#above and beyond body arts

[aboveandbeyondbodyarts]

Double trouble 🤯 now THAT is a pretty pair of healed helixes. We did this double helix for Jo back in 2021, and they've been able to rock this crisp pair of rings for a while now, so of course we just has to get a picture! And if you look close you can spot an earlobe that we've been stretching with @gorillaglass 🖤🩶

📷: @50percentsnakes

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[planetsandmagic]

chest cavity🫀🫁👁️

commission for @/mrundisclosed (bluesky), thanks for commissioning me again! <3

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Worship of a Sacrificial Lamb.

Pairing: ???!Gojo Satoru x Yandere!Reader (JJK).

Word Count: 8.0k.

Commissioned by the very lovely @elsecrytt.

TW: Fem!Reader, Non/Con, Dub/Con, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Kidnapping + Prolonged Captivity, Physical + Psychological Abuse, Wildly Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Codependency, Suicidal Ideation, Mentions of Previous Suicide Attempts, and Blood. Gojo's Not The Yandere But He Sure As Hell Isn't Normal Either. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

You were sure, beyond the point of reason, that Gojo Satoru was an angel.

A guardian angel, actually. Maybe even your guardian angel, if you were going to let yourself be so sickeningly romantic. Even if you were going to hold yourself to some kind of distorted rationality, you weren’t sure how anyone could ever so much as look at him and not see an act of irrefutable divine intervention. He had the body of a marble sculpture – as if some great, ancient master of their art had taken decades aside to carve the embodiment of all things good and beautiful  – and a face any model would’ve killed for. His hair was the most brilliant shade of white you’d ever seem, purer than cloud and softer than velvet, and there was a special place in your heart reserved entirely for his lips – pretty and pale and so lovely that if you ever got the chance to kiss him, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop.

Of course, his eyes were your favorite. Not that it was easy to pick a favorite part of Satoru – no, you’d spent long hours deliberating over the perfectly straight arch of his jawline and the slightly crooked bridge of his nose, the gentle slope of his shoulders and harsh angles of his hands – but if you absolutely had to, you’d say his eyes were the part of him you spent the most time thinking about, that you adored above all else, that would’ve wanted to keep for yourself if you couldn’t have Satoru as whole. The color of the sky and twice as clear, you could still remember the way they’d seemed to glow in the dim light of the deserted street where you’d first met, the way your heart broke just a little every time he blinked or fluttered those perfect snow-white eyelashes. If you could’ve, you would’ve liked to keep a spare set in a small glass jar – something clear and sturdy that you could carry with you whenever you didn’t have access to the real thi—

“...ma’am?” And then, leaning forward, flashing a perfect smile and snapping his perfect fingers, “I think I might’ve lost you, there.”

You perked up, nodding frantically before thinking better of it and, with a sheepish smile, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I—” You paused, clearing your throat and taking a sip of your coffee before going on. “I’m just having a little trouble concentrating. You can keep going.”

That was enough to earn a breath of a laugh from your perfect Satoru, and immediately, you fell in love with him all over again. He mirrored you, taking a sip of his own drink (some awful, adorable type of frozen hot chocolate served half-drowned in whip-cream) before responding, his melodic voice akin to birdsong and rainfall and every other delicate, beautiful thing in the world. “I know it can be a lot to take in. For someone in your situation, especially.” What that situation was, you weren’t entirely sure. Still, you nodded and smiled like he’d said the most comprehensible thing you’d ever heard. “Just try to stay with me. I promise – curses are a lot less scary when you know what they are.”

His head lulled to the side, his perfect eyes lulling into something softened and dream-like, and just like that, he’d lost you again. It was unfair, honestly. He’d been the one to invite you, scrawling down his name and phone number on a scrap of paper with the excuse that he owed you an explanation, but you’d picked out your meeting spot (a café on the edge of business district, somewhere he’d never go on his own but that suited his preference to a T), made sure you arrived half an hour early to claim a table in the most secluded corner and order a drink you knew he’d like just in time for his to be fifteen minutes late. You were lucky, really. Anyone else would’ve noticed your starry-eyed gaze and giddy smiles and figured out that there was something deeply, deeply wrong with you, but not your Satoru. He was probably used to hero-worship, even if the thought of anyone else sharing the same connection with him that you did was enough to make you grit your teeth.

Now wasn’t the time for that, though. You pulled yourself out of your thoughts as the corner of his lips quirked downward – the closest thing to a proper frown you’d ever seen him wear. Whatever he might’ve gone on to say about wizards and invisible monsters was lost entirely as he trailed off, his eyes darting to either side behind the dark lenses of his glasses. “Sorry, ma’am, I think I—” With an uncharacteristic clumsiness, he pushed himself to his feet, nearly tipping over his chair. In your peripheral, you watched for concerned samaritans and curious onlookers, but came up empty. That was good. That made sense. It was a busy coffee shop during the late-morning rush on a weekday – who’d ever think to pay attention to the couple in the far corner? Even half of that couple was a deity in the flesh. “I think I need a second.”

It was smart of him – to make such a hasty retreat. He barely waited for you to give one final, enthusiastic nod before cutting through the crowd and disappearing into a unisex bathroom.

It was smart, but it would’ve been smarter to run somewhere you couldn’t follow.

Saliva pooled under your tongue, your fingers drumming erratic and involuntary rhythms into the table, but while Satoru might’ve been an angel, you had the patience of a saint. You counted down the seconds, nursing your coffee and occasionally checking your phone, until three minutes had passed, only getting up when you were sure you would’ve been seen waiting. Rather than moving towards the exit, you positioned yourself at the edge of the counter, flagging down the youngest barista – a mousey girl in her late teens, with an expression that said she’d do anything to be helpful and a shrunken quality that told you she’d do even more not to get in trouble. “I’m so, so, so sorry to bother you, but—It’s my boyfriend,” you started, wringing your hands together and keeping your eyes on the floor. There was a sick thrill that came with calling Satoru your boyfriend, even if it wasn’t true, but you were careful to keep your tone strictly apologetic. “He’s, uh—He’s got a thing about crowds, and he’s kind of having an episode. Is there any way I could get him out of here without making a scene?”

There was – an employee exit just next to the door to the storage room, one that opened up directly into a back alley that would’ve kept a comfortable distance between you and the main road. Her eyes lit up, but she made a show of looking concerned, of glancing to her smothered coworkers, before looking back to you. “Well, we’re not supposed to let customers—”

“Please?” You tried, and then, with a type of cloying desperation, “It’s kind of an emergency. He just really needs to get outside.”

It took a second, then another, but finally, she cracked with a muted sigh. “There is a backdoor – past the bathrooms and to your left. I… I have to ask my manager, but I should be able to leave it unlocked.”

You didn’t have to fake your gratitude. You bowed your head, mumbling ecstatic little ‘thank you, thank you, thank you’s as you turned on your heel and moved towards the restroom. You’d been prepared to pick the lock, but Satoru must’ve been more affected than you realized – he was already so out of it, he’d left the door open. You could only be thankful no one else had seen come in. You couldn’t imagine there was anyone in the world who could resist taking advantage of someone as wonderful as Satoru in such a vulnerable state.

Grinning to yourself, you shouldered the door open and stepped inside, shutting and locking it behind you.

Satoru didn’t make himself heard to find. He’d collapsed onto the faux-marble vanity, his feet still on the ground but his back braced against the mirror, one hand clamped around the side of the sick while the other struggled to form one of the strange, distorted symbols he’d used the night you met him. His half-lidded eyes widened when he saw you, his mouth falling open, but he didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. You couldn’t blame him. The sedative you’d used was strong enough to put a grown man under with a single dose, and you’d given Satoru enough to put a horse into a coma.

“Hey, pretty boy.” You took a tentative step forward, and when he didn’t react, another. His fingers twitched, but whatever he was trying to do was forgotten as soon as you took him by the hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “It’s not that bad, is it? You should just be a little tired.”

Again, predictably, there was no response. His perfect lips opened wider before sealing into an acute, adorable pout, and you drank in the sight like a man starved.

Cooing, you leaned in closer – placing your body in the space between his open legs and squeezing his hand before letting go entirely. Rather, you cupped his face, admiring the pink flush spread across his pale cheeks, the glossy sheen over those beautiful eyes. Suddenly, it was too much to take, and you jolting forward; your mouth crashing into his and your tongue pushing past his lips, his teeth. His taste was euphoric – caramel and cream and everything good and sweet and divine – but you didn’t give yourself long to savor it before you pulled away, dropping to your knees. You hadn’t meant to move this quickly, but you loved Satoru. You worshiped Satoru.

And no real acolyte would ever refuse to kneel in front of their sacred alter, if given the chance.

Disappointingly but unsurprisingly, he wasn’t hard. You let his jeans and boxers (the latter patterned with pure-white bunnies – cute) pool at his ankles as you wrapped a fist around his cock, pressing a kiss into the curve of his shaft. Like every other part of him, his dick was perfect – long and lean, with a slight left-leaning tilt and a few thin, ridged veins that you dragged you tongue over before taking the head into your mouth properly. Admittedly, it’d been a while since your last hook-up (and even longer since you’d cared enough about another person to put any more than a passable amount of effort in), but everything about Satoru seemed to come naturally to you. His reactions were limited to a vacant stare and the occasional, breathy noise, but soon enough, you felt him stiffen against the flat of your tongue, filling out your fist where you pumped lazily over his shaft. If it’d been anyone else, you might’ve been disappointed at just how quickly he went from soft to stiff to leaking thick beads of arousal, but not with your Satoru. Of course he was sensitive. Angels were supposed to be delicate.

Using one hand to brace yourself against his thigh, you reached up with the other and found his hand, still hanging dully where you’d left it. It was a bit of an odd position – trying to hold his hand while bobbing your head and doing your best not to choke on his cock – but you made it work. It wasn’t long before those little, breathy noises built into cracked whimpers and airy whines, before you could feel him twitching against the roof of his mouth. It was hard to see, given the angle, but when you thought to look, you could make out tears forming in the corners of his eyes, something new knit into his expression. It wasn’t quite distress – or, at least, not the kind of distress you’d been expecting – but you didn’t recognize it. That didn’t really matter, though, not if you were being honest with yourself.

It was coming from your Satoru, and that was enough to make it beautiful.

You moaned around him, and a pitchy keen slipped past his numb lips, his grip going vice-like where he held your hand. You swallowed him down to the hilt as he came, determined not to waste a drop of what you’d fought so hard for, before pulling back, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to his cock for a lingering second, then another before that connection snapped and severed you from him completely. Suppressing the urge to mourn its loss, you pushed yourself to your feet and pulled him close – pressing a kiss into his neck, then his jaw, then the corner of his lips. “Such a good boy,” you purred, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. “My good boy. My perfect little angel.”

This time, Satoru did react – slumping against you even as his hand remained braced around yours. You took him by the shoulders, leaning back just far enough to see his eyes lull, blink, then shut entirely. He wasn’t unconscious - you could see a certain stiffness to his shoulder, a rigidity to his posture – but it was clear that you’d worn him out. You smiled, shaking your head as you raked your fingers through his hair and laughing as you found it just as soft as you’d imagined. “Think it’s time to go home, ‘toru?”

Rather than pull away from you, he seemed to melt even further. It was barely more than a whisper, but you made it out as clear as day. “…home?”

“Yes, angel,” you laughed, pressing your lips against his forehead.

“Home.”

~

He was asleep by the time you reached your car, and thoroughly knocked out by the time you got back to your townhouse – a modest machiya in a neighborhood that valued its privacy. Admittedly, carrying a man twice your height with triple your weight in muscle could’ve gone better, but you managed. There was a short list of things you couldn’t do for Satoru.

The sedatives had already proved less effective than you’d been promised, but still, you had plenty of time to get him into his bedroom, lock the titanium collar around his neck, and most importantly, change his clothes. You’d already picked out a new wardrobe for him – all whites and creams and soft pastels, nothing as harsh as the restrictive, black uniform he usually wore. Not that Satoru didn’t look good in black; you were sure he’d look breath-taking in anything! Even if he decided to wear, you didn’t know, an all-leather body suit, you were sure he’d—

…

You’d have to look into ordering a custom set. Preferably in white, but you’d settle for blue, if you had to.

You’d also made sure his room suited him, too. After making sure you had the bare necessities (deadbolts, bars over the windows, etc.), you might’ve gone a little overboard. You wanted Satoru to feel comfortable, so you made sure to work-in a few of the cute, soft things that reminded you of him – string lights and stuffed animals and plush blankets all the same color as his hair. You knew he was prone to migraines, but you couldn’t stand the idea of letting him put anything between you and those beautiful eyes, so you compromised with permanently low lighting and heavy curtains over his singular window. Entertainment might be an issue, since you obviously couldn’t give him anything with an internet connection, but—

You heard Satoru stir, and immediately, every logistic thought you might’ve had died and fell away. You’d planned to keep your distance while he woke up, but in an instant, you were perched on the side of his bed, your gaze fixed on his lax expression as he slowly woke up.

It was surprisingly peaceful – his slow trek back into consciousness. Long seconds passed between the first awkward stagger in the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest and the moment he actually opened his eyes, still glassy and unfocused with exhaustion. You didn’t rush him. It was all you could do to watch as he sucked in a harsh breath and pulled himself up, only to collapse against the headboard just as quickly. A hand drifted to his shirt, fisting at the alien material, then to the collar around his neck. He didn’t try to take it off, which was good. You didn’t want to have to resort to something so ugly so early on.

Finally, he seemed to perk up – glancing around his new bedroom, as if evaluating it. When he turned to you, you smiled, and Satoru remained blank.

You broke the silence. “Welcome home, ‘toru.” You swallowed back the temptation to tell him how happy you were to finally have him here, how long you’d been waiting for this moment, instead centering your attention on his needs. “Do you want something to drink? You shouldn’t eat so soon, but you were out for a while. It seemed like you could use a little rest.”

A beat passed, but eventually, Satoru shook his head – as polite as could be expected, given the circumstances. “…you’re the one who kidnapped me?”

“Mhm.”

“And you’re not a curse-user? Or working for the higher-ups?”

More made-up words. You decided to let him have his fun. “No, I’m not.”

“Why, then?”

Your smile widened. You’d been hoping he would ask. “You’re not dumb, Satoru. The day you found me—” Or, rather, the day you’d found yourself in his arms, barefoot and shaking, caught by a divinely beautiful stranger after taking a long fall off of a short building. The day you’d fallen in love with him. The most important day of your life. “I’m sure you know that no one actually pushed me.”

And, even if he didn’t, it couldn’t be hard to believe. There were only so many reasons a salary-worker would be on the roof of their office building in the middle the night, only so many reasons you would’ve left your heels and your coat on the same ledge you’d eventually topple off of. He’d been kind enough to get them for you, as you sat sobbing into your hands on the curb. He only pursed his lips, though, his eyes remaining perfectly lifeless. You took that as a sign to go on.

“My job is—” Terrible. Pointless. Soul-sucking. It paid well, and nothing you did was particularly hard, but the constant overtime and mindless pencil-pushing meant you had very little time for yourself and even less to show for it – besides the paycheck, of course. You couldn’t even say you hated it. You’d just been so ready for something, anything else, and it’d worked, in a way. You’d gotten Satoru. “—pretty boring. I’ve never really liked spending time with other people, and I’m not particularly good at anything aside from busy-work, so I really didn’t have a reason to stick around. But, then you saved me, and you were so kind, and so heroic, and I—”

You shut your eyes, curling your hands into fists. Not unlike a schoolgirl, too embarrassed to confess properly. “I love you, Satoru.”

There was no response, not at first. Internally, you panicked – what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he didn’t realize that this was for the best? What if he’d rather die than—

“You…” His tone was light, airy, only the slightest traces of shock shining through. As if he didn’t believe you. “You love me?”

“More than anything.” And, just like that, you were spilling open. “I—I thought it’d be enough to keep an eye on you from a distance, for a while, but after a few days – after seeing how much you worked and how little you slept and how terribly you took care of yourself – I knew I had to do something. I couldn’t live without you, and, well,” You cut yourself off with a sudden laugh, only a little forced. “You couldn’t have gone on much longer if I hadn’t stopped in. Not like that.”

For a second, he seemed to regard you. It was strange, how hollow he seemed compared to how vibrant he’d been every time he’d spoken to you previously, but you didn’t mind. Not all gods could be cheerful ones. Even divinity had to be morose, from time to time.

