxiety to read what was written on the note Ekko handed you.

You unfolded the paper and Powder approached you to read what was written, you read it out loud, “Hey pretty girl, I've been eyeing you all night, can I buy you a drink?”, you were holding back from laughing, Powder on the other hand, wasn't very comfortable with it, “if you accept, I'm the guy sitting alone at the table on the right corner, I'll wait for you”.

You looked at your friend and laughed, “These guys don’t know when to stop,” she said crossing her arms. “Oh come on, you’re just jealous because I got the note and you didn’t,” you laughed, mocking her. “Pssh, as if,” she said, pushing your arm away slowly. “He might be cute,” you said, looking at the note. Powder felt her body boil with jealousy, but she held herself back. “Do you want to go back there and see if he’s still there? If he is, I won’t judge him.” As she said this, her eyes widened and she looked at you from the corner of her eyes, a chill ran down her spine, how could she have let that out loud?

You looked at her with furrowed eyebrows, “Of course not,” you said, crumpling the note and throwing it behind you somewhere. “Tonight I want to have fun with my best friend, without any disloyal ex-girlfriends or barflirts, just you and me… our sleepover, remember?” You held out your hand to her. Surely if she could, she would grab you and kiss you right now. But instead, she took your hand, intertwining her fingers with yours.

“Part three of the night: braids in your hair,” you said laughing. “Okay, you’re silly,” she said pulling you closer to her, wrapping her arms around your waist…

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁

It's been three days since the day you went to the movies with Powder and Ekko. You've had time to think about what Powder had said about Cait and you've been ignoring her calls ever since. Today was Saturday, the day of the party in Zaun at The Last Drop. You got ahead on your academy work and told your parents that you couldn't attend their party because you had work to finish.

It was night and you were finishing getting ready for the party when your hexphone vibrated and it was a message from Cait, you read it in the notification bar,

“Hey princess, sorry to be insistent, but I'm not going to give up on you... I'm sorry for what I did to you, I can fix things, give me a chance to change everything. Please give us a second chance. Are you going to your parents' party? I hope so! I need to see you! I still love you baby, don't forget that.”

You couldn’t say it didn’t affect you. Powder was right in what she said before, but what if Cait had changed? What if she really still loved you? People make mistakes and fuck things up, but they’re also capable of change, aren’t they?

For a minute you thought you could go to your parents’ party to talk to Cait. But then you looked at the picture frame on your dresser that held a picture of you and Powder and you knew in that exact moment that she was the one you were supposed to be with tonight. You didn’t know why you felt this way, or why your heart was beating so fast inside your chest. You and Powder had been friends for years and you had been with her countless times, but tonight felt different. You didn’t know why, but you felt like you had to be with her.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁

You went to Powder's workshop - where you knew she would be - and found her in front of the mirror grumbling about not being able to get her eyeliner right, she didn't even notice you had come in.

“Do you need help with that?” She immediately looked in your direction and glanced at your short white layered mini skirt and your low-cut silver top that really showed off your beautiful round breasts. “Damn,” she thought.

You approached her and took the eyeliner pen from her hand, “ok, head up, eyes closed,” you said standing between her legs - she was sitting on a stool in front of the mirror - she did as you said and you held her face while you applied the eyeliner to her right eye.

She was clasping her hands together, she wanted to hold your waist, in fact she wanted you to sit on her lap while you fixed her makeup, she had dreamed about this so many times. Your soft tickle on her skin, your scent taking over the entire space, fuck she just couldn't take it anymore. Then she raised her hands and held your waist and you didn't care at all.

“Ok, I think this is good, you like it?”, you got out from between her legs and she took her hands off your waist, turning on the stool to look at herself in the mirror. “I couldn’t have done it better,” she said, admiring her eyeliner—now perfect—thanks to you.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁

Arriving at the party, you two joined Claggor and Mylo. ​​“Hey, Y/n, I’m glad you came,” Mylo said, laughing awkwardly as he scratched the back of his neck. “So… do you want to dance? Or have a drink?” Before you could answer, Claggor elbowed him and then looked at Powder furtively. Mylo had irritated her, in every way, since they were kids. Of course she loved him, but to her he was a jerk and she knew he had no chance with you, so she wasn't bothered by his advances towards you. “Maybe later,” you finally replied.

You looked around and saw Gert passing by carrying a tray with drinks, your gaze met hers and she gave you a mischievous smile, you smiled back and looked down, you thought she was a very pretty girl.

After a while, Powder went to talk to Vender and you were alone for only half a minute until you heard a female voice behind you, “I thought it was impossible for a girl like you to not be accompanied, but since you're not, lucky for me then”, you turned around and came face to face with Gert. “Be careful, I might be alone for a reason,” you said smiling. “What reason?” she asked, tilting her head and looking from your lips to your eyes. “I might be a heartless lunatic who hurts everyone I come into contact with,” you joked. She curled her lips, “You’re worth the risk, doll,” she said, grabbing a strand of your hair.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𐙚 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁

While you flirted with Gert, Powder leaned against the counter and watched you smiling and letting Gert touch your arms, hair, hands... every party ended like this, you met someone, started dating that person and it wouldn't last more than three months and you would suffer from the lack of someone you didn't even like that much just to make up for the lack of self-love that you should have and didn't have or for the fear of ending up alone.

She wished didn't love you so much, she wanted to see you as just her best friend, but you were so much more than that and it hurt her every day. If you only knew that these people would never love you like she does...

Powder was so distracted looking at you that she didn't notice when Vender leaned next to her on the counter, but he was inside. "Why don't you ask her to dance?" he asked, making the blue-haired girl jump in fright. “What? No! Why would I do that?”, she said, frowning in an attempt to hide it. Vender smiled, “I know that look, you like her.” Powder’s heart could jump out of her mouth at any moment. “She’s my best friend, of course I like her,” she laughed nervously. “Powder…”, she took a deep breath, she knew there was no point in denying it, Vender knew.

“Is it that obvious?”, she asked, still looking at you. “Why don’t you tell her?”, she took her eyes off you and looked at Vender with a frown, “Are you crazy?” Vender she is my best friend, if I tell her she’ll get weird and we won’t be friends anymore, I can’t lose her.” Vender sighed, looked at you and then said, “Look Powder, if she really is your friend nothing will change that. Nothing is more important than a friendship and you not wanting to tell her that you love her for fear of losing the friendship between you proves that. But I still think she should know, you should know… she might feel the same way about you, isn’t she worth it? Isn’t she worth the risk?” Powder didn’t answer, she just remained thoughtful and looked back at you.

She thought that maybe Vender was right, it was time to tell you. And seeing Gert getting closer and closer to you encouraged her even more. “Vender, give me a drink,” she said without taking her eyes off you. Vender smiled and handed her a glass of alcohol. She drank it all in one gulp and then looked at Vender smiling, he patted her arm encouragingly, “now go talk to her…”

Leave comments, my loves!

Happy New Year, everyone 🌟🥂

[beardedmrbean]

Centrist Democrats are slamming their far-left colleagues following Election Day, arguing that their emphasis on "identity politics" and other issues handed huge victories to the GOP.

Rep. Ritchie Torres, D-N.Y., argued that President-elect Trump has "no greater friend than the far left." Like-minded Democrats say racial politics, anti-police rhetoric and gender hysteria are alienating millions of voters.

"There is more to lose than there is to gain politically from pandering to a far left that is more representative of Twitter, Twitch, and TikTok than it is of the real world," Torres wrote on X. "The working class is not buying the ivory-towered nonsense that the far left is selling."

Longtime Democratic strategist James Carville put it more bluntly in a Sunday interview with the New York Times, calling "defund the police" the "three stupidest words in the English language."

"We could never wash off the stench of it," he said.

Torres is one of several Democratic lawmakers in both the House and the Senate who have called out his party's "nonsense." One centrist House Democrat complained to Axios on Monday that the "identity politics stuff is absolutely killing us."

Sen. Chris Murphy, D-Conn., argued on Sunday that Democrats are "out of touch with the crisis of meaning/purpose fueling MAGA."

"We don't listen enough; we tell people what's good for them. And when progressives like Bernie aggressively go after the elites that hold people down, they are shunned as dangerous populists. Why? Maybe because true economic populism is bad for our high-income base," Murphy wrote.

Not all Democrats are ready to make a change, however. When Rep. Seth Moulton, D-Mass., broke with his party to condemn biological males playing in women's sports last week, he faced an avalanche of hate.

"Democrats spend way too much time trying not to offend anyone rather than being brutally honest about the challenges many Americans face," Moulton said in a New York Times report. "I have two little girls, I don’t want them getting run over on a playing field by a male or formerly male athlete, but as a Democrat I’m supposed to be afraid to say that."

The statement resulted in calls for Moulton to resign, and at least one of his staffers quit in protest.

Massachusetts state Rep. Manny Cruz suggested Moulton's stance was "a betrayal" in a post on X.

"Congressman Moulton, your commitment then was protecting the LGBTQ community, standing up for their rights, and compassion. Now, on a political whim, our Congressman has betrayed the words he signed onto just last year by scapegoating transgender youth in sports for the failures of the national Democratic Party and leaders to win the presidential election. You said you 'would stand with Nagly and with all our community … against all forms of bigotry, discrimination, bullying, and harassment,'" Cruz wrote. 

Salem city Councilor Kyle Davis, another Democrat, called for Moulton to resign. 

"I’m not looking for an apology from [Moulton], I’m looking for a resignation," Davis wrote in a post on X.

Moulton refused to apologize and instead doubled down in a statement late last week.

"I will fight, as I always have, for the rights and safety of all citizens. These two ideas are not mutually exclusive, and we can even disagree on them. Yet there are many who, shouting from the extreme left corners of social media, believe I have failed the unspoken Democratic Party purity test," he said.

"We did not lose the 2024 election because of any trans person or issue. We lost, in part, because we shame and belittle too many opinions held by too many voters and that needs to stop. Let’s have these debates now, determine a new strategy for our party since our existing one failed, and then unite to oppose the Trump agenda wherever it imperils American values."

[tragedybunny]

I Should Tell You - Chapter 1

༺Summary༻

In a fit of guilt, Astarion tries to confess his deception to you. At the last moment, he loses his nerve and ends your relationship with another lie. He's resigned himself to having lost his chance with you forever when once again everything changes. With the two of you out on your own, will he be able to take a chance and tell you everything, and will you forgive him when he does?

༺Pairing༻ Astarion x Female Reader

༺Warnings༻ Sexual references

༺Word Count༻ 1888

Astarion was, well, he was loath to admit it, but he was brooding. He’d taken up a private room at the Elfsong now that everything was over, one where he could keep protected from the sun while the rest of his companions, yourself included, lived their lives in the light of day. Slowly, condemned back to the shadows, locked in his room with drapes drawn tight against the burning daylight, he’d drifted further and further away from the group. Culminating in tonight, where he had one perfunctory drink at the farewell party and slipped off away from the group to hide out amongst his books and the shadows of his mind. 

For the last several weeks, everyone had put their all into assisting Baldur’s Gate in starting to rebuild. Those who were left anyway, Wyll and Karlach were in Avernus, and Lae’zel was off to wage war on Vlaakith. Now those who were left would be parting ways as well, Shadowheart to see the world, Gale back to Waterdeep, Jaheira and Minsc to rebuild the Baldur’s Gate Harpers, and you and Halsin…hells, he didn’t want to know. 

If he were being honest with himself, which felt like it was to be avoided these days, there was more to his self-imposed exile than returning to a nocturnal life. Seeing the two of you together made it feel like a dagger was shoved between his ribs and playing around with his insides. 

And the worst part was, it was all his fault. He couldn’t be mad at you or the infuriatingly perfect Druid. Well, he shouldn’t anyway, he still found himself wanting to shred Halsin’s throat with his teeth every time he pulled you close and kissed you like you were a goddess he was paying worship to. He’d done it to himself though, weaving a web of lies and manipulations so dense he’d trapped himself while you slipped through, unscathed. 

That web became too entangled with the way you’d stood firm against that Drow, for him. You’d seen him as a person, and he’d repaid that by seeing you as a pawn. At least at first. By the time you shouted at that vile creature on his behalf, he’d become so hopelessly lost in the strands of feeling that had grown and wrapped around his heart, he knew he had to give up the plan, and give you the truth, even if you hated him for it.  

As soon as your group had made camp that night, not far enough from the shadows of Moonrise Towers for anyone's comfort, he'd made his way over to you. “I want to thank you,” he’d started, sure of his course. “For what you said whilst in front of that vile Drow…

“...You made me realize I never stopped thinking like his slave.” He drew in a breath, despite the fact that he didn’t need it, and froze. Patiently, you stared up at him with that affectionate look you always had, giving him space to collect his thoughts. You, the fount of warmth and sweetness he didn’t deserve, the love he couldn’t hope to keep. Frantically, he willed himself to speak, to tell you what you needed to know, no matter the consequences.

“And I realize I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship.” The words had spilled out of his lips before he could think them through and he watched as your eyes widened in hurt. 

“Gods no, what the fuck are you doing,” he cursed himself, but still the words came. 

“Being with someone still feels tainted, I need to figure out who I am, what I want.” Finally, he’d bitten down on his own tongue to stop the tide, but the damage was done. 

Those loving eyes of yours sparkled with tears, but that composure he’d begrudgingly come to admire since he met you held firm. “Is this really what you want, Astarion?” 

“No, no, no. I want you, I want it to be real.” If he gave you the truth and you sent him away, he couldn’t bear it. At least this way he could salvage your friendship, still bask in your light from time to time. The excuse was flimsy, even to himself, but he’d been a liar from the start. 

“I think it's for the best, I'm sorry.” Twice, he’d lied to you, twice, there would never be any coming back from this. “Please don't be mad at me.”

You stepped forward and he instinctively came close to cowering away. But you weren’t intent on harming him, instead wrapping your arms around him in a gentle embrace. “I think I understand. I’m not mad if this is what you need.” 

Your arms felt as though they were crushing him, their touch burning his skin. The urge to pull away and flee was almost overwhelming. But you deserved this one last bit of comfort. “Thank you,” he murmured, resting his head on your shoulder, breathing you in, and resigning himself to a life without this.

After you finally pulled away, you went to his tent and packed your things, leaving to set up on your own and let him endure the night without you at his side. There was a time when he’d never believe his own space could feel so empty. Back in the spawn dormitory, he would have given anything for this solitude. Now it was wretched. And so his first night alone was passed in miserable resolution, and when the day dawned, he went on as though all was right. 

It wasn’t lost on him that you would eventually find other companionship, you were attractive, witty, brave, and immensely caring. And from what he’d seen, you certainly weren’t interested in a celibate lifestyle. That line of reasoning still didn't prepare him for the night the group camped outside Rivington. 

Astarion had just returned from a hunt, the blood of a rabbit fresh on his tongue. It wasn’t you but he hadn’t dared ask to touch your neck after everything, electing to spend his trance hours dreaming of those moments between you instead. It was better than the nightmares of Cazador and his tortures at least. As he’d crept into the circle of ruined buildings that camp had been set up in, he stopped short, the world feeling as though it was closing in around him. 

You were talking to Halsin, who held one of your hands in his, and somehow, even with his ridiculously large hands, delicately brushed a strand of hair behind your ear with the otherl. Time slowed and Astarion felt as though the blood in his stomach might make its way back out of his mouth. 

In the dim firelight, the stars gleaming without a cloud to obscure them, Halsin kissed you. Softly, slowly at first, and then his hands wandered to your hips to pull you in as he deepened it. Your hands came to rest on those broad shoulders and instead of pulling away as Astarion desperately hoped you would, you leaned into it, eager and wanting. He wasn’t close enough, but Astarion could swear he heard the little moan you probably made. The same sound you used to make for him. 

Halsin stared down at you after breaking the kiss, no doubt with naked lust written on his face, and offered you his hand again. And that was the that, the two of you began to quietly walk away from camp while Astarion fled to his tent, crawling into his bedroll and desperately choking down the sobs that threatened. 

It had been bound to happen, but how soon, was what burned from the inside out. Just like that, you’d forgotten all about him, as though he hadn’t mattered in the first place.  How dare you. He tried to summon anger with you, to wash away the pain. It was a betrayal, he had every right to be angry. You waited for no time at all, you moved on so easily, you…you just forgot he loved you. 

Not that he’d ever said it, but you must have known. The bedroll was even colder than usual as Astarion clung to the one object he found comfort in. Kept secreted away amongst his things, a shirt of yours he managed to pilfer before his botched confession. By day, it was tucked in his pack, and at night it filled his bedroll beside him. Pulling it into his arms, he inhaled what was left of your scent on it, and buried his face in the pillow to weep bitter tears. 

He emerged the next morning into daylight that no longer held the promise it had so recently. Almost immediately you ran to him, taking your arm in his, giving him a moment of foolish hope. If things had gone badly between you and Halsin, he would rectify his mistake and tell you everything, he privately swore. 

All it took was one look in your eyes to know that hope was in vain. “Astarion, I need to tell you something, and I wanted you to hear it from me first.” You led him away from the rest of the group, almost to the spot where he’d seen you with Halsin. The rest of your companions pretended not to notice the obvious personal moment occurring a stone's throw away from them.

It was a good thing he'd cried every tear he had last night. “Well go on Darling, don't keep me in suspense,” he plastered on a grin. 

“The thing is,” you look everywhere but at him, “Halsin and I, well, things happened between us last night, and I think I'd like to pursue whatever this is. It just felt right to tell you first.”

Astarion laughed, a hollow sound to his own ears, but convincing enough for you, it seemed. “My Dear, you were worrying yourself about this? Don't vex your pretty little head like that, I don't begrudge your need for intimacy. Even if I fail to understand the appeal of a man who's always going on about enjoying the freedom of nature's gifts.”

“Astarion,” you scolded, but a subtle smile told him you were relieved. “Behave yourself.”

“Let me have a little fun at your expense.” He disentangled his arm from yours, its warmth suddenly smothering. Taking your hand, he kissed it gently. “I'm glad, you deserve to be happy.” That part he did mean, even as he reviled how it was happening. “And I'm sure you and Halsin will be. Don't worry about me.”

“Please worry about me. Can't you see how I'm bleeding?”

Leaning up, you kissed his cheek, with all the gentleness in the world. “Thank you, Astarion, I'm glad you understand, I'd never want to hurt you.”

From that moment on, you were Halsin's and Astarion had to grin and pretend to be happy for you. That's what friends were for and you insisted you two were friends. The two of you seemed so disgustingly infatuated with each other, he wanted to scream at times. So naturally he'd assumed you'd be happily headed out on some grand, romantic journey together. 

Which was why it startled him to nearly a second death when you burst into his claimed sanctuary, clearly distraught and slamming the door behind you. “I'm sorry… I can't be in there,” you gasped out between sobs.

@micropoe10  @writingmysanity @mxxny-lupin @azu21

Tag List:

 @tallymonster  @dependsonthedream @sunfire-ancunin 

@bambamwolf87 @fayeriess @lumienyx @lisrelly

@elora-the-slutty-songstress @bhaalbaaby @spacebarbarianweird

@satanicspinosaurus @darlingxdragon @wanderingisobel @astarionsbeloved

@vixstarria @claryvoyantfray @icybluepenguin

[caffedrine]

Matias Asbrink - I fell in love with you that day – Choose your true love - Event Summary

This is mostly a summary for me - I make no promises on the accuracy of what’s happening. I’m not nearly fluent enough to get half the jokes/innuendo much less accurate plot points.

One morning, Emma woke up to find herself in a strange room. She looks around in a panic before her memory comes back. She is in a guest room in the Achroite castle. 

(That or a very nice ski lodge)

Her memory comes back to her - she was eating dinner with her new friend, Prince Matias, but it had grown late so he had let her stay in one of the castle’s guest rooms. 

Well, Emma isn’t a bad guest. She should get up, get ready, thank Matias for his hospitality, and leave. 

She hears the sound of knocking on her door, and then Matias’ voice calls out asking if she is awake yet. 

Emma calls back she is and opens the door to Matias. He’s as impeccably dressed as always, without a single hair out of place. He smiles at her and asks if she slept well last night.

Oh, Emma did. A little too well, she just got up and hasn’t fixed her hair yet. She apologizes for being so unkempt.

Matias assures her that she’s just fine, if anything, she’s cute in a new way like this. She reminds him of little snow fairies playing in the powder snow.

But that aside, they have something serious to talk about. You see, Emma broke the rules last night.

Huh?

Emma recounts last night - she doesn’t recall doing anything wrong, but maybe these are some of the laws that defy her common sense. Suddenly all she can see is the cold expression on Matias’s face as he condemns criminals to jail. Her heart beats in her ears as her veins turn to ice.

Matias is usually very kind and gentle, but he acts the complete opposite towards criminals. Even though they are friends, Emma doubts he will show her any mercy. 

Ominously, Matias tells her to accept her punishment, and Emma nods, closing her eyes.

. . . !?!!!!

What kind of punishment is this? Emma’s eyes snap open to see Matias’ face, his eyes sparkling sweetly right in front of her. Her forehead, where he kissed her, feels sensitive. 

As she stands there in shock, Matias caresses her cheek. He reminds her about their ‘lovey-dovey’ rules, which state if they have a day off the following day, Emma spends the night in his bed. He asks why she didn’t come to him last night - she especially loves cocooning up in his blankets. Up to now, she has always praised his owl embroidery. 

Or was she so excited for the punishment that she was teasing him? Don’t worry, he’ll kiss her as much as she wants. 

(All day, any day)

Is Emma still asleep? Is this some bizarre dream to taunt her?

Matias has noticed by now that Emma hasn’t responded to him in a while. He says her name sweetly as if prompting her. Then his face comes close for another kiss. 

Emma shrieks and asks Matias what he thinks he’s doing. Confused, Matias admits to trying to kiss her again - oh, could it be that she’s not in the mood for kisses?

Emma asks why in the world should he kiss her? Did he work too much as is still tired?

Matias looks upset, shouldn’t they want to kiss each other? Isn’t this normal for them?

Well, no! Emma reminds Matias that they are just friends!

. . . Friends?

Matias mutters to himself to calm down, no matter what is going on he just needs to stay calm. Looking up at Emma pleadingly, he asks if this means she’s dumping him and they’re no longer lovers.

(Will his imaginary ex-wife take him back?)

What?

Matias asks why she looks surprised. She was there too, through their tumultuous breathless times, and enough hardships to freeze one’s heart. Has Emma already forgotten the happiness they found, bursting through the snow like daisies?

Emma looks at Matias, at his ardent expression and grows concerned. He’s always been one to march to a beat of his own tune, but even for him, he’s acting strange. 

Emma apologizes, she doesn’t remember anything. She’s only met Matias recently, nothing like what he’s describing has happened. 

Matias looks upset, then he looks like he’s come up with something. Did Emma say that had just recently met? But from his point of view, they have been together for a while now, and while it’s still early, they are in their honeymoon phase.

He’s had a daydream like this before. He was wondering what would happen if he went backward in time and met an earlier version of Emma.

Oh my gosh, he daydreamed so hard that he made it his new reality!

Emma considers that, if you ignore all the delusional daydream wording, Matias is essentially saying he’s from the future. It’s too unbelievable- but on the other hand, the Matias she knows does not play practical jokes like this. So, maybe this is real.

Matias asks if this means that he and Emma are not lovers, does that at least make them friends? Oh, so all those plans he had for today . . .

Matias hangs his head, depressed. Emma tries to peer into Matias’ face, but he simply looks gloomy. She tentatively asks what were his plans today.

Well, he was planning on going on a date with her. He had made plans and arrangements for all their activities, but now . . .

As if for proof, Matias pulls out a sheet of paper from his breast pocket. 

Emma reads the small, neat lettering, her eyes going wide. He’s put a lot of effort into today.

If it means so much to him, Emma is willing to go on a friendship date. She has the day off from work and nothing in particular planned. 

Matias perks up and asks if she’s sure. Emma nearly flinches from the sex appeal centered on her and nods in response. Of course, she will, just as long as Matias keeps it friendly, unlike before.

Matias can agree to that. When in Rome and all. They are friends at this time, so he won’t go beyond that boundary. Emma nods, even if this is future Matias - he’s still fundamentally the same person she became friends with.

After she finished getting ready, Matias’ first stop is the Achroite Royal Academy—specifically its library. 

The sight of tall bookshelves reaching up to the vaulted ceiling full of books lifted Emma’s heart. In comparison, Rhodolite’s library was small and simple. Emma looks all around, almost spinning in place and Matias laughs. He explains that he didn’t realize it was her first time coming here, and he’s delighted that she’s so pleasantly surprised. 

With a sweet gaze directed towards her, Matias guides her around the library. He explains that the Royal Academy hosts royals and aristocrats from all over the continent, allowing the librarians to purchase books freely. Achroite needs to be unbiased in their knowledge.

Most of the books are academic and law-related, but they boast a wide selection of other genres. Including Emma’s favorite romance novels, all gathered in this particular section. When he was a student, Matias could often be found here.

Emma asks if he is seriously saying that this entire section is romance novels? 

Yes, cultivating one’s emotions is a particular skill for adolescents. 

Oh, and here! This is one of future Emma’s favorite books. Emma accepts the book and flips through the pages. She thanks Matias, even a cursory glance through the pages shows promise. 

If she wants to read for a bit, she should do so in the lounge. Matias begins to lead her further into the library. 

When they come across the sofas, Emma sinks into one. Sitting next to Matias, Emma suddenly realizes how quiet and empty the library is and asks Matias about it. 

Matias explains that the library is usually full of students, but this time of day, they are attending lectures. Also, this is a very slow time for outside visitors. Emma asks if he finds this atmosphere peaceful, and Matias does, though that’s not the point. He likes to watch Emma’s emotions play out on her face as she reads. He doesn’t want anyone else to see her, it’s his own personal treasure. 

Matias smiles at her, his snow-colored eyes burning with a heat that could not be chalked up to just a friend. 

Overwhelmed, Emma tears her gaze away from Matias and focuses on the book. 

Matias doesn’t seem to mind and continues. After they get married, he would like to build a library just for her in the castle. That way she can read all she wants, and he can enjoy watching her figure all he wants. Oh, and then he could make her coffee, and just as she finishes, he can bring it to her, and she will be all embarrassed and bashful . . .

Emma has heard Matias talking about his future Queen before, but it’s weird to picture herself in that role. Trying to distract herself, Emma opens the book to read it. Matias doesn’t mind and continues elaborating on his fantasy, distracting Emma from reading the book. 

Together they leave the library and head to the center of town. Matias is giving her the full tour, and Emma is enjoying it. 

Suddenly Matias stops at a shop and asks if Emma doesn’t mind waiting for him while he buys something. Emma doesn’t mind, and while he’s in the shop, she admires the woodworking displayed at a nearby stall. The woodworking of Achroite is truly marvelous, it looks easy to use but the lines are soft and gentle. 

Matias returns shortly, with a large, overloaded pack. Emma blinks at it, then asks if he wants her to help carry some of it. 

Matias assures her that he is fine with this - the weight is nothing to him. 

Okay, but maybe Emma should call for a carriage?

Nope, Matias would rather continue with their friendship date. If he promises to have her home in the evening, would Emma consent to continue with him?

Emma doesn’t mind, but is Matias certain he can handle this?

Of course! When he was a part of the National Guard, Matias once had to walk for three days without sleep, all while carrying a 50kg pack. This is nothing!

Wondering what Matias intends to do with all his items, Emma lets him lead her away to a secluded lake. It is frozen over, and the top sparkles in the sun. 

Emma marvels over it, it truly is beautiful, and the scenery reminds her of a scene from the book. 

What she had been able to read during Matias’ monologue was a girl who lived by the lake and one day met her soulmate. 

While Emma recalled the scene, Matias spreads out a quilt on a nearby tree stump. He admits that he included this in his date plan because of that. He urges her to sit down on the stump and wraps her up in the quilt. Emma thanks him and he assures her that he wants her to be toasty-comfortable.

Matias pulls a log out of the pack and begins setting up a campfire. He explains that as beautiful as it is, the lake is also famous for its cold temperatures, so the blanket won’t be enough. Once he has a happy fire going, he pours water into a cup and heats it up over the flames while he begins grinding a pack of coffee beans.  Emma watches as he sets up the water and coffee beans to start making coffee. 

Emma praises Matias’ outdoor skills, and he admits he gained most of them while he was in the military. They would often have to camp, so he had learned several skills to avoid freezing. 

He hands her the freshly brewed campfire coffee as well as a baked apple. Emma is happy as she eats and drinks, remarking on this luxury. Her happiness makes Matias happy.

Emma asks if he ever cooked like this for his fellow soldiers - and he has. Granted, he would cook meat instead of fruit, but he thought Emma would prefer apples.

In the military, there are a great many hardships, but it’s important to keep morale high. Good food and enough to keep their bellies full does wonders on keeping soldiers content and easier to command.

Emma is happy by all of this, but also happy to have learned more about Matias.  As friendship dates go, Matias put a lot of effort into making this one perfect. She looks at Matias, who is sitting next to her, his snow-colored eyes staring back. As she begins to feel overwhelmed by his raw sex appeal, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close to him. 

Suddenly Matias tenses up and pulls away. He almost forgot they were friends and not lovers and apologizes for almost breaking the rules.

He shuffles away from her slightly, laughing awkwardly with a troubled look on his face. When he returns to his own time, he will have to have lots of fun with his lover - until he is satiated.

Emma awkwardly notes that he kind of overshared there. Matias points out this has a lot to do with her - in the future at least.

Emma shakes her head; she still can’t fathom them being more than friends. Even though Achroite is relaxed on classism, Matias is still a prince. 

Matias asks if she truly can’t imagine falling in love with him. Was their date today that bad?

Of course not! Emma had a lot of fun, and she genuinely enjoyed spending time with Matias, even as just a friend. 

In her heart she knows that Matias is a just man, but sometimes, when his eyes grow cold as he is sentencing a criminal. . .

It’s not that she doubts that there is a future with Matias, it’s more that she can’t see herself getting with someone who, on some level, she finds scary.

Matias thinks for a bit and offers to tell her what it is like being lovers. He does not doubt that if she understands the love he has for her, she would want to be his lover.

Emma assures him that she knows his love well enough, after all, she could feel the love he has for her in everything he did today.

Matias disagrees, he may have slipped up at the end there, but he was actively restraining himself to match the friendship rules they set in the beginning. This isn’t what he’s usually like with her. He asks her permission to describe their lives together.

He doesn’t expect her to immediately agree to be his lover, but take it slow, one step at a time.

Okay?

Emma considers this and agrees. Beaming, Matias decides to start at the beginning. 

His daily routine is to wake up with her at his side and watch her adorable sleeping face. When she starts to wake up too, she begins by rubbing herself against his body. He snuggles her, and she very cutely clings to him. When she finally wakes, she has the sweetest dazed look on her face, and that is when he kisses her good morning. 

(I wouldn't try narrating morning sex as a reason to start dating, but you do you, Matias)

Emma listens to Matias, her face hot with embarrassment. She tries to picture herself as the woman writhing up against Matias, but it falls flat. 

It occurred to her that Matias lover is someone else. 

Maybe it really is a future Emma that he loves, but that’s not who she is. There’s more between them than sweet words and physical affection - they must have endured so much together to form their emotional bond. Right now, Matias loves and misses his future Emma to the point he’s clinging to her, trying to force her into becoming the woman he loves.

Emma watches the lake as Matias continues to describe their perfect honeymoon-like life. The day grows colder, and eventually, they take a carriage back to town, and Emma dozes off inside.

When she wakes up again, she finds herself back in the Achroite Castle guest room. The sky outside the window is bright with the late morning sun. 

She hears a knock at the door and jumps out of bed as Matias calls out a good morning and asks if she’s awake.

Emma opens the door to find Matias on the other side, perfectly dressed with every strand of hair in place. He asks if she slept well and would like to join him for breakfast. 

Emma stares at him, unsure if this is her Matias or the one from the future. After a long moment, Matias asks if Emma is feeling well. 

Emma assures him he’s fine, but Matias insists. They’re friends, right? She doesn’t need to put on a tough exterior when around him. Emma assures him she really is fine, she just had a really bizarre dream that was so real, she’s just having trouble making sense.

A strangely real dream? Oh, Matias has those all the time. He has lots of daydreams like that!

Daydream . . .? Emma recalls future Matias also mentioning realistic daydreams. But this dream of hers felt like something different. 

Tentatively, Emma wants to ask Matias a question. She asks if he sleeps with a blanket with owls embroidered on it. And is this blanket particularly soft?

Oh yeah, he does. Um . . . How does she know about the blankets in his bedroom?

Emma quickly explains that a maid told her about it.

Huh, it’s kind of weird for her to go out of her way to ask about his blankets. Could it be . . . She’s curious about his bedroom? Does she want to spend time, wrapped up in his blankets, relaxing in his room?

Does she want to come to his room?

Before Emma can reply to that, Matias pulls back, shaking his head. He’s gotten ahead of himself, there is a rule in the Asbrink family precepts that a woman must never visit a man’s room without a proper chaperone.

He quickly assures Emma that he is a proper gentleman and would never do anything to her, but rules are rules. 

This actually relaxes Emma. This is the Matias she knows and is friends with, someone who cares about rules and is a bit strange, but overall, a nice man. 

Matias stops talking about the family rules and smiles at Emma. He explains that he enjoys seeing her smile first thing in the morning - it gives him energy to tackle the day. 

That . . . Is something future Matias had mentioned as well. Her heart beats loudly as she thinks about a future she has yet to see. One where she and Matias are truly lovers.

[nimrochan]

I don’t think that my few handfuls of followers on various social media accounts realize that I’m an American-Israeli. I’ve been watching things unfold and staying silent for the most part. I know it’s very easy to have an opinion from the comfort and safety of my home, but too many people are also echoing online opinions without enough information or thought behind them. Although it’s fair to say that I’m biased, I think it’s important to view conflicts from multiple perspectives. Including and especially from someone from the actual region/culture that everyone outside of it suddenly has an opinion on. And I think I’m ready to say what I wanted to say:

Why aren’t people more angry with Hamas?

I’ve spent some childhood years in Israel. Every week on the news was another incident - a bus b*mbing, a car b*mbing, a s*icide b*mber… I remember being terrified of getting on buses, or going to public places. I remember soldiers standing at the entrance of every mall, and I remember hearing how one soldier died while stopping a s*icide b*mber at a mall entrance - both were women in their early 20’s. Until today my father tells me to avoid crowded places, and to always stand in a corner with my back on the wall to observe my surroundings.

When I moved to America I had moved on from these memories and didn’t really think about them. But the attacks never stopped. For DECADES. And over the last few years I did notice that very few non-Jewish Americans were aware of what life is like in Israel - having a barrage of rockets rain on you every once in a while. Having alerts to warn you to head to the nearest shelter. Israel has the protection of the Iron Dome. But it’s not perfect, and some rockets do hit their targets. Also, you know, maybe people shouldn’t be firing rockets unprovoked into another country?? (Don’t even get me started on Hezbollah, too.) No one bats an eye if other countries randomly shoot rockets into Israel, but as soon as Israel retaliates to try destroying the area where rockets come from, everyone comes out of the woodwork to condemn them.

Some of my American family members have an app that dings every time rockets are fired into Israel. I could never bring myself to download it. The number of dings drives me crazy.

In fact, if you ever wanted to buy a piece of jewelry or sculpture made of Hamas rockets, there are businesses upcycling them.

If you’re not from Israel, I just want you to imagine the number of rockets that regularly have to come into your country for any rockets-to-products businesses to even exist. For reasons beyond my comprehension, a lot of political parties in America want to defund the Iron Dome, a system designed solely for defense. But I digress.

Gazans never had an Iron Dome and yet Hamas gives no regard to the lives of their own people when they fire openly from homes, schools, hospitals. When they hide hostages and weapons in heavily populated areas.

I remember frantically texting and calling people on 10/07 to see if any of my family members were harmed or killed in the attack. All while anti-Zionists already rallied on social media to offer no sympathy and blame the attack on the Jews on, the Jews. Right. Luckily, whatever close family I had in the area was far away enough from the attack that they were spared, and they soon evacuated. My second cousin and her kids were only spared because they happened to be away, but their home was in ashes and their friends and neighbors were dead.

Israel is a small and close-knit country. I don't have words to describe how we grieved. 1200 innocent civilians sl*ughtered for no reason. That number is just a little under half of the number of deaths on 9/11, and it was done without the help of airplanes, just men running around killing people. The youngest one was 14 hours old. This is the largest m*rder of Jews since the Holocaust. I won’t even go into detail about how some of their bodies were mutilated because it’s too horrific for me to want to type it out. In fact I left the most disturbing footage out of this post. I had been avoiding seeing the footage of Shani Louk, but it was shown at the exhibit too and I’ll never be able to forget it for as long as I live. It made me sick to my stomach.

Look at the pictures. Look at all those shoes. The last time I felt such powerful emotion staring at shoes was at a Holocaust museum. A lot of item displays included their owners’ smart phones showing their final videos on a loop. The people who attend the Nova festival tend to be laid-back, free spirits. They show up covered in glitter and wearing fairy-wings, waving rainbow flags. They lived next to Gaza because they felt safe there, and they often supported Palestinians. Listen to the unhindered joy in the voice of the man calling his father to tell him he had m*rdered ten Jews. One of the most disgusting parts of this is the fact that people protested outside this exhibit as well.

When I brought myself to browse social media again, over and over I saw posts about how “they deserved it” and “they had it coming.” The same people, the same self-proclaimed “feminists” who would shared the #MeToo and #YesAllWomen hashtags, people with immensely large followings, were now having no sympathy for the Israeli women who were r*ped, basically saying “she asked for it.” People defending and excusing Hamas because they “weren’t created in a vacuum.” When did we start excusing r*pe and t*rrorism for ANY reason? On that note, don’t you think Israel’s aggressive defense of itself also stems from a historical reason, shaped by outside forces?

And then there are many voices still expressing plain denial! This was the most well-documented t*rrorist attack in history, because the attackers filmed it with pride, and yet over and over I also saw people posting about how “it never happened,” “they would never do that,” and how these t*rrorists were just “resistance fighters” with propaganda crafted to “make them look bad.”

In my home state of New York, I saw people marching wearing same types of scarves that these “resistance fighters” wore to commit crimes against humanity so recently, tearing down posters of Israeli hostages instead of hanging their own posters on innocent killed Gazans and sharing in the grief.

I see people over and over calling Israelis “white colonists,” when in fact MOST OF THEM ARE BROWN, dark-skinned just like their neighbors (if I showed you photos of my family in Israel, you'd be surprised to learn they aren't Arabic). We are an ethnic minority on this planet and in every country except Israel, but antisemites love to flip the script and paint us as majority white colonizer oppressors. When the majority of Americans calling for the abolishment of Israel are themselves actually living on colonized land (I mean, really?) When most of North Africa has been colonized by Arab populations, yet everyone seems to conveniently forget that. Most alarmingly, I see people marching the streets and praising Hamas and the actual 10/07 attacks.

These same people probably could never spot Gaza on a map before 10/07. Where were they for the Chinese Uyghurs? Where were they for the mass murdered Syrians? For Afghans left at the mercy of the Taliban? For Iraqis killed after 9/11? For Darfur? Because no news unless Jews, right? How can you say you care about Muslims and then praise Hamas? How can you be Pro-Palestine and Pro-Hamas at the same time?! There is a huge, sick problem in America when college students here are applauded by overseas t*rrorist leaders on goddamn Twitter.

And these “Queers for Palestine”- where is the support for the gayest, most feminist, and most liberal country in the Middle East? (Go ahead and look up which country in the Middle East holds annual Pride Parades.) Where is the support for the millions of Arab-Israelis and other non-Jews who call Israel their home? Where is the support for the Arabs and non-Jews also killed on 10/07? Where are the feminists using their voices to demand Hamas return the hostages that are very likely being r*ped as I type this?

I feel like I’m going crazy telling people that there is a lot of fake news and propaganda being spread by Hamas and eaten up by the West. I am not the kind of person to use the phrase “fake news.” But when I see some extreme footage allegedly showing the IDF doing something especially horrible, I count the hours or days before the news is silently retracted because it turned out to be incorrect. Propaganda against Jews has seeped so far into gentile culture over the decades that people don't even realize it. It’s become sickeningly casual and normalized in all kinds of circles. Hell, I don’t even know who to vote for or who secretly wants me dead - the left side with the pro-Hamas crowd or the right side with their white supermacists .

No, I am not denying that a lot of innocent Gazans are dying horrific deaths. When I see footage of injured Palestinian children, I don’t look away and pretend it doesn’t happen, because it does. But what about Hamas dressing up as civilians, firing weapons among civilians, and continuing to hide the hostages??? What about the 15-17 year old brainwashed children marching with guns? When is enough enough? You know which army doesn’t hide in civilian clothing, or recruit children, or parade naked dead women around after they’ve killed them?? Take a guess.

War is fucking awful. And I'm not trying to justify it, just trying to articulate why this is such a clusterfuck of a situation. Someone please name any other country that wouldn’t retaliate and demand their hostages back after such an ugly, unprovoked attack. Someone please explain to me why the hatred is so intense and out of proportion. Again, DECADES of attacks. Someone please tell me what should be done - because if you do nothing, then 10/07 happens over and over and over again. Israelis are all living, breathing people with families just like Gazan civilians are. Stop dehumanizing us.

Why is it that after the Ukraine-Russia war started, when most westerners were on Ukraine’s side (including myself so don’t jump down my throat), that individual Russians living in western countries did not feel threatened the way individual Jews are being threatened? That war actually seems a way more black-and-white situation to me. Why did the Israeli singer for Eurovision need presidential-level protection from the mob gathered outside her hotel? Why did the other contestants continually insult her? You think every single Jew on the planet has a say in what happens in Israel?

Why am I going on social media to dumb down, only to see posts like “Reblog to increase IDF soldier s*icides” and “Like to # CeaseFire” and “From the river to the sea” (that expression basically means to promote the killing of all Israelis, I don’t care how you look at it). Why are you trying to call a cease fire with t*rrorists who are known to constantly break ceasefire, then make a surprised Pikachu face when they do it again?

Anti-Zionism is a clever cover for anti-semitism. The very definition of Zionism is the pursuit of an independent Jewish state (of which there is currently only ONE - for comparison, there are 57 Muslim countries). A lot of people don’t even know what Zionism is when they call themselves Anti-Zionist. And if you do? Most Jews are Zionist. You can’t separate semitism from Zionism to make yourself feel better. Israel is such a tiny country, it takes 6 hours to drive end-to-end across the longest part. While all over the world, synagogues are being threatened, Jewish graveyards are being vandalized, and Jews are being attacked, you are absolutely telling me and my people that we don’t deserve a safe space. And yes, Jews are indigenous to the Middle East just like Arabs are.

How do people rally against discrimination, but in the same breath act like discrimination towards Jews doesn’t count? You can’t reason your way out of it. You do not get to tell me what is and isn’t antisemitic.

Hamas does NOT give a damn about the actual land that Jews are living on. Hamas’s ultimate goal is to kill all Jews (it's LITERALLY spelled out in their government charter), is that what people want?? And even if you deny it, you think you could theoretically move all 8 million Jews out of Israel to where exactly?

You think other countries want to welcome a mass migration of 8 million Jews? (Remember why Jews left in the first place?) You want literal t*rrorists to have a stronger foothold in the Middle East?

Why do the surrounding countries condemn Israel, yet not step up to help Gazans either? Why won’t they open up their borders?

I’m sick and tired of people who have zero stake in the Middle East and very little knowledge just jumping on the bandwagon and virtue-signaling like it’s some clear black-and-white situation when it’s not. And then having the nerve to lecture ME. I’m angry and I’m frustrated.

Bring them the fuck home.

[ivypos-writes]

put your lips (where i’m rotten)

— aemond targaryen [1/?]

[SERIES MASTERLIST] | [GENERAL MASTERLIST]

summary: There are times when Aemond thinks he hates her, if only for the crime of reminding him about the chains of servitude shackled to his throat. Other times, he convinces himself that he feels nothing towards her at all. She is a stranger. A no one. A face without a soul. She is but another prisoner within these walls; a spoil of war, only one he never wished for.

He cannot condemn her for existing.

(He does. He does.)

Or, in which war puts them together, bound by duty and united in wrath.

warnings: 18+, aemond x unnamed!betrothed, angst, implied/referenced abuse, arranged marriage, falling in love, tension, morally grey characters, doomed from the start, dual pov, they’re both miserable and broken, eventual smut

word count: 6.3k

notes: i’m ready to descend into brainrot now that s2 is over. english is not my first language. all reviews are very appreciated! thank you for reading<3

(also available on ao3.)

She knows rot when she sees it.

The hall has been prepared with utmost care for the arrival of the dragon prince. Servants scrubbed every surface three times since the sun rose—if one were to strain their eyes intently enough, they would find remnants of wetness pooling in the crevices and cracks of old stone. The floors were swept; the tables set for a feast, the scale of its grandiosity a stark contrast to the usual quality of their dining. All the torches have been lit. She has never seen this much light within these walls before.

Their household’s banners previously hanging down the walls have been replaced with a golden dragon painted over green, and she makes a point of refusing to look at it once, convinced that her distaste will be too strong to be passed off as something less treacherous than it truly is. The winged creature is foreign. Its embroidered jaws bring promises of misery.

She has been forced into her best gown—except it’s not really hers, but her sister’s, and the difference in their build shows. The fabrics draped over her waist are tighter than she’s used to; the coarse bodice digs into her ribs with a crushing force, and her bust threatens to spill from its confines with each slightest movement. Dark skirts cascade all the way down to the ground, and she holds onto them with trembling fingers, chanting inaudible prayers not to trip and plummet to her knees in front of an audience. Pride is something that still belongs to her, however fleeting; however scant. She will cling to its shredded remains for as long as she can. If she is little more than a property to be sold, then she’ll be a property standing with a raised chin and a fixed gaze. She will not stumble. She will not fall.

They dressed her in red. She hates red.

The gown shimmers in warm golds underneath the stray rays of sunlight, and she quickens her pace to evade them. Reds and golds. Green. How hurriedly they have stripped away whatever remnants of identity she possessed until this day—and they managed to do so with just colours. She has been dressed for slaughter. A pretty victim. A comely prey.

Today, she is a stranger. A newborn rising from the ashes of a dead. Past is gone, and all that remains is the possibility to mould herself into something new. Something better. Maybe—maybe—something that aches a little less. She is not herself; she mustn’t be herself. If she remained herself, she would flee.

Her father’s pride appears to have once more conquered all financial hardships their household faces; to have grown overnight, skyrocketing to a whole new level. The tables seem to groan underneath the weight of various meals that they normally cannot afford. The multiple flagons are filled with wine that had thus far been stored in the cellar, considered too valuable to be wasted. The prince’s palate must be too delicate for anything less than overpriced liquors and spiced meats, and so her father has gone out of his way to provide the best quality service. He’s always been quick to quell any and all issues one ought to consider, if only for a short-term semblance of glory and importance. What other opportunity to flaunt his scarce resources and remnants of wealth if not before a dragon prince? Coin matters little in the face of royalty—or so he says.

She wouldn’t know. Rarely does she pay his words too much mind.

The raven arrived with the rising sun a fortnight ago. The words scribbled on the parchment were short and concise, and carried promises sunken deep into ink. Promises of blessings, according to her family. What she saw instead were promises of pitiless duty. The Dowager Queen herself announced that her son would be gracing their home with his presence. A royal visitor. An unwed man coming into the household of a man with an unwed daughter.

Too many whispers of war have been heard across the realm not to ponder its many components. A thing in exchange for another. An arrangement. A trade. She knows how this works; she knows how this ends. Little fool, her sisters would call her, but she is not so foolish to be unaware of what this is about. The day must come, and sooner rather than later; a girl cannot remain a girl until her soul withers with age. She always knew this much.

It is well within her father’s right to succumb to a new sort of haughtiness. He wears it like an armour that doesn’t quite fit him; wears it in a way that evokes not envy, but utter disdain. If anyone thought him boastful before, they must be eating their words now. She is half-convinced that, fuelled by this recent sense of smugness, he has written to every lord in the area to brag about this sudden development. Gods know that there is nothing he loves more than the feeling of being important.

A Targaryen prince willing to take his daughter for a wife. His plain, insignificant daughter. His forgotten daughter. The very same daughter he never wanted.

He certainly seems to want her now, what with his newfound interest in her—or, rather, in whatever merits she may bring to his name. His previous indifference has converted into ineptly feigned affection; aloofness has turned to an overbearing sort of attentiveness. His touch is softer. Almost kinder. He greets her in the mornings and invites her to dinners, and calls her by her name instead of girl. Gone are the days of blissful solitude she used to shrink herself into. She can scarcely remember when she was last left to her own devices.

The girl she once was would have wept in joy at this sudden shift. The woman she has grown into has long since become too bitter to find an ounce of appreciation for it inside her heart.

(She wants nothing from him. She hasn’t wanted anything for a while now.)

She bit her own tongue so many times over the course of past days that it has gone numb. Whenever her father descends upon her with another onslaught of artfully crafted care and tenderness, she keeps her mouth shut.

It is how she spent this morning: in stubborn silence.

It is how she stands now, spine rigid and fingers buried in her dress, mouth pressed into a thin line.

No one seems to take notice of her, anyway. She may well have been swallowed by the ground beneath her feet. The hall is buzzing with equal measures of exhilaration and unease; servants scurry about, performing last-minute fixes, and she half-expects them to drop to their knees and collect specks of dust with bare hands. Her father barks orders from his seat at the highest table; he is already clutching a cup of wine, face flushed and chin wet from the red substance. His new lady wife watches his antics with the corner of her mouth turned downwards, eyes shining with the one thing that they share: disgust towards him.