Still, your racing heart beat a little faster when the corner of his mouth twitched into a slight, cocked smile. He didn’t say anything, but he shifted, reached out, tentatively resting a hand on your knee before bringing it up to your thigh, then your hip. After waiting for you to nod (which you did, eagerly), he pulled you closer – into his lap. You managed to keep your guard up for all of three seconds before he collapsed onto you entirely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You melted against him with just as much pathetic desperation, grateful beyond words to have the distance between you finally closed. “Do you really mean that?”

“And then some. When you reached out to me, my heart almost burst with happiness. It was hard to believe you even remembered that I existed.” You nestled against him. “I meant what I said about wanting to take care of you, too. You shouldn’t have to worry about yourself ever again, not after everything you did for me.”

There was more, of course. Rules to go over, punishments to warn against, specifics to lay out, but he wasn’t fighting back, or trying to escape, and he was tucked so sweetly against you – it would’ve been a shame to move, let alone start listing off threats. Thankfully, tragically, Satoru ripped the band-aid off first. Slowly, he lifted his head, drawing back just far enough to dart back in for a clumsy, lip-bruising kiss. You’d already, technically, stolen his first, but there was a difference between kissing his limp body and feeling his lips move sloppily against yours. It was a fragile, immature connection – all scraping teeth and kneading hands and Satoru’s little, throaty moans, but you didn’t dare break it off until your lungs ached. Even then, you held him as close as you could as his hands fell to your waist, a thumb slipping under the waistband of your skirt and—

“Down boy,” you laughed, and Satoru glanced up, pouting. “It’s not that I don’t want to, but not so soon. You’re still in shock, and I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

The impulse blowjob a few hours prior felt unnecessary to mention.

Satoru seemed conflicted. He was still in that sort of blank, softened state, but he let out a whine by way of protest. It was all you could do to sigh, kissing his forehead before going on. “Later on, ‘toru. After I’m sure that you can be trusted to behave.”

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to make love (‘fuck’ felt to crude, ‘sex’ too clinical; making love wasn’t perfect, but it was what you had) to Satoru. You would’ve done anything to take care of him, anything to keep him happy, but there’d always been a gap in your mind when it came to your own pleasure – an instinct that urged against expecting your love to be requited. As far as you could guess, it would come with time – after you’d started thinking of him as less of an angel and more of something able to love you back. The delay was for the best, really. Intimacy would make you vulnerable, exploitable. You needed to show Satoru how strong, how strict you could be, first.

“That sucks.” It was almost endearingly childish, just how shamelessly he sulked. It took a few more pecks and another minute or so of coddling before he sighed. “You can keep kissing me though, right?��

“Of course,” you said, automatically. It was a dangerous promise to make, with plenty of chances for unwanted escalation, but you never would’ve been able to say ‘no’ to Satoru – not so directly, at least. Not when he was looking at you with those beautiful, pitiful eyes.

“Anything for you.”

~

“So when are you going to use the collar?”

The question was posed casually, unprompted and unrushed. Still, you paused, humming as you glanced over to Satoru. He’d gotten more talkative in the two or three weeks since you brought him home, but he still seemed caught in that quiet, liquid haze of tranquility – all easy smiles and half-lidded eyes and slow, sloppy kisses from the moment you came home to the second you had to leave. He seemed to be enjoying himself, spending his time basking in your affection and letting you take care of him, and that made you happy. All you’d ever wanted was for him to be safe and looked after, and he was. You could make sure of that, now.

(Admittedly, there was a small, negligible part of that had expected there to be some resistance – a hissy fit, a muted protest, something aggressive and combative that wouldn’t be calmed with a few kind words and a gentle touch – and mourned the fact that Satoru was taking this all so well. It wasn’t that you wanted him to hate you, but you’d always struggled to trust what came to you easily. If you had to work for Satoru’s love, you could be sure that you’d earned it. If you had to smother him into submission, you wouldn’t have to wonder if he was only lulling you into a false sense of security before stealing away all the tools you used to keep him safe. You tried not to be so pessimistic – outwardly, at least.)

“I won’t have to, preferably.” Pulling a towel off of the nearest rack, you bent down to his height and started to ruffle his hair dry. He shut his eyes, but didn’t try to stop you. Currently, he was sitting on the wall of your bathtub, only partially dressed in a pair of tan sweatpants while you finished drying his hair. You could shower alone before work in the morning, but Satoru needed more care. He needed to be treated like something precious, and he’d already proved that you couldn’t trust him with such an important responsibility. “It’s kind of a last resort. It should only go off if you try to leave.” And then, as you burrowed your nails into the towel., “Is that… Is that something you’re going to do, ‘toru?”

“Never. You keep me too good n’ spoiled.” He flashed you a lazy grin, and just like that, you were looking away, biting down on your tongue, trying to coax your heart back into beating at a steady rhythm. You pretended to be busy rummaging through the nearest drawer for a brush, but Satoru only laughed. His next question was just as probing. “It came with a remote, though, right?”

“…like I said, it’s a last resort,” you repeated, too flustered to lie. “I don’t want to hurt you. Unless you tried to escape or attacked me, I really can’t see myself doing anything so—” Blasphemous. Unforgivable. Sinful. “—harsh.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” Like always, he was a little too quick, a little too willing. You bit back a scowl. “I just think it could be romantic, y’know?  I’d get to see how much you’re willing to do for me, or something like that.”

You forced a bark of a laugh. “There’s nothing romantic about me hurting you, baby. ‘specially not if I’m only doing it because you acted out.”

“I promise, I’m tougher than I look.” Another smile, even more dazzling than the first. Again, you felt your head start to speed up, only to stop beating entirely the second he went on. “I used to have this friend – Suguru – and he’d—”

Your hand was in your pocket before you had time to stop yourself, the plastic remote clenched in your fist before you had time to think. You’d never read the manual, never thought you’d have to use it, but that didn’t matter. There was only one button, and it only did one thing.

Satoru’s voice cut out as the current picked-up, pumping the maximum voltage into his throat. Satoru didn’t scream, didn’t thrash, but he reacted – going rigid as his beautiful eyes went painfully wide. The whole thing was silent save for a low, almost inaudible buzzing-type sound, and you kept your thumb pressed into the singular button for a second, then another, before forcing yourself to let go. Even that was more difficult than it should’ve been. You couldn’t stand the idea of hurting him, but…

Fuck. You would’ve done anything not to hear Satoru say his name ever again.

To his credit, Satoru didn’t collapse. When it was over, he only buckled forward – catching himself on his thighs as he dragged in a jolting, ragged breath. You were on your knees in front of him in a second, his face in your hands and your mouth on his cheek, his forehead, his neck, as if you could kiss away the pain. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” you chanted, each word less coherent than the last. “It’s just—I’ve read about him in your diaries, and I should’ve known you’d bring him up, and—”

“I love you.”

You went quiet.

You tried to pull away from him, but his arms lashed out; wrapping around your midriff and pulling you closer – burying his face in the dip of your shoulder, the crook of your neck. Again, he repeated, “I love you.”

For a second, you thought about pulling away, about sending him back to his room while you pulled yourself together. For a second, you considered reaching for your remote, again.

Then, you settled against him, shutting your eyes and resting your head against his chest.

“I love you too, Satoru.”

~

Admittedly, Satoru’s apartment was the closest thing you had to a guilty pleasure. The first time you’d broken in, you were still on the fence about just how much he needed your help, but by the third, or the fourth, or the fifth, you’d already made up your mind about bringing him home. You’d only visited a handful of times since, but it was nice to stop in every now-and-then, to remind yourself there were two distinct eras of Satoru’s life – prior to the day he’d met you, and post. Getting to spend a few minutes tucked into a space so essentially Satoru wasn’t something you were opposed to, either.

You made your way slowly through his former home – stepping over heaps of abandoned clothes and stopping to straighten forgotten piles of cluttered paperwork he would never be forced to re-visit. Satoru didn’t have any close friends or family who’d stop by uninvited, which meant every little detail was exactly how Satoru would’ve left it. The fridge was still empty, the freezer stocked with frozen, pre-packaged desserts; the walls were still empty and drab, utterly devoid of life; and best of all, his bed still smelled exactly like him. It was a silly thing to be so excited about, especially when you had the source waiting for you at home, but you collapsed onto the mattress without hesitation, shutting your eyes and basking in the evidence of just how hopeless he’d been, before you had a chance to—

Clipped footsteps, followed shortly by the sound of the bedroom door being pushed open. You bolted upward, your pocket knife (because self-defense was important when you treated breaking-and-entering like a hobby) in your hand in a fraction of a second, but the intruder didn’t seem quite so concerned.

It was a woman – deathly pale and worryingly gaunt, just a little too short to be considered average. She regarded you with a cold stare before nodding by way of greeting. “I’m guessing you’re Satoru’s girlfriend?”

The irritation that came with hearing someone else use his given name was immediately overshadowed by pure, euphoric delight. Smiling like an idiot, you asked, “He calls me his girlfriend?”

“Oh, I’m not going to repeat what he calls you.” Her gaze dropped to your knife, now little more than an afterthought. “You can drop the weapon,” she said, holding up a manila envelope stuffed to the point of bursting. “Just here to pick up his lesson plans. It’s been a pain in the ass – having to cover for him since you two started playing house.”

She sounded agitated, but only mildly so. A small, rational part of your mind urged you to linger on the mild irritation in her voice, the odd casualness in the way she spoke to you. She couldn’t have talked to Satoru recently, not the months he’d spent with you, but if she was concerned for his safety, she wasn’t concerned enough to bring up the issue now.

The vast, easily distracted majority could only chant girlfriend, girlfriend, girlfriend.

You opened your mouth, ready to ask if Satoru had talked about you often, if he’d ever mentioned your name, if she remembered word-for-word what he’d said about you, but she was already gone – muttering a curt goodbye and slamming the bedroom door behind her. By the time you could force yourself off of his bed, she’d disappeared entirely.

That day, you picked up roses as white as his hair and forget-me-nots as blue as his eyes on your way home. Just to remind Satoru how much you really loved him.

~

Satoru greeted you as soon as you got home, like he’d done every day since you gave him permission to roam freely. You didn’t call out, didn’t ring the bell, and yet, as soon as the door was closed and locked behind you, he was there; his arms wrapped around your waist and your body hauled against his. He held you in that bone-crushing embrace for a second, then another before lowering you back onto your feet. You clung to him for just a little longer before letting go.

He always seemed to be smiling, but tonight, he was beaming. He pulled you into an eager kiss, only to jerk back just as abruptly, too excited not to start talking while his lips were still pressed against yours. “Happy six-month anniversary,” he managed, quickly enough for the words to blend together. “I, uh—It’s not much, but I got you something. I thought it’d be cute to leave it in your office, but that might’ve been— I mean, I can bring it to you if—”

“Remember to breathe, ‘toru,” you cut in, laughing. He let his head lull to the side sheepishly, and you went on. “You got me something?”

“It’s not a lot,” he reiterated, still shy. “I’m sorry, I’m not really used to this. I wanted to have dinner ready when you came home, too, but I think it needs a few more minutes.”

It was hard to believe, sometimes – just how lucky you’d gotten. There were only so many human beings who could say they’d met an angel, and you got to come home to one every night.

“You’re perfect.” Satoru blushed, and you pulled him close, pecking the bridge of his nose just underneath the bar of his glasses. “Finish up. I’ll meet you back in the kitchen to tell you how much I love my gift.”

Reluctantly, you detached from Satoru, and made your way to the home office you’d all-but abandoned after bringing Satoru home. His present sat on the edge of your desk: a small mason jar, just the right size to sit in the palm of your hand, filled with water and finished off with a jet-black ribbon tied around the lid. Two spherical objects floated near the bottom. Even from a distance, you recognized them immediately.

Satoru’s eyes.

If you’d been holding the jar, you would’ve dropped it. They had to be fake, but they couldn’t be – replicas wouldn’t have been so bright, so organic, so perfect. He’d been wearing glasses, but you’d been able to see his eyes, and— and even if you couldn’t, it wasn’t like he’d be able to carve his own eyes out in the nine hours you spent away from him. Had there been blood on his clothes? You couldn’t remember, now. Was he hurt? Had you ever seen him hurt himself? He couldn’t have left, but—

You felt a pair of strong arms wrap around your midriff, drawing you against a broad chest. The metal of his collar pressed into the back of your head as he slotted himself against you. “You mentioned how much you like my eyes, once,” Satoru explained, the eagerness in his melodic voice now painful to listen to. “I… I thought you might want a couple spares. For when we can’t be together. And, after dinner, I thought we could finally…”

He trailed off, embarrassed. Still, what he wanted was clear.

For a long moment, you didn’t say anything.

Then, with a heavy exhale, you forced yourself to glance over your shoulder, facing Satoru with a smile. “Not tonight, ‘toru.” You’d never been thankful not to be able to see the clear blue of his eyes, before.

“But soon. I promise.”

~

You couldn’t find Satoru.

It was hard to believe, even as you hunched against the wall of his bedroom, your knees pulled into your chest and tears streaming uncontrollably from your eyes. You’d looked everywhere – torn apart every room in your house, overturned furniture, called his name until your throat ached – but he just—he wasn’t there. You’d checked the locks (still in-tact) and all the windows (decisively unbroken), but the only sign of him you’d managed to find was his collar – cold and abandoned, undone and left carefully on the foot of his bed. It would’ve been impossible for him to take off without the remote still sitting safely in your purse, the mechanism was strong enough to endure getting hit with a car, and yet, it was here, and he wasn’t.

God. You were so fucked.

The open collar sat on the floor next to you, your pocket knife immediately next to it. Satoru was gone. He’d left you, or been taken – it didn’t matter. Your life was over. He’d go to the police, and you’d be arrested, and you’d never get to see Satoru again. Even if he didn’t go to the police, he was never coming back. Either way, it was a death sentence.

You were never going to see Satoru again.

Half-consciously, your hand found your knife, fingers curling around the handle. For the first time in months, you remembered what your life was like prior to meeting Satoru. You remembered what you’d tried to do - what you would’ve done, if he hadn’t been there to save you.

You drew in a shaky breath, tightening your hold on your knife and raising it – first to your chest, and then thinking better of it, your throat. You weren’t very strong, but you weren’t very durable, either. If you were lucky, it’d only take a minute or so before—

“Baby?”

You stiffened, blotting out. For a moment, your mind went perfectly, euphorically blank.

When you came to, you weren’t pressed against the wall, but on your knees – straddling Satoru’s waist. The knife was still in your hand, but you couldn’t see the blade. It was buried in Satoru’s stomach to the hilt.

To his credit, he didn’t scream. His reaction was uncannily alike his response to the shock collar – wide eyes and parted lips, pain and shock only visible in the absence of his smile. Warm blood soaked through the fabric of his uniform jacket, washing over your hand, but you didn’t care. Only half-voluntary, you pulled the knife back and brought it down. You did it again, and again, and again, each motion repetitive and mechanical. You’d never killed anyone, before. It was unfair that the first had to be Satoru.

It was only when the blade of your knife met loose pulp rather than solid flesh that you paused, dropping your weapon entirely. Rather, your hands found his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through tattered fabric and tearing. You let out a miserable sob as you clawed at his chest, trying aimlessly to dig to his heart. “You left,” you whined, like that would explain anything. “You were gone, and I couldn’t find you, and I thought I’d never see you again, and—” You cut yourself, gasping. “And you’re dying. Oh my god, Satoru, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

It never occurred to you to call an ambulance. Your body seemed to move on its own, clambering down just far enough to tear at the waistband of his pants, to free his cock. “’m just fine, princess,” he muttered, but you weren’t in a state to listen. With a frantic sort of desperation, you pumped your fist over his length, his blood serving as good-enough lubrication. Satoru let out a low groan – the noise impossible to read as pain or relief. “Even better, with such a pretty view.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up.” Your fist wasn’t working. Too frantic to be graceful, you forced his cock past your lip and fucked the tip into the hollow of your cheek, doing your best to ignore how his natural bitter mixed with the near-overwhelming iron-tinge. That, at least, got you a reaction – another rough groan, his hand in your hair as his tip started to leak arousal and you felt his shaft stiffen against your hand. You almost choked on your own relief, but Satoru soothed you, his blunt nails scrapping over your scalp as he cooed. “Been waiting so long to see you like this…” He trailed off, laughed. You felt another jolt of fresh blood leak from the tattered flesh of his stomach. There was enough to pool on the floor below him, now. “’m sorry – did I say that already? Thought I could step out for a second before you got home, deal with a last-minute mission, but—” His voice hitched as you let out another sob around him. “—clearly, my pretty girl can’t be left alone for so long.”

You couldn’t understand why he was still talking. Every word hurt more than the last – like he was trying to make it that much harder for you to do the only thing you could. When you pulled away from him, it was only to let out a fractured cry, to bury your face in his thigh, muffling your voice until it was only a whisper above nothing. “You can’t leave me. If I don’t have—If you’re not here, then I can’t—”

“Hey, hey, don’t talk like that. I’m not going anywhere.” You felt the hand in your hair dip lower, cupping your cheek. Another caught you by the chin, tilting your head back, until you were staring at Satoru – blood-drenched and glorious, sitting up and smiling down at you. He shouldn’t have been moving, you shouldn’t have let him move, and yet, it was all you could to do jolt upward and throw yourself against his chest, your mouth latching instinctually onto his neck. You’d always been so careful not to bite, not to bruise, not to do anything that’d leave a mark and mar his perfection, but suddenly, your love felt less like an act of pure-hearted preservation and more like the desperate throes of a forsaken acolyte clinging to the blessings of a dying god. It was hard to worship divinity as something everlasting when your hands were stained in its blood.

 So you didn’t try to. You dug your teeth into the side of his throat without reservation, cautious only not to visit the same patch of skin twice. Satoru felt any pain, if he could feel anything after losing so much blood, his only reaction was an airy laugh and a shallow kiss to your temple as his hand found your hips, then your sides. You felt yourself leaving the ground long seconds before your processed that Satoru was lifting you up, and even then, your awareness was burdened by a numbing sort of confusion. You wanted to tell him not to move, not to breathe, to let you help. You wanted to find your knife.

In the end, though, you only strung your arms around his neck and let him lay you on his bed, the mattress dipping where he kneeled in the space between your open legs.

In a daze, you felt your skirt being slid up to your waist, your panties shoved aside and replaced by the soft warmth of Satoru’s mouth. Like always, he was adorably clumsy – the bridge of his nose grinding against your clit as his tongue lapped and traced over your pussy. His fingertips dug too harshly into your thighs, his tongue thrusting into you too erratically, his little whines and occasional whimper too pitchy to allow for any real reverberation, but your poor nerves were so fried and your heart was still beating so fast and it would’ve taken a miracle for you not to cum – moaning pathetically as you bucked into his mouth. You’d imagined this scenario before, pictured yourself showering him with praise as you taught him exactly how to make you cum on his pretty tongue, but this was too quick, too abrupt, too out of your control. You weren’t in a state to teach. If he learned something from this, you doubted it would be the right lesson.

You reached for him as he straightened his back, but Satoru caught your wrist, guiding your hand to his stomach. Rather than mangled flesh and exposed viscera, your palm pressed against perfect in-tact, perfectly seamless skin. Like he’d never been injured. Like he hadn’t been on the verge of death only a few minutes ago.

Like you’d never even touched him.

“See, baby? I already told you – I’m not going anywhere.” His smile was soft, his voice soothing, but he was distracted. With a fist curled around his shaft, he aligned the head of his cock with your entrance, heavy beads of his arousal drooling onto your cunt and down your slit. “You had me worried for a while, there.” This time, his eyes flickered up to meet yours. “I know what I’m good for. Thought you might get sick of me before I ever got a chance to prove it.”

It would’ve been impossible to tell if Satoru was still in pain, or if he was capable of feeling something so human at all. The hurt that sliced through your chest, though, was agonizing. “I would never do that, ‘toru.”

“I know. And I’m sorry, too – it’s unfair to keep comparing you to him.” He bowed his head, dipping low enough for the heat of his breath to ghost over the shell of your ear, when he went on. “You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

There was a shuddering inhale, a sudden pressure against your slit. He pushed into you slowly, less concerned with your comfort than he was savoring the feeling of your walls clenching around him, of your body inviting him deeper, closer. You held your breath, doing your best to memorize every curve and vein, to accommodate him even as his length threatened to split you open. It wasn’t painful, but even if had been, you wouldn’t have complained. This was what you were supposed to want. This was what you were supposed to do for Satoru.

You could only wonder, then, why it felt so cold.

It was only when hips pressed into yours and he was fully hilted inside of you that he picked himself up – a hand planted on either side of your head, a broad, careless smile plastered across his lips. You registered that his lips were moving a full moment before you recognized the sound of his voice, as angelic as it was unbearable.

“I love you.”

For the first time, you didn’t bother trying to say anything at all.

[olliethescribe]

AWWWWW!! This is so sweet of you to make! I’m gonna cherish these 🥹

Also, hey! If you’re seeing this and aren’t following Sofia you better start following her! And wish her a happy (early) birthday while you’re at it 💖

Some propaganda art for @olliethescribe ’s au—No Crime, Only Brooches— that they entered into the @tmntaucompetition :]

(pirate costumes are because of the competition’s theme)

Go check out my friend’s work! No Crime, Only Brooches is a Rise of the Tmnt au where Ron (Hypno) and Warren find cloaking brooches and don’t end up becoming villains. They have to balance being mutants with their regular lives and also become uncle figures to the turtles :]

[reignpage]

Vice President!Sukuna

Hanssen: disasters all around

Word count: 5.4k Contents: cursing, violence, alcohol use, general dumbassery at parties, references to sexual assault/harassment, bts of Gojo's '4Justice' party, misuse of ChoCHo

“Why am I here?”

Sukuna inhales deeply, leaning against the dirty brick wall, one foot propped behind him, scuffing his trainers. Between his fingers, he holds a lit cigarette, dangling precariously as he bore a half-smirk, barely there, eyes smouldering when he meets the confused gaze of his cousin. 

He scoffs. “Because you owe me a favour.”

The younger man grumbles a complaint but remains squatting on the floor, legs tired from standing for so long. Having been creeping around the side of some frat house for half an hour now, he’s grown restless. Refusing to explain further, Sukuna huffs silently at the pout his accomplice is sporting. 

Suddenly, a click jolts the artist awake, eyes darting to the mastermind, who’s tense and jerking his head to signal it’s time to go. Unfolding himself, Choso mimics Sukuna’s position, directly behind a huge hedge, away from street view.

A silhouette steps out from a widening door, yawning loudly as it stretched. 

“Fuck, it’s cold,” it yelped, burping loudly before walking away to get into its shitty car. 

Sukuna watches the car splutter away, disappearing beyond the curve of the road, and makes his move. He rounds the hedge and climbs up the stairs to feel for the door handle. 

Unlocked.

“Dumbass Theta Chis,” he mutters. They never lock their damn doors. 

The night is still and both cousins’ shallow but even breaths are the only things that can be heard as they slink inside the house.

Aware that he could have simply paid off one of his family’s goons, Sukuna feels absolutely no regret when, as he switches the light on, he bumps into a vase. It shatters on the ground. Choso winces, feeling bad for said vase, but nonetheless walks in, hiking a duffel bag up; who is he to feel guilty about the destruction of property?

Empty as expected, they eye the place. Sukuna scowls in disgust over the pigsty they’ve walked into; empty beer bottles lay scattered all over the floor, chairs and tables askew, streamers limp over almost every surface, and yeah, in the corner that’s undeniably used condom. The soles of their shoes stick to the floor and neither of them want to make guesses on why that’s so. 

Still, they look over at the one unsoiled spot in, likely, the entire house, standing side by side. Sukuna has a smirk, eyes glinting. His cousin on the other hand is wincing again, catching a glimpse of that deranged expression on the ringleader. 

How did he let himself get caught up in his theatrics, again?

There, above the grand staircase —not quite as grand Alpha Phi Delta’s, well, most certainly not as grand — hangs an obnoxiously large portrait of the founding fathers of the fraternity. 

It’s Theta Chi’s Holy Grail. 

But tonight, it’s the cousins’ personal playground.

With a heavy sigh, the sleepy sidekick drops the duffel bag on the floor, the rattling of metal all too familiar to him, and he gets to work. As much as he loves art and creating art, being used by his stupid cousin who sports seniority by less than a year never feels great. 

“Don’t rush, Choso,” an excited snarl pierces him, and he dares not look back, already exhausted of his antics, “I want this to be just perfect.”

………………………

At the centre of campus, the night is not so quiet. 

Lights are beaming and flashing, blinding the moon itself. There’s a deep thumping rocking the ground and it vibrates through every pole, every cup and every person. The Quad is packed full of people from all years and all practices, with a solid chunk consisting of students from other universities, friends of friends. Anyone who is anyone is here tonight, but who they are doesn’t matter. Everyone moulds into heap of gyrating bodies, swaying and jumping to the beat. 

Huge speakers line the perimeter, and drink stations have been practically robbed. Everyone has one thing on their minds tonight and that’s to get totally wasted. 

Just a hair’s breadth away from the first blade of glass, there you stand. You’re breathing out, itching at a spot on your wrist subconsciously and it’s turning the skin there red. 

Your thoughts are racing. You shouldn’t be here; you’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through and it’s against the rules and the police could come and so many things could go wrong., 

But when was the last time you went to a party? 

Not a charity event or an end of the academic year staff party, but a real party, drank cheap but strong alcohol, and danced to music with no lyrics. 

When was the last you had even danced?

You scratch harder. 

Most people are passing by you like you’re invisible, but one or two people would smile or wave, in a rush to get into the throngs of thoughtless pleasure. Maybe this was a bad idea — it’s unlikely you’d even enjoy this. You’ve always been a homebody, after all. 

A flash of black catches your eye. A figure blanketed in woven darkness is standing around, clearly anxious about the noise, the mess, the consequences. She picks up a random red cup lying on the floor and throws it into a bin. 

Is that the Treasurer?

Just as you’re about to take a step towards the girl, a voice reaches you, somehow clear despite the deafening noise of inscrutable music. You whip around and almost stumble at the sight of a person you’ve been trying not to think about the entire night. 

He’s in a plain white shirt, jeans hanging low on his hips, flashing a Calvin Klein band, and hooked over his fingers is his varsity jacket strung over his shoulder. Head cocked to the side as he gives you a once over, whistling at the sight of your bare legs. 

You suddenly feel cold in your skirt. 

“Hey, prez,” he drawls, “been waiting for me?”

Your eye twitches. Then you turn away, facing the writhing mass of bodies surging with energy, fuelled by mixed concoctions and techno beats. You feel even more afraid. 

This is definitely not your crowd.

“How was the press conference and everything else?” You don’t even know what you’re saying, just feeling a need to distract yourself with conversation. It’s easy to talk to Sukuna when you’re not looking at him. It hurts to look at him. Somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a desire to wear that jacket he’s carrying. But you don’t want to ask. 

He steps beside you, eyeing the crowd just as you are. 

“Nothing special.”

You nod. 

Sukuna throws you a side-glance, sensing your nerves, and he thinks it’s hilarious. There’s a chuckle rising from his chest, but he has enough tact to smother it. So, he settles for giving you an elbow nudge, rolling his eyes when you glares at him. 

“You gonna stand there all night or you gonna do what you came here for?”

“I’m going home.”

He laughs. 

He couldn’t help himself. 

The sight of you stomping away is too damn comical to resist the urge to wrap his arm around your waist. Pulling you close, he presses you tight against his chest, and whispers right in your ear, “Don’t leave before I get to see this other side of you, prez.”

You try to wriggle yourself out of it, but he only tightens his hold. Too anxious to fight, shaking like a leaf, you accept it. That’s the reason you feel most satisfied with to justify clutching his forearm, unable to wrap around the thickness of it, and remaining in that position. Sukuna’s so warm, it’s as if winter’s never going to come.

“I’m pretty sure all the alcohol’s gone by now,” you mumble.

There are a few people staring and whispering at the both of you, but he pays no attention to the gossipers. Blinking, you realise you’re swaying. Or rather, he’s swaying you to an imperceptible music, a song only he hears. It’s slow, not at all like the rapid fire of beats that everyone else is feeling running through their bloodstream. 

“I’ve got a hidden stash,” he reassures you. “Don’t worry, prez. You’re gonna have fun tonight, one way or another.”

The way he says that sounds like a threat, like he knows something you don’t, and that clears your head. You push off him and snatch his jacket in one go, like it’s yours and he had stolen it from you. 

Sukuna doesn’t flinch, simply pockets one hand into his jean pocket, and runs the other through his hair. It looks slightly damp, and you have to gulp to push away the thoughts of him in the shower. His bicep flexes at the movement, shirt rising to reveal a flash of skin, and a trail of hair disappearing into his boxers. 

That shouldn’t make your mouth water. 

With a slight shake of your head, you adorn the jacket, feeling the material slide against your skin, still warm, absolutely burying you in the fabric. Why is it so big?

“Alright, follow me.” 

He’s sauntering off, long legs taking him so far in a blink of an eye. You stumble after him, meandering along the other people jumping and hooting like they have no worries whatsoever. 

Sukuna’s taken you to the Life Sciences building, a little further away from the heart of the party, but still feeling the weaker waves with the random people making out against walls, or girls crying into each other’s arm. In a lab room, he opens a locked cabinet with a key hidden under a textbook. Stocked are two bottles of vodka.

You don’t ask why it’s there or how many other stashes he has, though you know you really ought to so you can confiscate them. He places the bottles on the work bench devoid of beakers or test tubes, and without warning, grabs you, the unsuspecting victim, by the waist and lifts you up onto the surface. 

Yelping, you smack his shoulder. He ignores that and just lifts himself up to sit beside you. So then, there you sit, legs pressed against each other, sharing a bottle of vodka. The liquid burns your throat, and you hate the smell of nail varnish. It’s like an estranged lover, familiar but it doesn’t know your name. The instant warmth it courses through your body is very much welcomed, however. 

Minutes pass in relative silence, you both check your phones here and there and pass the bottle to each other. You try not to think about the fact that you're technically sharing an indirect kiss. That's childish.

“You know,” you begin, “I’m surprised you’re a party person.”

He lifts a brow at that.

It’s quiet here. Sure, you can still hear the distant rumbling of disco and craziness, but where you are, the loudest noise is the dull thrum of the radiators. And your heartbeat, but you hope he can’t hear that. You need him not to hear it.

You continue, “It’s just, I’m pretty sure you don’t like people.”

“Oh, yeah?” He fires back immediately. “You know me so well, prez?”

Shrugging, you take the bottle from him and gulp, “I know you better than you think.”

You’re aware of how vague and ominous that sounds but the alcohol’s making it really easy to not care. If karmic law exists, then you’d be allowed this —these little jabs at his true form whenever you can. You’ve earned it. You know that, so then why does every word leave a bitter taste in your mouth?

Sukuna rubs a hand across his jaw, tasting your words and mulling it over. The lab room is lit up only by one light, just hanging a couple metres away from you. It’s enough to see the flush climbing up your neck.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

You laugh at his petulant tone. It reminds you of the frustration babies face when a square brick doesn’t fit through the triangle hole, try as they may to force it through. Opening your mouth, you’re about to make a retort, but then suddenly, shouting breaks out in the hallway, and you flinch, hand flying to grab his bicep. 

Bare skin touching bare skin, it’s a feeling of utter scandal, and like you’ve been burned, you let go just as soon as you grabbed on. 

“Relax,” he stares at his phone screen, “just some frat guys fighting.”

Frowning, you ask, “What about?”

The smirk Sukuna has makes your heart clench. 

Rolling his piercing between his teeth, he considers his words carefully before deciding on, “Someone’s defaced the portrait in Theta Chi.”

You gasp. “No way. One of the alums on the board went to Theta Chi. They’ll be so upset.” The paperwork will be crazy, is the only thought passing through your mind. There’s a sudden lightness to your head and it pushes a giggle out. 

“Weren’t the people who egged my window from Theta Chi?”

Sukuna takes a swig of the vodka, regretting, for a moment, his failure to stash something stronger. Ignoring your question, he jumps down suddenly. You don’t want to wait for him extend a hand out, or worse, grab you anyways. So, you jump as well. With much less grace.

Stumbling, you fall into him, right in his chest, buried between hard muscles. He smells nice. Clean. He really did just take a shower before coming. And once again, you’re picturing him soaked and naked and steaming and —

That’s enough. 

You aren’t drunk enough to indulge in thoughts like that. 

“Trying to cop a feel, prez?” His voice is gruff despite the amusement lacing his words. “You should know I charge extra for that, although I’m willing to give you a discount.”

Pulling away, you flash him a finger, and he only smirks. 

“Seriously, what happened to Theta Chi?” You frowned. “I need to know how pissed the alums will be.”

He glances down at you, a dry expression on his face. “Someone painted some shit about their hazing process. That’s what Gojo’s saying in the group chat, anyways.”

Humming, you wracked your brain for every detail you can recall about the fraternity.

“The previous president mentioned that in passing to me last year, when I was shadowing him. Something about this long tradition of stripping the freshers naked and making them run into the woods? But I thought that was just a rumour.”

The man shrugged, already bored of the conversation.

You glare at him.