She wishes to occupy herself with something—to cherish the last of freedom. It is too late, though. It has been too late for a long time.

It is a thunderous screeching that alerts them of their guest’s arrival first. All chatter dies in its echo, and the walls seem to shake from the booming noise. A large shadow crawls inside through the narrow windows, bathing the chamber in gloom. Darkness lasts only for a short moment, and yet her heart pounds wildly against her chest at the sight. Something cuts through the skies. Something wild and menacing.

Her heart stops.

Too late. It’s too late, and the realisation haunts her.

Stories about the second son of the late king have been spreading throughout the realm like wildfire since she remembers. She was just a girl when she heard of him first—and he just a boy who had lost an eye. Rarely ever was Prince Aemond’s name brought up in conversation without the purpose of retelling the story of his maiming, as though it was the only thing about him worthy of mention. Years passed, and throughout their length all that was remembered of the young prince was what he no longer possessed. What had been taken from him. A most hideous scar, they would call the mark of the past, stretched over the whole side of his face. A cripple, they’d name him.

Aemond One-Eye.

She supposes that he is now known as Aemond the Kinslayer.

This is war. War demands bloodshed. Time and time again, she has been told that women do not understand its vices, too delicate and fragile of hearts. It must be the truth. She doesn’t see how killing one’s own blood could ever be condoned nor understood, and yet such is the case now. This is what has become of the realm. It is a canvas ready to be painted in reds.

When she was younger, there were traces of sympathy flashing inside her heart. Sympathy for the boy who had been hurt by his own kin; sympathy for the man he could have grown to be, if only his injury hadn’t rendered him damaged. Prince Aemond Targaryen lived his life with a dark shadow clouding over his head, preventing him from rising above. Prince Aemond Targaryen nurtured bitterness and hatred, and when he erupted, the earth was bathed in innocent blood.

She is older now, and he is no longer a wounded boy, but a ruthless man. All remnants of past commiserations have been eradicated during a single storm.

Kinslayer.

When the murderer enters the hall, all she senses is cutting coldness. Silence grows suffocating; she breathes in and breathes out, and hopes she won’t choke on it. There is a heavy hand that comes to clutch her shoulder—her father’s. She can smell the wine; knows that it is him even without glancing sideways. His fingers dig into the flesh near her collarbone with a bruising force, and she interprets the message for what it truly is: a warning. Do not ruin this for us. Do not ruin this, or I’ll make you regret it.

And he would. She knows that he would. He possesses a brutish strength and not an ounce of mercy. His touch leaves raw imprints behind.

(An unknown abuser may yet prove less monstrous than the one she has known for all of her life. It is the same thing she’s been telling herself for the past weeks. If she repeated it enough times, would it become true? Or would it only serve as another lesson?

But oh, does she truly need to learn anything else? Hasn’t she learned enough? Is there more—always more, forever more? She cannot. She cannot.)

She has nothing to fear. There is a murderer in these very walls, and yet she fails to gather any of the dread she tasted on her tongue before. Footsteps echo through the hall, her heartbeat matching the rhythm with ease, and she stands with nothing but emptiness inside her chest. Even trepidation has abandoned her. She is hollow. Unresponsive.

When she curtsies, she does so without meeting the prince’s gaze. Her eyes are dropped to the ground, and there is hatred that flickers inside her mind, directed only at herself. She had sworn that she'd remain proud until the end of this farce, and yet here she is, scarcely toeing the line of the beginning and already cowering before him.

She catches sight of dark boots and black leather.

He is standing right before her.

Smoke fills her nostrils, heavy tendrils crawling down her throat and squeezing. She doesn’t let herself cough. Her eyes are molten. She keeps them lowered.

“My prince,” she says through gritted teeth, and the words coat her tongue in acidic aftertaste, foreign and foul and entirely unwanted.

Does he sense the bitterness that spills from her mouth? It is so heavy that she nearly chokes on it. Her lips must be stained with it. Stained crimson red. Stained gold and green.

“How good it is to welcome you into our home, Prince Aemond,” her father says, standing tall by her side. She feels him shift; his fingers curl around her elbow. “We are honoured to receive you.”

If he expects that she’ll add anything to this speech, he is wrong. She holds her tongue, even when her father’s grip turns vice, and stubbornly keeps her eyes downcast. There it is: a wet splotch on stone floors, right beside her feet. They shouldn’t have mopped them so many times.

The answer comes in a low hum, seconds or minutes or ages later. It is a soft sound—so soft that it nearly evades her ears. She catches it only through her own silence; only because her heart seems to have stopped, bathing her insides in dreadful hush. It dies in the cold air, and yet its remnants seem to cling to her skin, forming goosebumps in its wake.

Her hands shake. She tightens them into fists.

“My lord.” The Prince’s voice is not what she would’ve expected: gentle, velvet smooth. She knows that his gaze must be turned to her; her skin burns when he adds a low, “My lady.”

Lightning strikes outside the windows. It is storming again, and she wonders if it is a bad omen. It must be. She makes the mistake of raising her eyes towards the openings within stone walls, chasing the memory of the bolt, and then it happens.

Prince Aemond’s face is illuminated with the light of the nearest torch. The glow bathes him in golden hues, though the warmth does little to cut through the sharp lines of his features. He must be made of stone—there is polished blankness that shrouds his countenance, and it doesn’t falter under her gaze. With curious eyes, lost in the moment, she traverses the curve of his jaw; the sharp angles and porcelain-white skin. A leather patch keeps his eye covered, and there is an old, vertical scar peeking from beneath its confines. This is the mark that they spoke of. The mark that has shaped him into what he is.

Kinslayer, kinslayer, kinslayer.

When his eye finds hers, she holds her breath. Violets and lilacs flicker in his gaze; it is endless fields of flowers underneath golden rays of sun. It is fire. Scorching flames.

She knows rot. She knows it, because her own heart has long gone into a state of decay. Rot rules everywhere that affection does not; everywhere that seeds of tenderness and care were never planted. It is this rot that she finds deep inside his eye: swelling, flaring up with each breath.

Perhaps the prince, too, has never been loved.

A beat slips by. Her heart rises to her throat. She counts seconds as they near a full minute, and all the while her eyes do not strain from his gaze, glazed over and stinging. It is a test—one she knows she must pass, though the reason why remains unclear. The prince seems to be searching for something; his eye turns intense, raining fire upon her flesh. He will leave her scorched. He will turn her to ash.

Time stretches and twists; warps into a distorted shape. It runs in circles and keeps her a prisoner suspended in its vicious grip. Wasn’t it storming outside? There’s nothing but a heavy silence now, foreboding and sweltering. There’s nothing but fiery purples.

Kinslayer. She has grown to anticipate the blow, forever prepared to bleed, and this habit does not dissipate now. He is a prince. The son of the king. The brother of the usurper. If he is not pleased with her, he will be free to inflict punishment upon her flesh and mind and soul in whatever ways he desires. Who would stop him? Certainly not her father, for he himself has been lost to blinding rage too many times. Certainly not her. Weakness runs thick in her blood. She may veil it with stubborn pride and determined gazes, but it will never wilt away.

For a short moment, lost within the depths of his eye, she almost thinks he will unsheathe his sword. That he’ll put its tip to her neck. That he’ll end this before it truly begins—cut through invisible shackles around her neck, taking her head clean off.

There is silence and dread and despair, and doesn’t he see the haunted look inside her eyes? Her lips remain frozen, but her gaze alone screams to him.

Do it, she urges him. Do it, or we will be eternally doomed.

He will. His eye burns and her chest heaves, and the blow is sure to come any moment now—

And then the corner of the dragon prince’s lips quirks, and her fate is sealed.

There is a beast nesting on the empty fields outside the castle.

She once owned a stallion the colour of pitch-black night, gifted to her on her tenth name day. He was a wild thing, forever untameable, deemed too aggressive to mount. No number of lashings or rewardings ever dissipated his fiery nature, and all that her father’s stable boys repeatedly ended up with were hands raised in defeat. A beast, they called him. A dangerous beast.

It took her over a year to gather strength and courage. It took three nights before the horse allowed her to even come close. In the end, she did mount him—amidst the dark murk of night, with only the moon and the stars watching from above. At this point, there was no one who paid her any mind, all remnants of care for her wellbeing long forgotten. It must have been the reason why no one ever noticed. She could have broken her neck or shattered her spine, and there would have been no witnesses. She rode the stallion until the moon gave way to the sun; rode him until she was breathless from exertion and satisfaction and utter, unbridled delight.

Mounting a dragon must have been much more arduous a task. It is a wonder it only cost the prince an eye. The expanse of scaled flesh is enormous enough to cover the entirety of the grounds within sight; greens of grass are replaced with a deeper, more subdued shade. She searches for the beginning and end of the creature, but yields upon only being able to distinguish the wings. They are torn in several places. The wounds must come from the past wars.

Vhagar. She once read a book about Old Valyria and its fruits—about Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives, and the beasts they had ridden to take over the realm. The dragon laid upon the fields is a breathing piece of history. Her old scars carry the memories of the Conquest. Her eyes have seen things preserved only on paper.

She is every bit as mighty and breathtaking as she is described in many old tomes. Dangerous. Savage.

…asleep.

Of course, even a dragon sleeps, especially one this ancient. She wishes that she, too, could seek refuge from lucidity. The previous night was full of nightmares and sounds of rain, and she carries the testament of it in dark shadows underneath her eyes. Rest remains outside of her reach. Perhaps she is unworthy of it.

This is where she usually seeks solace: in the tower deemed haunted, long abandoned by all the residents. When she cannot sleep, she climbs the many stairs, rising to the highest point where the gaping holes between the pillars allow her to glimpse outside. She watches. Imagines herself somewhere amidst the fields—a different person, living a different life. She’s rather good at it: daydreaming. More often than not, this habit is what keeps her sane.

The tower isn’t truly haunted. If it were, one ghost or another might have pushed her from the window. She always stands close enough to fall. A step from dark abyss. Half a step, if she feels particularly brave about it.

Or perhaps it is, and the ghosts that do haunt it are not kind enough to put her out of her misery.

It doesn’t matter. The briefest sound that echoes from behind is not one made by any spirit.

The dragon prince may think himself sly, but she senses the weight of his gaze on the back of her spine immediately. It is much like the day before: fire nipping at her skin, spreading out in quick bursts. She stops herself from trembling. It will not do her any good to remain a lamb ready for slaughter—if the predator is permanently tempted, it will finally charge.

Her spine straightens; ears strain, searching for the sound of his footsteps. Prince Aemond is light on his feet, but she has spent too many nights anxiously waiting for her father to barge into her chambers in search for release from pent-up rage.

He smells of fire and rain. His scent fills her nostrils to the brim.

“She looks rather peaceful for a beast.”

Her own voice sounds strange to her ears, and she bites the inside of her cheek, hoping that the prince did not catch its waiver. This is the first time she spoke to him willingly—not prompted by politeness or bruising fingers atop her skin. Should she have bitten her tongue instead? Bowed her head and awaited him to break the silence first?

Right away, she regrets speaking at all. Will her words offend him? She knows little about the Targaryens, and even less about their dragons, but surely there is a strong bond between the two. Maybe beast is too strong a word. How else should she have described the being before her eyes, though? It’s an omen of death. It is death itself come to take them all.

Her expression hardens. She doesn’t care if she offends him.

The dragon prince moves forward upon her words, as though emboldened by the fact that she hasn’t sent him away or shrieked at the sight of him. Through the corner of her eye, she catches a glimpse of the fabric of his cloak. He seems forever clad in leather, wearing it like armour. It is darker than night, even when sunlight shines upon its surface.

He is taller than her. Sharper. In some ways, Prince Aemond reminds her of a sword. If she were to touch him, she’s half-convinced her skin would be left bleeding, sliced through by the mere outline of him. This sharpness of his is a weapon. It keeps everyone repelled. The prince’s eye is focused on the sight before him; as expected, he stands with his good side on display, no doubt unwilling to let her glance at the scar any more than necessary.

“When she sleeps, perhaps,” he says, quietly and softly. “Vhagar hasn’t known much peace. She is a seasoned warrior.”

A warrior. A killer. Her jaws swallowed a boy of four and ten.

Kinslayer.

She gulps down a bile in her throat and waits for whatever comes next.

They should not be alone. For all her wishes to remain a person and not a possession, she has learned the customs of a marriage by heart. She knows the vows. She knows what happens once they’ve been exchanged. If her father’s wishes are granted, they will be wedded sooner rather than later—certainly not here, but in King’s Landing, blessed by the king himself. She will wear green, and then nothing, and then pain. She will be a wife and a mother, and never again a human. But they are not yet proclaimed betrothed, and she shouldn’t be standing with him in an abandoned tower without a chaperone.

Maybe they’ll catch them and accuse her of impurity. Maybe she will be spared, left to rot in these walls, left to die alone. Maybe, maybe, maybe—

“You don’t seem afraid.”

Her eyes turn to him.

Last night, he sat beside her father, sharing the wine and keeping his silence. He did not look at her once. He did not speak to her at all. She was glad for it, sat herself on the far end of the table, away from chatter and flattery and lickspittles. Her hands shook throughout the entire feast. It was the one indication of remnants of fear she could not control.

She is rid of it now. She must be. Fear will not save her.

“I only fear what I don’t know,” she answers, voice hollow, and doesn’t let her gaze falter. She wants him to feel its weight on his skin; wants him to shudder, bucking under the pressure of pure resentment. “This sight is rather clear.”

Prince Aemond glances at her—shortly, quickly, his eye averting straight away as though scorched by the sight. She watches his cheek twitch. It is the first time his stone-like face moves.

“Is it?” he muses, his voice unchanged.

Her ire grows flared.

She turns to him fully, abandoning the stretch of the landscape and the beast that disrupts it. “A prince barged into my father’s house with the rising of a war.”

She has been granted the right to dress herself this morning. The skirts that she buries her hands within are a dull shade of grey. She will never again wear her house’s colours—if gods are kind, though she doubts it, she won’t wear reds and greens, either. There is no self that she may cling to anymore. She is an empty shell. Grey canvas. Void.

Her spine aches. She straightens in an attempt to stand taller, eager not to be looked down upon. It does little to cut through the difference in their heights, and she catches a trace of amusement that flickers through his eye, gone in a blink.

The prince hums. She bites the inside of her cheek. Her throat is dry, but she must continue now that she’s started.

Mouth twisted in displeasure, she takes a breath. “He brought his warrior dragon, if only for the promise of retribution were his request to go unfulfilled.”

This seems to catch his interest. Briefly, Prince Aemond turns to face her, eyebrow arched. “Request?”

“Demand,” she corrects.

“A grotesque picture.”

“Do you dislike honesty?”

“I dislike exaggeration.”

She wants to scream. To step forward. She wishes she could grow wings of her own and flee this wretched place.

He knows nothing about grotesque things. His life has been filled with riches and freedom and power. A dragon. A spoiled princeling. Prince Aemond’s wrath needs not to be smothered; it comes in fire and blood and results in ashes. He is a man of violence—a man like her father. His heart is rotten.

“There is no way to paint this picture any less grotesque, my prince. Is it exaggeration to assume you’ve come to claim your first spoil of war?”

“You?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a question.

“Me.”

The prince’s lip curves. He must be pleased with her misery.

“How presumptuous,” he murmurs quietly.

“But not untrue.” She tilts her head, watching the prince turn towards her again. “Or are you here for some other purpose?”

He isn’t.

King Aegon’s banners have been hung from many towers in these lands, ravens coming and going with a frequency that often left the skies shrouded in dark wings. It was only a matter of time before the demand for fealty reached these grounds. They have long anticipated it.

Her father will give him an army prepared to draw and shed blood; he’ll give him a daughter forced to spew out royal offspring. He will see this as a transaction—as an opportunity to rise above high lords who would dare think themselves his equals. War will tear throughout the realm, and all the while he himself will remain holed up in the safety of his castle, basking in newfound glory but unwilling to earn it. She will be the one to earn it for him. He’ll forget all about her before a moon passes, and she will spend the rest of her life selling herself to bring his name pride. Just another daughter. He has enough of those to no longer try to remember their names.

The prince seems to concede, for he says nothing. There is no satisfaction that comes with having won; she stands in the aftermath of her victory and feels nothing.

She wishes for another storm. Overcast skies seem to evoke the dragon prince’s wrath. If lightning struck, would he offer her the mercy of pushing her off the tower? No, she thinks. Prince Aemond does not appear to be particularly merciful. Perhaps, though, if he were to look at her face under the light of thunderbolts, he’d decide her unsightly. She is rather plain-featured—neither tall nor short, nor shapely enough for a woman. Any of her sisters would have made a better match for a prince of the realm.

She doubts he cares, though. Gods know that she doesn’t.

Prince Aemond rotates his body. They are now face to face. She sees all of him: violet eye and a leather patch and the scar, pink and red and greyish. Her breath catches. She hates that it catches. In another lifetime, she might have thought him striking. His is a regal kind of beauty—this much cannot be denied. He is all silver. It reminds her of the moon.

A murderer. A beautiful murderer.

Her chest heaves.

She must not fear.

“A spoil of war,” the prince echoes as though tasting the words on his own tongue, lips pulled upwards. His eye flashes to her face, its corner crinkling. Purple glints under the sunlight. “The lady has a proclivity to make statements she does not quite understand.”

“The lady,” she spits, gathering the last of her boldness, “understands enough to make such statements.”

Prince Aemond hums once more. “I’m sure you think so.”

“If you wish to correct me, my prince, you are free to do so. I am but an humble servant.”

A prisoner. A prey. More dead than alive.

They stand close enough together that it is improper, though she doesn’t recall the distance between them fading. Stray rays of sunlight keep them separated, bathing the leftover space in a warm glow. They will not breach it. He is clad in black, and she in grey, and none would dare to step into anything lighter. From here, she could count the little scars speckled on his face, silver like his hair. She could trace the length of his nose and find remnants of freckles he must have worn in his youth. She could, she could, she could. She won’t.

He lowers his face so that they’re closer. Like this, she cannot escape his gaze. The warmth of his breath. The eyepatch. The scar.

“My brother, the king, has sent me to receive your house’s pledge of allegiance. When given a task, I obey.” He is so close that even a whisper seems more like a scream. “Whatever comes next, I assure you that it will not be by my own choice.”

Like a willing victim, she holds his gaze, even when she wishes to flee from its fire. It does not get any easier. She tingles all over.

“You’re a prince,” she murmurs quietly, and though she doesn’t mean it, the words sound like both an accusation and begging.

“A prince carries the burden of duty no less than a lady does.”

“Then it would seem that both of us are equally chained.”

Only they aren’t. It is an attempt at blissful ignorance to pretend it to be true. He is a prince, and a dragon rider, and a murderer. If he wishes to, he can rid himself from the burden in a swift manner, be it through a sword or through fire.

Why won’t he? Why, why, why?

She doesn’t understand. He was supposed to be a cold-blooded murderer. She searches for traces of violence in his eye, desperate to catch even a glimpse of it, and finds nothing.

(He must have deemed her undeserving of his wrath. It only makes sense. Her own has abandoned her long ago.)

If he wishes to say anything in response, he chooses to instead swallow the words. It is for the best. Whatever they may have been, she has no desire to hear them.

Silence is heavy. It cuts through her skin and her bones, sinking into the cavity of her chest like a burden she must carry. Her eyes return to the lands outside—to the beast sprawled out on the grass. Do dragons have hearts? They must, she thinks. Even such beasts must have them. No being is spared from the curse of being able to hurt.

Cold air bites her cheeks. Her fingers are long frozen. Her own heart beats a steady tune, no longer frantic with anxiety. Breathing is a little easier.

Perhaps she’ll get used to it. To him. To the shackles.

Just before Prince Aemond disappears behind the entrance, she allows herself to speak. “Has the king decided when we are to be wedded?”

He doesn’t look back. “Not until the war ends.”

Good. She hopes that he does not survive it.

There is no one in the courtyard to bid her farewell.

In search of the last remnants of comfort, she wraps the black cloak tighter around her body. The raging storms of the past days have ended, smothered by sunlight. The skies are clear. It is a warm morning, and yet she feels as though she were freezing to death. Her eyes sweep across the yard once, twice, three times—and drop to the ground when they find nothing.

She has no disappointments left in her. She’s long since exhausted them all.

A week has passed since Prince Aemond’s arrival, and since every single day stretched out into an unbearable length, she is glad that it has finally come to end. They have gone by with constant noise, be it false cheers and flattery or too-loud music. She is sure that all the wine has run out. The dragon prince endured the continuous feasting with composure worthy of praise before getting sick of it—he must have decided it a sufficient period of time before their imminent departure, for he was quick to announce it the day before. She is not sure whether such short notice eased her anxiety or fuelled it. Her hands never seem to stop shaking.

One last time, she traverses the expanse of familiar stone. These walls have watched her grow up. They’ve been a witness to her laughter and tears; to the cries she buried deep inside her chest. She has endured years of suffering, and has learned not to let her pain show. This place has shaped her. It planted seeds of anger and bitterness that have blossomed into her being.

If she leaves, she will never return.

It is a kinder fate. Or maybe it isn’t. She would die here—forgotten, not mourned, reduced to insignificant bones once covered in insignificant flesh. She will die there. It is imminent. Such is her fate. She welcomes it with longing and fear and emptiness.

“Do you wish to travel on dragonback, my lady?”

She turns towards his voice, though she wishes she didn’t. Prince Aemond strides in her direction in quick motion, hands neatly folded behind his back, head held high. He is made of silvers and whites and always, always blacks. There is something inside his eye that wasn’t there before, and though she knows that she shouldn’t let herself get lost, her eyes sink deep into the prince’s skin as they search for meaning.

He must be mocking her. She wasn’t made to rise any higher than the solid ground beneath her feet. She is a creature of no importance; a worthless soul caged inside a worthless body. Her lip twists in displeasure; she may be plain and common, but the dragon prince’s jeers have no right to be made.

The carriage doesn’t bring any promises of comfortable travels, but she’d rather suffer from an aching spine than endure the prince’s close proximity. She’d surely choke on his scent; burn from the heat of his body. Would he hold her close? Would he push her off the scaled beast once they’ve ascended above clouds? Her eyes search his, but she finds no answers. She didn’t think she would. More often than not, gazing into the prince’s one eye leaves her with only another onslaught of questions.

Prince Aemond is quick to recognise the rejection. In truth, she thinks he never expected her to agree. He nods to himself and doesn’t meet her eyes again. It is for the best. She is tired of burning.

“I hope your nights are warm and peaceful,” he murmurs before he stalks away.

She hopes that he’ll slip from his saddle and fall from the skies.

One last look. Just one.

All of it is just stone.

In farewell, she spits on the ground. Nothing happens. It is not sacred. Bitterness remains on her tongue.

Her palms are bleeding from the way she’s been sinking her nails into flesh. She gathers her skirts in one hand and climbs the wooden steps to the carriage. They groan beneath her feet. So does the seat she plants herself upon. Her heart pounds and then stops and she cannot breathe, and still death does not come. Wouldn’t it be a kinder fate to die here? Die before she has gone forth?

Skies darken. It will be raining again.

She leaves the walls she has bled in behind. She will now bleed elsewhere. Somewhere foreign. Somewhere colder.

[bunny-lily]

Tether Me - Chapter 1

Pairing(s): Geto/Gojo/Reader

Summary: “Jesus!” You shrieked and jumped with all the elegance of a newborn fawn, spinning on your heel to find a head of blindingly white hair and pearly canines equally as eye-burning greeting you through a wide grin. Though you couldn’t see the man's eyes behind those curiously round shades of his, you could picture how his cheeks crinkled his hidden hues at the corners.

If any of the Greek or Roman gods were real, he’d outshine every one of them without breaking a sweat. 

“Not quite,” the unfairly gorgeous stranger replied with a snicker from where he leaned against the fence, “but I’m flattered.” CW: No y/n | polyamory | slow burn | slice of life | alt au - no curses | fluff | light angst | eventual smut | forgive me, there's internal monologues | I like using big words... | Gojo & Geto are whipped for you | emotionally constipated reader | (most of the tags have been condensed, you can find the full list on my ao3 here)

AN: no particular additional warnings for this chapter. I'll add new warnings for any chapters that might require them (for example, nsfw)

Ch: Prologue | Ch: 1 | Ch: 2 | Ch: 3 | Ch: 4 | Ch: 5 - 1 | Ch: 5 - 2

WC: 15.3k

Seeing your new…home in the unforgiving glare of daytime made you realize that the realtor spent more time photoshopping the box of danger to make it appear appealing than actually selling it. Gave it to the first poor buyer that bit the bait and dashed off.

Said poor buyer was you. Apparently.

A rickety bamboo fence, chipped and scratched by god knows what, wrapped loosely around your property, the pathetic poles clinging to life by threads about as strong as spider silk. Quite the sad barrier. Honestly, you had no idea how it managed to remain upright this long at all. 

The description on the site you found it on was very, very vague with anything regarding the building. Even with your prodding, the most you generally got was “well, nobody died in it, and it’s still standing.”

Good enough for you, clearly, considering you slapped the Sold! sign on the damn listing yourself maybe 30 minutes and a glass of wine (or three) after finding the soggy, depressing shack.

Granny was right. This thing was a damn mess. It should have been condemned ages ago.

You couldn’t decide if it was bigger or smaller than you expected. Somewhat disproportionate was the best way you could put it. The terrain surrounding it was much more expansive than the photos showed, the boundaries only sort of marked out by the aforementioned sad barrier. It was considerably isolated, which you weren’t really complaining about, but you noted way too late that taking care of all that overgrown grass was going to be a nightmare on your back. Arms, too. Every part of your body, honestly.

The building itself had certainly seen better days, such as the day it was built, and perhaps the day after, if you were being generous. The agent was very shifty about exact details, but in his defense, this place was basically in the Bumfuck Middle of Nowhere, Japan, in likely one of the smallest countryside villages there was in the whole country.

You were also substantially intoxicated and ready to put down your life savings on anything.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to go that far, but you truly underestimated the scope of this ‘project’. The entire plot needed a fresh splash of paint at minimum. Ideally, you needed to shear the lawn of all those super pretty weeds that you were very tempted to just leave as is because they were so pretty, mhm, would be an absolute shame to get rid of them.

You’d need to clear out the stone path leading from the fence gate to your front door that you quite literally stumbled over last night. Or just toss the stones altogether, because fuck those things and whoever put them there.

The outer walls needed a good scrubbing, and another, and one more for good measure. Quite a few shingles on the roof showed signs of being ready to split your skull open with only a wayward breeze needed to push them off the edge. The hinges creaked horribly on every part of the building, enough so that you were certain the entire village would’ve been awoken by you tripping over yourself to get into the house had you not been a decent 10 or so minute walk from the closest cottage.

And all of this was just what was outside. 

That fence, ugly little shit that it was, was either going to become your worst nightmare, or a begrudging friend. 

You noted with mild interest that your house resembled western abodes more than Japanese ones.

Maybe if you kept the place rundown, people wouldn’t think to stop by your place unannounced. Ah, what a delight that would be. If you were lucky, nobody knew the property had been sold yet. If you were extra lucky, you could get your shopping done (plus whatever other errands you couldn’t do from home) by keeping your head down, and none would be the wiser to your existence.

Aside from Granny, of course. Kinda hard to hide from that woman now that she’d given you food off her own back. You needed to do something in return, but you set that on the back burner for now.

The interior required basically everything to be fixed up, that was non-negotiable. You refused to sleep on crusty wood floors and old tatami that had long since been glued to the surface beneath with gods know what. At the very least, you needed to somehow clean the floor. Preferably, mend the walls, plug any holes, get the pipes functioning if they weren’t already, and a whole other fuckin’ list of soul crushing deeds that needed completion.

Furniture, while questionably not a necessity for survival, was definitely a need for you. If only so you had something to sleep on other than the basically flat, nylon bag laid out in the corner of the room you gracelessly snored within.

But how?

You planted your hands on your hips and exhaled through your nose. “I wonder if Amazon ships to this place…”

A pipe dream, certainly; but, gods, would it make your life so much easier.

You could try to build your own furniture, but you trusted running with scissors more than you trusted your own potential handiwork. Which meant repairing the house itself on your own was likely a very bad idea.

“Ah, fuck,” you hissed as you realized the other shit you’d need to do aside from creating an actual proper space to live. “I’ll have to learn how to sew and garden and fucking carpent and everything…”

You groaned as you pictured every task that awaited you, and subsequently buried your face in your hands. Maybe you should have just torn the whole fucking thing down, bought a plastic shed from the nearest city, dragged it over, set it up, and called it home sweet home. You didn’t need that much space anyway, right?

“No, can’t regret this now, too late to regret this, you chose this,” your voice was muffled and grit out through clenched teeth. “Made your bed, now sleep in it, idiot.”

“Yeah, kinda dumb choice, if you ask me.”

An unexpected voice originated from behind you, startling the living daylights out of you and shooting your heart straight out of your body. 

“Jesus!” You shrieked and jumped with all the elegance of a newborn fawn, spinning on your heel to find a head of blindingly white hair and pearly canines equally as eye-burning greeting you via a wide grin. Though you couldn’t see the man's eyes behind those curiously round shades of his, you could picture how his cheeks crinkled his hidden hues at the corners.

If any of the Greek or Roman gods were real, he’d outshine every one of them without breaking a sweat. 

The warming late-spring wind grazed through the fluffy locks of his hair like the delicate touch of a lover’s hands, weaving through the fine strands and carrying his scent to you.

Mixed with the heat of the approaching humid season, you caught faint hints of sweetness, with an underlying minty tone and something you couldn't name. He was too far away for you to pinpoint the exact fragrance, but you had no intention of just skipping right over and shoving your nose against the junction of his neck to get a better whiff.

Or maybe his chest? The way he was slouching made it difficult to gauge his height, but you had a feeling he was a great deal taller than you, and the stout slope you stood on would do you virtually no favors.

The shiver that went up your spine at the thought was promptly ignored.

“Not quite,” the unfairly gorgeous stranger replied with a snicker from where he leaned against the fence, arms slotted between the bamboo sticks. How it held him up without crumbling into dust was a miracle in itself. “But I’m flattered.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears as you placed your hand against your chest, trying to will the wretched thing to calm down. Handling adrenaline was not your forte, much less from a scare like this. With your eyes narrowed, and only partially because of the accursed brilliance that was coming summer, you glared at the man. He was far too relaxed and cocky for your liking, still sporting that goofy grin that had you feeling things you didn’t want to address now.

Or ever.

“Who are you?” You queried.

“I should be asking you that, pretty girl.”

Your nose wrinkled incredulously. “Pretty girl?”

He chose to overlook your objection, instead nodding towards your house. “Never thought I’d get to witness this shithole get bought by anyone, let alone someone like you. Thought it’d get torn down sooner than have a hundred yen tossed towards it.”

Your eyes rolled. Hard. He wasn’t wrong, it was a shithole, but now it was your shithole. The less reminders about its miserable state of existence you had, the better. “Gee, thanks.”

“No problem.”

Completely against your will, you snorted. He was going to be a wonderful source of entertainment, or he was going to be a thorn in your side, just like the sickly sticks under his arms. The jury was still out on it.

You stared at one another for a few seconds that dragged on too long before you raised a brow. “Weeeell…?” You drew out the word.

His head cocked to the side. “Well?”

“Your name. You never told me who you are.” You knew it was polite to introduce yourself first, but fuck that, he scared the hell out of you. The responsibility was on him.

“Oh, right,” he straightened up, then bent forward with one hand to his chest and the other outstretched sideways in an extravagant bow. “Gojo Satoru, the very one and only. What about you, sweetheart?”

Pet names aside, there was a debate in your mind, an argument between whether you should give the admittedly attractive stranger your real name, or create one on the spot. You had done the latter in your later months of running all over your home country like a chicken without a head under the stupid belief that it'd further separate you from the anxieties clinging to your shins. 

You were paranoid. That was easy enough to decipher.

Your conscience had spawned this nerve wracking idea that those you ghosted – from scorned lovers who scarcely got further than kissing you, to the jobs and employers you abandoned suddenly – were after you. 

It left you constantly scanning your 6 from over your shoulder with the fear that they’d come chasing you down, eager to dig their claws into your paper-kite flesh and permanently force you down. You could visualize them tearing through your wings, winding layers of rope around your throat and knotting the dangling strings so tightly that not even the sharpest blade could break through the binds, much less let you breathe. So, you frequently lied about your identity as much as you could.

You inhaled slowly through your teeth, not enough to whistle, but enough to ground you. You were on the complete other side of the world, far away from those who would care to snarl and bare their fangs at your heels as they ran faster than you could – if there were any who desired to at all. You were somewhere new, somewhere unfamiliar, a place where nobody knew you, or could possibly know you by any means.

You told not a soul about where you’d gone. You never did. Like ash in the wind, you disappeared faster than anyone could blink, any memory of smoldering embers long forgotten.

Maybe…maybe you were safe to at least slip forth some truth about yourself.

Like most things you did nowadays, you told him your real name on a whim, and hoped it wouldn’t come back to bite you in the ass.

He hummed as he repeated it to you, as if testing it on his tongue, dipping in for a small taste. Then, that stunning grin returned, and your heart fluttered behind your ribs.

You stubbornly stamped your heel down onto it. You didn’t know why it decided to start acting up, but you were not going to entertain it.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he cooed. “What brought you here of all places? So rich you’re bored? Fell for a scam? One of those girly things?”

You scoffed.

“Or maybe you’re running from something.”

The blood in your veins froze over in an instant, your body going rigid as you stared at him. He…he couldn’t have known, right? The way he stated it, rather than asked – like he knew – had you struggling to swallow, to so much as twitch your fingers. There was no way. You– you were nobody, a blank slate, an outsider–

His head cocked to the side playfully, and the spell he had cast on you withered away as quickly as it came.

Finally able to breathe again, you vented out the air you unknowingly held and turned your face slightly away, hoping he didn’t catch your slip-up. “One of those girly things,” you settled, to which he nodded eagerly, as if you just confirmed the existence of a theory of his that ‘girly things’ were real.

Not that he was wholly wrong, technically, as you did have ‘one of those girly things’ urges from time to time. The desire to cut or dye your hair, pick up a new name, rearrange your room, or hop on a plane to the furthest fucking location you could imagine.

“Why’d you choose this…thing then?” Gojo jerked his chin towards the shabby hut.

“It was cheap,” you answered simply. 

He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “Where are you staying?”

Your eyelashes fluttered as you blinked at him, your brow knitting. “...Here?”

“...Here.”

“Here.”

There was a brief pause, then he burst into laughter, his arms hugging his stomach. “Oh, god,” he wheezed. Personally, you couldn’t find what was so funny about the situation. “You serious?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

His finger slipped under the right lens of his glasses, presumably to wipe a tear away as he worked on calming himself down. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Fire flared in your veins as opposed to ice this time. “Hey!”

“I mean, seriously, who in their right mind would stay inside that thing?”

Your lip curled over your teeth in a snarl. “Oi–”

He bulldozed right along, completely ignoring you. “There’s gotta be, like, ghosts in there. Or a shit ton of spiders. Lots of spiders, actually.”

That got your attention. A shudder shot up your back and you squealed in fright, shaking off your hands to rid yourself of the phantom feeling of creepy crawlies on your skin. “Spiders?”

The milky-headed male nodded staidly. “Tons. And, y’know, the other obvious health hazards. I bet there’s asbestos in those walls.”

You opened your mouth to argue that your house had only been abandoned for 20 years, and that asbestos had been cut out of usage some 40 odd years ago, until you remembered that 1) asbestos didn’t immediately go out of use when the dangers were revealed, and 2) you house was abandoned 20 years ago, not built 20 years ago. Who knows how old it actually was? 

Given its appearance…

He must’ve seen the panic on your face, because he gave you a piercing smile, an expression you very swiftly understood was one of scheming. “You should come stay with me.”

The world halted around you for the seconds it took your mind to process what he said. “...Hah?”

“I said, you should come stay with me,” Satoru shrugged nonchalantly. “I have spare guest rooms.”

“I– you– stay with– what?” 

The grimace he gave your house could only be described as ‘execrating’. “I mean, come on, you’re not really thinking of staying there, are you? You’ll be sending yourself to an early grave like that, you’re too cute to die so soon. Just come stay at my place.”

Was he a murderer?

Your brain finally caught up with a click and you scowled. “Oh, yeah, that’s super safe,” you responded sardonically. “New girl in a new town full of total strangers with who-knows-what motives, lemme just go stay with the first guy that invites me to his home.”

“Come onnnn, you can trust me,” he whined, pouting.

“I literally just met you.”

The ease with which he gave up gave you whiplash, having expected him to keep pushing. “Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “Hey, did you know that your backdoor doesn’t have a lock?”

You paled.

Definitely something a murderer would say.

Your head whipped to gawp at your dwelling with wide eyes, a full on war raging through your head now.

On one hand, yes, he was a complete and total stranger. A hot one, but still an unknown entity who could just be buttering you up. Maybe the reason the house had been abandoned for so long was because anytime a new owner came in, they got snatched up by the handsome boy who invited them just like he invited you, never to be seen again.

He could have been lying about the lock – though it honestly didn’t matter, someone could probably just break through a wall if they pushed hard enough on it.

On the other hand, if he was telling the truth (how did he know that? Why?), he was the only person you knew even a little in this itty bitty isolated village (Granny doesn’t count). Anyone could go through that door at night and there you would be, wrapped up in your shitty, thin sleeping bag, prime kidnapping material. You basically did all the hard work by tying your own limbs right up yourself, easiest catch of the century.

At the very least, you knew Gojo’s name and face. Granted, the first item there was debatable, but he didn’t seem like the type to lie about his name – boast about it, more like. You’d be already acquainted with your would-be assailant, so it’d be nice to know the face of your kidnapper-slash-torturer-slash-killer, if only so you could punch a picture of it over and over in your afterlife, wherever death may take you.

You shifted your gaze to him and crossed an apprehensive arm over your chest, propping your elbow up on it while you pinched your chin in consideration.

There he was, the sly rat, wearing that dumb (cute) (no) grin of his as always, patiently awaiting your answer as if he already knew it. Nothing about him seemed inherently dangerous on the surface, but don’t they say serial killers are charming and charismatic people? He was a bit energetic for a murderer, though.

You weighed your options carefully. You could spend another horrid night in your house with the knowledge that there were likely insects everywhere, and possibly even asbestos in the walls, and who knows what else. You’d have to brush your teeth by using your water tumbler again, and…oh, fuck, you hadn’t even thought about the bathroom yet. How were you going to shower? Wash your face? Do your business? 

Then there was your poor excuse of a bed, more plastic than anything even remotely comfy. Same with the pillow, you might as well have been sleeping on the bare ass floor. Your neck ached at the thought. Then there was your food issue, your clothes, your devices…

You sighed.

“What’s the catch?” You questioned reluctantly.

He merely raised his hands in a shrug. “No catch.”

That was way too easy, but the prospect of an actual bed and a tidy (hopefully) homestead was too good to pass up, serial killer owner be damned.

Future you was just getting more and more tasks thrown at her, such as your new objective being to find an inn to live in while you figured out your home issues. And getting a job to afford said inn. But that was for way later, when you weren’t losing your goddamned mind.

“...Fine,” you surrendered. Like a pussy. Weak.

“Yippee!” Satoru cheered, somehow smiling wider. “Good girl, knew ya had a brain somewhere up there.”

Your stomach flip-flopped at the simultaneous praise and insult, confusing your head with emotions (and hormones) that you did not want to unpack. Cheeks reddening rapidly, you hissed at him through a tight jaw, shooing away the kindling something that pooled in your tummy. “You–”

“C’mon,” he interrupted you before you could even start, already turning to leave as he waved his hand over his shoulder, “I’ll show ya the way. Ain’t far from here.”

Flustered, you stuttered indignantly, watching him walk away. You shook your head in defeat and jogged to catch up to him, needing to speed walk to match his ridiculously long strides. “Oi, slow down! You’re too damn tall!”

“You’re just short,” he argued, his hands interlocking as they rested against the back of his head. “Pipsqueak.”

You gasped in offense as if you weren’t at tiddy-sucking height. “I am not a pipsqueak!”

“You totally are,” he purred, treating you like you were some sort of adorable pet. “I bet I could pick you up and throw you if I wanted.”

An unwitting laugh bubbled out of you, and for some reason, you decided to play this frivolous game of his. “I’d like to see you try.”

You immediately regretted it as he reached out for you with a shit-eating expression of absolute delight, making you yelp and race off ahead of him, screeching as he chased right after you.

“Wait, no, don’t!” Your voice rang clear, fright mixed with childlike thrill spreading to your limbs as you scurried down the open road. “I was kidding!”

“Get back here!”

The wind blew past your ears, tangled into your hair, followed the curves of your body as you darted about alongside it. You let it guide you, toy with the fabric of your shirt, cup your face with cool hands. You breathed deeply, and you flew, untethered and free and so overwhelmed.

Somewhere above, beyond the boundless and endless cerulean, a star flickered.

You screamed when you felt his hands pinch your waist, catching Satoru’s devilish gleam as he passed you, and suddenly, you were the one chasing him. He cackled as you tried to catch up to him, taunting you all the way. 

Curse his long legs. 

You wondered how he managed to keep talking so cleanly and easily while you were struggling to maintain your breath and gait.

All those years of metaphorical running, sadly, did not translate into actual, physical running. Air stung your throat, and you only faintly recognized that you were running after him through the village, more focused on keeping that head of ivory tresses in sight.

Yet, somehow, contrary to how concentrated you were on that task, he managed to slip from your view when he turned a sharp corner and seemingly passed through an invisible barrier of some kind. He had to, because when you turned that same corner just seconds later, he was nowhere to be found.

Slowing your sprint into a trot, then stopping altogether, you bowed over and planted one hand on your knee while the other clutched your side.

“Oh, god,” you groaned, your body aching in several places, both internal and external. “I almost regret skipping gym in school.”

Peeking up through your hair to check around, every part of the street you were on seemed innocuous, normal, without any obvious hiding spots Satoru might have jumped into. 

The vertically dominant fucker.

Cautiously, you marched forward, breathing heavily as you took slow steps. The game of cat and mouse had turned into hide-and-seek, and the sucker chose not to warn you. Granted, you would have done the exact same thing, but it was within your right to bitch about it, you were at several disadvantages.

The first alley was clear of anything, even objects. Nothing more than a small gap between two buildings, you doubted he would’ve managed to squeeze in there given how giant he was. Plus, where would he have gone even if he did wiggle into it? 

The next alley was the same story. There was more space, but very little within said space, only a couple crates that were too small to hide him. Again, giant.

Everything, you belatedly realized, was completely uncharted territory to you. You should have listened to Granny and explored the village first. But, if you had, maybe you wouldn’t have a real bed to sleep in tonight. Presumably. You were putting too much faith into Gojo being genuine about the bed – and not being a serial killer – otherwise you were sleeping outside.

“Bastard.” The pain in your hip subsided and you righted yourself, inspecting every direction for any indication of white hair. It would be significantly difficult to hide that feature in an area like this, where pretty much everything had a neutral-dark colored theme, and most people had black or brunette hair.

You wondered why he was towheaded. A question for another day.

He was a magician, or trickster, you ruled, rather than acknowledging the fact that he knew this town far better than you did and likely would for a while to come. 

Grumbles passed through your lips as you stood akimbo, squinting at everything skeptically. “Where the hell–”

“Boo!”

You swear your soul ascended. You could picture the trail it left behind as it rose into the heavens, pulling with it a choked croak of terror from you. The sound could hardly be considered a shout, you resembled a frog more than you did a goat in the screaming department.

Demented cackling erupted behind you as you leapt forward and clutched your chest, swinging around to glower at the boy in utter disbelief. Twice now he had done this. Twice! Beside yourself, you rushed over towards him and smacked his arm repeatedly, which only fueled his laughter. “Dick!”

“Fuck!” Satoru heaved, reaching his whistle register. “Priceless! Oh, my god, you should have seen your face.”

“I’m gonna kill you!” The threat was far less menacing than you wanted when your own voice was as squeaky as his. 

By the time he calmed down, you were both panting – you out of chagrin (and for the sake of your poor heart), and him to get precious oxygen back to his smooth brain. 

“I’m serious about that, by the way,” you pouted at him. “I’m gonna kill you for scaring me. Again.”

He beamed at you and reached to pat your head, but was intercepted by your hand, only to dodge around it and manage to get a few head pats in anyway. “Sure you will, sweets.”

You growled and stomped a few steps away, stopped, then whirled back around when you remembered you had no idea where you were going. He simply crossed his arms over his chest and scrutinized you with that stupid, supercilious visage.

“Go on,” he encouraged eagerly. “Ask.”

The inside of your cheek was going to be sore from how much you were chewing it. You were at an impasse; let him win, or try to find his place on your own. With no idea what it looked like. Or what direction to even go.

You imagined you’d have better luck wearing a blindfold if you tried the latter option. Either way, he was going to win, you could acknowledge that. Conceding and requesting his continued guidance meant handing over his victory on a silver platter, or he’d get some decent entertainment out of watching you try to figure out where the hell he lived.

Gods, you were regretting moving here already.

“Show me how to get to your house,” you mumbled.

The tall freak fake-cooed at you. “Aww, come on, you can do better than that.”

If glouting could kill, you would be slow-roasting him over a grill. In the meekest voice you could manage, you muttered, “please.”

“Hmmm?” He canted closer towards you. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

You could feel your sanity draining like sand in an hourglass. Just to get it over with, you spoke properly. “Please show me how to get to your house.”

The jubilant grin he gave you had you reconsidering that blindfold idea you had. “Better! Good girl, come along, now.”

Oh, your insides could just melt.

No, you argued with yourself as you trailed behind him, reluctantly obedient. You are not getting horny over that, you sad sack of potatoes. You’re just pent up. A pretty boy calls you a good girl and you’re a sobbing mess under your pants.

Pathetic.

He whistled a sharp tune as he lazily led you, weaving around the architecture in such a way that you knew you never would have found the damn place on your own – or find your way back, for that matter. He was doing this on purpose to get you confused just to fuck with you, you knew it. 

You were placing a lot of stock in him not being a murderer.

“Keep up, shortie,” he waved his fingers over his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

Taking a (albeit mild) hike up a road traveling up the mountainside was not something you expected nor planned for. Now you were lamenting skipping gym. Not that participating more in exercise over a decade ago would help you currently, but at least you’d be able to believe you were stronger than this.

Satoru watched you with no small amount of amusement as you finally caught up to his still figure, lips curved. “Man, you suck at this.”

“I didn’t exactly study hiking in school,” you grumbled, closing your eyes and breathing deep.

“I’d hardly call a walk ‘hiking’,” he commented, and you wimpishly smacked his arm. “We gotta work on your stamina.”

You could hear the smirk and underlying innuendo without needing to see his stupid, handsome face.

“In your dreams, pretty boy,” you muttered.

“How do you know what I dream about?”

Your eyes popped open to glare at the man as he fluttered his lashes and pressed his fingers to his chest. “You’re a menace,” you scowled, ignoring his faux ‘innocence’ in favor of looking ahead.

And getting the wind utterly knocked out of you.

This grandiose mansion was where he lived?

Balking, you stared up at his house from beneath the arch of the moon gate in front of it, taking in the sheer magnitude and extravagance of it, even from just the outside. A variety of leafy trees, well trimmed bushes, and aromatic flowers decorated it in precise symmetry, each individual blade of grass nipped to preeminence. 

There was a garden off to the left, freshly tended to and beautiful with a pond in the center. You couldn’t see what was in it, but you wouldn’t be surprised if koi fish were there as well.

A partially shaded gazebo stood on the other side, right next to a gentle creek that trickled leisurely. A stone table sat in the center, and you could imagine drinking tea in the early morning there, when the sun would hit it at the right angle to warm you up.

The aesthetic was prizewinning; a wonderful, skillful mix between traditional and modern, all incorporated into a house you thought could only exist in one of those style magazines.

How long had it been here? How had it been built so extravagantly? How much did it cost?

All these painfully curious questions, yet, the first thing you thought to say when you opened your mouth…

“You said it was nearby,” you pouted. “This is the other side of town.”

“Eh?” He glanced down at you. “Doesn’t seem that far to me.”

Your index finger flicked the outside of his thigh. “That’s because you’re a walking tree.”

Gojo slapped his thigh in the same spot, beaming at you. “These are good for a lot of things.”

“I’m sure,” the unamused deadpan you gave him had him snickering.

That shit-eating grin was back and he waggled his brows. “I could show you.”

“Pass,” you rolled your eyes, addressing his house instead. “Why is your house so far away from the village? Up the whole ass mountain and everything.”

He shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Dunno. It was built here a long time ago. Obviously upgraded over the years, duh, but if I had to guess, it’s because of the hot spring. The rest of the village just built lower down the path for convenience, or they were intimidated by the Gojo name.”

“Hot spring?” You furrowed your brow. 

Nonchalant as always, he nodded. “Yeah, there’s a natural hot spring in the backyard.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say you have a hot spring in your backyard?”

Being the rich boy that he was, he cocked his head to the side and spared you an inquisitive peek, as if to say ‘you don’t have one?’ “Yeah? You wanna see?”

“Uh, yes?” You gawked shamelessly.