“This doesn’t have something to do with our conversation, does it?” It can’t be. “When you said you’d send a message.”

Surely, your vice president would have enough sense to know that a ‘message’ is just a stern talking to, and definitely not whatever the hell is going on. It would be catastrophic if this is linked back to him, and you.

Sukuna’s already walking towards the door, more interested in the commotion than the way your brain is firing at a thousand miles per second, even whilst the vodka begins to fuzz up your clarity. 

“Dunno why your first thought is me and not the extremely outspoken vandal we’ve got in our midst, prez.”

That makes sense, and it calms you a little, even if it’ll still be a headache to deal with. But you can’t shake off the feeling that, somehow, he knows more than he’s letting on. 

Following Sukuna, you both peek at the hallway where a crowd is forming. There are a bunch of guys wrestling each other onto the ground with uncoordinated swings and kicks. People are egging them on and recording, dodging the violence when it gets too close. 

And yeah, you’re so very sure the paperwork’s going to be insane. Especially as two members of the student council will be seen in the background of the dozens of videos being taken. The headache is already developing. 

“You fucking dick! Admit you broke in and destroyed our fucking picture!” A guy in a tank top despite the chilly weather yells and you recognise him as a fellow law student. Travis or something. He’s always been nice, quiet, but seeing him now as he trips over his own feet, backwards hat flying off, you realise, maybe he was just too hungover to participate in class. 

“I didn’t do shit!”

Another guy throws a punch, missing its target but succeeding in pushing his victim over, but the act also drags him down. Both fall together. 

“You’re a fucking liar! You drew over my great-great grandfather’s face with Pac-man!”

Someone from the crowd hollers, “Who the fuck doesn’t love Pac-man?”

“You fucking strip the freshies, you freak, a Pac-man on your ugly grandad is the least you deserve, asshole!” Someone else from the crowd screams. 

And they’re collapsing back down, people try to pull them off each other but only end up getting dragged in. It’s one huge uncoordinated Jenga tower crashing down. Sukuna tilts his head, mildly interested. They’re all too drunk to throw a proper swing, one that could do real damage, but if even just one person could slip and crack their head on the floor, that would be enough. 

A member of the crowd gets knocked over in the kerfuffle, distracted by something on their phone and skids along the floor with a pig-like squeal. Acting on reflex, you jolt towards the stranger, arms reaching out to pick them back up, but Sukuna grabs the back collar of his varsity jacket, the way one holds a puppy by its scruff. 

You’re dragged away, to the other direction, away from the mess of drunkards, too consumed by the alcohol to realise that this is going to hurt in the morning. 

“You’re just any other college student,” he scolds once you’re in the clear, “you’re not the president of the student council tonight.”

A pout drags your bottom lip down and you clutch his arm to your chest, it takes Sukuna by surprise, suspicion painted all over his face like you’re strapping a bomb around him. 

“But Sukuna,” you peer up at him, “you call me prez.”

He scoffs, a disbelieving amusement wracking his body. You’re trying to kill him. That must be it. There’s no way you’re this much of a lightweight, so much so that you’d quickly abandon your integrity, and go as far as to say his name like ’S’kuna’.

Your eyes have glazed over and there’s an inelegance to your movements, little clumsy jerks and goddamn it if it doesn’t make Sukuna’s chest do that weird thing it always did when he looks at you. 

How repulsive. 

There’s a part of him that hopes you’ll remember the utterly embarrassing position you’ve placed yourself in, but he also doesn’t want to deal with the avoiding eye-contact and ignoring him thing you do. It’s irritating as hell.

“You’re fucking dangerous when you’re drunk, Jesus,” he snorted. 

That makes you giggle. You’ve still got his arm trapped, blanketing it with his own jacket, and it’s warm, warmer than the alcohol your body’s desperately trying to digest, the foreign liquid an enemy.

“Fucking finally!” Someone yells. 

It’s Gojo. 

He’s marching towards the both of you, hands flailing in anger. 

Sukuna rolls his eyes before he pushes you slightly behind him. “What climbed up your ass?”

“Your Treasurer, that’s who!”

And with theatrical movements he reenacts the complaints he’s been hearing, about how she’s preaching safe sex to couples making out in the hallway, shouting at people to pick up their litter, and sending him a finger from down at the Quad to where he stood on a balcony. 

The last part seems to upset him more than anything else.

“Why did you bring the freaking fun police?” He directs the question at you. He always assumes you’re the root of all his problems, and well, you won’t deny that. “She’s gonna ruin my rep as the best party-thrower!”

Gojo’s a huge pain in the ass and to see him so frazzled over a different member of the council makes you pleased. You jab a finger at his chest, giggling as you mocked, “Someone needs to arrest you for being so stupid.”

When you hiccup, Gojo looks at you, horrified. His eyes dart comically between you and Sukuna like you’re pranking him, like he’s missing a big joke, instead of making it, for once. Seeing Sukuna only raise a brow in challenge, he groans, rubbing a palm down his face. 

“You guys are killing me, I swear!”

And then he stomps away. 

You giggle again, his lanky body looks so funny speed walking. You take the bottle from Sukuna and gulp clumsily. Some of the liquid dribbles down your chin, and you don’t care. This is the freest you’ve felt in months, hell, maybe even years. It’s as if chains have been loosened and you can stretch your limbs. 

Taking the bottle away from you, he tilts his head back slightly to take a gulp too, except he doesn’t look away whilst he does it. Not a single drop goes to waste, not even as he brushes a thumb over your chin and swipes it over his own lips. 

The skin where he touched sizzle. 

You clear your throat, “Should we tell her it’s okay?” 

Sukuna shakes his head with a devilish smirk and retorts, “You’re not the prez tonight, remember? Let the idiots fix themselves up.”

Slapping his chest and then settling on groping his pec, you slur out, “I’m never not the ‘prez’, idiot.”

“You’re just y/n, tonight,” he insists, encasing your wrist with one large hand, and stilling your movement so you can’t squeeze like a creepy uncle. “Be selfish for once, yeah?”

“Like you?”

Your head is tilted in curiosity, lashes fluttering and he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even know what the fuck you’re talking about. He won’t deny his habit of putting himself first, and he certainly won’t apologise for it, but the way you put the question to him brings a flash to his head. 

Strobe lights, warm bodies and lies.

Sukuna reels back like he’s been slapped. 

He gets not a single second to process anything before there’s whooping. People grin at you two, punching the air in an expression of solidarity, chanting ‘fuck Mahito!’ at the top of their lungs. It’s fun to see everyone so friendly when most days people stroll by without so much as even a glance your way. 

A guy comes up to you both, in a blue sweater and cargo shorts, doing that weird handshake men do with Sukuna and you sort of want to join. He greets you with one of those half-nods and takes a sweep of your body, a grin on his face. 

“Want something?” Sukuna pushes out through gritted teeth. 

The guy shakes his head as if to clear his mind before he’s smiling like a little boy again. “Just wanted to talk about our next game. Heard the team’s good but I think their defence is a little weak.”

Hearing the basketball talk, you grow disinterested. 

Which Sukuna doesn’t sense until it’s too late. Because your question threw him off and he’s slacked. For perhaps the first time in his life.

So, when he glances down beside him and finds you gone, he’s cursing the heavens and leaving his teammate mid-conversation. He searches for you everywhere, trying to find an oversized purple jacket hanging off your frame, even popping into the girls’ bathrooms, ignoring the crying girls there.

“Flighty fucking woman,” he growled. 

There’re still too many things he had planned for your one-night truce, too many things he wants to pull out of you whilst you’re honest. And with you, the surprising lightweight that you are, being drunk off your head, alone, the thought of all the ways things could go wrong is making a muscle tick in his jaw.

He sees Choso, leaning against a bike shed, looking up at a mural with a cigarette between two fingers. It’s half washed off; the scaffolding abandoned for the night. Sukuna couldn’t care less for the sentimental mood his cousin’s in. 

“Why do you look mad again?”

Sukuna ignores that, “Seen the prez?”

The younger man tastes the word in his mouth. “The prez? The president of the council?”

Okay, apparently all the usefulness he’s capable of has been maxed out this evening. Without a parting word, Sukuna continues his search. He’s practically running. People are trying to catch his attention. Guys who’ve fallen under the delusion that they’re friends for reasons that elude the pink haired man, and girls who mostly likely wanted to put the rumours of his skills in bed to the test. 

He ignores all of them, popping his head into every classroom, growing more and more agitated, and he swears, once he finds you, he’ll tie you up and lock you in a closet so you can’t run off, can’t make his heart clench and his palms sweat. 

Eventually, he ends up back at the Quad, there’s too many idiots crowded in one place to see, and he’s certainly not going to attempt to sift through them all. He sees Gojo on a balcony, standing beside two figures, sunglasses pushed up over his head, grinning so brightly, even from where Sukuna’s standing, he can see all his teeth. He’s leaning over the railings, eyes fixed on something at the side. Just as Sukuna makes a step towards his direction, deciding that getting a higher vantage point would be the best strategy, a flash of purple catches his attention.

He found you.

But it’s too late. 

You’ve already climbed a table, shoes next to some red solo cups, drawing many people’s attention. No one expected to see the president here, and certainly not with a varsity jacket on. Perhaps, people are worried you’re about to lecture them, to warn them about the rules and trespassing and whatever else. 

Resting against a pillar, he sighs and rubs his jaw. 

Apparently, drunk you loves attention. Well, he shouldn’t be surprised; you’re a great orator and it just comes naturally to you, even if you are a bundle of nerves sometimes. He decides to stay there, watching your passionate speech, arms raised like you feel the zeal course through you. The music has quietened, the, no doubt ridiculously expensive, DJ a certain frat president hired lowering the volume. 

Everyone’s watching you, halting their grinding and jumping to hear you out. You introduce yourself -not that you needed one to begin - and talk about the challenging couple months, the way students turned on each other and staff showed their bias. You saw the girls, other victims, forced to cower, forced to feel dirty, and doubt themselves. 

But you also witnessed the love, the support, the community. The sisterhood that carried you all to this point where the truth has made itself clear, justice prevailing because they cannot deny the bravery you’ve all showed. 

There are a few people wiping tears from their eyes, guys occasionally shouting in agreement. Despite most people coming just for a good time, it seems like there really was a need for catharsis. Recent events haven’t just taken a toll on you and the girls and the lawyers, but also on the other women on campus. 

Sukuna rolls his eyes. 

Drunk you is the female reincarnate of Mark Antony, go figure.

Half obscured by shadows and half lit by flashing lights, he stands there, eyes never leaving your figure, jolting every time you stumble on the table, but as infuriating as it is, you’re surrounded by a bunch of guys, ready to catch you.

He’s developed a disliking of parties over the years, hating the bumbling ineptitude of drunk people, and all the drama that comes bursting from the seams of repressed idiots. Still, he attends most of them, never taking part in the chaos but often just watching. 

Sukuna hates parties but this one isn’t too bad, he decides.

A notification goes off on his phone and he sees his roommate’s message — a video and a text following it. 

the girl of your wet dreams is really getting the waterworks going huh?

Once again, Sukuna rolls his eyes, saving the video and ignoring Toji. 

God, he hopes when he brings you back to your dorm room that you won’t throw up all over him. He can deal with carrying your dead weight back to the Northside Halls, and the no-doubt moody and grumpy you that’ll show up the next morning, dragged down by a killer hangover, and even the insults you’ll no doubt hurl his way when you accuse him of enabling you for his own entertainment. 

But if you throw up on him, he’ll lose his mind.

You reach a dramatic end, thrusting your fist into the air and people follow suit, just as drunk, if not more so, and easily influenced. They clap, roaring and whooping. The music comes back on and the dancing returns, invigorated by the shift in energy. 

Clambering down, feeling satisfied, you’re being shaken by the overly supportive drunk friends you’ve made within the span of the five minutes until Sukuna found you. They slap you on the back, congratulating you and saying other things that aren’t really registering in your mind. 

Escaping to a quieter part of the Quad, you skip along, to nowhere in particular, and fall face first into a hard wall. It hurts and you clutch your forehead, cheeks puffed out as you furrow your brows.

Glancing up, you’re met with a stormy gaze, it’s smouldering something unyielding and threatening. But, as you squint through the haze of insobriety, you see the gentle tracing of his eyes over your frame, and then as if he saw what he wanted to see, it hardened to something much more akin to a feasting.

You’re drunker than you feel. 

“You left,” his tone is calm but there’s an undercurrent of heat there. It’s accusing and scathing, and it teases at your spine. 

With a shrug, you reply, “You were boring me.”

You’re a little sweaty, the running away and the standing beneath so many lights had you feeling like you’ve just done a triathlon. And when he swipes a hair off your forehead, you can only splutter in complaint when he smears your own sweat onto your cheek.

“It’s bedtime, prezzy, come on.”

His voice is uncharacteristically soft, a quiet whisper against your head as he clutches you to his chest just as your knees cave in. Your vision is spotty, and your lips are dry. 

In a blur, you find yourself in your bed. 

When did you get here?

How did you get here?

You’re too tired to tell, eyes drifting close. 

Your desk lamp is on, lighting your room enough for you to see the silhouette of a man running his hand along your table, eyeing the piles of papers scattered there. He flips a page over, studying your handwriting and the sticky notes with random faces, some frowning and some with Xs for eyes. 

“S’kuna?” 

His stare snaps towards yours and it steals your breath away.  

“Go back to sleep,” his voice is soft. And even whilst weighed down by the alcohol, you’re aware of how tiny your room is with him in here. It feels wrong to have Sukuna pacing the length, studying the pictures on the wall and the neatly piled laundry waiting to be put away. 

You have no idea what he’s thinking, and it scares you. Groggy and still not fully conscious, you croak, “Did you bring me back?”

“No, we teleported,” he fires back, without missing a beat. “Yeah, I brought you back. I didn’t touch you or anything, so just relax.”

“I didn’t think you did,” you admit, the sentence muffled by your comforter. 

Sukuna leans against a wall by your door, calculating if everything’s as it should be, and you finally notice he’s just in his white shirt, no jacket in sight. 

“Wait,” he cocks his head in question, “it’s cold out. Wear your jacket.”

He laughs, it’s low, just a couple huffs really, but it’s a laugh, nonetheless. It feels like one of those rare victories. “Nah, keep the jacket. You like damn thing more than I do.”

“No. Wear the jacket,” you point to the chair it’s draped over; your arm is heavy and you’re drifting off again. 

He narrows his eyes at you, but you don’t see that, breath evening out. “Always so stubborn,” he says this more to himself, walking over to your chair and snatching it with more force than necessary. “I’ll take it, on loan.”

You don’t reply.

But when he stands over you, knuckles brushing a stray hair off your cheek again, you hear him from behind the haze of sleep and exhaustion say, “You always get what you want, don’t you, prez?”

And then he’s leaving, shutting the door much quieter than you ever have. You swear as you take one last inhale, you can still smell his fresh soap and feel the scalding burn of his touch. 

Both of you know you’ll barely remember any of this, if anything at all. Despite that, you find yourself hoping that you, at least, remember the feeling of being free and unburdened, even just for one night. You also hope he’ll remember what life could be like if you two got along, so perhaps he’ll ease off a little.

Just as you enter a dream state, you sluggishly respond to something that seems so far away now, the words escaping you like one last exhale before you’re dead to the world.

“I never do.”

[w4ndal0ver]

The Art of Submission (2)

[minors don't interact, 18+]

pairing: wanda maximoff x fem!reader

chapter summary: The tension between you and Wanda becomes too much and you finally give into her alluring remarks and suggestions. She breaks you.

whole summary: As a growing author, you're grappling with a frustrating writer's block while trying to craft your next lesbian erotic novel. With a lack of personal experience holding you back, inspiration seems just out of reach. But when a captivating neighbour steps in, offering unexpected support and a tantalizing invitation to explore the depths of desire, you find yourself on a journey that blurs the lines between reality and fiction, leading to a discovery that you definitely weren't expecting.

content warnings: continuing the insane amount of sexual tension, mention of heavy dom/sub dynamic, fingering, orgasm denial, begging.

note: So this is the second instalment and I definitely have never put this much work into the build up of what's basically a shamelessly dirty smutty story, however I hope you enjoy. (the next instalment is where things get super interesting and it will be out soon)

The Art of Submission - Chapter 2

Your heart is still racing, the taste of Wanda’s lips lingering as you lean back, trying to catch your breath. She watches you, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of curiosity and something darker, more dangerous. 

“I can see the wheels turning in that beautiful head of yours.” she teases, her finger still resting on her lips as if savouring the kiss, “what are you thinking.” 

You try to compose yourself, offering a playful smile in return. “I’m thinking you’re trouble,” you say, but the voice betrays the thrill surging through you. Wanda’s energy is magnetic and you’re already caught in the strength of her pull. 

She chuckles softly, leaning closer so that her arm brushes against yours again. The subtle contact makes your nerve endings tremble. “Oh, I think you like a little trouble.” She murmurs, her tone smooth as silk. She tilts her head slightly, eyes gleaming as they enter that same darling lock with yours once more. “It's not the writing, is it?” she asks, eyes glistening, “It’s what you’re writing about.”

You shift, unsure of how to answer, but Wanda presses on, her tone softer, coaxing you forward. “You know what you want to say,” She whispers, her fingers brushing a slow maddening path along your thigh. “It’s the feeling you’re struggling with. The way to express it… to make it real.”

Your breath hitches. You don’t respond right away, too caught up in the way she’s watching you, her gaze predatory and knowing. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and it’s clear she’s not letting you off easily. 

“What is it that you’re really trying to explore?” Wanda’s voice is like velvet, low and intimate. “Sadomasochism, right? It’s more than just the physical, it's the headspace, the emotional surrender, pushing limits.” Her words stir something deep inside of you, a part of you that you hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. You nod meekly, almost on instinct, feeling the weight of her hand anchoring you in place. 

“You’re not struggling with the plot,” she continues, her voice soft but relentless, “You’re struggling with how far to take it. How far to go beyond ‘safe.’” Her thumb continues to stroke a slow deliberate circle just above your knee, and your breath catchers at the subtle increase in pressure. “You’ve written about control before, but this is different. This is about letting go completely.” 

With that your pulse is on fire, her words hitting home. It is different. It’s darker and dangerous and Wanda is pushing you toward that edge, darling you to step over it. 

Her lips curve into a slow and wicked smile. “Maybe” She pushes, her voice laced with heat, “you’re scared to write about what you actually want.” Your body tenses at the insinuation and Wanda picks up on it immediately. She doesn’t pull away though, if anything, she leans in closer, her breath brushing the side of your neck. “You want to write about power,” She whispers, her hand sliding higher, the pressure firm but tantalising, “About giving it up, about what it feels like when someone takes it from you.” She pauses, letting her words settle into the heavy air between you, “but the only way to write that truthfully is to understand it.”

Your throat feels tight, your body alive with the tension crackling between you. You can’t find any words, but Wanda doesn’t seem to need them. She reads every flicker of your expression. Every quickening breath makes that wicked smile deepen.

“You can’t fake that kind of intensity darling,” Her voice is almost hypnotic, “You need to feel it. You need to know what it’s like to hand over your control, to be at someone else's mercy.” You feel her fingers move higher up your thigh. She’s testing you, waiting to see how far she can push you before you break. 

“And maybe,” She adds, her hand reaching up to tuck your hair away from your face, her lips brushing the shell of your ear, “You’re tired of always being the one in control.”

This was when you realised how close she had gotten to you, her hand still on your leg, firm and unyielding, grounding you in the moment as her breath fans across your neck. “It’s okay.” her voice soft but demanding, “to want something different, to want to feel different.”

The tension between you is palpable now, the air charged with the unspoken promise of what could come next. Wanda’s touch, so deliberate, so confident, feels like a silent dare - a challenge to take that next step, to let yourself go. “Tell me,” Her lips are almost brushing yours as she speaks, “What do you really want.”

You meet her gaze, your heart pounding in your chest as the weight of her question sinks in. Your mind races, torn between the familiar safety of control and the intoxicating allure of surrender. But Wanda’s eyes hold you captive, drawing you deeper into her web and you know there’s no turning back now. 

Wanda’s hand remains a steady weight on your thigh, the heat from her palm seeping into your bare skin. The faint scent of her perfume surrounds you, the intensity of the smell pulling you in deeper. She tilts her head ever so slightly, her auburn hair falling in soft waves over her shoulder as she studies you, “You’re thinking too much again,” she says, her voice a quiet murmur. Her thumb continues its slow, torturous circle against your thigh. 

“I’m not- I just-.” You start, but the words get caught in your throat. Your hands restless in your lap as you fidget under her unwavering stare, the one that is watching every tiny flicker of emotion that crosses your face. 

“You don’t need to be nervous,” She says slowly, “Not with me.” You can feel her body heat now, the way her knee is pressing against yours, her hand resting higher on your thigh, just enough to remind you of her control without pushing too far. “Look at me.” She demands, her tone firmer now, the authority in her voice making your pulse jump. You turn your head back to her, your eyes meeting hers and she holds your gaze, unrelenting. “You can’t write it if you can’t say it.”

The words feel impossibly heavy on your tongue, but the heat of Wanda’s body so close to yours makes it harder to resist. You lick your lips, trying to steady yourself and finally the words come out, shaky and quiet. “I want to give up control.”

Wanda’s smile widens, a gleam of satisfaction flashing in her eyes. Her hand continues to slide higher, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin just above the hem of your tiny black skirt. Her thumb tracing the line of your inner thigh now with an agonising slowness. “Good,” She purrs, her voice dripping with approval, “But that's only part of it, isn’t it?”

You can’t look away from her, your chest tight with anticipation. She’s close enough that you can see the faint freckles scattered across her cheeks, the way her lips curve into that teasing smile. Her fingers move again, deliberate, testing, and your body reacts instinctively, a soft gasp escaping your lips.

Her eyes darken with amusement, “Tell me the rest,” she coaxes, her voice like velvet, “What do you want from me?”

The question hangs between you, and your breath catches itself. Your hands trembling slightly in your lap and you glance down, the words heavy and terrifying as they try to force their way out. Wanda’s touch on your leg is insistent, her presence so overwhelming that you can hardly think straight. 

“I- I want you to-” Your voice wavers, but Wanda’s gaze still doesn’t falter. 

“Go on,” Her fingers brushing just a little higher, dangerously close to where you feel the heat pooling beneath your skin, finally becoming aware of the arousal that had built between your legs, “Say it.”

The tension between you is unbearable, the pull of her command undeniable. You bite your lip, you’d never wanted anybody more than Wanda at this moment. “I want you to take control.” Now, everything feels suspended, the weight of your confession hanging in the charged air between you. 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it.” She murmurs, her voice teasing your timid and shaky reactions. You shake your head in nervous response, her hand moves again, a millimetre higher, the pressure firmer and you feel your body shudder under her gentle but demanding touch. “Now that you’ve said it, we can explore what it really means.” 

Wanda’s eyes stayed locked on yours, that familiar, testing glint dancing in their depths. She leaned back, her posture easy, as if she was weighing her next move carefully. “You know what you want,” Wanda murmured softly, her voice caressing your face, “But you haven’t said it out loud yet.”

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry, “I- I don’t know if I can.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Wanda’s lips curved into a smile, her body leaning towards yours, her fingertips now dancing lightly over her own wrist, an unspoken reminder of the power she held, a soft contrast to the hard edge in her voice. 

Your eyes flickered to the small motion, captivated by the simplicity of it. Her confidence was dizzying, making your chest tighten with a mix of excitement and intimidation. 

“I-” You started, you wanted to tell her, to finally give in to that pull she had over you, but the fear of laying yourself bare - of admitting the truth - made your heart race, “I’m not sure how to say it.”

Wanda’s hand slid from her wrist, gliding across the table between you until it stopped short of touching yours. She hovered there, the warmth from her skin so close you could almost feel it, yet she didn’t make contact. 

“Let me make it easier for you then,” She whispers, her voice laced with control, “Do you want me to touch you? Is that what you’re afraid to say?” This time she cocks her head, her eyes never leaving your face. Her lips parted slightly as she waited, giving you the space to answer but tightening the leash on the unspoken tension between you. 

Every part of you screamed yes, but your voice remained trapped so all you could do was nod. Wanda’s eyes were still flickering with satisfaction, as though she had expected this. She didn’t move right away, letting the silence build around you, drawing out the longing anticipation until it felt as if time had stopped completely. 

“I didn’t hear you,” She said, her fingers finally brushing the back of your hand, the lightest touch, almost too soft to feel. 

“I want you to touch me.” You could hardly believe you had said it, your voice barely audible, but the words were out now and there was no taking them back.

Wanda’s smirk deepened, her confidence growing as she saw the effect she was having on you. Her fingers shifted over the back of your hand before slipping up to your wrist. She was barely touching you, yet it felt like she had control of every nerve in your body. 

“You see,” she said quietly, her lips brushing the words against the air between you, “this is the kind of power you need to understand. Submission is about giving yourself over completely… even when it scares you.” Her fingers tightened around your wrist, a gentle hold, but there was no mistaking the control she was exerting over you.

Your breath quickened, and you felt your chest rise and fall faster with each passing second. She was pushing you—testing you—but in a way that made you feel safe, even as your body screamed with anticipation.

Wanda’s other hand came to rest on your knee, light at first, but her grip slowly tightened, her thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles on your skin. It was all you could do to remain still, your muscles tense under her touch, your entire body hyper-aware of every inch of contact.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared back at her. The room felt smaller, the air too thick to breathe properly. She wasn’t just asking you about the book anymore. She was asking you what you wanted. What you were ready for. “Say it,” she commanded softly, her voice leaving no room for hesitation, sensing that you were holding back your words.

Your pulse quickened, your body aching with the tension of holding back. “I want to go further,” you whispered, the words leaving your lips before you even had time to think them through. “I want… to give up control.”

Wanda smiled, her satisfaction evident in the way her fingers flexed against your skin. “Good,” she murmured, her tone dripping with approval. “Then let’s start.” She leaned in, her breath warm against your ear as her lips barely grazed your skin. “But remember... it’s my control now.”

Your body tensed, but not from fear. The tension was different—an anticipation, a feeling like you were about to step off the edge of something and you weren’t sure what lay below. And yet, with Wanda, you felt drawn to that edge, even if it terrified you. She leaned back just slightly, her lips no longer hovering near your ear, but her eyes never left yours, still piercing, still searching.

“Are you ready to surrender?” she asked, her voice low but commanding, her fingers curling just slightly tighter around your wrist. “To give me what I want?”

You couldn’t speak right away. The knot of nerves and excitement twisted inside your stomach, making it hard to find your voice. You swallowed, your lips parting as you struggled to answer.

“I—” you started, but her fingers tightened again, not painfully, but enough to remind you that she was in control now.

“Shh,” she whispered, her thumb stroking lightly across your skin, calming and demanding all at once. “Take a breath. You’re trembling.”

She was right. You hadn’t noticed how much your body was shaking, every nerve ending tingling from her touch, from the intensity of the moment. You drew in a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, and her grip loosened just enough to give you space to catch your breath.

Wanda’s eyes softened, though the playful glint remained in them. She seemed to enjoy watching you wrestle with the tension between desire and fear. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice soothing but with an undercurrent of control. “You don’t have to rush. Just tell me how you want this to feel.”

Her hand on your knee shifted slightly, her fingers sliding just a bit higher, making your breath catch again. She was so good at this—so practised, it seemed—like she knew exactly how to push you, how to keep you teetering on that edge.

You licked your lips, your pulse still racing, but your nerves slowly giving way to a sense of surrender. You didn’t want to hold back anymore. You didn’t want to be afraid of what you were feeling. “I want… I want to feel like I’m not in control,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The admission came out almost like a confession, like you were telling her something you’d barely admitted to yourself.

Wanda smiled, her eyes lighting up with approval. “Good,” she murmured, her fingers shifting again, just slightly, but it was enough to send another wave of sensation through you. “And what else?”

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to put the words together. “I want you to push me,” you said, your voice more confident now, even if your body still trembled under her touch. “I want to feel like I don’t know what’s coming next.”

Wanda’s smirk deepened, and her fingers slid higher still, her touch achingly slow, deliberate. “You want to be surprised,” she mused, her voice soft but filled with that same commanding tone that made your pulse quicken. “You want to be on the edge, not knowing what I’ll do, but trusting that I won’t let you fall.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Wanda’s hand released your wrist, and for a moment you felt the loss of her touch like a sudden drop, your skin buzzing in the absence of her grip. But then, she moved closer, her thigh pressing against yours, her fingers brushing the side of your neck. It was such a simple gesture, yet it held so much weight—so much promise.

“I can do that,” she whispered, her lips curving into that dangerous smile. “But first…” Her thumb traced the line of your jaw, making your breath hitch. “I want to hear you say it again. Say that you want to surrender.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your body feeling heavy with the tension she was weaving around you. But this time, you didn’t hesitate. “I want to surrender,” you whispered, your voice stronger, more certain. “To you.”

Wanda’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, and she leaned in, her lips brushing yours for the briefest of moments, a featherlight touch that made your body yearn for more. “Good,” she breathed against your lips. “Then let me show you what it feels like to let go.”

She pulled back just enough to keep the tension hanging between you, her hands moving deliberately down your arms, her touch slow, intentional, as though savouring the moment. Your entire body was on edge, waiting for her next move, but she kept you there—suspended in that delicious tension, every touch, every breath drawn out.

Her fingers slid down your arms, stopping just at your wrists, holding them with a gentle but commanding grip. “Let me take over,” she whispered, her voice so close to your ear you could feel the warmth of her breath. “Let me guide you.”

You nodded, your body trembling with anticipation, and with that single movement, you felt the shift. Wanda was no longer waiting for permission—she was in control now, and you could feel the power dynamic shift, a current running between you that electrified the air. The question wasn’t whether you wanted to give in anymore. The question was how far you were willing to let her take you.

Wanda’s fingers trace slow, deliberate circles along the inside of your wrist, her touch sending a quiet hum of electricity up your arm. She holds your gaze, her eyes darkening, the room suddenly feeling smaller, the air heavier.

"You don’t have to be afraid of saying what you want," Wanda whispers, her lips barely moving. Her voice is low, controlled, as if she already knows your answer, but she’s waiting—enjoying the power of making you say it aloud.

You swallow, your throat dry. Her proximity, the subtle scent of her skin, the way her fingers never stop moving—it’s all dizzying. Your mind spins, words getting tangled in the heat between you. "I—"

Wanda tilts her head, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. She leans in closer, her breath brushing against your cheek. "Tell me."

It’s not a request—it’s a command, soft but insistent. Her hand slides up, teasingly grazing your collarbone, her fingertips feather-light but purposeful, waiting for you to open the door completely.

“I want...” Your voice falters, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. The weight of what’s about to happen presses in from all sides, but there’s something intoxicating in it. Something you can’t pull away from. “I want you to show me.”

Wanda’s smirk deepens, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “That’s my girl,” she murmurs, and in that instant, everything shifts.

You’re burning now, every inch of your body is desperate to feel the touch of her, even your mind is beginning to surrender itself to her. Wanda’s eyes finally broke the strong gaze that she had been holding, her glare now roaming down your body. You weren’t wearing anything particularly flattering, just a plain white cropped jumper paired with a short black skirt, but Wanda’s eyes still sparkled in delight at the sight of you sitting trembling on the kitchen stool. 

Her grip around your wrist turns into a pull as she closes the gap between them, pushing her lips against yours, dragging her tongue across your bottom lip. You immediately give her the control, allowing her access, the kiss deepening as she slides her hand up the back of your neck, her nails grazing against your skin. You whine into her mouth and you can feel her lips curve into that same smile as she takes your bottom lip between her teeth, lightly tugging. 

As she pulls away, her hand trails from your neck down your back, just one finger tracing the line all the way down your spine. “Are you comfortable with this?” Wanda asks, her voice deeper, laced with lust. You nod, your hand roaming to the back of her neck, gesturing for her to come back. “No, you need to learn to use your words honey.”

“Yes I’m comfortable.” You say, your voice laden with confidence all of a sudden and the look that this earned you made you understand why you would do anything she asked of you. 

“Oh, sweet girl, that’s better.” Wanda praises and your cheeks flush scarlet in response. Her finger traces the outline of your jaw, her hand stopping against your chin, guiding you face upwards to meet her stare. With the length of your neck exposed, she leans in to make gentle kisses against your skin, the back of her hand keeping your neck rigid against her lips. You could feel your thighs squeezing together, the slow anticipation and sudden grazes of her teeth driving you crazy.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Wanda warns, spreading your thighs back open just enough that she can stand between your legs. Her hands roam down the underneath of your thighs, her touches so gentle that you were surprised you were so desperate for her. Her fingers kept brushing closer towards where you needed her, your hips rolling towards her hand in a desperate attempt for any contact. “I need to establish a few things with you okay?” 

You nod and you can see her suck her tongue between her teeth, the tilt of her head and the dark disapproving look that emerged immediately made you feel shameful in yourself, “Sorry, Yes Wanda.” Her frown turned into a smile, one that made your entire core shake. 