Satoru grinned and beckoned for you to follow, and you skipped right along behind him, barely managing to remind yourself to hurriedly take off your shoes at the door. You had to force yourself to be careful and line them up neatly. You also used this chance to eye the obviously rich-people footwear. You wouldn’t hesitate to bet that one pair alone was worth more than one of your kidneys.

All worries of him being a potential monster dashed out the window as you let him lead you through the winding halls to a shoji door near the back of his house – you had to guess, you were not paying attention at all. You were too focused on the expensive decor and feeling way out of place.

The scenery that greeted you as soon as the door slid open had you stopping dead in your tracks in shere awe.

He hadn’t been lying, there really was a hot spring in his backyard. You couldn’t find it in yourself to care about his smug expression, mindlessly allowing him to gently push you forward with a hand to the small of your back.

“Close your mouth, you’ll start drooling,” he teased.

Your jaw clicked shut and you shot him a half-hearted glare before your attention returned to the pool of steaming water ahead of you.

The entire area was gorgeous, honestly. Round stone circles created a path along gravel from the engawa to the basin, which was surrounded mostly by rocks with plants growing between cracks and around the base here and there. Massive pines encompassed the entire area, giving you the sensation of safety and protection.

A trail on the side led somewhere else, winding between mounds of perfectly maintained green terra, though that was of insignificant interest to you at the moment.

An instruction was murmured against the shell of your ear, and you wordlessly and thoughtlessly obeyed. “Look up.”

“...Oh.”

High above, between the gaps in the trees, you had a prime view of the sky, spanning across the ring the forest created, deep and wondrous and so…clear. The brightest blue you had ever seen. If the moon got caught just right, exactly in the middle, you believed magic would happen.

The towering pines kept the area shaded and pleasantly cool, and you were swept away by the urge to sink into the hot spring and let everything else fade away. 

When you lowered your chin to look at him, you found he was already gazing at you, his grin softened to a small upturn of his lips at the corners. He was just so…divine. Moonflower hair framed his face, cottony and fluffy, and though you couldn’t see his eyes clearly through the indigo tint of his shades, you could feel them. They were piercing, capable of seeing right through your skin and witnessing your heart beating as it stuttered and struggled to regain its footing. 

The way he studied you felt so familiar.

An intense watch, pinned directly on you, making the hairs on your nape stand.

You yearned to see his hues without the barrier his dark, round glasses provided, and you wondered if they could rival those of the sky, or the gods’. 

“Whatcha think?” He asked silkenly as he leaned forward and tilted his head to be closer to you.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured in response without really thinking, the words flowing out of you without your conscious action. “It’s like a dream.”

You weren’t sure if you meant the eden you were brought to, or the heavenly being beside you. Either way, he smiled radiantly at you and nudged your shoulder lightly with his own.

“Wanna touch it?”

Your lashes fluttered as you tried to come back to yourself and not let your mind wander to places you could not reach. “The hot spring?”

“Mhmm.”

It took a considerable amount of effort to tear your eyes off of him and set them back on the cirque of water hidden beneath mist. Like a siren’s song, you slipped on the outdoor slippers nearby and stepped off the engawa, pacing along the stone path. It was smoother, flush with the terrain, unlike the haphazardous placements of the ones you had at your own home.

The pool was milky, tinted with a rich, capri shade, reminding you instantly of a lagoon, or a salt flat mirroring the zion above that went on as far as the eye could see. A miniscule waterfall trickled placidly from the highest outcropping, following the narrow and shallow path it had carved for itself over countless years.

You resisted the urge to cup it in your hands and drink it like sacred nectar.

At the edge, you knelt down and skimmed the tips of your fingers across the water’s surface. Goosebumps broke out across your arm and you shuddered inadvertently. Heat spread over your palm as steam coiled around you, surrounding you partially in a cocoon of warmth. The temperature bordered on the line between too hot and not enough finely, urging you to crawl beneath the water’s cusp and embrace the cradle of coziness.

“Good, isn’t it?” Gojo startled you as he spoke from where he knelt down next to you. He seemed to be proficient at scaring the shit out of you. This close, you could detect his attar clearly, and the last part of his unique fragrance finally fell into place.

Lemon.

He smelled like sweet lemons and mint.

“Yeah–” you squeaked, and cleared your throat to try again. “Yeah, it’s really nice. Like…perfect, actually.”

He snickered and dipped his hand into the diaphanous liquid, bringing it back up to splash it onto your arm. With a cry of mock offense, you splashed him right back, cracking up as you managed to get a decent scoop into his mouth. 

You didn’t know what it was about him. Rightfully, you’d only been aware of each other for less than two hours, but it felt like you’d known him your whole life. The banter flowed easily, the games you hadn’t played since you were so young that you could only vaguely remember, the way he spoke to you, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

No heavy feelings sat on your chest, creaking the brittle bars of your ribcage, filling you with an innate sense of dread and desire to flee and never stop for a second. Nothing of the sort crossed your mind. No rock weighed in the pit of your stomach, no widow’s voice murmured in your ear.

It was just you and him, in a bubble of time where nothing and everything mattered all at once. Every breath you took was meaningless, yet held the weight of the world. Every twitch of his fingers could rest even the weariest souls, or rend the sky apart should he ever care to. 

But he didn’t, and neither did you. 

This pocket-sized domain of serenity you found yourself in brought forth dormant feelings of ease and comfort. 

They didn’t feel like a mask painted on to cover the blooming, spreading bruises under your skin and behind your solar plexus. They didn’t feel like a temporary setup to sate your mind until the panic overwhelmed you all over again.

Rather, they composed a nest of the finest blankets you’d ever touched, let alone slept within. You wanted to crawl in and close your eyes and hibernate, sleep as life passed you by. You wanted to live in this moment forever.

The shoulder of his shirt grew damp where he rubbed his curled lips against it. “Kitty’s got claws, huh?”

“Fangs, too,” your nose scrunched up as you gave him a sly, Cheshire cat smile. “I’ll let you kill me if you let me use your hot spring first.”

“Deal.”

You snorted. “Not even gonna dispute it, huh?”

“I’m assuming the ‘kill’ part is optional here.”

“I won’t push my luck then,” you accepted as you stood up, shaking any excess moisture off your hand. Upon remembering Granny, you pulled out your phone from your purse, tsking at the 47% charge level in the top right corner, then glanced at the time. Midday.

Satoru peeped over your shoulder after he rose up. “Whatcha lookin’ at?”

“Time,” you replied, shooing him away to stop him from being nosy. Not that you really had anything worth hiding. 

Most of the pictures on your phone were photos you’d taken of the outside world during your trips, random things that meant something at the time you snapped the pic, but meant absolutely zip now, or blurry images of animals that refused to stay still for you.

“Granny wanted me to explore the town to get more familiar with it, then stop by for lunch,” your phone locked with a click as you stuffed it back in your bag and continued your explanation.

He whistled. “Adopted by Granny, and on your first day, too? That’s impressive, means you’re special.”

“Eh?” Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Why? She seems like she’d be a nice person to everyone.”

He chuckled as you both headed back into his house. “Granny’s a prickly lady. Don’t get me wrong, she cares about everyone in the village,” he reassured you as he let you step in first and slid the door shut behind him, “but mostly in a ‘I-will-throw-my-shoe-at-you’ kind of way.”

“Huh,” that didn’t sound too far off from Granny, given what you knew, but you had also only met her that morning. “She gave me free food and told me she’ll have a list of handymen when I go back today.”

“Wow. She won’t even let me steal a candy bar from her store, and I’ve known her my whole life. Must mean you’re really special.”

“There’s a difference between buying and stealing, Gojo,” pausing in your steps, you frowned as contemplation came over you. “...Do you think she thinks I’m incompetent?”

“Probably.”

“Gojo!” You hissed at his lackadaisical response.

His hands raised in surrender. “Kidding, kidding! I think it just means she likes you. C’mon, I’ll show you around town.”

Following his actions, you tugged your shoes on while you thought aloud. “I didn’t even do anything. Walked around her store like an idiot and nearly ran into her.”

You stepped out of the house behind him, waiting for his response. You had expected him to laugh and indeed confirm that you were an idiot (which would be twice that day, if you were keeping proper track), or come up with another quip to taunt you with, but he was quiet, pondering something.

“You have this…aura about you,” he eventually responded. “You’re different.”

“In what way?” You approached the topic carefully, wondering if that was a good or bad thing.

His shoulders lifted and dropped. “Dunno, I’m not good with words. You’re just different. You’re easy to like.”

The incline down from his house back to the village was easier than going up it, a slow slope that followed a mild curve. The road was smooth, free of cars. Those you had seen were parked along the streets below, and not often used from what you could tell. The walk gave you time to consider his words.

You’d heard them before, but nobody ever clarified how you differed from others. He said you were likable, so you chose to believe he meant it in a good way. You’d try to pry more information out of him at some point to sate your cautious curiosity.

“How long have you been here?” You asked instead to change the topic, then winced, remembering that he mentioned his family had been here for a long time.

“Eh,” he tilted his hand side to side a few times. “Maybe 15 or so years, including my baby years.”

Oh. Turns out you were…wrong?

“You weren’t born here?”

“No, I was,” he corrected. Ah, so you were. “I just spent a few school years in Tokyo before returning not too long ago.” Sort of.

“Oh, I see,” mindlessly, you took his hand when he offered it to help you step over a gap at the bottom of the hill. His palm radiated warmth, one you missed when he pulled away and continued leading you along. “Why’d you come back?”

“Missed home.” Your gaze met his when he shot you a glance from over his shoulder. “What about you, sweets? Where'd ya come from?” Upon your answer, he nodded. “Came a long way to get here, huh?”

It’s probably best if I don’t tell him why I came here. Not yet. Not ever. “You could say that,” you responded, stopping when he did. You were grateful that he didn’t push the topic.

He pointed towards something, and you angled forward to see around his body, listening carefully as he explained what was where as he guided you through the winding streets.

“Doctor lives there,” you raised a brow at the full body shudder he experienced. “She can get scary when she’s mad. Otherwise, chill person.”

“Noted.”

While you were curious about the doctor of this village, you had no intention of meeting her by ending up in her clinic after doing something moronic, like tripping on those stupid stones outside your front door. Or walking in purely to introduce yourself. That’d be weird.

As he pointed out various family homes, stores, and miscellaneous locations, he listed off names you definitely weren't going to remember anytime soon. You found it endearing that he knew everyone and shared some tidbits of gossip with you – “Auntie Furiko lives there and she totally has a grudge against Mirio-san for stealing her man.” – and he even imparted some knowledge about a few historical places and things in the village, such as the bridge over the river having been built some 400-odd years ago. 

“It was originally built as a passage that only allowed humans through,” he explained. “Back then, cursed spirits were a common thing, so the founders here created a path that had a sort of invisible wall that cursed spirits and objects couldn't get through. Like a curtain.”

“Huh,” you responded plainly as you examined the bridge. “Couldn't the spirits just go through the river?”

His candytuft hair fluffed as he shook his head. “The veil goes around the entire village, the bridge was just there for convenience's sake,” he cocked his head towards you. “But those are just legends and stories. There's plenty of tales about jujutsu sorcerers that could see the cursed spirits and eradicate them. Some people still believe cursed spirits and sorcerers are a thing, and blame disasters, like earthquakes and tsunamis, on them.”

You raised a curious expression. “Do you believe in that?”

Satoru shrugged. “To me, it’s like believing in ghosts or demons. Even if they are real, there's no way they'd beat me,” of course, he said that last bit with full-bodied, unadulterated confidence. “I'm the best.”

A fond snort escaped you. An egomaniac as a new friend(?), that seemed exactly like the kind of trouble you'd get yourself into.

Your eyes shifted over to peer at the Wayo Kenchiko edifice situated higher up, reminding you of the wonder you felt when you first saw it.

You turned fully towards it and tugged on Gojo’s shirt to draw his attention to it as well, your interest taking precedence as you regarded it. “Hey, what’s that?”

“Hm?” He followed your line of sight. “The temple?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s technically a shrine,” he clarified. “It was built when the settlers first got here, dedicated to the wolves of the mountains.”

You squinted at him. “Wolves?”

He nodded eagerly. You never would have guessed him to be somewhat of a history buff. “Yep. Wolves are like…guardian dogs. They’re long gone now, but way back then, it's said they hunted alongside the settlers. Wolves are seen as messengers for mountain gods, so people would pray to them for safety, good hunts, and good harvests.”

You nodded as you followed along. “So you guys primarily farm here, then?”

“More or less. Though we do get a lot of imported stuff from the neighboring city, like the things in Granny’s store. We do mostly exports there. It’s where a lot of the people in this village work.”

“Really?” You frowned slightly. “Isn’t that city, like…an hour or so from here?”

He acceded and tilted his head to the side. “Yeah, why?”

“Just seems like a far way to go for work.”

Gojo shrugged as he started walking again, leading you further into town. “Keeps our village alive and well. We gotta keep up with the times, ya know?”

“Suppose so,” you acquiesced. “What do you guys farm here?”

“Ehh, rice and soya, I think,” the teasing twist of his lips had you preemptively rolling your eyes. “Surprised you didn’t know that, girlie; moving to a new place you know nothing about seems risky.”

“I didn’t exactly spend my time digging into the dirt of every single person here, y’know.”

He snickered. “I have dirt on everyone. You want some gossip?”

You huffed. “I’d rather meet someone first before you air their dirty laundry to me. I wanna have an unbiased palate.”

“Oh, so you want to meet the people in this lil’ valley of ours?”

“No,” you replied automatically, then pressed your lips tightly together at your minor flub. “I meant– it’s not– I’m just not–”

His boisterous laughter cut you off, simultaneously making your eye twitch and relief flood you.

“Relax, pretty girl,” he patted your head and you scowled. “I’m just teasin’ ya.”

“I’m seriously going to kill you.”

“Cute,” he crooned, and you groaned.

By the time you two walked up to your kind-of-not-really-grandmother’s shop, you were starting to become familiar with this particular section of road. From here, you knew how to get ‘home’, something you were dreading a touch. You weren’t looking forward to seeing the catastrophe that awaited you.

“And this is where I leave you for now,” he stopped with you in front of the store.

You frowned minutely, an uncomfortable pang of disappointment settling in your chest. “You’re not coming in?”

“Nah,” Gojo shook his head. “Got stuff I need to do. I’ll have someone pick you up from your house later, once you get your stuff. Gimme your phone for a sec.”

Your brows knitted together as you pulled out your phone and unlocked it for him. His fingers grazed yours as you passed the device, causing you to shiver at the temperature difference. They were so warm – or maybe your hands were cold. The touch lingered on your skin, your mind clinging to the tiny wisp of sensation.

The screen of your phone coming back into your line of sight brought you back from mildly zoning out. Almost uncertain, you took it back from him and peered at the screen to see what he did.

You snorted.

He set up his own contact in your address book, making it extra flashy and everything, too. ✨❤️Satoru❤️✨ graced your sight, and you couldn’t help but feel like that wasn’t the first time he had done this, the flamboyant clown.

“There,” he grinned. “Text me when you’ve got your stuff from your place.”

Stuffing the device back into your purse, your moue returned. “You want me to bring my shit to your house?”

His brow raised in response. “Uh, yeah? Were you just gonna leave it in that drab hut?”

“Well, I just thought I’d get a room at an inn or something tomorrow, so I don’t have to bother you.”

The usually bright expression on Satoru’s face fell somewhat, his voice taking a earnest tone when he said your name. The back of your neck tingled at the chime of your name passing through his lips. “You’re not a bother. Seriously, I have more space than I know what to do with. You can stay at my place as long as you need, I insist.”

His change in demeanor threw you for a loop. There was something lying under the surface of his countenance, hidden under layers of a façade wrapped too tightly around his inner being for you to ever hope to see what was beneath. The switch from goofy to sincere struck you as odd, and while you could have jumped back on the ‘he’s a psycho’ train of thought, his insistence didn’t resemble that of a hunter panicking about losing his prey.

Rather, it stemmed from a genuine offer made out of concern for your wellbeing. Sure, he could have been hiding some intentions (he definitely was), but he did show you the path to his house, convoluted as it was, at least some of its interior, and even the hot spring carved behind it. When you mentioned Granny, he seemed amused, rather than worried, and showed you around these confusing and interesting backwoods.

Thinking about the whole mess you had gotten yourself into, what with buying a house in a province you knew nothing about, and your limited funds, an uneasy heaviness sat in your gut. If he was suggesting an option of solace and shelter while you figured your shit out, you had very few reasons to decline.

A bit too readily, perhaps, you set aside any preconceived notions you had about him being suspicious and nodded. “Alright. Thank you, Gojo.”

“Just Satoru is fine,” that smug visage returned, all earlier signs of sobriety fading as quickly as they came. He turned back towards the way you came from, waving over his shoulder lazily. “See ya later, sweets.”

You spied on him for a while, until he disappeared around a bend, and sighed. Considering everything that happened so far, you surmised you were in way over your head.

The doorbell to Granny’s store pinged a sweet tune as you stepped in, finding the familiar scene nearly untouched from before. The air inside was pleasantly cool compared to outside, encouraging you to relax.

“Granny?” You called out as you stepped further in, glancing down the first aisle. “Are you here?”

“Ah!” The woman you were searching for called out from a separate room, appearing through a door you hadn’t noticed at the back of the store before, carrying a bento box. “Perfect timing, I finished that list for you.”

She beckoned you towards her as she rounded the counter, setting the bento box down on top of it and digging around for something under the tabletop before straightening and holding out a sheet of paper for you to take. Your fingers closed around the yellow notebook sheet and you peered down at the writing. 

You silently thanked her for having a neat hand, as you were a tad rusty on your hiragana.

A row of names spanned down the paper, along with numbers next to each one. She had also included their specific occupations, making your life that much easier. 

“Those are some folks in this village that can help you out. Unfortunately, most of them work in the city, so I fear you might not be able to fix up your house so soon,” Granny noted solemnly as began untying the beautifully designed furoshiki wrapped around, presumably, your food. “Let me call up a friend to find you a place to stay for the time being.”

“Oh, n-no, it’s fine, Granny!” You raised your hands in front of you. “I actually found somewhere to stay.”

She raised a brow at you. “With whom?”

The nervous laugh you let out was meek and not very reassuring. “I, uh…ran into Gojo Satoru, and he offered to house me. I was gonna find an inn, but…’

A perturbed expression morphed her stern features. “Really? Little Satoru offered to house you?”

Little was a gnarly stretch on her part, considering Satoru easily dwarfed both of you. “Is that bad?”

Granny sighed and shook her head as she finished undoing the cloth. “Not necessarily. He’s a troublemaker, that one, but…well, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him invite someone who isn’t one of his close friends to stay with him before.”

“Huh,” Your lips curled downwards. Were you actually so unique that he treated you differently than others? “He’s a bit…” You fumbled with your words, trying to find the right description. “Dramatic, for lack of a better word, but he showed me around and said he’ll have someone pick me up later.”

Her movements had slowed as she kept her eyes on you while popping open the box, studying you. She grabbed the pair of chopsticks in the lid and held the food towards you, which you took without fuss and with a quick ‘thank you’. The length of silence was beginning to unsettle you, so you tried to cover it by taking a bite of the katsu she prepared for you.

And maybe groaning tacitly because, fuck, was it good. Astounding, otherworldly, you would bet easy money that no 5-star restaurant could compare to Granny’s cooking.

Eventually, she spoke again, albeit puzzling you. “It’s no wonder you caught their attention. You are a beautiful, bright young woman.”

Your chopsticks hovered mid-bite. “‘Their’?”

“Mhmm,” the older lady nodded and tsked fondly as she grabbed a hand towel and wiped down a portion of the already spotless surface under her hands. “There’s two of them.”

A pin could drop in the room and it’d be deafening with the silence created by your shock. “There’s two Gojo’s?” 

Her amusement turned into full blown laughter. “No, but there might as well be.” she corrected herself. “Those two are stick at the hip–”

The jingle of the bell over the door and the call of someone cut her off. You turned to watch as an attractive woman with mid-length brunette hair stepped into the room, carrying a box in her arms. Were all the people in this town contemptuously stunning? “Granny, I got the–” she stopped promptly upon seeing you. “You’re new.”

You nodded and your pseudo-grandmother introduced you. 

“I see,” the brown-haired girl said with a nod. “Well, nice to meet you. I’m Ieiri Shoko, your local doctor and mortician. Just call me Shoko.”

So, this was the doc– wait, what?

Your eyes widened. “...Mortician?”

“Correct,” Shoko grunted as she dropped the hefty box on the floor with a grunt. “Which means you shouldn’t do something stupid or piss me off unless you want to end up in my morgue.”

Now you had two reasons to fear her, counting Satoru’s warning. “Duly noted.”

Your gaze followed her as she reposed against the nearby wall, crossing her arms over her chest. “When’d you get in?”

“Last night.”

“Helluva place to settle,” she commented. “What brought you here of all options?”

Settle.

I’m not so sure about that.

You chewed another piece of katsu and swallowed before answering. “Population. I’m not a very big people-person.”

A smile lifted her lips and she exhaled through her nose. “You and me both, girl. If you wanna be as far away from mass civilization as possible, this is the best place to be. Second only to going nomad and living in a forest alone like a witch.”

She sighed wistfully, and you had the sneaking suspicion that part of her yearned for that kind of lifestyle. “Looks like you’ve thought about it before.”

“I have, but this town is full of idiots that need me, or they would have died a long time ago.”

“Shoko, be nice,” Granny scolded half-heartedly, though you could spot the amusement in her eyes.

“What? I’m not wrong,” Shoko averred as she reached into her pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. 

Just as she went to open it, Granny swatted her hands and gave her a scathing glare. “Not inside, Shoko. Really, go outside, at least.”

The doctor/mortician grumbled as she stuffed the box back where it came from, giving Granny a weak stink eye. “Anyways, welcome to this miniature province of ours, girl.”

“Thanks.”

“Mm,” she acknowledged, then began a lecture. “Avoid the west trail that goes past the village boundary and up the mountain. Nothing bad there, just has this weird smell to it. Probably haunted by some shit,” Shoko informed you. “Also muddy half the year. Grandma Ai can and will talk your ear off if you stop for more than a second. Good luck getting away from her if she ever catches you.”

You munched slowly as you listened to her advice intently. In any of the cities you stopped by, there weren’t really any communities – not like this, anyway – so you were fascinated by the dynamics these people displayed.

Yes, you were wary, sure, but learning about the town’s intricately interwoven families and neighbors didn’t mean you were getting close to anyone. If anything, it meant you could avoid attachments.

…Right?

Yes. Right.

“–Wednesday is trash collection day, but you might have to bring your trash closer into town if you’re too far out. Oh, and don’t go to the park on Thursday nights–”

You blinked yourself back into full awareness. Your safe haven the park was off limits now? “Wait, why?”

She humbled you with a deadpan that had you straightening your back, imploring you to obey. “Aoi and her boyfriend like to fuck there on Thursday nights.”

“Tch,” Granny clicked her tongue, glaring at Shoko. “Don’t be so crass. We have a guest.”

“Ah, don’t worry,” you waved off her concern. “I don’t mind. I appreciate the forewarning. Besides,” your lips curled into a playful smirk aimed towards Shoko, “I like when people are straightforward.”

She returned the grin with a sly one of her own. “You and I are gonna get along well.”

Similarly to Satoru, speaking to Shoko was easy. It felt like you were reconnecting with old friends – friends you knew when you were unfledged and barely remember anything about, but the link was there.

She nodded as your conversation concluded and pushed herself off the wall, evidently needing to return to where she came from. “Well, if you need me, you know where to– ah, wait, you don’t.”

Shoko patted down her body, presumably in search of her phone or a notepad, but you reassured her hastily. “No, it’s fine! I do, Gojo showed me around earlier.”

Her head whipped up so quickly, you worried she might have snapped it when you heard it crack. “Oh, god, you already met that idiot?”

The short laugh you let out was undignified. “Yep. He’s very noticeable.”

“You can say that again,” she grumbled. “Please don’t tell me he did something dumb and embarrassed himself, or weirded you out. Don’t pay attention to him, he’s just like that.”

“Well, he said I could stay at his place since the house I got is in…less than favorable condition.”

She stilled on the spot, her brows slowly coming together in a visage of utter confusion. “...What? He said you could stay with him?”

“Is he a murderer?” You questioned, only half joking. “I knew it.”

“No, no, he’s not, he’s just…” She turned her gaze to Granny. “Did you know about this?”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Granny responded.

Your tummy shifted uneasily. “Is…that a bad thing?” You knew Granny said it wasn’t earlier, but you had to ask again.

“No, not really…” Shoko was not easing your nerves whatsoever. “Just unusual.”

“How come?”

She pulled her lips to the side in consideration. “Gojo Satoru is someone who…likes to hide things.”

“Oh, so he is a murderer.”

She demurred at your conclusion. “Last I checked, no. Regardless, he can be kind of a dick sometimes, so don’t take any of his more outlandish shit to heart, yeah?”