This time as her hand edged closer to you, she didn’t stop, allowing her fingers to lightly brush your dampened underwear, an excited gasp eliciting from the redhead as your head hangs in prolonged anticipation. “Much better, you see when you do what I want, you get rewarded.” Wanda was laying down her expectations of you, but your brain was fuzzy as her fingers continued to explore the edges of your underwear that had become completely soaked in the process. 

You begin to grip the sides of your stool as you feel Wanda dip her finger underneath the drenched material, gently skimming the length of your sensitive skin, not giving you what you needed but enough to make you tremble. Her stance between your legs, your head leaning to rest against her chest as she felt her way through the wetness that she found between your legs. 

“When you do something against what I’ve told you, for whatever reason, you will get punished.” Wanda states, removing her fingers from you, leaving you without any contact. You whine at the loss, hips jutting against your will in an attempt to regain some friction. “Do you know what you like?”

You shake your head, brain foggy with desperation. Wanda pinches the skin between your thighs and you yelp in pain, “No Wanda.” You say, immediately correcting yourself

“That’s okay, we can talk about it and I can help you explore these things.” She demands and you swallow hard as she bites her lip feeling the thrill of your innocent vulnerability. “From now on you’ll be my good girl, and I’ll guide you through this, do you understand?”

“Yes Wanda.” With your immediate submission to her rules, her eyes darken with intensity as she replaces her hand back to where you needed her. You gasp at the immediate contact against your clit, her fingers skilfully finding your bundle of nerves beneath your underwear, gently tapping the pad of her finger against it. 

“I know you’re familiar with the traffic light system.” Wanda continues, referencing your latest novel, a blush forming in your already flushed cheeks at the reminder that this is what led her into your apartment. “But this is very important, if you ever feel uncomfortable or want to slow down, just say your colour.”

“I understand.” You pant through breathy gasps, Wanda’s taps had become circles against your bundle of nerves and you could feel your core burning as she sent jolts of electricity through your body with nothing but gentle touches. 

“That’s it, you’re getting the hang of it, pretty girl.” A soft moan erupted from your lips at her words and Wanda’s gaze dances over your face, warmth radiating from her eyes as she cherishes in their first moment. She lifts your chin once again so your eyes finally meet and she smiles at the lust and desperation hidden within the depth of your eyes.

You feel your orgasm nearing as Wanda speeds up her movements, her grip on your chin forcing you to look at her as she unravels you in your own kitchen. “Rule one, you don’t cum unless I give you the permission to do so.” Her voice was commanding and authoritative, her look fierce and unwavering, making it clear that she knows exactly what she wants. 

“Y-yes.” You manage to get out, your body shaking as Wanda increased the pressure on your swollen clit, the short breathy moans that escaped your lips driving her forward, not wanting to tease you now, just wanting to see what you look like when you’re brought to the very edge, longing to see your head throw back and whine her name as she takes you over the brink. 

“You’re close aren’t you princess.” Wanda exclaims, her smile not once leaving her lips as she tilts your head backwards slightly, forcing you to look up at her with a longing desperation that she couldn’t wait to draw out in the future. 

“Wanda, please let me cum, I’m so close.” Your body was itching you closer and closer towards your orgasm but you were determined to wait for her order, wanting to prove yourself to her. 

“Hold it for me, you can do it.” Wanda instructs and you whine against her grip on your chin, doing everything you can to hold it back, every nerve in your body on fire as she relentlessly works against your clit. 

“I can’t, I need-” You splutter, slamming your hand into the counter, doing everything you could. Your fingers are gripping the counter, so tightly that your knuckles turn white trying to fight for control. You tilt your head back further, lips parting in a silent plea, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the sensation becomes almost too much to bear. Even with your eyes closed you can feel Wanda’s gaze on you, a silent command for you to wait, keeping you just on the edge, right where she wants you.

Wanda leans closer, her lips ghosting over your ear, her breath warm against your skin. You shudder, barely able to hold on, her voice a soft, commanding whisper, ‘Beg for it.’

“Wanda,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with both desperation and longing. The way her name rolls off your tongue feels almost sacramental, a plea that resonates deep within you. You shift your weight, leaning slightly closer, as if the proximity could bridge the gap between your need and her control.“Please... I need—” You pause, swallowing hard, the heat pooling in your cheeks, shame and excitement mingling in a dizzying dance. “I need your permission.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, charged with vulnerability. You can feel the pulse of anticipation thrumming through your veins, your body alive with the struggle of restraint. You take a steadying breath, grounding yourself as your fingers twist into the fabric again, a subtle plea for her to grant you this one thing.

“Please let me...” The words falter for a moment, but you force them out, the urgency driving you forward. “I can’t hold back anymore. I want to let go... but I need you to say it.”

The sincerity in your voice is palpable, raw and real, and you can see the flicker of something in Wanda's eyes—a mixture of pride and hunger. You lean in slightly, tilting your head, your gaze unwavering as you lock eyes with her, silently urging her to make that connection, to pull you from the precipice you’re hanging on.

Wanda’s smile widens, a slow, deliberate curve of her lips that sends a thrill racing down your spine. “You’re doing so well,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry, teasing your senses. She leans in closer, her warm breath fanning across your skin, igniting every nerve ending in your body. “But you know what you have to do to earn that release, don’t you?” Her swift circles against your clit were becoming stronger, the continuous roll of her contact pushing you closer and closer to an edge that you thought you’d already reached.

Your heart pounds harder, each beat resonating with the anticipation of what’s to come. You nod, swallowing hard, the words hovering on the tip of your tongue, begging to escape. Wanda watches you, her eyes glimmering with a mixture of authority and desire, and in that moment, you know that she holds the power to grant you the freedom you crave.

“Say it,” she instructs, her tone firm yet inviting. “Tell me what you want.” 

The air is thick with tension, and your body betrays you, trembling with the weight of your desire. You take a breath, feeling every fibre of your being attuned to her, your vulnerability laid bare. “I want... I want to come,” you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper, tinged with desperation.

For a moment, she holds your gaze, the intensity of her stare igniting something primal within you. “Good girl,” she murmurs, her voice low and sultry. “I want you to let go, to feel everything I’ve been promising you. When I give you permission, you can release all that pent-up desire.”

You feel the flood of relief and exhilaration coursing through you, a wave of warmth washing over your body at her words. “Yes... please,” you urge, each syllable laced with a sense of urgency. “I need it, Wanda.”

With a slow, deliberate smile, she nods, her expression shifting to one of wicked delight. “Then go ahead, my sweet girl. You have my permission, cum for me.”

The moment the words leave her lips, a rush of sensation crashes over you like a wave, and you feel your body surrendering to the intoxicating pull of release. It’s everything you’ve been yearning for, and in that moment, the world fades away, leaving only the intoxicating pleasure that Wanda has granted you. Wanda continues circling your clit, helping you ride out the orgasm that you’d so desperately waited for. 

Once the pleasure has washed over you, all you can do is sit with Wanda standing between your legs, her brazen eyes beating down at you, her fingers still massaging into your thighs, sensing the sensitivity from your subtle squirms in response to her touch. 

“My god Wanda.” You say in utter astonishment at the woman's talent and it was her turn for her cheeks to grow slightly blushed at the praise, “I’ve never felt like that before, you’re incredible.”

“So you want this?” Wanda blushes, that dominating persona slowly breaking down at a few compliments. You mentally noted that down, knowing that it would come in useful at a later date. 

“I want nothing more than to do whatever this is with you.” You state honestly, your body still burning. You reach up to tuck her auburn hair behind her ear, the one strand that had been sat directly in front of her eyeline the entire evening. 

With that you exchanged numbers and you found yourself eagerly sitting waiting for the first text.

[internet-rat]

Illumi x wife!reader

Just a bit of fluff because my scary boy needs some love

No warnings~

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You had been sleeping when you felt silky hair graze your cheek. You opened your eyes and saw the pale figure stare down at you with his large dark eyes. To anyone else it would seem like a scene from a horror movie. A pale being with long dark hair hovering over someone who was sleeping. But you smiled, because you knew your husband was home from a contract. You reach your hand up and stroke his soft cheek.

Illumi's large, unblinking eyes continued to bore into yours, yet no hint of malice or aggression tainted his gaze. It was almost as if he could see into the very depths of your soul, understanding every nuance of your being. His stoic visage didn't change at your touch, yet the slightest softening around his eyes might indicate that he welcomed it, appreciated it even.

"Missed me?" Illumi's voice was a quiet murmur, the words a velvet whisper against the silent backdrop of the night. It was difficult to tell if the question was rhetorical or if he was genuinely curious about your feelings.

His hand, slender and almost ghostly pale, reached up to where your hand caressed his cheek. His fingertips brushed against yours, a surprisingly gentle touch from someone so skilled in the art of killing. He seemed to contemplate your hand for a moment before bringing it to his lips, pressing a chill kiss to the back of your palm, his eyes never leaving yours.

His soft kiss sends the good kind of chills through your body. He was strange, your husband. It was like he was more like a creature than a human. He was the kind of person who would dig a hole in the ground to sleep in if he needed rest on a mission. He could use his needles to turn people into puppets, and he could use needles to transform his appearance too. He was unnerving and uncanny, but you loved him for it.

"Of course I missed you... I always do when you are gone," you softly reply. It was the truth too. You did always miss him.

"I see," Illumi responded, his voice maintaining that same monotone yet carrying an almost unseen layer of warmth within its timbre. The idea that you missed him seemed to lodge itself in his mind, a concept both foreign and intriguing.

He slowly withdrew his hand from yours, his touch lingering like a ghost as he moved. Then, with movements that were methodical and deliberate, he allowed his long body to hover just above yours as if he was cautious not to disturb you more than he already had.

His inky black hair, a stark contrast to the softness of the pillow and the pale moonlight spilling into the room, fanned out as he lowered his head closer to yours. "When I am gone, do you think of me?" he questioned, the pupils of his eyes swallowing the irises, making them seem like endless pits of curiosity.

As he asked the question, his hand moved to rest against your cheek, almost as though he was memorizing the feel of your skin against his own. His closeness was both intimidating and intimate, a duality that only Illumi could embody so perfectly. "Because when I am away, completing contracts... I think of this. Of returning to you." The notion seemed to please him, a sliver of satisfaction hidden beneath layers of his enigmatic facade.

His gaze remained locked with yours, as if trying to see beyond the physical, to understand the essence of the emotion you had expressed. It was a silent exchange, one where words were cumbersome compared to the volumes spoken in the silence.

You could not help but to blush and smile at how sweet he was being. "I think of you all the time when you are away, and when you return to me it makes me so very happy," you reply earnestly.

The faintest trace of a smile seemed to threaten the corners of Illumi's stoic mouth at your words, though it never fully manifested. His expression remained an almost impassive mask, yet there was a subtle change in his eyes – the black pools that might have been cold in another context now appeared deep and contemplative, as if your happiness had become a puzzle he yearned to solve.

"Happy..." he echoed your word, as if tasting it on his lips, considering its meaning. His hand shifted, the long fingers threading through your blonde locks, a faint sense of wonder lacing his movements as he explored the silky texture of your hair. "Your happiness is... important. I understand that now."

He leaned in closer, his face hovering just inches from yours, the cool breath from his words brushing against your skin. "I will continue to return to you. Each mission, each assignment... they are but interludes. You are where my path concludes."

Illumi's gaze bore into yours, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed as though he was peeling back the layers of his calculated exterior to reveal a glimpse of something raw, something undeniably human. "I am not skilled in expressiveness, but know that your presence... it anchors me."

And with that rare admission, Illumi's lips found your forehead in a tender kiss, an action devoid of any nefarious intent, simple yet profound in its sincerity. It was clear that, in his own way, the assassin who could manipulate others so easily was, in turn, wholly affected by your mere existence.

[helenanell]

A Breath Of Life || Part Two

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 Part One 

Pairing(s) :  Reader x Art – Reader x Tashi - Reader x Art x Tashi

CW: MDNI - Smut. Infidelity (kind of?). So much love and lust. ANGST. Manipulative behaviour. 

Notes: Fem!Reader, No use of y/n. This is really just me exploring my own bisexual panic some more.  Spoilers for the film.

Wordcount: 4.2K

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The moment you won the match that sealed your victory at Wimbledon,  the applause was rapturous.

And yet, Tashi’s triumphant shout was louder to you than hundreds of clapping hands. 

The sound of her celebration became yours, and when you let out a yell of your own, your racket falling from your hands, you became one with her. 

After that, her eyes did not leave you. You didn’t look but you knew it to be true, just as you knew the sun was shining onto your shimmering skin; Tashi was an incomprehensible being bearing down on you. 

When you lifted the Venus Rosewater Dish above your head–the silver trophy given to the women’s single’s winner–your smile was beatific. Not because of the rush of adrenalin, or the way your spirit had been buoyed by finally achieving what you knew you could, but feared you wouldn’t, but because you knew that in your victory Tashi had found her own. 

It had taken over a decade, but together you’d realised your dream. 

You knew deep down that you could have made it without her, but it would have been tasteless; a honeyed feast turning to ash in your mouth.

Achieving the title with Tashi by your side had turned everything technicolour. All of your senses were heightened and your sense of self revitalised. 

You lived for tennis and Tashi had helped that life become something glorious. 

When you stepped off the court it felt like a kind of conquest: your domain now stretched beyond the white lines that had so far confined you. You had taken more than a trophy, you had stolen space in people’s consciousness.

 You would not fade into the annals of time because your name had been recorded- it was to be engraved in metal which would be buffed into an unmissable shine. 

Even as you stepped into the plush locker room, you knew the winning moment was already being replayed and analysed. It made you smile to think that as commentators noted your form, they were publicly voicing the effects of Tashi’s coaching on you, to the entire world. 

You felt burned by her, but not as if she had branded you, rather that she had subjected you to such heat, that the very makeup of your body had been altered. 

Now, you're sitting on the wooden bench in the locker room with your head hanging low, sweat still dripping from your face when the door opens. 

You shoot to your feet, your beleaguered body screaming at you to slow down.

When you turn, you find Art standing in front of the now closed door. 

The sight of him takes away your breath. 

He is here too. 

In your greatest moment of euphoria, when you’ve never felt more tangible–more real–you get to be near him. Suddenly, all of the time that had passed between you didn’t matter.

He's with you now. 

Art leans back against the door, hands going into the pockets of his immaculate navy pants. A matching blazer that has been left unbuttoned stretches across his muscled torso, his sunglasses hanging from the neck of his white shirt. 

His cropped blonde hair is messy enough that you know he's been running his hands through it; with anxiety and elation he’d been dragging fingers through the blonde locks as he watched you play.  

Art has become something beyond handsome to you. Retiring has returned his vitality and it has been a stunning metamorphosis to witness. 

But it's change you’ve made yourself witness from a distance. The two of you have not been in a room alone together since he’d hidden in your bathroom as Tashi had convinced you to let her become your coach. 

For the first few months, things had felt far too fragile to acknowledge what had happened between the two of you. You and Art had come to a silent understanding that you needed the time to build back up a foundation with Tashi. 

If you were to remain in each other's lives, you needed solid ground.

But you had just won Wimbledon. You had just given Tashi a victory. Did either of you have the fortitude to go on denying yourselves? 

It has been a solid minute since Art entered the room and neither of you have shifted so much as an inch.

You’re fixed on the spot, watching him as he drinks you in. His gaze is laying possessive claim to your body, noting all the places the white vest and skort are clinging to your sweat-slicked curves. 

But it is when his eyes settle on your face, that a sort of peace soothes his expression.

“You were amazing.”

You can’t help but smirk, allowing yourself to feel cocky for once. “Of course I was, I won.” 

Art’s cheeks dimple with the strength of his grin.

“It’s not about the win. It’s how you moved when you played- like you could bend the whole world to your will. It was so beautiful. And you…” He pushes off the door and walks right up to you, chests almost brushing as he nudges your chin up with his finger. “You are so, so stunning.”

As he leans in, even though you don’t try to stop him, words of weak protest pour out of you.

“Art we shouldn’t. Not here-“

He cuts you off with a taunting kiss, his tongue trying to prize your lips open as his arm wraps around you.

His hand shifts up the sweaty material of your vest and lays his palm flat against the heated flesh of your lower back, all while his other hand trails up your outer thigh and beneath your skort to grab your ass.

You lean into him, hands wrapping around his neck and only when he draws back to kiss his way along your jaw, do you have a chance to speak again.

“Art, Tashi will be here soon. If she sees-“ 

“She won’t care.” 

Your brow furrows, but the confusion isn’t enough for you to stop his lips moving over your neck. “What?” 

As Art answers, his hand leaves your rear to dip beneath the waistband of your skort. You shiver as the pads of his fingers tickle all the way down, toying with the top of your underwear.

“You are all Tashi sees now.” Art clarifies, proceeding to nip at your exposed shoulder with his teeth. “You’re her everything. She could walk in on us right now and it wouldn’t change a thing.”

That gives you pause, indignation spiking at his easy dismal of Tashi.

You pull away from Art and he groans quietly but lets you go, his expression remaining completely content. 

“How can you say that?” You ask, growing irritable even as you let him take your hand in his.

“Because you’re everything that I couldn’t be for her.” He says. 

You sigh exasperatedly. “What does that mean, Art?” 

You don’t know why you’re asking, as you’re certain you already know the truth of it.

Art smiles, his other hand lifting to smooth a few sweat slicked strands off of your forehead. When he’s finished, his fingers settle with running over your cheekbone.

“It means…that you are all of her dreams realised. She resented me because every time I played, no matter how well, she knew it was nowhere near as important to me as it would have been to her had she never been injured. She hated me for not wanting it more….but, you have enough passion for tennis to play for the both of you. I never had that much to draw from. So, as long as you keep winning like you just did, she’ll love you. She’ll love you because you’re doing her justice.” 

After giving that insight that rang so true it almost hurts your ears with its incessant clamouring, Art leans in to kiss you again. You place a hand on his chest, gently pushing him back. 

“You felt like you were playing for her and it made you miserable.” You argue, hurt by the thought that his behaviour towards you is just rooted in gratitude that you have lifted the burden off of his shoulders. 

“It was different for me.” He answers simply. “I was miserable because I knew none of what I did was enough. I was still failing her. Tashi wants to watch great tennis and I didn’t give her that. You will. You are giving her that.” 

The way Art was speaking was producing within you a burgeoning unease; he was steady and assured, like he’d spent a long time thinking about this. And there was an undeniable undercurrent of pleasure to his speech.

A large part of Art was elated that the burden had been shifted onto you. 

But could you really hold that against him? You had seen how he was bending and breaking under the weight, it was why you’d told him to retire.

It was now your job to keep Tashi’s heart beating, you had known that the moment you’d agreed to let you coach her. That had been your choice and one freely made. 

So Art was right, you had to keep winning and you had to do so spectacularly. 

This was not a fresh revelation of course, but the possibility that Tashi wanting you close to her was entirely contingent on tennis, began to terrify you.

 You estimated you had a good five years left before you’d likely be forced to retire, but then what would become of you? Would Tashi even care to have you in her life after that? You were not bound to her like she was to Art by their daughter.

As if he can feel how your mind is whirring through the skin of your cheek, Art tips up your chin again and claims your mouth for another kiss. 

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing. 

“When I think about all that you are, tennis doesn’t even register.” He says sincerely, placing a sweet peck to your lips.

You cherish his touch and ach for more, but it isn’t quelling the panic ripping into your insides like wind whipping up in preparation to become a storm.

“Art, I can’t- I need to tell Tashi what happened with us.” 

No anger or irritation appears on his face at your blurted words, but his other hand falls onto your back so he can pull you closer and you can tell he’s definitely upset about something. 

“What happened?” He rasps. “You’re placing what we have in the past tense. Is it not still happening” His fingers press into your skin proprietorially. 

“I can’t lose her, Art. But I also can’t lose you.” 

“Then tell her.” He says,  bringing your hand to his lips and kissing it. 

“You’re agreeing just like that? It’ll ruin your marriage.” 

His lip tugs up in the beginning of a bitter smile. “Tell her. It won’t change how she sees you.” he affirms “Then you should ask her about Patrick.”

You barely have time to process his implication when the door opens.

 The two of you pull apart as Tashi’s head pops in. She looks entirely unbothered as her eyes glance off her husband before settling squarely on you.

“Get in the shower, we’ve got to get moving.” 

And just like that she’s gone again.

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“Do you need him?” 

Tashi’s question catches you off guard.

You’ve both been sitting in silence- her nursing a glass of wine and you with herbal tea as you both look out across the London skyline. Lights of skyscrapers are strung out across the black like fairy lights. 

You know who she’s talking about, but you’re terrified to acknowledge it.

You stop yourself from giving into the instinct to peer back through the open sliding door and into the hotel room where Art is watching TV. 

“In what way?” You ask, fiddling with the handle of your mug, still looking forward. 

Tashi huffs, putting her glass down and then turning to you, kneeling beside you on the outdoor couch. She takes the mug out of your hand, setting it on the nearby table before curling her fingers around your chin and forcing you to meet her unflinching stare. 

“Will Art improve your game or will he wreck it?” She sees your eyes widen and shushes you, stymying the words that had been gathering on your tongue. “This isn’t about me. I’m your coach, so I need to know that you’re going to keep giving this your all.” 

“I will.” You nod furiously, still held in her grip.

Tashi’s eyes flicker down your lips before finding your eyes again. Her hair is loose and being blown into your face. 

“I need you to tell me that if he’s watching you in the stands, that you won’t choke.” She says. “What the two of you have needs to light a fire in you, or it fucking dies. Do you understand me?” 

“I won’t choke.” You insist, your tone hard.

Her full lips press into a pleased line. “So are you going to keep dominating?” 

Slightly breathless, your eyes fall to where your fingers have been absentmindedly brushing her knee. You let your digits outstretch and as your eyes return to Tashi’s, you tentatively run them over her scar. You feel her shiver. 

“I’m going to keep dominating.” 

You both go still, and just as the corner of her mouth tugs up, she’s leaning in. You inhale a sharp breath as her lips just skim yours. She holds there, not pressing any further. 

When Tashi speaks, you feel her lips form the words against your own. “Then you do whatever it takes.” 

You truly couldn’t say which of you closes the distance, it feels more like an external, undeniable force driving the two of you to converge.

 When Tashi begins to move her lips against yours, her hand cradles the back of your head, twisting into your hair and pulling. You can’t help but let out a soft moan into her mouth, a hand landing on her waist and digging into the thin fabric of her silk shift.

Tashi draws back first, her hot breaths on your face as she presses two fingers to your throbbing lips. 

The question that comes out of your mouth has no malice or jealousy behind it, just an aching curiosity: you want to know her completely, in the way that you used to, and Art’s words from the locker room told you there was something you don’t know. 

“Tashi, what happened between you and Patrick?” 

She doesn’t rear back, she doesn’t slap you like she might have, she just lets out a slow almost contented breath.  

“I slept with him.” She admits calmly. “A few years ago in Atlanta, and the night before the Challenger match against Art.” 

All at once the visceral passion of that match makes so much more sense and even though you’re aware how twisted it is, you laugh. 

“You forced them to have the best match of their lives.” You say, your tone warring between disbelief and awe. 

Tashi answers with another brief, but ardent kiss to your lips, before she’s rising to her feet, her demeanour steady. Her expression is already returning to the stern set of your coach. 

“You need to get to bed. It’s a busy day tomorrow. Your physiotherapist is here at eight am. Nutritionist at eight-thirty.” 

You nod in agreement, lips still tingling as you rise to your feet. 

The night breeze stirs your hair and the thin fabric of your robe. Only when you turn do you see Art leaning in the doorway, his arms crossed against his chest, the fabric of his grey shirt strained against his muscles. 

When you meet his gaze he smiles so fondly that, combined with the residual heat of Tashi’s contact, you’re set ablaze. 

Right now you have both of them.

“Stay here with us.” Tashi asserts, running a hand over Art’s arm as she passes him to head inside the room.

“No need for you to go wandering down the hall in your nightgown again.” Art continues, the corner of his lips lifting as he holds a hand out to you.

You take it, letting him draw you inside. 

When the two of you reach the massive Queen bed, Art pulls back the sheets and you crawl happily into the middle of the mattress. 

All at once your exhaustion hits you, the softness cradling your aching form both lulling you into drowsiness and making your limbs remember each strained movement of the day.  

Your eyes fall shut, so you’re not sure who it is who causes the bed to dip, but you lean into the warmth irregardless. 

Art’s toned arm wraps around your torso as he draws the back of your body to be flush with his front.  He’s already pulling hair away from your neck and laying lingering kisses there, when movement in front of you causes your eyes to flutter open. 

Tashi’s standing in the bathroom doorway opposite you, her form backlit by the warm light as she finishes rubbing lotion to her arms.

 She watches Art holding you and she notes how he’s kissing you, a frenetic vibrancy takes over her expression. 

You hold her gaze as she switches the bathroom light and walks over. When she crawls under the covers, one of Art’s hands is moving past the neckline of your robe, his thumb running over your nipple. 

You sigh, your head falling back against Art’s chest, but your hand is moving forward across the mattress, searching for Tashi. 

It’s such a terrible idea-  an act that will join you all in another irrevocable way, but you have to have it. You have to have them. 

If you’re going to play tennis with Tashi as your coach and Art still in her life…you can’t choose. You can’t separate yourself from either of them. 

Your hand makes contact with Tashi’s as she lays herself right in front of you. She intertwines your fingers and leans down to kiss your chest, her lips skimming your collarbones. 

Art draws his hand away from your breast and his touch travels down your body, between your legs. 

You moan as Tashi’s mouth explores your chest, her tongue brushing over the swell of your breasts all while Art is pressing his knees between yours from behind. Now more open to him, he bunches your robe in his hand and rucks it up until it’s gathered at your waist. He pulls down your underwear.

When Art’s fingers begin to tease your centre, your gasp is lost as Tashi covers her mouth with yours, her free hand threading into your hair. 

Between the two of them, you find security in the ecstasy they draw out of you. Your entire body is flushed and sweating, cheeks red and chest heaving.

You’re beyond overwhelmed, but you try to savour every small touch and shift of their bodies.

Mostly you’re trying to remember the sensation of Tashi, because you have a feeling this may never happen again with her: even in your addled mind as Art begins to roll his hips, a finger pressing inside you, you’re aware that for Tashi this could simply be a form of motivation. You know that if she thought you needed this now, in order to keep playing the way you had today, then she’d do it without question. She’s motivating you.

 But is that all this is for her? It certainly means a lot more to you.

Tashi was the first woman you had been attracted to, the first person to make you question the limited nature of your desires as a young woman. And then she’d been your best friend, you’d loved and wanted her…and then you’d lost her. 

You both knew this wasn’t a sustainable dynamic, it would likely never be repeated, but for now you would savour being desired by the woman who had awoken yours so long ago. 

Right as Art presses another finger into you, plunging them the two in almost lazily, as if he has all the time in the world, he whispers in your ear: 

“Are you okay?” 

Tashi is still kissing you, but draws back when she hears the question, her lips plump and glistening. She’s giving you the chance to answer, you realise. 

The glorious tightness inside you worsens, friction growing as they stop touching you. 

“Yes.” You whine impatiently.

Art chuckles into your neck as you grab his wrist and guide him back into you, his fingers curling inside your warmth. 

But Tashi’s lips don’t return to yours, instead she leans down and presses them to your forehead before she’s crawling out of the bed.

You’re not worried by her retreat because you’ve always been able to read her face. As she backs away, your orgasm drawing closer as Art fucks into you with his fingers, you see that she isn’t regretting anything. In fact, she’s pleased. Not necessarily with what’s happening in front of her, but because Art–someone she has loved and still loves in her own way–can give you the intimacy she can’t quite bring herself to. 

You play tennis for Tashi and Art loves you for both of them. You think you can live with that.

 Even though you know you could, you don’t begrudge Tashi for any of it. She’s given you this. She’s given you Art and in as much as she can, she’s given you herself. 

As she slips out of the room, no doubt to go to her Mother’s suite and to her daughter, you are entirely content. 

Once you’re alone, you buck up into Art’s hand, your ass grinding against his hardness. He groans deeply against your neck and you almost cry out in protest as he pulls his fingers from right when you’re so close to release. 

But you are not left bereft of him for long. His arm moves beneath you, bracketing your chest with his hand and settling with a soft grip against your throat. He pushes down his pyjama pants.

It’s all too much when he begins to tease his hardness against your core. 

“Art. Now.” You reach down and dig your nails into his now bare thigh with force. 

As his grip on your throat tightens ever so slightly, Art complies and pushes himself into you from behind. He sounds drunk as he whispers into your hair:

“This will never be enough.” He thrusts into you with sweet slowness, letting you feel every tiny thing. “I’ll never have enough of you.” 

So lost in the pressure of him moving inside you that you’re alienated from your capacity for speech, you can’t find the language to tell him how this feels for you; you can’t tell him how much it means. 

Then he speaks again, his movements becoming more forceful: “I’ll never have all of you will I?”

You whimper as his hand that’s not on your neck dives between your legs, adding pressure with his fingers even as he fucks you.

“You do have all of me.” You answer raggedly, relinquishing free movement entirely as he cradles your body so restrictively.

He’s like a snake, tingling around your form before consuming your entire being.

“Tell me it wouldn’t change anything if it was just us.” Art begs, his breath catching in his throat and body shaking. “Tell me I’d be enough for you.” 

He thrusts again and you almost break with your shuddering release. You don’t try to remain quiet, crying out into the night. Art continues to move in you, desperate in more ways than one. 

“I can’t Art.” You admit, tears of pleasure and a sweet sort of pain gathering in your eyes. “I can’t tell you that. We need- we need them. B-both of them.” You stutter out, relinquishing yourself to your euphoria. 

Them. Them being Tashi and Patrick.

 You don’t understand Art without either of them. You don’t understand yourself without them. 

Everything was in relation to them, even the sex you and Art are having right now isn’t just about the two of you. And you both know it.

An indecipherable noise comes from Art as he pulls out of you, and in a blink, he’s rolled you onto your back and is pressing himself into you again.

His pace becomes rapid as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, hips snapping against yours.

You wrap your legs around him, driving him deeper as his body begins to tremble.

When Art comes apart, draping himself over you as he gathers himself, a tear of utter confusion rolls down your cheek and falls into his hair. 

Whatever comes next, at least you know you’ll never be alone. Art is a part of you. Tashi and Patrick are part of you. 

Without each other, there is no survival.

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

This is probably small in the grand scheme of things, but how did Emilie being noble play any impact in the story at all?

I mean, I'd get it if it was just a small detail to help deepen Emilie's character, but why nobility of all things? I don't know, from what I'm seeing so far, the whole "Emilie renounced her noble title" shtick just feels worthless if it's not going to impact the story or add depth to Emilie's character (like maybe upbringing or personal values?).

I don't know. Like everything else, the noble part just feels shallow and means nothing to the story, especially for a character like Emilie, who is the plot device for the whole show. Any detail about her, like her personality and life story, is supposed to influence the story and characters one way or another, namely Hawkmoth since she's his driving force.

So what was the point?

For context, this ask is about Félix's play which says that Emilie gave up her title to be with Gabriel. I'm gonna give a slightly larger section of the transcript of the play for full context, but the relevant but is at the end of the last paragraph:

Félix: The king and queen's twins grew up, each day as different in heart as they were similar in body. The firstborn, curious and brazen, despised life at court and escaped at every opportunity. The younger daughter, well-behaved and respectful, did everything she could to please her parents, and stayed quietly in the castle. Félix: (as Mr. Graham de Vanily) Oh, my queen. Did we entrust our legacy to the right princess? Kagami: (as Mrs. Graham de Vanily) She will fall in line, eventually. Félix: Confident that she would settle down as she matured, the king and queen allowed the curious princess to leave to study beyond the sea in another kingdom. There, she immediately found true love in a humble tailor. Félix: The tailor was making clothes so magnificent that they revealed the beauty of the soul of anyone who wore them. Although it made her parents furious, the curious princess gave up her rank, her wealth and her kingdom to live a bohemian life with the tailor.

Story wise, I have no idea why any of this was added since it adds nothing to canon. It's not like this finally explains why Gabriel and Emilie are poor while Amelie is wealthy. Along similar lines, it's not like Amelie's title has ever mattered. Prior to this play, I don't think that we even knew that she had a title or that she was the younger sister. The play is all about explaining things that we never had reasons to question in the first place.

My best guess as to why the writers wrote this pointless backstory is that they wanted to make Emilie seem even more pure and perfect so they went with the tired old trope of a rich girl giving up material things for the sake of love and art because good pure women don't care about material things! Only nasty, shallow women care about money. (Way to play into sexist tropes, guys.)

There may also be cultural elements at play here given that France doesn't have the greatest history with nobility, so giving up a noble title may be seen as good and pure to a French writer, but I don't know enough about French culture to say that with any certainty. If anyone who reads this blog is French and would like to chime in, then feel free!