You bobbed your head loosely, your mind already off creating heinous conspiracy theories about your benefactor. “Yeah. Thanks for letting me know.”

“Mm, it’s no problem,” she approached you and held out her hand. “Gimme your phone, I’ll give you my number. You can text me if he tries to pull some shit with you.”

Getting a strong sense of déjà vu, you handed her your phone and watched as she punched in her number, then called her phone to get your number as well. Yours was back in your hands in record time, contact set to just her name.

“There. I gotta head off for now, it was nice to meet you, girl,” Shoko waved to you and Granny as she disappeared through the door.

Soft huffing from behind you had you peek at the woman. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” Granny appeased. “Just seems you’ve had an eventful first day here, no?”

“No kidding,” you mumbled, pouting when you saw that you had finished your food. She took the empty box from you, pleased by it being practically licked spotless. “Thank you, it was really delicious.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed your meal,” she nodded. She must have put a lot of effort into it.

A thought occurred to you then. “Granny, do you know where I could possibly get a job?”

She raised a brow at you. “You want to work?”

“Well, yeah,” you scratched your cheek. “I’d try to find a job online, or the city, but I don’t really know what kind of work I can get with the first option, and I don’t have a car or anything for the second one.”

Her fingers cupped her chin in consideration. “How about you work here?”

“In your store?”

“Yes,” Wait, that easily? “I could always use more hands here. I’m getting up there in age, and my hands ache often. You’d be helping me a lot.”

“Are you sure…?” You gave her a concerned mien, subconsciously flicking your eyes down to her hands. “I don’t wanna take from you more than I already have.”

Granny merely brushed away your worries. “Nonsense. I could use the company, too.”

Okay, now you were starting to get suspicious. Things were lining up too well.

Well, you weren’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, but considered keeping your guard up.

“Alright,” you agreed, if somewhat hesitant. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Granny’s expression was heartwarming. “Wonderful! How about you take a week or so to settle in, then you can come start when you’re ready?”

“Well, I can start sooner. If you need the help anyway.”

“How about a few days?”

Stubborn old lady, you loved her already. “Fine, a few days,” you conceded, soughing. “Thanks again for the food, Granny. And for the job. I should probably get my stuff from my place and bring it to Gojo’s. You’ll be okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, dear,” she shooed you away with her fingers. “Go on, now. I’ll see you soon.”

The warm air raised goosebumps up your arms as it swept over you upon leaving. It smelled distinctly sweet, a natural fragrance you quickly became fond of, enjoying it wholly during your walk back home. It had been shorter this time, the transition from defined road to coarse, packed dirt closer to town than you remembered it being.

What you were not fond of was your house, however. Your spite towards those stepping stones leading to the door growing worse as you avoided tripping over them again. The stench upon opening the front door also blew you back, making your entire face scrunch up.

“Why did I do this to myself,” you grumbled as you cynically walked in. Daylight made your perception so much worse. Every flaw was practically highlighted in bright, blaring white.

You mulled over convincing Satoru to just let you live with him and forget this damn thing ever existed to begin with. 

Discovering your luggage where you left it, you cringed. It just kept getting worse. The floor was sticky everywhere. With what? Who knows. Did you want to know? Abso-fucking-lutely not. It took you less than a fraction of a second to decide to abandon your sleeping bag where it was. 

Like hell were you going to peel it off the tacky wood, let alone use it again. Not like you needed to if you had somewhere to stay anyway, right?

Since when did you become such a wastrel?

Ugh.

With a shake of your head, you rescued your suitcase and luggage bag, letting them feel the same fresh air you could. It was the little things in life that made you so grateful for this pristine oxygen. And the bigger things in life that made you extra grateful, like Gojo Satoru and his stupidly large house. 

Bless him for giving you the opportunity to sleep in an actual bed, rather than suffering in the outdoors. Him being a sneaky skunk notwithstanding.

Welp, here goes nothing. You tapped his contact, then the bubble under it. You were just going to assume he knew who was texting him.

This is the start of your conversation with ✨❤️Satoru❤️✨.

You, 16:24

Yo

Got my stuff

Alright, now you just wai–

✨❤️Satoru❤️✨, 16:24

(＾▽＾)

give it 10

The fuck.

Emoticon aside, the instant reply caught you off guard. Didn’t he say he had things to do? The day was just full of wonders, huh?

Ten minutes went by fast when you pulled up some random bad fanfiction to scroll through mindlessly. Your attention was drawn away from the half-written mess when a black sedan rolled up in front of your property, and you whistled low. 

Why the hell was a rich boy like Satoru living in the sticks and not in some penthouse in the middle of Tokyo?

A spindly figure climbed out and bowed at you politely, hands clasped together in front of him. His voice was wispy, light and reserved. “Pleasure to meet you, miss. My name is Ijichi Kiyotaka, Gojo-san requested I bring you to his residence.”

Ah, he seemed so nervous. Poor guy.

You nodded, choosing not to comment on it. You were intimate with the feeling and didn’t like others pointing it out, you figured he wouldn’t, either. “It’s nice to meet you, too. I’m sorry for the trouble.”

He shook his head as he popped the trunk and helped you tuck away your luggage. “It’s no trouble at all. Though, admittedly, it is nice to not have to drive far out this time.”

“Oh?” You questioned as he opened the back door for you and oh, my, were those leather seats? The car was lavish both inside and out, and probably cost more than you and your shoddy lil’ shack combined. You waited until he got into the driver’s seat, taking the extra few seconds to admire the car that you definitely should not have been in as it was clearly too high class for you, before continuing. “Do you usually have to drive to the city?”

“Yes,” Ijichi confirmed, starting up the car with a smooth purr that you barely heard. Leave it to the wealthy to find the best of the best in any category, uncaring of prices. “I’m normally just a chauffeur for the Gojo household.”

You bobbed your head in understanding, peering out of the tinted window to watch everything move by. The traditional architecture was beautiful, something you admired. It made your house stick out a bit like a sore thumb, considering the more western design; you pondered why it was built like that.

The twisting road leading up the mountainside began and ended all too soon, the whole trip lasting less than 5 minutes total, your destination completed with Ijichi parking outside of the mansion.

Ever the gentleman (though, he might have been resolute in helping you with your belongings directly due to fear of some kind of punishment looming over his head), he took your things and led you into the house. “This way, please. I’ve already set up your room for you.”

“Oh, thank you,” you murmured, taking this chance to gawk at everything more properly. Frankly, it smelled rich inside, you didn’t want to think about how expensive even just the vase on the coffee table was.

The sliding of a door signaled your journey’s end. Ijichi bowed and ushered you inside first, though you kind of wished he went in before you, because you were positively floored and most definitely seemed like an idiot with your jaw hanging open. What the fuck? Satoru said this was a spare room? You were expecting maybe, oh, I don’t know, normal guest room things?

Not the epitome of a deluxe hotel for fuck’s sake. The room was at least twice the size of the one you slept in yesterday, the bed was glamorous (queen size, too, Christ), the bedding laid so nicely that you debated sleeping on the ground a second time, just to avoid messing it up. Especially because the fluffy rug at the foot of the frame was so downy, you wanted to drown in it. 

There’s no way this was real. Someone had to have been playing a joke on you. You spun to watch Ijichi as he carefully set your suitcase and bag against the wall by the door, waiting for him to rip the proverbial, and likely not fluffy, rug from under your feet.

Instead, he bowed once more, eyes closed. “Should you need anything, you may call for me. The restroom and bathroom are on the right when you exit. Please, feel free to bathe, if you wish. Make yourself at home. Gojo-san is out right now, but will be back by evening.”

You barely stuttered out a semi-coherent thank-you as he left, sliding the door shut behind him and leaving you in this splendor.

Surely this was a joke. You dreaded the inevitable turn, expected the door to open to a cackling Gojo Satoru as he wheezed his lungs out and pulled some ‘I can’t believe you fell for it!’ bullshit.

But it didn’t happen. 

For however long you stood there, staring holes through the closed entrance, nobody came to reveal this was all an elaborate joke, with you playing the unsuspecting and dumb victim. You laggardly let out the breath you had been holding and poked around the room with cautious hope. It really was spectacular, but you truly wondered how long Gojo would let you stay here.

By the gods, you were tired of thinking, though, and a shower would be heavenly. You could worry about everything after you were scrubbed dirt-free.

…Assuming you wouldn’t get jumped in the shower instead of the bedroom.

“You’re being paranoid,” you scolded yourself under your breath as you opened your suitcase to grab a change of clothes. But, really, could anyone blame you? You were sure someone else would have felt the exact same way you did.

Unless they were a professional freeloader or something.

Your soap and tiny bottles of shampoo and conditioner were so sad compared to everything else around you. You should have checked if Granny’s store had any bath products.

The bathroom was just as luxurious and fully stocked as everything else in this damn estate. Dark, rich wood encompassed the room; a sink was to your left with a sparkling mirror above it, an open shower to your right towards the back, and the chef-d’œuvre of it all: the sunken bathtub at the end. A frosted glass window was situated behind it, shades partially lowered to allow natural light in through the bottom.

Fuck, you were so out of your depth.

But were you going to deny enjoying such riches at least once in your life? Hell no.

You turned to set your stuff down on the counter space by the sink, glancing towards the row of very expensive bottles of different types of cleansers lined up against the wall, and the note in front of them. 

Grasping it, you saw it had your name on it, written by hand. You flipped it over to see the short message left behind.

These are yours, use them as you please

~Satoru ♥

Ohoho, fancy products you could only ever scowl at forlornly at the store whenever you saw them, fantasizing about using them, though ultimately being shunned by the price tag? Fuck feeling apprehensive, you were damn well going to use those and indulge in feeling and smelling like a queen.

You’d never stripped faster in your life. You barely had half a mind to fold your clothes somewhat neatly and set them on the counter, rather than scattering them all across the floor as you stumbled out of your socks and hopped to the shower on one foot. 

Even the millions of knobs and stall-less design couldn’t deter your avidity, each one subjected to random twisting until you figured it out.

As soon as the bottles were on the recessed shelf under the showerhead, you loped under the hot water and groaned, planting your forehead against the cool wall whilst it poured down your back. You practically turned into putty, all your sore and tense muscles unwinding noticeably. The shower pointed out exactly how sleeping on the floor in your own house jacked up every part of your body, because ow. 

You honestly believed you could stand there forever, reluctant to leave, but that bathtub was calling to you.

So you grabbed the body wash first and flipped it over to read the label.

Oatmeal and almonds. Mmmh sweet fuck, you could dissolve into a puddle. It smelled heavenly, and you were giddy out of your skin knowing you were about to smell like that, too. It felt so silky-smooth on your palm, the perfume automatically coating you as you rubbed it in and savored the sensation. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to go back to normal, poor-person soap without lamenting the loss of this.

You can’t miss what you don’t know, and boy were you going to miss this if you had to leave it behind. Satoru did say it was yours to use and keep, though, didn’t he? Maybe you could yoink them when your place was all fixed up and you had to leave.

Suds coated your body in a thick layer of iridescent, white bubbles, flowing down the planes and curves of your figure with the water, rinsing every bit of your body to superb asepsis. Your hair had never known such extravagance when your fingers glided right through your locks, leaving them soft and addicting to touch. You understood now how Satoru’s was that fluffy.

You wanted to touch his hair, too.

Shaking your head to shoo away any very wholesome thoughts, you squeezed the excess water from your hair and turned off the shower, shivering at the sudden chill now that the perpetually toasty mist wasn’t surrounding you anymore.

Careful to avoid slipping, you tip-toed over to the tub and knelt down beside it, reaching for the handles. Hot water burst forth from the tap, rushing to fill the basin, and you noted how deep it was, contemplating if your knees would peek out from the surface if you sat with them bent. You had to be extra vigilant to prevent falling asleep in it and drowning.

You could drown after you got to take a dip in the hot spring in the backyard. Of course, you’d prefer not having to drown at all, but if you had to choose, you’d opt for the hot spring.

Daydreams of swimming in it played behind your eyes as you sank into the tub with a delighted sigh. What tranquility, lucking out like this. You didn’t know what god to thank, if any, but you’d happily grovel on your hands and knees to show your immense gratitude. Just getting a chance to live (well, bathe) in splendor for a single day was enough to fulfill some innate, deep desire you had inside.

Now that you had a moment away from the hectic day, you let yourself recount everything that happened, and question how the hell you got here.

Not 24 hours ago, you had arrived, a poor fool that nearly kicked the bucket on your own front porch, and since then, you were sort of adopted by a grandmother that fed you instead of throwing her shoe at you, met an eccentric, wealthy man who took after a deity ripped straight from mythos, and landed yourself not only a place to stay, but a place with said deity.

“What the hell…” You mumbled to yourself as you lowered yourself until only your eyes remained above the water, blowing bubbles. 

How did you get here?

Was this some sort of punishment? Give you a taste of the blest, then wrench it away from you? Karmic cruel and unusual castigation?

You grumbled underwater and lifted your head back up to breathe. Of course, you couldn’t help being paranoid, all of this was way too good to be true. Like some sort of game show–

Oh, god–

You sat up pin-straight and covered your chest, scanning the bathroom ceiling and walls for any hidden cameras. You scoured every surface, squinting extra hard to spot potential blinking lights or unusually-reflective circles.

Nada.

You went boneless, lounging against the back of the tub as you exhaled heavily.

You had probably been in the bath too long. Your fingers were starting to get pruny, and your brain all jumbled up with anxiety and skepticism.

Sluggishly, you pulled yourself out and dried off while the tub drained, pulling on your clean clothes with a relieved hum. You couldn’t remember the last time you treated yourself like this, if ever. 

You heard someone speaking from beyond the hallway, so after dropping off your old clothes in your room, you ventured out through the living room, where you found none other than your savior, chatting away with someone on the phone. He turned to you and instantly lit up.

“Ha-hey!” Satoru grinned and waved you over after quickly ending his call, laughing through his greeting. “You got here safe?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, moving to sit beside him at the kitchen island. “Ijichi-san is good at his job.”

The towheaded boy snickered. “Good, or else I would have flicked his forehead.”

“So, you’re the reason he looks so anxious all the time,” you scolded him, then apologized. “Sorry, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you out of your conversation.”

“Bah,” he brushed it off. “No big deal, wasn’t anything important. So, settling in okay? Seems you already got familiar with the soaps ‘n’ stuff I got you, yeah?”

You nodded eagerly, lifting your arm to sniff at your wrist. “They smell so good, where did you get them?”

He planted his chin on his palm. “Nowhere you can afford.”

Your eyes narrowed into a sharp, unamused glare. “Wow, thanks.”

His cheeks crinkled his hues, and you realized he was still wearing his shades indoors. The glare of the sun no longer turned them into mirrors, allowing you to partially see through them, but the deep ocean hue of the lenses prevented you from deciphering the exact color of his irises.

What an abnormal choice of glasses. You knew people wore circular shades – they made them for a reason – but all the people you’d seen wearing them could never pull off the style.

Satoru was different, though. They suited him flawlessly; refined and dignified, yet boyish at the same time, just like the bearer.

“Let me know when you run out,” he said. “I’ll get you more.”

You jolted in surprise. “Oh! No, no, it’s fine! I’d feel bad using them all up, I don’t want to imagine the price tag…”

He pouted at you. “Why? You saw the note I left you, didn’t you? They’re yours, I got them specifically so you could use them.”

You worried your bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t do anything I’m not sure of.”

Well, that’s all you needed to concede. “Alright. Thank you, I like them a lot.”

His moue instantly turned into a brilliant, cheek-aching smile. “I’m glad! Had me worried I picked the wrong stuff.”

His giddiness was contagious, making you giggle. “No! Not at all, I’m just– I’ve never seen the brand before.” It being a Japanese brand notwithstanding.

“Well, duh,” he rolled his eyes as he hopped off his stool and sauntered over to the fridge. “They don’t sell this kind of stuff in normal stores.”

“Where’d you get them from, then?”

“Made Ijichi fetch ‘em.”

You sighed heavily. “Poor guy. You work him to the bone, don’t you?”

He humphed as he withdrew something from the fridge – bento boxes, you recognized. He placed one down in front of you, and took his spot at the island back. “He’s fine. Gets paid well. It’s not like I make him go to the city for every little whim I have.”

You huffed as you pulled off the lid to your box, your mouth instantly salivating at the food within. You barely had the conscious thought left to clap your hands and murmur ‘itadakimasu’, as well as mentally slap yourself when you recalled that you had forgotten to do the same with Granny. 

You were able to restrain the moan of delight this time, unlike in front of the old lady, but damn was it hard to.

“Fuck…”

Gojo cackled beside you. “It’s good, I know.”

“Who made this?” You questioned, hand covering your mouth as you chewed. Ijichi must have been a good chef, too.

The man gave you a cocky smirk. “I did.”

…Hah?

You regarded him flatly, disbelieving. “Funny.”

“I’m serious!” He glowered.  “Is it so hard to believe I can cook?”

“A little,” you confessed around a bite of sausage. “Rich boys don’t usually know how to cook.”

His gaze pierced directly through you, brooding as he stuffed his mouth. “I’m never gonna cook for you again, just for that.”

Oh, so he was gonna do that? 

Hm, might as well play along.

You set down your chopsticks and turned to face him, slapping your hands together as you lowered your head to beseech his mercy. “Please, O’ Honored One, Gojo Satoru-sama! Forgive this witch her foolish words!”

He lifted his chin, judging you through his round shades with the pretense of a king adjudicating his subject’s worth. A few seconds passed before he nodded in approval. “Better. You’re forgiven.”

“Yay,” you laughed, immediately going back to eating. “It is really good though, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he responded, virtually inhaling his serving – not that you were any better.

“Where’d you learn how to cook?”

He swallowed and paused, speaking a fraction softer. “My mom taught me.”

Maybe a touchy subject. You noted it as something to not approach, instead choosing to compliment them both. “She taught you well.”

The boxes were empty in the blink of an eye, and you were both saying ‘gochisousama’ with a satisfying puff.

He grabbed the chopsticks and both boxes, placing them in the sink and filling them with water. “So you did research Japan a bit, eh? Knowing our customs.”

“I believe it comes with the territory of learning the language, yes,” you hopped off the stool, reclining against the counter. You winced minutely when your spine popped.

“How long have you been speaking Japanese?”

“Ehh,” you tilted your hand diagonally a few times. “I learned it a while back. I was studying abroad at the time. Didn’t really know it’d come in handy now, though.”

He dried off his hands with the hand towel nearby and cocked his head to the side. “Oh? You weren’t planning to move here?”

“Not…really,” you shrugged and rubbed the back of your neck. You had to tip-toe this line of conversation carefully.

He grinned, leaning forward to meet your gaze head-on as if he had just hit some sort of jackpot. “So you are running from something after all.” Fuck. “Well? What is it? Mafia?” No. “Loan sharks?” No. “Robbed somethin’ big?” No. “Exes?”

…Sort of.

“Let’s go with exes.”

“You’re quite the mysterious woman,” he chuckled low, voice taking on an evil little rasp. “Makes me wanna open you up.”

You batted your eyes, your brain lagging as your cheeks heated up because what the fuck, real men weren’t supposed to be this hot, and you were not supposed to be this asthenic in the knees just because he had a handsome face and an absurdly attractive voice that decided to say the most deviant shit.

“And you’re a terrible, terrible man, Gojo Satoru,” you admonished to cover your nonplussed emotions. 

“Mhm, mhm,” he nodded in complete agreement. “I’m a terrible, terrible man that decided to take you in out of the goodness of my heart.”

You sighed. “You’re going to use that against me, aren’t you.”

“Absolutely, I’m never letting you live this down.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, earning yourself a smirk hidden poorly behind an offended scoff. An oddly domestic sentiment perched in your center, just beneath your breastbone. A decent meal and the slow end to an intense day had you yawning behind the back of your hand. 

He yawned after you, the action infectious, and moped like a kid that wasn’t ready to go to bed.

The emotional weight of everything was coming down on you, and you craved for nothing more than to pass the fuck out under those incredibly plush and cozy looking blankets.

“Think that’s our cue,” you grumbled and rubbed the corner of your eye with your knuckle. “Or mine, anyway. I’m ready to conk out and sleep for, like, a century.”

He chuckled lazily, the noise husky and low. It wasn’t particularly late, no, but you felt like you’d been struck with a bus filled with mental and physical tax collected over a great deal of time. He waved you off, turning to strut down the hall opposite of the one you came through, and left you with a still cheery farewell.

Finally.

You well-nigh sprinted back to your room to nab your toiletries and sped through your simple nightly routine, impatient and antsy to dive into that queen-sized mattress. It’s not that you disliked Gojo’s company, quite the opposite, actually, but you were tired.

Usually, you tried to put off sleep until your body gave out in the early hours before morning, uncaring for the dreams that inevitably spawned, no matter how little or how much sleep you got.

But now?

Those sheets were hailing you.

You couldn’t brush your teeth quick enough. Your face was practically still damp with your moisturizer as you dived under the duvet and keened. You’d never known such opulence in your life.

Your legs kicked with glee as you snuggled in, squeaking and curling on your side and clutching the fabric of the blanket tightly in your hands to ensure it went nowhere while you pranced around in dreamland. Heaven. Pure and simple. Heaven with the fragrance of new pin laundry and your body wash, that held your head on the coziest lap, that hugged your form and incontinently coaxed you under the waves of hypnotic slumbering.

Comfort surrounded you. The mattress underneath you was the ideal level of firmness, the blankets were warm without being overbearingly hot, and being in such a neat environment swiftly lulled you into a far easier and more satisfying sleep than you’ve had in a long time.

banner by cafekitsune ♥

[twistpixel]

Impossible to overstate how much and how hard I hate starlin because of how much he hates women. He loves writing women suffering in horribly acute ways and then going old guy guess I’ll die shrug.jpg about like, the possibility of them not suffering anymore. It’s almost masturbatory. Kgb gets locked in a sewer to die because “sometimes you have to bend the rules for justice” but serial rapist/woman beater should get sent back to his country of origin to rape and hurt more (non white) women. It’s being explicit about how their lives have less value. They’re not Bman’s problem. The dumpster slasher story starting with being focused on one of the victims and who she was in life and when starlin takes it over she’s nothing and the victims are nothing and the victims sister who’s plan was “if I get attacked I’m ready to use lethal self defense” gets condemned. The perpetrator is a violent misogynist and we aren’t supposed to like him either but he’s just part of the landscape of suffering for women and it’s positioned as “see how Real and how Gritty I can write?” but it’s not out of empathy for the women or a desire to change the circumstances that lead to patriarchal violence and femicide it’s an exploitation of that suffering. Sheila “did surgeries on teenage girls” and unless we’re talking unsanctioned rhinoplasties those are abortions and that is supposed to be one of the parts of Sheila we despise, because women and TEENAGE GIRLS shouldn’t be able to have abortions. Rant rant rant rant rant

[ghostlyreader09]

Crimson Thread Series: Part One

aged up damian wayne x yn

hi im just on a writing spree, let me know what you think of this one.

ps we have cool powers in this one!!!

Gotham at night was a living thing—dark, suffocating, and full of secrets. The city’s pulse thrummed in the silence between the stars, the only sounds the hiss of traffic and the hum of streetlights that never quite seemed bright enough. From the highest rooftops to the deepest alleyways, it was a place that demanded vigilance.

Tonight, however, something felt different. Not danger. Not a threat. But something else. A whisper in the wind.

And then, he saw her.

A figure, graceful as a shadow, moving through the streets with an elegance that was both unsettling and mesmerizing. She was fluid—unnaturally so—and though her cloak billowed around her like the wings of some dark bird, she made no sound. Her steps were silent, as if the very air conspired to keep her hidden. She was the kind of person who didn’t belong to Gotham, but who had nevertheless found herself tangled in its web.

Her name came to him, like an echo carried on the wind: Sanguis. The rumors were fleeting, half-spoken whispers that spoke of her power to heal. Of the strange abilities she wielded over blood and body. But no one knew her—no one had ever seen her face for more than a moment. She was a phantom in the night, an enigma wrapped in mystery.

And yet, he was drawn to her.

Damian leapt from the rooftop, his movements fluid and practiced, landing in the alley below with the grace of a predator. She didn’t notice him at first—how could she? She was too focused on the injured figure she was kneeling beside, her hands moving with precision over his wounds.

“Who are you?” he demanded, stepping into the dim light of the alleyway, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

She did not flinch, did not even glance up. Instead, her hands hovered over the man, a soft glow emanating from them. “Someone who helps,” she replied, her tone distant, indifferent to the force of his presence.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not from here,” he said, as if that alone was enough to condemn her.

She looked up then, her face half-lit by the faint glow of her power. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, met his. “No,” she replied softly, almost as if to herself. “I’m not.”

There was something in her gaze—something that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. There was no fear in her eyes, no hesitation. Only a calm certainty, like she was exactly where she belonged, no matter how strange or foreign it may seem.

“I don’t trust you,” Damian said, taking a step closer, his posture rigid, ready for a confrontation.

She stood, slowly, her movements precise, yet languid, like she had all the time in the world. “Trust isn’t necessary,” she murmured, her voice almost musical in its softness. “It’s just a word.”

He studied her carefully, something inside him pulling at the edges of his resolve. “I’ll make sure the people in this city know exactly what you’re capable of,” he said, his voice cold, harder now.

She raised a brow at him, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “They already do,” she said. “I don’t need their trust. Just their healing.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, frustration rising like a tide within him. He stepped forward again, his fists clenched at his sides. “You heal them,” he muttered, his voice taut. “But what do you get in return? What is the price?”

She looked at him then, her gaze softening for the briefest moment, though her words remained calm. “The price?” She repeated, her voice distant, almost wistful. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He was about to retort when the faintest flicker of movement caught his eye. The man she had been tending to stirred, his body slowly coming back to life, the blood that had pooled around him now starting to fade. The healing was swift—too swift.

Damian’s eyes locked onto hers, his expression darkening. “You’re not just healing them, are you?” he asked, his voice low, almost a growl.

But she didn’t answer. Instead, she turned away from him, her back straightening. The man was now breathing steadily, his wounds sealed. She didn’t wait for thanks. She simply began to walk away, her dark cloak flowing behind her like smoke.

“Stay out of my way,” Damian said, his voice taut with restraint. “This city doesn’t need people like you.”

She stopped, just for a moment, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the streetlamps. Her words, when they came, were soft, as if whispered just for him. “Then why are you still here?”

The encounters became frequent. Every time he tracked her down, every time he found her—healing in the shadows, mending broken bodies and wounded souls—Damian found himself facing the same cold, quiet resolve. She never told him anything more, never gave him the answers he sought. She remained an enigma, untouchable and distant, and for that, Damian hated her.

But it was a slow-burning hatred. The kind that ate away at you, that built itself into something more, until it twisted and turned inside him, until it became… something else.

What bothered him more than her abilities, her cold aloofness, was the way she made him question his own certainty. She wasn’t like the criminals he faced, the petty thieves or power-hungry thugs. She was something more complicated, something darker. Her powers were unnatural, yes, but her reasons—her purpose—remained hidden.

Damian’s suspicions gnawed at him, consuming him. She wasn’t human. She was something else—something beyond the simple moralities he had been raised on. He had to know.

And so, he watched her, followed her, keeping to the shadows. He tracked her movements through Gotham, always staying just far enough behind to remain unseen, always watching, always waiting for a crack in the armor she so expertly wore.

But one night, when the city was thick with mist and the stars barely made their presence known, something changed.

Damian found himself cornered. Outnumbered by a gang of mercenaries, he fought tooth and nail, pushing himself to the edge of exhaustion. The blows rained down on him, his body bruised and battered. But it wasn’t until the pain of a deep cut across his abdomen caused his vision to swim, until the edges of his consciousness began to slip, that he realized how alone he truly was.

Then, in the distance, he saw her.

Sanguis.

She appeared like a shadow, moving through the mist with the same silent grace he had come to know too well. But this time, there was no coldness in her gaze. There was something else in it now. Something almost… reluctant.

She knelt beside him before he could even protest, her hands glowing softly as she placed them over his wound. Damian flinched as the heat of her power met his skin, but it wasn’t the heat that shocked him—it was the raw, unyielding energy that surged through her fingertips. The pain in his side lessened, but it wasn’t without consequence. His blood sang in his ears as his body seemed to reject her touch, a strange and dizzying exchange of energy.

“You’re mad,” Damian rasped, barely able to speak, the words tasting bitter on his tongue.

Her gaze softened for a fleeting moment, but her voice remained firm. “I’m saving you.”

He gritted his teeth, his body trembling from the strain of the healing, but he didn’t pull away. He couldn’t. “You’re insane. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Sanguis didn’t reply immediately. Her eyes were focused, unwavering, as she finished the healing process. The air around them hummed with something palpable—something heavy.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” she said quietly, her voice distant, yet grounded. “And I’m doing it for you. For Gotham.”

The weeks that followed were a silent war, waged in the quiet spaces between their encounters. Damian began to understand the price she paid for her healing—a price that was invisible to everyone but her. She was breaking herself, piece by piece, and yet she continued.

And as much as he hated to admit it, Damian could no longer look at her with the same cold contempt. There was something unspoken between them now—a shared understanding that neither could voice, but that neither could ignore.

She never gave him the answers he sought, never revealed her true nature or why she did what she did. But in the silence between them, in the fleeting moments when their eyes met across a battlefield or beneath the streetlights of Gotham’s endless night, Damian began to realize that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t the enemy.

Maybe, for once, they were fighting for the same thing.

——————

The Batcave was still, as it always was. A hollow echo reverberated through the cavernous expanse, filled only by the low hum of monitors and the rhythmic tapping of fingers on keyboards. The glow of digital screens lit the faces of Gotham’s protectors, but the silence between them was thick, palpable—a tension that hung like a storm on the horizon. They had gathered here, in this dark sanctuary, trying to piece together the fragments of a puzzle that eluded them.

Damian stood apart, watching from the shadows, his presence more felt than seen. His arms were crossed tightly, his jaw clenched, every muscle in his body coiled with the same restless energy that had kept him on edge for weeks. He could feel their eyes on him, even if they said nothing. Alfred was the only one who didn’t seem to care for his silence, but even the older man’s usually comforting presence couldn’t soothe the knot that had settled in Damian’s chest.

“What do we know about her?” Bruce’s voice was low, measured, as it always was. The leader. The patriarch. But there was something different in his tone now. Concern. A subtle shift, barely perceptible, but unmistakable to those who had grown accustomed to reading his every mood.

“She’s elusive,” Tim Drake spoke up, his fingers gliding effortlessly across the keyboard, his eyes flicking between lines of code. “But that’s nothing new. Whoever she is, she knows how to stay hidden. She’s got a network of data wipes around her, almost like she’s actively erasing traces of herself.”

“Not just a criminal,” Damian muttered, his voice edged with frustration. He could hear the soft clicks of the Batcomputer as Tim continued his work. “She’s a ghost. A shadow that slips through the cracks.”

“I’ve encountered her,” Bruce said, his eyes dark with a hint of the same frustration Damian felt. “She has a strange ability to heal, yes. But we’ve only seen what she does from a distance. Her powers—there’s something more to them. I need to know what.”

“Her name is Sanguis,” Damian interjected, his voice tight as he took a step into the circle of light. “And she’s more than just a healer. I’ve seen it in her eyes—the way she takes from people. The way she absorbs their wounds. I don’t think she’s just fixing them. She’s using them.”

The room fell silent. The weight of his words hung in the air like a fog, thickening the already suffocating atmosphere of the Batcave.

“Wait,” Jason Todd, the ever-impulsive second son of the Bat, spoke up from across the room, his arms folded, leaning against the wall in that way he always did. “You’re telling me she takes on their pain? She absorbs it? That sounds like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.”

Damian’s eyes flickered to Jason, a brief flash of something darker crossing his features. “It’s not a bomb. It’s… more controlled. Calculated. But the fact remains that she’s hiding something.”

“Could be the price of her ability,” Tim suggested, his voice soft as his fingers danced over the keys, searching for answers that didn’t seem to exist. “Not a lot of data, but there’s been mention of people she’s healed—victims of accidents or injuries. The reports are conflicting. Some say they just walked away, fully healed. But others… there are no records. No follow-up. No sign of them ever being seen again.”

“Or they’ve been taken,” Damian murmured, his thoughts racing. He could feel the puzzle pieces clicking together in his mind, but none of them fit. The weight of the mystery was pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating.

“And she never stays around long enough to talk,” Bruce said with a deep sigh. “She disappears before anyone can ask questions.”

There was a brief pause, a pregnant silence that seemed to stretch on forever. In the quiet, Damian felt a flicker of something—a memory, perhaps. Something that had been gnawing at him for weeks. He saw her face in his mind—her dark, unreadable eyes. The fleeting moment when her touch had pulled the pain from his body, the agonizing sensation of his wounds closing and her own taking their place.

She had healed him. He had felt the exchange—couldn’t deny it now. But what had it cost her?

“What if she’s not… evil?” he asked, his voice quieter than before, as if testing the words in the air. The shift in tone was subtle, but unmistakable. He had never voiced such a thought aloud. It was dangerous to even entertain it.

Bruce’s gaze flickered to him, sharp and calculating, as though the words themselves were a betrayal of everything they stood for. But instead of reprimanding him, he merely tilted his head, considering. “You’re suggesting she’s… what? A vigilante?”

“I don’t know,” Damian admitted, his voice low. “But she’s doing something more than what we’ve seen. She’s healing—yes. But there’s something about her… something beneath it. She’s not like us. But that doesn’t make her a villain.”

Tim, still absorbed in his search, sighed heavily. “I wish it were that simple. She’s not giving us much to go on. Whatever she’s doing, she’s keeping her identity locked down tight. Almost like she’s afraid of being discovered.”

“Afraid of being found,” Damian corrected, his gaze distant, as if seeing something none of the others could. “Not just discovered. She’s hiding something more than just a name.”

Alfred, who had remained silent through the exchange, stepped forward, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. “Master Damian is correct in his assumption. But I believe there’s more to Miss Sanguis than mere fear or secrecy.”

“Then what is it, Alfred?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow. “What’s her game?”

Alfred’s gaze flickered to the darkened corners of the cave, as if he were searching for something that wasn’t there. “Perhaps it’s not a game at all. Perhaps she is… something else. Something different.” He paused, his voice softening. “We are all bound by the cost of our choices. Some of us carry our burdens in ways that are visible to the world. And some, like her, bear them in silence.”

Damian’s thoughts stirred, the weight of those words settling in his chest like a stone. Was she truly carrying something heavier than any of them could understand? Was she paying a price for her healing that none of them could even fathom?

The room fell quiet again, each of them caught in their own contemplation. There were no answers yet. No clear path forward.

Finally, Bruce broke the silence. “We need more information. Keep an eye on her. Track her movements, Tim. And Damian,” he turned his gaze to his son, the unspoken weight of expectation between them, “I want you to stay focused. We don’t know if she’s a friend or foe. But we’ll find out.”

Damian nodded, but something in his chest tightened. His father’s orders had always been clear-cut, but this was different. This wasn’t just a mission. Not anymore. Something inside him, something fragile, something unspoken, had begun to change.

The next night, as the moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over Gotham, Damian found himself watching from the rooftops once again. His gaze swept over the streets, the alleys, the quiet places where shadows lived.

And there she was—Sanguis.

She moved through the streets like a wraith, her cloak trailing behind her, her every step graceful and unhurried. She didn’t see him, not yet, but he was watching—watching her as she healed, as she touched the broken bodies of those who had been torn apart by Gotham’s cruelty.

Her power was a strange and wondrous thing, and he could feel it even from a distance—the way she moved, the way she shifted the very essence of life within the bodies she touched. She wasn’t just a healer. No, that was too simple.

She was a keeper of souls, a silent guardian who traded her own strength to save others.

Damian’s fingers clenched at his sides. This city didn’t need another shadow in the night. But maybe, just maybe, it needed someone who could walk between the light and the darkness. And for the first time, he wondered if he was the one who had misunderstood her.

okay so what do we think???? i like it! i can upload the next bit after i lock in for physics😢

[greenglowinspooks]

(DCxDP) Drowning in formaldehyde (Pt. 2)

—

Tw: canon-typical violence (Batman), emetophobia at one point

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

—

Danny sat in the back of one of the transport trucks currently on the way to Arkham, his hands in his lap.

So far, everything was going to plan.

About a quarter of the team had gotten themselves admitted into Arkham in the days leading up to the raid, carefully sneaking in supplies and weapons for both themselves and the rogues they were going to free.

Half of the team was on trucks, ready to storm the building with their fancy new tech. A couple others were keeping an eye out for the Bats, and the last one was holed up in a recently condemned building, ecto-modified sniper rifle in hand, ready to fire.

Danny’s hands were cold.

He hadn’t always run cold, from what he remembered. Even after he died—hell, even after he started developing his ice powers—he had always been warm.

Now, though, his body was freezing.

Maybe it was because of the ecto siphoning he and Derringer had done the day before.

He couldn’t make the ecto guns work without fueling them, after all, and the only ectoplasm he had access to was the stuff inside his body. So, he had Derringer hook him up to a GiW machine and filter the ecto out of his blood.

The process was excruciating.

Not only did he get light-headed from the loss of fluids, the machine also chilled his blood considerably during the filtering process, and when it was pumped back into his body, it was freezing. Derringer had to cover him with heating pads and thick blankets to get him to stop shaking.

Still, that had been a little over eighteen hours ago, so that probably wasn’t it.

Maybe it was just another side affect of his time with the GiW.

Overuse of his ghostly wail, he had realized earlier, was the reason that he had lost his voice permanently. Maybe he had accidentally used his ice too many times the same way, and now his body was irrevocably changed. Maybe warmth was just another tiny privilege he had taken for granted, that had now been lost forever.

Danny stared down at his hands.

Maybe his body had just given up entirely on keeping him warm, on pretending to be human.

“Kid, you alright? We’re almost there.”

Derringer’s voice snapped Danny out of his thoughts.

“Yeah,” Danny signed, “just tired. And cold.”

“We’ve got to get you a jacket, kid,” Derringer said, “it’s not even winter and I already have to worry about you freezing to death.”

“I died a long time ago, it’s fine.”

“No,” one of the other men in the truck drawled, “it means you’ve got to be extra careful. You’ve got a second chance at living, so you better not screw it up.”

“What did he say?”

“Danny thinks that because he’s died before, he doesn’t need to worry about freezing to death.”

The truck went quiet for a few moments. Most of the guys in there didn’t know he had died before. He didn’t exactly like to advertise the fact.

“I have a cousin who had a heart attack, and it only made his heart worse,” one of the guys near the front of the truck offered.

“See, kid?” Derringer said, “I’m right. As soon as this is over, you’re getting a jacket.”

Danny crossed his arms, slumping over in his seat with a huff.

A few moments later, a loud clang echoed through the truck. Danny jolted, almost falling out of his seat.

The door opened, the driver looking at them with boredom written all over his face.

“Alright, up and at em. It’s go time,” he mumbled, smacking the door loudly for emphasis. “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we can leave.”

They all stood, hopping out of the truck and making their way to the fence line.

Danny moved his hand to the bandolier on his chest, fingers brushing against the small ecto-bombs he had attached to it.

There were five of them, their bodies made of tempered glass and black steel, and they glowed a sickly green in the night. They were designed mainly for combat; he had a few larger ones meant to blow a hole in a wall in his backpack, which was securely zipped shut.

His hand then drifted to the holster on his left side, and the ecto-gun nestled securely within it.

Most of his parents’ inventions were far too big and bulky to be practical in any real combat setting, so he had downsized them considerably. The weapon he had was modeled after a standard glock pistol, matte black paint covering the GiW white of the gun’s body.

The gun should be able to fire around fifty shots a minute without overheating, which was more than enough for Danny. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to fire a single round tonight. However, for whatever reason, the words should and hopefully didn’t inspire much confidence in him.

Danny followed the group as they snuck up to the facility, Derringer by his side.

Originally, neither of them were going to go on the raid, but someone on the patient list had caught Danny’s eye, so he decided he would investigate in person. Derringer was just along for the ride because Mr. Cobblepot wasn’t willing to lose an asset as valuable as Danny.

Danny would make it up to the bodyguard later, he decided.

Entering Arkham was, all things considered, pretty easy. Mr. Cobblepot had connections to a few of the orderlies, and it was all too easy to convince them to “forget” a few steps in setting up the security system for the night.

However, since nothing can ever just be simple, they ran into an unexpected patrol of nightshift guards just a few minutes after all splitting up to find the rogues.

Danny and Derringer were able to take them down pretty quickly, but not before they sounded the alarms. And, according to a few guys on the comms, they weren’t the only ones to run into guards where they shouldn’t be.

“They must have changed their patrols,” Derringer huffed, spinning the pistol in his hands, “c’mon, let’s go see about freeing our good friend Victor Fries.”

Danny nodded, scampering after the man as he sprinted through the halls.

The inmates, who had woken up from the loud alarm’s continuous blaring, shouted at them from their cells. Danny’s pulse was loud in his ears, drowning everything out.

Distantly, he wondered if those guards were going to die. Maybe they were dead already.

He supposed that it didn’t really change much if they were.

Soon, they were at the cell. It was custom-built to hold Mr. Freeze, constantly kept at subzero temperatures to avoid killing him.

Derringer hefted his bag off of his back, pulling out the suit and freeze gun that Mr. Cobblepot had procured. As he did so, Danny took a few of the larger ecto-bombs and placed them on the joints of the door.

They carefully moved away, putting some distance between themselves and the door, and Danny detonated it.

The explosion was loud. It shook the entire building, the shockwave knocking Danny to the floor.

Danny brought his hand up to his safety goggles, yanking a small piece of metal shrapnel out of them and dropping it on the floor. He was dimly aware of more pieces sticking out of his kevlar suit. Derringer was similarly peppered with metal, luckily uninjured as well.

They had come from the body and mechanism of the bomb, he realized. He’d have to fix that later.

Mr. Freeze emerged from the cell a few moments later, a scowl on his face. Derringer quickly shoved the suit and freeze gun into his hands and he retreated back into the cell for a few moments, getting dressed.

“I could have died from that, you know,” he hissed. “Killed by some amateurs with shoddy explosives.”

“The Penguin sent us,” Derringer said, ignoring the man’s clear annoyance, “our getaway car is outside. If you’d come with us…”

Mr. Freeze nodded sternly.

“Hurry up, then.”

Derringer and Danny hurried out, Mr. Freeze right behind them. Then, at a certain hallway, Danny paused.

He had to check.

“Kid,” Derringer barked, “we have to go.”

Danny shook his head.

“You go,” he signed, hands trembling, “I have to check.”

“Oh, what’s the problem now?” Mr. Freeze asked, his frown more pronounced by the minute.

“Danny…” Derringer sighed, “Danny thinks his sister might be in here. He hasn’t seen her in years. It’s the whole reason he was a part of the Arkham raid, actually.”

Mr. Freeze paused for a moment.

“Well, lead the way, then,” he said, clearly regretting his words as soon as he said them. Danny just nodded, scurrying forward, the other two men close behind him.

They came to the right cell quickly. Danny looked in through the glass, and he felt a piece of himself shatter.

That was Jazz, his sister, sitting in a padded wall wearing a straightjacket and a muzzle.

She didn’t bother looking up at them as they arrived, not stirring even when Danny slammed his hands on the door to get her attention.

Shakily, he attached an ecto-bomb to the door, hoping with all his might that she wouldn’t get hurt.

The door blew open, and Danny rushed in.

Jazz’s head swiveled to look up at him, her eyes narrowed.

He slipped the goggles up and his bandanna down, exposing his face as he came to kneel beside her.

Slowly, her expression shifted to shock.

“Jazz,” he creaked, his broken vocal chords cracking painfully as he spoke, “it’s me.”

She looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Danny?”

He nodded, pulling her into a hug, careful not to let the shrapnel dig into her skin.

“I thought you were…”

“Very heartwarming,” Mr. Freeze snapped, “but now isn’t the time. We’ve got to go, now.”

Jazz nodded, leaping to her feet. Danny stood as well, slipping his mask and bandanna back on, and grabbing onto one of her arms for support.

They left the cell, Danny doing a double-take as he saw the frozen-over pathway that they had just come from. He looked to Mr. Freeze, tilting his head questioningly.

“There were guards,” he said flatly. “Now hurry up, we need to get out of here.”

Derringer grabbed the two of them, dragging them along as he sprinted through the hallways. They had to take a bit of a detour, coming out of the main entrance instead of the side one they had entered.

Unfortunately, there was an active gunfight going down.

Danny was roughly pulled behind a desk, just barely dodging a few rounds.

His hands shook as he pulled a small ecto-bomb from his bandolier, priming it and throwing it at a small grouping of night guards. They cried out as the pure ectoplasm collided with them, covering their bodies in burns.

The smell, while familiar to Danny, was still horrific.

They took a few shots off at the night guards, trying to take them down. Their group was efficient, but with the rate they were going at, it wasn’t going to be enough. Only adding to that, the gun Mr. Cobblepot had prepared for Mr. Freeze had broken after just a few uses, leaving them unable to create an ice wall.

Then, Danny heard the sound of a gun’s safety being turned off behind them, and his vision went white.

He grabbed onto Jazz and Derringer, making them intangible right as the night guard opened fire.

Waves of nausea hit him all at once and he doubled over, his vision swimming. Danny was only dimly aware of Jazz taking the guard down with a high kick right to the head, and Derringer pulling him into a protective hold.

Ignoring everything, he pulled the last of the large bombs from his bag, throwing it into the air, pulling everyone behind the desk.

The entire room went white.

Danny’s ears rung as he scrambled out from behind the reception desk, dragging Jazz with him.

Luckily, none of the hired hands on his team had gotten injured, but the guards…

Danny looked away, trying to ignore the taste of bile in his mouth.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything would be okay.

The next few minutes were a blur. He knew that he had puked only a few seconds after they had left the building, and that Derringer had picked him up afterwards, carrying him to the truck with Mr. Freeze and Jazz in tow.

Danny’s entire body was wracked with tremors, an unbearable phantom pain passing through the still-healing surgical wounds in his head and torso like lightning. He dry-heaved, shivering uncontrollably.

They drove off soon after. Luckily, no one had been left behind. Someone, probably Derringer, helped Danny rinse out his mouth and got him a bottle of water to drink, wrapping him in his jacket.

As soon as the truck doors were opened within one of Mr. Cobblepot’s safehouses, Danny became aware of the sound of wailing.

Hopping out of the truck, most of his mind still far away, he saw a man being rolled out of the room on a stretcher. He was one of the people who had been on the other truck, Danny realized.

Beside him was a teenager, probably only a few years younger than Danny, who was screaming and crying uncontrollably. They wailed at Mr. Cobblepot, who only stood there with an uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Oh shit,” Derringer breathed. Danny pulled on his sleeve, tilting his head at him questioningly.

“The guy on the stretcher, that’s his sibling.”

Danny just stared, a hollow feeling deep in his chest.

Jazz, her arms now freed from the straightjacket, pulled him away from the scene. Danny let her.

—

[moonlight0934]

You're No Better

Damian flings a notebook at Tim, who just dodges with a laugh.

“What was that? Your aim is terrible.”

Damian huffs, and turns away.

“I’m just kidding anyway. Your people skills are fine. The cops are absolutely the problem as they have been for every single Robin.”

Damian hums, somewhat satisfied with the conversation. He had been telling Tim about how rude the cops were when he was on patrol, and Tim had jabbed at him that it was probably his lack of people skills.

“Anyway, you shouldn’t take anything the cops say to heart. Most of them are either stupid or high all the time.”

“What if they’re not the only ones saying it?” Damian asks quietly.

“What do you-” Tim is cut off by their phones buzzing in unison. “Barbara set off the alarm, but there are no details.”

Damian opens the notification, but there’s seriously nothing attached.

“I guess we should head down to the cave to see if we can reach her over comms. Maybe she butt dialed us again,” Damian suggests, and Tim shrugs.

“On my day off too. Though I guess it’s better than being at work and getting an alert.”

Damian smirks as they walk down the stairs together. Bruce is already on the line when they get down there.

“Can you ask Gordon what the problem is?” he asks, sounding annoyed.

“I tried, but he’s not answering. I can tell you that nothing obvious is happening, because no one is freaking out. There’s no sign of any major psychopaths, but Dad just stopped answering. I’m worried about him.”

“We can go check it out. I’m with Robin,” Tim replies, leaning against the desk that the computer sits on.

“That would be great. I’ll send you the address of the distress signal now,” Barbara says, sounding relieved.

“Be careful. I can’t get out of work right now unless it’s an emergency,” Bruce says, his voice tight.

“We will be as careful as humanly possible,” Tim says, rolling his eyes.

Damian bites his lip to stop himself from smiling at his family’s drama. He goes to change while Tim waits for the location. He’s fully ready by the time Tim goes to change. The location is right on the outskirts of town in a mostly abandoned area. In fact, WE is planning on doing something with that part of town though Damian can’t remember what it is that they’re going to do. It’s a quick trip since they’re on Tim’s bike.

“Put your mask on. The air quality in this area is atrocious right now,” Tim says, putting a hand on top of Damian’s head.

Damian makes a face, but puts his mask on. Tim does the same, and they head to the building that Gordon sent the distress signal from. The fog is really thick through that area, making it hard to see. Damian stays on his toes, straining his eyes to see through the smog. Tim is right beside him until they actually reach the building.

Then he says, “We should split up. I’ll take the door on the opposite side of the house, and you take this one. I don’t know why the Commissioner would be in a condemned house, so we should be careful.”

Damian nods, then waits for Tim to walk around the house. He gives him plenty of time to reach the other door before he opens the one in front of him. As soon as the door opens, something hurdles straight at Damian’s face. He ducks, but it still manages to catch his jaw. As soon as he straightens back up, he realizes that something is very wrong. The world is spinning, and he can’t seem to see more than a couple of feet in front of him. He blinks hard, and shakes his head.

The darkness only gets worse, and eventually it completely takes over his vision. When he wakes up again, he’s in the cave again. He’s on one of the cots, but he’s not only still in uniform, but his hands are covered in blood. There’s dried blood on his boots, and flecks up his arms.

“What?” he whispers, looking down.

Jason walks in, leaning against the doorway.

“Well, you finally woke up.”

“What happened? I only remember going into the house.”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Damian. It’s too late for that.”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to. Can you just be straight with me, Todd?”

“You’re just like your family, aren’t you?”

Damian is confused for a second, wondering which one of their siblings he’s comparing Damian too. When Damian realizes what family Jason is talking about, it’s like ice was poured down his back. He bristles, immediately trying to shut himself off from the situation.

“There you go again. You’re no better than they are, and you’re no better than you were when you first got here. You’re just better at masking now, aren’t you? You’re a murderer, Damian, and you did it again.”

Damian looks around.

“What is going on? What happened, and where is Timothy?” Damian asks, his voice tight and scared.

“Tim’s in surgery right now. You weren’t fast enough, and you left him without backup. Then you killed everyone else there. Why is that always your first response to your own inadequacy?”

Damian sniffles, trying to take in a breath. Jason rolls his eyes.

“Again with the drama. You are so predictable. I’m going to get Dad, because I do not want to deal with you.”

Damian pulls his knees up to his chest. He’s shaking, and it’s actively getting more difficult to stay still by the second.

Timothy isn’t ok. I killed someone? I don’t remember killing someone. Could I still kill someone and not even remember it? What is Father going to say?

Bruce walks in, his eyes scanning Damian with a disappointed look on his face. Damian doesn’t say anything to defend himself, or even explain. He doesn’t cry, or beg.

He just stares straight at Bruce and asks, “Are you sending me back?”

Bruce sighs as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Yes. I’m sorry, but we’ve tried everything. I can’t allow you to do those kinds of things in my city.”

“But you allow Todd to stay. I don’t even know why he’s mad at me.”

“Don’t talk back to me. You’re going home to your mother. The difference with Jason is that I’m not responsible for what Jason does anymore. You live in my house, so you have to follow my rules. You’ve proven that you can’t, and I can’t trust you. I am sorry Damian, but I can’t work with you if you don’t work with me first.”

Damian nods, still shaking like a leaf. He’s not sure why though since he can already feel himself shut down. Normally he’d be running on autopilot by then without any physical signs that he’s not ok. He doesn’t let it bother him too much since his mind can’t move past going back to his old life. 

Dick sighs as he steps away from his desk to answer a call from Barbara.

“Hey, Barbara, what’s going on?”

“I can’t get a hold of your dad right now, and I think Tim and Damian are in trouble.”

“What’s going on?”

“There was a distress signal from my dad, but he just showed up at my apartment. He said he never sent it out, and I don’t know who did. Your brothers aren’t responding, and apparently your dad isn’t at work anymore. No one knows where he is either.”

“Send me Tim and Damian’s location. I’ll head there now. Dad can take care of himself, so he can wait. Can you call Jason too? He can probably get there faster.”

“Yeah, ok. I’ll do that now, and I just sent the location.”

Barbara hangs up before it even comes through. Dick races to the location, but it still takes him half an hour to drive there. Tim’s and Jason’s bikes are outside the building already though there’s zero motion from inside. Dick slips a comm in his ear.

“What’s the situation, Hood?”

“We’re a few buildings down in the really big community center. Batman is already here, but Red and Robin are both out of the game,” Jason says, the sound of gunfire in the background.

Dick runs to the community center. Tim is in the lobby, his head bleeding, but he looks otherwise ok. Dick keeps going to find Jason and Bruce fighting an ungodly amount of goons in the other room. He helps as Bruce slips out of the room.

“Scarecrow went that way,” Jason explains as he shoots the last guy.

“Should we go after him? Also, where’s Robin?” Dick asks, trying to catch his breath.

Jason flips his comm on.

“Batman, you need help?”

“No, take care of the boys.”

“Hood.”

Jason points to the corner where Damian is curled up. His head is tucked into his knees, and he’s shaking. His cape covers most of his form, but it’s still not hard to tell how hard he’s shaking.

“Did he get-?”

“Gassed? Yeah, we think so. Red got hit in the head, but we think Robin got hit with the actual toxin. He hasn’t let anyone touch him yet, and we got jumped before Batman could really try anything.”

Dick walks over, kneeling down a few inches away from Damian.

“Hey, Robin, can you hear me?” Dick motions Jason over. “Get some of the anti-toxin out.”

Jason pulls some out while Dick reaches out to Damian. Damian flinches, but doesn’t pull away when Dick touches his arm.

“Come here, Baby Bat,” Dick whispers, pulling Damian closer to him.

Damian doesn’t resist, or fight him. He just goes limp in Dick’s arms. Dick holds his hand out, and Jason offers him the syringe. Dick is careful when putting it into Damian’s arm in case he freaks out. He doesn’t, and stays still against Dick aside from the occasional shudder. Dick scoops Damian up as soon as he’s sure that the serum has had time to work.

“We need to get them back to the cave,” Dick says quietly.

Jason nods.

“I’ll get Red, and we can take your car.”

They barely get back to the lobby before Damian starts to quietly whimper.

“Shh, it’s ok. I know, buddy.” Dick turns to Jason. “I can’t imagine what he was seeing with all of the horrors he’s had to endure.”

Jason shrugs, kneeling beside Tim.

“Hey, Red, you’re not going to freak out and punch me in the jaw, are you?”

Tim scrunches up his nose, but doesn’t open his eyes. Dick frowns, realizing that Damian’s shuddering is getting more and more pronounced. He looks down, brushing a few locks of Damian’s hair off of his forehead.

“Jason.”

Jason stands up, walking over quickly. Damian’s face is red, and he’s panting now. He’s shaking really hard, and Dick gently sets him down.

“I think he might be having a seizure,” Jason says, pressing two fingers to the underside of Damian’s jaw.

“Why?”

“I guess it’s a new strain. The serum must not have fixed it. What should we do?”

“I guess give him another one, and hope that it overpowers it. Can you call Leslie or Alfred so they can meet us there?” Dick asks as Damian finally starts to go still.

Jason nods. He calls Alfred, putting it on speaker phone. He grabs Tim, and heads outside. Dick gives Damian another dose of anti-toxin before picking him up. He unlocks his car as he walks out. Jason is holding Tim in a bridal carry as he talks to Alfred. Dick opens the car door, and motions for Jason to put Tim in the passenger seat. Jason does, and Dick climbs into the back, still holding Damian. He puts Damian on his side with his head in Dick’s lap.

He’s stayed oddly quiet and calm for him to still be hallucinating. Dick presses his fingers to Damian’s pulse point as Jason climbs into the driver seat. His heart is beating far too fast, and now that it’s quiet, Dick can tell how strained Damian’s breathing is.

“Hurry up, Jason. He’s really struggling.”

“I know, I’m trying.”

He speeds up, but Damian starts to shake again as they’re pulling into the cave.

“He’s having another seizure. Go get Leslie, or Alfred.”

Jason climbs out, running as soon as his feet hit the ground. Dick just gently brushes his fingers through Damian’s hair, making sure that he stays on his side. The car door opens, and Leslie appears on the other side. Jason is behind her, and he looks just as scattered as Dick feels. His hair is stuck up from all of the running and pulling his hands through it. His eyes are darting between Tim and Damian quickly.

“Jay, he’ll be ok. You just need to calm down,” Leslie says, holding a syringe out to Dick. “Give this to him if he’s still having an active seizure.”

Dick nods, then gently presses the needle through the costume. Damian’s seizure abates almost immediately, but he also lashes out at Dick less than thirty seconds later. The heel of his hand smashes into Dick’s jaw, almost taking part of his tongue off. Dick grabs his wrists.

“Calm down, Dami. You’re ok, but you need to let us help.”

Damian whimpers, dropping back into Dick’s lap. Dick picks him up, and slips out of the car. Leslie takes some blood to analyze what’s in his bloodstream already.

“Get him set up in the infirmary. I’ll give him a few things to help with his blood pressure and possibly bring down his heart rate.”

Dick sets him in one of the beds, then unclips his cape. He gently unlaces Damian’s boots and takes them off too. Bruce comes in a few minutes later to Dick holding Damian gently. His heart rate is still high, but Dick is trying to soothe him the best he can.

“Is he ok?” Bruce asks, his voice soft as he walks over to them.

Dick shrugs.

“I don’t know. We can’t tell what he’s seeing. He’s been quiet and still most of the time, but he did manage to hit me in the jaw earlier.”

Bruce nods, putting a reassuring hand on Dick’s shoulder. He lets his other hand rest on Damian’s leg. It’s still another hour before they’re able to put together something that will work, so Dick and Bruce stay with Damian for that time. Damian starts crying as soon as he wakes up, pulling away from Dick and Bruce. Dick and Bruce exchange a quick look.

“Damian, it’s ok. It was just fear gas,” Bruce says softly, reaching back out to Damian.

Damian doesn’t move, but he keeps crying.

“I don’t want to,” he sobs, pulling his knees into his chest.

“Dami, it’s ok. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Whatever you saw wasn’t real.”

That seems to click because Damian peeks over his knees at them.

“I don’t have to leave?” Damian asks, breathless and sad.

Bruce pulls Damian into his arms.

“Of course not. We’re nevering going to send you away. You’re my son, and I love you.”

“Timothy?”

“Tim’s fine,” Dick reassures him.

Damian tucks his face into Bruce’s chest, sniffling.

“It’s ok. Everything’s going to be ok, Damian.”

[candycandy00]

Serve Me, Save Me - A Sukuna x Reader Fanfic Part 2

After Ryomen Sukuna inadvertently saves you while killing his enemies, you decide to devote yourself to him as a servant. But the trauma from the attack triggers panic when you find yourself in his bed.

Part 1 | Part 2

Smut. 18+. Oral sex. Masturbation. Slow burn. Softer Sukuna than I’ve written before but he’s still a monster. True form Sukuna. Rape and its aftermath feature prominently as a plot device but rape does NOT occur between Sukuna and Reader. Features PTSD, panic attacks, etc.

If you’d like to be tagged in future parts (I have no idea how many there will be), comment to let me know! You must have your age in your bio or intro post or just tell me you’re an adult in the comment! Likes are appreciated but comments and reblogs (especially with feedback in the tags) make me feel all warm and squishy! Seriously any feedback at all is so wonderful! Divider by @benkeibear!

Several days later, when Sukuna went into his bath, he found the same servant preparing the water and laying out fresh robes for him. The heat and the steam in the room had made her skin look dewy, her hair wet. The thin work robe she wore clung to her shape as she moved about the room. 

When she noticed his presence, she bowed, touching her forehead to the floor. “Your bath is ready, my lord.”

He looked down at her as he untied the silk belt around his robe, but before removing the garment, he paused. “You’re the servant who refuses me,” he said. It was not a condemnation, but a statement of fact. If he insisted, she would let him do whatever he wanted. She was too obedient not to. But he didn’t have the patience to deal with whatever trauma that would cause. 

She was otherwise a good servant, keeping the shrine spotlessly clean. Even Uraume had praised her, seeming delighted while reporting that she had organized their spices in a neat and efficient manner and always took care with the plates and utensils while washing them. 

“Go and fetch another servant to attend me,” he said. 

She slowly raised her head. “I can attend you, my lord, if you’ll allow it.”

“I don’t feel like hearing your screeching tonight. Will you go into hysterics again if you see my cocks?”

Her face reddened slightly. “I don’t mind seeing them, my lord.”

He sighed. “Alright then,” he told her, shrugging off his robe. She hurried to retrieve it from the floor, folding it in a quick and deft motion before placing it in a basket by the door. She didn’t stare at his naked form this time, but she certainly wasn’t avoiding it. Her eyes darted all along his body as he sat down on a stone stool and used the readied cloths and soaps to wash himself. 

She didn’t hesitate to come closer, taking a soapy cloth in her hands and using it to scrub his back. He wondered where she’d learned how to wash a man’s back so well, being unmarried. She was using the perfect amount of pressure, moving at the exact speed that felt the most pleasing. 

“You have practice at this,” he remarked. 

“My family owned a bathhouse, my lord. I attended to the customers often,” she said. 

She used past tense. Meaning her family had probably been slaughtered in the attack. Ah well, at least they’d left her with a useful skill. He could feel his muscles relaxing under her ministrations, any tension completely gone. She was very good at this, even knowing the right time to stop and move on to another task without being told. 

She soaped up her hands and then used them to lather his hair. He found himself leaning back slightly, into her touch. He normally washed his own hair, but like with his back, she used skillful motions to make the experience as pleasurable as possible. When finished, she lifted a bucket of warm water as she said, “I’m rinsing now, Lord Sukuna.” Without waiting for his response, and with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times, she held the bucket over his head and tipped it forward, spilling the water over his form and washing away the soap. 

He made a mental note to send for her every time he bathed in this village as she stepped around in front of him and offered a warm cloth to wipe his face. She watched him, her eyes flicking down between his thighs. She didn’t look upset or frightened. In fact, she appeared to like looking at his body. 

She lingered in front of him, and when his eyes met hers, her skin looked slightly flushed. “May I… touch you, my lord?”

It was a surprising request, coming from her, but he wasn’t in the mood to tease her. “Do as you wish,” he said. 

She gave a quick bow of thanks, and then got down on her knees, smoothing the fabric of her robe as she scooted in between his spread open legs. She lifted one hand to his upper cock and gripped it softly, her eyes fixed on the organ as it twitched and began to harden under her touch. She stroked it lightly, gently moving her hand up and down the length. His lower cock hardened almost immediately after, eager to be touched as well. She used her other hand to stroke it, using the same rhythm. 

Her feathery touch felt nice, but it was a bit too soft for his taste. “Harder,” he told her, and she looked up at his face. With a hint of a blush on her cheeks, she nodded and took a firmer grip with both hands, moving them up and down at a faster pace. Eventually she paused and looked at his cocks for a moment before leaning forward and licking the upper one, coating it in her saliva. She then went back to stroking the now slick shaft with her hand while she took the lower cock into her mouth. 

The servant’s warm, wet tongue circled the throbbing organ in her mouth, and with her thumb she mimicked the motion on the upper one. Sukuna watched her work, enjoying the way her pretty eyes darted up to his face occasionally, the way her full lips looked wrapped around him. He couldn’t remember the last time a single woman had pleasured both cocks so well at the same time. 

Sukuna leaned his head back, closing his eyes and listening to the wet, slick sounds she was making, feeling her velvety mouth enveloping him, her silky hand stroking him. The lower cock came first, into her hot mouth, and she took in every drop, her throat working to swallow it all. Then, in the next instant, she quickly pressed her tongue to the upper one as it began to shoot out his seed, catching all but a few spurts that landed on her face. 

Looking down at her, he thought she was exceptionally beautiful with his cum dripping from her chin.  She slowly rose to her feet and gave a small bow, then motioned toward the waiting bath. “The water is at optimal temperature now, my lord, if you’d like to enjoy a soak.”

He stood and crossed over to the huge stone basin full of water. Several people could fit inside it at once, but unless someone snuck and used it while he was away, Sukuna was the only person who had ever been in it. He stepped over into the water and lowered himself into it. The water reached his stomach, and was perfectly warmed, with some sort of fragrance drifting into the air. 

As he slid down a bit further into the water and relaxed, he looked at the servant. Across the room, she was wiping her face with a cloth. Her robe was so damp from the moisture in the room that it stuck to her body all over, hugging every curve. After watching her for a moment, he said, “Come join me in the water.”

She lifted her face and looked at him. Several different emotions seemed to flicker in her eyes. Panic, flattery, excitement. But she didn’t move from her spot. 

He sighed. “I won’t touch you.”

Her face seemed to relax. “Thank you, lord Sukuna,” she said with a smile. 

*******************

You opened your thin work robe and slipped it off your shoulders, folding it neatly and dropping it into the basket of used clothing by the door. Fully nude, you walked over to the bath and gingerly climbed into the hot, steaming water. It felt wonderful as you sank down, the water level hitting at just below your breasts. You could slide down further, but you had the feeling lord Sukuna wanted to look at them, so you remained sitting up straight, a few feet away from him. 

“Did the men who attacked you not use your mouth?” he asked suddenly. 

The question shocked you with its abrasiveness. “They did, my lord,” you replied, looking down at the water. 

“And it didn’t bother you to suck my cocks?”

You could feel your face growing hotter. “It didn’t.”

“Hmm,” you heard his voice say. “Then what happened the other night in my bed?”

You glanced up at him. “I think it was being pinned down that triggered the memories of the attack, my lord.”

“I see,” he said, shifting slightly in the water to get more comfortable. “Still, it’s only sex. I don’t understand what’s so frightening about it.”

You’d heard sentiments like that before from other men. “It’s not just sex,” you told him, “it’s a violation. It’s having someone use your body for their pleasure, against your wishes. And in this village, it robs you of your future. I’m a used, broken woman now.”

His eyes had shifted to you again, and you worried that you’d said too much. “What a stupid custom,” he said, surprising you. “Being a virgin does absolutely nothing to increase a woman’s value. If anything, I find them less desirable.”

You blinked, gazing at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Of course. What does a virgin know of pleasing a man?”

He probably wasn’t saying it to make you feel better, but you were comforted nonetheless. If the god of your village thought you were still desirable, then maybe you weren’t damaged after all. 

“Thank you for saying so, Lord Sukuna,” you said, dipping your head slightly in a subtle bow. 

He stared at you for a moment, then spoke again. “There’s still one among the attackers of the village I’ve left alive. He’s been useful for extracting information. It would probably be easy to find the families of the men who raped you. I could have them executed or-“

“No, please!” you said, the water around you sloshing as you moved closer to him. When he looked at you curiously, you went on. “I’m glad those men are dead. I’m glad you killed them. But their families did nothing wrong, so I’d like to leave things as they are.”

He shrugged. “If you say so.”

The two of you sat quietly in the water for a while. He laid his head back, and after a few minutes you wondered if he’d fallen asleep. You watched his broad chest rise and fall with his breaths, the water droplets sliding down his neck. He really was glorious. You found yourself rubbing your thighs together under the water. Since the attack, the only times you’d felt aroused were when you with lord Sukuna. 

Silently, careful to avoid disturbing his rest, you slipped your hand down between your legs, then gently rubbed your slick, heated flesh. You’d pleasured yourself occasionally before the attack, but never after. You just didn’t have the urge. Until now, sitting so close to lord Sukuna in the steamy water. 

You pressed one finger inside, leaning your head back and closing your eyes, your breaths hitching in your throat. 

“Enjoying yourself?”

Your eyes snapped open when you heard Sukuna’s silky voice. You looked over to see him wearing a grin. You hastily straightened up in the water. “I’m sorry, my lord, I was just-“

“Don’t stop because of me,” he told you, a look of delight in his red eyes. “Continue if you wish.”

“You’re not offended?” you asked. 

He laughed. “Why would I be?”

“Then, I’ll continue, my lord.” 

Under his crimson gaze, you began touching yourself again, sliding one finger back in, your thumb stroking your clit. Your back arched in the water as you moaned softly. You hadn’t felt this sort of pleasure in so long, and now it was overwhelming. Was it because lord Sukuna was so close, his incredible body almost touching yours? 

You glanced up and met his hungry eyes as you came, your body quivering. You shivered in the water as you came down from the high of your orgasm. The way he was looking at you… it was like he wanted to devour you whole. Something about that thrilled you. 

Later, after you both left the water and dressed in fresh clothes, lord Sukuna turned to you. “From now on, you’ll be my bathing attendant.”

You bowed your head. “It is an honor to serve you, my lord.” 

After he left the room and you began cleaning up, you smiled to yourself. You finally felt like you had a purpose again. And maybe, you thought, you might be called to his bed again some time, and things would be different. Maybe you were beginning to heal. 

[prying-pandora666]

From Zutara to Sokkla - Narrative Framing and Hypocrisy

Something that boggles me about the fandom is the complete double standard between Zuko and Sokka vs Katara and Azula.

A pretty noticeable example is how we frame the infamous “I’ll save you from the pirates” scene versus the Day of Black Sun.

The infamous pirates scene is often lauded (or condemned) as the birth of Zutara. Fans allege the tension between Zuko and Katara is palpable, and that their attraction is clear.

But let’s consider:

Katara isn’t a realized bender yet. She can’t defend herself. She’s surrounded by hardened adult criminals with weapons who have it out for her, and two firebenders (like the man who killed her mother!) who have been pursuing her doggedly, one of whom has shown he is quick to use violence even against civilians and the elderly.

Zuko dangles Katara’s necklace in front of her, the only item she has left of her mother, and threatens to take it away forever if she doesn’t sell out her friends.

If you want to read romance in this harrowing scene, feel free. It’s fiction and I’m not the morality police. Have fun!

What bothers me is the hypocrisy in how people frame this scene by comparison:

Consider this: Azula can’t bend. She’s unarmed. She’s pinned to the wall and has no means of escape. Her enemy is armed, is the architect of this invasion, has an army outside ready to follow him, and is currently flanked by an unstoppable earthbender and the friggin Avatar!

Azula is using herself as bait to protect her father (and ostensibly Zuko) knowing her life would be in terrible danger for minimum of 8 minutes. During which the enemy can do anything to her. The Fire Nation has done a lot of harm and there are surely many soldiers out there who would love to take their revenge on the Fire Nation’s pretty little princess who conquered the “impenetrable” capital of the Earth Kingdom.

The show goes out of its way to inform us that Azula is an expert at hiding her emotions. She can even fool Toph’s lie detector. Why?

Many people misinterpret this as a sign that Azula is an emotionless sociopath or whatever ableist pop-sci ideas they have about ASPD.

In reality, it’s the opposite. Azula being an expert at hiding her feelings is made clear so that we understand why she doesn’t look terrified, or vulnerable, or sad, or hurt until the finale when she finally cracks and her facade slips.

All she has at her disposal to protect herself is her wits (she had a knife and some Dai Li, but she has neither by this point). She smartly uses what she knows about Sokka to exploit his weakness and buy herself time. She’s so good at getting under his skin (which takes a sophisticated level of weaponized empathy) that even after he figures out what she’s doing, Sokka still can’t help himself.

This is all she can do to protect herself and her father. We as the audience know that Sokka and Toph aren’t going to kill or maim her, but Azula doesn’t!

So why in the world was this scene received as traumatic for Sokka?

Fans will claim that Azula’s mind games in this scene left Sokka with lasting trauma. That this is emotional abuse.

But who is the one pinned to the wall with no way to defend herself? Who is the one with weapons to threaten her with, and powerful allies who have it out for her?

If Sokka experienced any lasting trauma from this altercation, he sure never showed it! Sokka never seems to think much about Azula at all outside of wanting a rematch when it’s presented at the Boiling Rock. And even that is due to his feelings of inadequacy after the invasion. He even makes fun of Suki for being captured by Azula! Doubt he would do that if she had genuinely been tortured or if Sokka had been so traumatized by this scene.

Suki: Are you trying to get on my bad side?

Meanwhile, Katara does seem to have lasting trauma over her repeated altercations with Zuko. She talks about how he chased them all around the world threatening them. She refuses to trust him after he betrays her and fears he will get Aang killed. Zuko did hire an assassin.

In what universe can we read Zuko and the pirates threatening a helpless Katara as “romantic” but the scene with Sokka and Toph threatening a helpless Azula as “traumatic for Sokka”?

Only a universe where we have already subconsciously decided we are on Zuko and Sokka’s side.

These scenes can only be read that way if we have already decided Zuko isn’t that bad regardless of how Katara feels about what he does to her, and that Azula is pure evil regardless of what anyone does to her.

It’s a world where both Azula and Katara’s feelings are ignored.

If you want to read the pirate scene as romantic? Have fun. Enjoy your fics. It’s all good.

But let’s not pretend Zuko is some pure woobie in this scene that just needs some Katara loving, while Azula is some fearless psychopathic monster that enjoys putting herself in danger as long as she gets to “abuse” Sokka.

There’s a reason these two scenes exist this way. Katara and Zuko are parallels just as Azula and Sokka are. Katara and Azula are foils just like Sokka and Zuko are.

Fandom can and should do better by Katara and Azula. They deserve just as much consideration and empathy for their suffering and unmet needs as their brothers do. Even if Azula was a villain - so was Zuko for most of the show!

And as a pretty consequence, I can say this: Zutara and Sokkla are equally viable.

Goodnight, shippers.