While we're on the topic of the play, I wanted to point out that the above quoted passage is why I say that the Graham de Vanily parents can be as kind or as abusive as you'd like to make them. It's incredibly vague and you can read into it whatever you want to read into it. Were they good loving parents who were just upset about their daughter living in poverty or were they miserable controlling classist who Emilie fled England to get away from? It's up to you because you can get both reads from this. The play commits to almost nothing of value. Politicians could take lessons from this impressive level of noncommittal writing.

A better version of the play would have focused on things that actually matter to canon like the details of finding the miraculous and/or Emilie learning she's sick, but you could only have those details if they were coming from Nathalie or Gabriel. Félix is a terrible choice for a character to tell us the show's backstory because he knows so little of it, thus the play focusing on his largely pointless backstory.

[empty-movement]

Someday, Shine With Me...

It's Christmas Eve. It's 1997. You actually went to see the AWESOME Utena Musical over the weekend, and you have rewatched your VHS tape recordings of the last episode a dozen times.

You've been jamming out to Internal Clock, Municipal Orrery. You obtained a time machine to pour over episode commentaries by Ikuhara and Saito that cover the last three episodes. You've already stolen the script from be-Papas' office. You've even got a screencap gallery of it!

You've been watching along with some other internetizens, because forums are cool.

You've been staring at the insane art drop by Akemi Hayashi for this month's Animage Magazine:

You've been poring over the to-be-released creator commentary, transcribed by Vrai Kaiser, whose articles about Utena have been living rent free in your future head all year:

There are two meanings to the Japanese word utena. One is “the calyx of a flower.” That’s also the meaning of the title, of course. The thing that supports the beautiful petals; the one with the noble heart. And the other meaning of utena is “tall tower or pedestal.” We translated this into a visual: the tower at the center of Ohtori Academy, the one with the Chairman’s room on the top floor. And the dueling arena located deep in the woods is the same. In the early stages of production, when the story wasn’t firmly established yet, this was one of the aspects I most wanted to visualize and produce for the screen. A world where demons roam. In its center, a tower called the “Tower of Revolution.” Whosoever can remain victorious in his battles against the demons can reach the pinnacle of the Tower of Revolution, and at the same time receive the power to revolutionize the world; the power that changes the rules of the world. However, when he reaches the pinnacle, he learns the world’s governing laws. He faces the ultimate choice: will he stay nobly, beautifully powerless? Or will he accept ugliness into himself and gain absolute power? He desired both. Or rather, perhaps he couldn’t choose either. His mind in anguish, he divided himself in two. His “noble heart,” and the “adult with absolute power.” And so. With one last wish that the day would come when someone would awaken him, the “noble heart” that had lost its body, in other words the prince, fell into a deep sleep. Early on in the series’s conception, I kicked around the idea of placing something like the above at the heart of the story. Later, after several changes, it became the tale as you know it, but without a doubt, he did reach the pinnacle of the Tower of Revolution. It was a place where “eternity” dwelled. And “eternity” turned out to mean perpetual sleep. The prince (Akio) who became an adult while in perpetual sleep lost something. What he lost was “the power to create an enjoyable future.” Revolution means gaining “the power to imagine the future.” The prince chose to sleep on, and the princess chose to wake up. At the top of that tall tower, the princess bid farewell to the prince. No – she wasn’t the princess any longer. She quit being “a person (thing) ruled by someone.” The victory bells rang, but there was no “tower (rule)” beyond them now. She’d learned where freedom lay. She crossed the threshold of that “Door of Revolution” which had always been closed to her before, and began walking. The “girl’s revolution” lay in the girl’s future. “Wait for me…Utena.” The world (the stage) is free and wide.

You're not ready for Utena to end. Which is good, because it isn't going to. Not for you. Decades from now, Utena will still be here, speaking to you. Challenging you. Changing you.

[titan-god-helios]

hello all !!!

i'm happy to announce that i'll be doing commissions for palestine in the same way that lots of other creators have !! you donate the minimum amount detailed below to a palestinian fundraiser (either individual or an organisation like unrwa) for the type of art you want, provide proof of donation to me, and i'll draw for you !!

please note that the art will be limited to bust shots of characters, as i am pricing it lower than i would a regular commission to ensure as many people as possible are able to donate for some art.

if you aren't able to donate the minimum amounts i've listed under my art after the "keep reading", you're free to donate however much you want, still providing proof of donation to me, and i can doodle something for you (same detail as the little guy in the image above).

if you can't donate, please reblog this post !!! it would help lots :3

WHAT I WILL DRAW: - furries - artistic nudity (nothing sexual however. i am a minor. keep that in mind please) - slight gore - fanart - pretty much anything apart from what i won't draw tbh

WHAT I WON'T DRAW: - mecha - backgrounds beyond geometric shapes and colours - sexual nsfw or very gory art - guns (unless provided with a reference of what you want) - actual animals

please note that i reserve all rights to post and share any art i make, although commissioners of that art will not be named if i post the piece.

again, note that the donations must be made and proved before i start work on the art. for pieces where i keep some of the proceeds (explained below the keep reading), half of the overall payment must be given upfront before i start work.

for pieces with lineart and colours i will send progress pictures of the sketches to you for approval, or to make any changes necessary, before i move forward with the piece.

i will not accept any commissions with a deadline of less than a month (for bigger pieces with either lineart, colours and shading or more than one character, i will need at least a period of 2 months due to schoolwork and other commitments of mine taking up time), i will accept a maximum of 5 commissions per month, and i reserve the right to refuse commissions if i am not comfortable with completing them.

rough sketch - £10

lineart - £15

lineart and flat colours - £25

---

if you want a piece with more detail or that is full body, i will be keeping part of the proceeds, but will still donate half of the overall payment to a palestinian fundraiser, which i will provide proof of for you. my prices for these are:

rough sketch (same quality as the sketches above, albeit full body and/or with two characters) - £20

lineart (again with full body and/or two characters) - £30

lineart and flat colours (full body and/or two characters) - £50

lineart, coloured WITH shading (full body, one character (examples below) - £70

please note that for every character added after what is specified above, £15 will be added to the base price.

i'll have my commission slot status in my bio !!

have a lovely day, free palestine !!!!!

[tansyuduri]

Art by @kairennart for "Coronet and Witch Iron" Based on the Wheel of Fortune Tarrot Card

Arthur had barely opened his eyes the next morning when he heard Cenred’s voice calling, “It's time to do some experiments with Witch Iron!” 

Cenred came into view beyond the gate to their cell, a wide grin on his face.

Arthur stood slowly trying to ignore the aching pain in his body and the swollen painful eye. He crossed their small cell towards Cenred, a scowl on his face. Then a voice came from behind him, “You’re going to pay for how you hurt him.” Arthur tried to gesture for Merlin to shut up. He should have known better.

Merlin stepped forward instead. “Does hurting us make you feel like a powerful king?” he asked, scathingly. “Ooh wait! A powerful king wouldn’t need to do this. You are nothing but a pathetic excuse for a leader. Let alone a person. How does it feel to be so weak that you have to result to being a childlike bully to feel good?”

Arthur swore internally and grabbed Merlin's shoulder pulling him back. Merlin agitating Cenred was not surprising but after what he had said last night Arthur had hopped for a bit more restraint. Then he realized Merlin might be doing this on purpose in some sort of stupid self sacrificial attempt to make Cenred focus on him. But this was also Merlin. He couldn't be sure he could just be saying whatever he felt like. 

Cenred leered at them. His tone was not angry… more almost joyful. “You really are remarkably annoying. I will be entertained by shutting you up.”

Arthur stepped forward again ready to fight when the cell door opened.

“Arthur!” Merlin's word of warning and then coughing caught his attention. Arthur turned only for orange gas to hit his face. It was coming out of a vent above them. Immediately Arthur’s eyes started to water. He began to cough. 

Arthur dived, grabbing Merlin and tackling him to the ground amongst flailing limbs. Pure instinct drove him to try to protect. It would not be enough. That was Arthur's last coherent thought before he fell into darkness.

Read it here!

[obae-me]

I have been asked to expand on the MC with trauma scenarios, and you know what, I need the comfort, so let's do it! (No these are not based on myself, I don't know what you're talking about....)

Also I've seen a ton of people's responses to the last one and just know that I am spiritually patting you all on the head and wrapping a soft blanket around your shoulders.

--

MC with ~Trauma~ PT 2!

Imagine an MC who has been mocked, berated, or criticized for their joys and hobbies. They don't do those things anymore or go to great lengths to hide them.

They never share their writing or their art with anyone. They are surrounded by demons and angels much more talented than them. The thing that they felt they were moderately talented in is below average compared to these beings... Everything they create is hidden in secret digital folders or kept in notebooks under their mattress or tucked in secret spots on their bookshelves.

They never sing or dance or play their instruments. They almost avoid the music room altogether. It's almost too painful for them to think about. If they attend a dance they just stand off to the sides... They don't participate in karaoke. They don't hum to their favorite songs.

They hardly cook, or garden, or read, or edit, or color, or knit, or crochet, or embroider, or anything else that they might enjoy.

Imagine some of the nosier brothers not realizing the pain that hides behind their passions and either playfully spying on them or digging up their secrets. Their hearts are fully destroyed when their human breaks down in tears. Now, every single day, every character encourages them to do what they love and giving them private time and space to do it in a place where they feel safe. They all hope that maybe one day MC will feel comfortable enough to share what they love with them but they will never pry it out of them, and all the while giving them the support they need behind the curtain.

Imagine Satan, Levi, and Mammon grouping together and creating a PowerPoint presentation. With Satan's organizing skills, Levi's technological know-how, and Mammon's morally grey skills of espionage, they gather all the characters together and teach a class on what to do and not to do around MC. Things like having a clear voice in text messages to keep them from having anxiety. Or not slamming doors, not entering their room without knocking, reminding them to drink water, knowing when to give them time to breathe etc. Everyone takes it seriously (some might say too seriously), including Belphie who didn't even sleep for a second during the whole thing.

What about an MC who takes on too much and never says anything about it? At first, Lucifer, Barbatos, and to a lesser degree Diavolo, are pleased that they've found a human with a strong work ethic and a love for responsibility. Little do they know that while part of that might be true, they are doing it because they are non-confrontational, a people pleaser, or try to prove their worth through success (or all of the above). They burn themselves out and forgo their other needs to conserve all their energy for the work that's been given to them, and it's not until it becomes a serious health issue that anyone really notices. They all take a blow when they come to know how much they had been pushing a human beyond their capabilities. So they tell MC to do less, not expecting the human to try and convince them that it wasn't an issue, maybe even apologizing for failing. Now they all have to keep an eye on MC and make sure they don't take things too far, and make sure that MC knows that their worth isn't tied to how much gets done in a day and they don't think of them any less for taking breaks or time for themselves. And maybe they all learn to take care of themselves a little more for it too. Especially one work-a-holic demon known as Pride.

How about an MC that hates the way they look? No matter what that might be. Body size, shape, height, skin-tone, skin-color, scars, blemishes, freckles, etc. What if it was drilled into their head since they were a child that they were not beautiful? What if they can't look into the mirror or take any photos of themselves without feeling sick? How about being around a demon like Asmo? Maybe resenting him, maybe avoiding him, maybe wishing they were like him. It probably would hurt Asmo to see someone hating themselves and their body so intently. Maybe it's because it reminds him of himself. Maybe they both have to sit down and rethink what beauty really means? It's a long process for both of them.

All of them work with the human with their image and not in a shallow way like trying to deny the things they have and who they are. They find ways around pictures, because there are more ways to keep memories rather than selfies and commemorative photos.

Or what if:

Beel: *In MC's room.* Alright, we'll just do some basic stretches.

MC: Okay, just tell me what to do.

Beel: Well, if you want, you can put on some music to make it more relaxing.

MC: Music? *Looks a little nervous.* If you want...

*MC then turns some music on their phone on the lowest setting and sets it on their bed.*

Beel: Um...you can turn it up more than that if you want.

MC: Louder? Really?

Beel: Don't you think it's a little quiet?

MC: Oh...um...okay... *turns it up by one more click.* Is- Is that okay? I can turn it down again.

Beel: *Opens his mouth, confused for a moment before shutting it again. In the quickest second, he's in his demon form.* Who do I need to find?

MC: B-Beel?!

[doumadono]

Genshin men in heat - headcanons

Warnings: fem!reader, smut A/N: this little thing was written for my one and only @crystalwolfblog

GENSHIN IMPACT MASTERLIST

Zhongli

During his heat, Zhongli becomes especially attentive to you, showering you with affectionate gestures and heartfelt compliments.

Zhongli has a particular fondness for handholding, finding comfort and solace in the simple yet profound act of physical connection.

During moments of intimacy, Zhongli shows a fondness for traditional Liyuean music, creating a soothing atmosphere that enhances the connection between him and you.

Zhongli takes delight in exploring sensory experiences, introducing scented oils and candles during intimate moments to heighten the atmosphere; he loves giving you a back massage when he's slowly fucking your pussy doggy style with your body pressed into the mattress.

He reigns supreme when it comes to overstimulation. Simple as that.

He's about to eat your pussy out to the point where your clit is swollen and too sensitive, leaving you desperately attempting to guide his head away, but his firm grip ensures your hands remain under his control. "No chance, babygirl. Let me savor every bit of this delicious feast."

He'll ever so delicately give your ass a playful smack while fucking you from behind, skillfully massaging the soft fat of your buttocks after.

"In the vastness of Liyue, you are my most precious treasure."

Neuvilette

Neuvilette's heat brings out his gentle side. He becomes more verbally expressive, whispering sweet nothings and words of comfort.

His playfulness peaks, and he engages in lighthearted activities to lift the mood and make you smile.

He expresses his love through touch, with a preference for soft caresses and gentle kisses, creating a tender, nurturing atmosphere.

Neuvilette enjoys intertwining fingers during moments of intimacy, when his cock is buried deep in your pussy.

He takes pleasure in exploring your sex, using either his skilled tongue or fingers. Whatever brings you joy is exactly what he's focused on doing.

The Iudex revels in the sensation of you mounting him in his alcove. In this intimate space, he willingly relinquishes control, viewing it as a welcome escape from his daily duties. With a firm grip on your hips, he skillfully guides their movement, his gaze irresistibly drawn to the smooth rhythm of your breasts gently bouncing as you ride his cock, moaning his name.

"In your arms, I've found a sanctuary where I can be myself without fear or judgment."

Wriothesley

Despite his usual reserved demeanor, Wriothesley becomes more openly affectionate during his heat, craving physical closeness.

He expresses his emotions through carefully chosen words and actions, making sure you know you're cherished.

Wriothesley enjoys quiet evenings, reading poetry or sharing stories, creating a deeper emotional connection with his loved one.

In his alcove, Wriothesley turns into a fierce lover - he's determined to ensure your pleasure doesn't stop at just one or two climaxes, but unfolds in a series of multiple peaks.

He excels in the art of overstimulation, akin to Zhongli's expertise. He's committed to going above and beyond your limits to elicit involuntary tremors in your legs when he's fucking your cunny.

"Your lips hold the poetry that words fail to express. Let our kisses write the verses of our love," amidst the forceful thrusts, he's about to murmur gently in your ear before kissing your lips passionately.

Wriothesley won't shy away from taking immense pleasure in finishing inside you, relishing the sight of your mixed essences as they gracefully ooze from your pussy and drip down on the sheets.

Itto

Itto's energetic personality during his heat translates into playful and adventurous dates, from spontaneous outings to exciting challenges.

He showers you with compliments.

Itto's protective instincts heighten, making him more attuned to your needs and ensuring your well-being above all else.

Itto's love language involves physical touch, and he finds joy in affectionate gestures, like playful nudges and warm embraces, to express his deep connection.

Itto has a knack for combining laughter and passion, creating an atmosphere where the boundaries between playfulness and intimacy blur; like when in the missionary position, he leans in to kiss you, and strands of his hair gracefully cascade into your mouth. You shake your head, attempting to free the strands, all the while sharing a laughter-filled exchange, finding joy in the unexpected yet amusing situation.

He has a preference for fast sex, and he'll fervently fuck himself in your pussy without reservation, rolling his head back at times.

He dearly enjoys when you give him head, and he's going to beg for it with fervor, like a desperate bitch. "Please, baby, I need your beautiful mouth around my dick."

"Oh shit, babygirl, you feel so good, fuck! It feels so good to be inside your tight pussy."

Itto is committed to exploring every conceivable position with you; he thrives on discovering new experiences and broadening his horizons.

[cripplecharacters]

I was wondering: I noticed that in art I almost always see limb stumps that are, for the lack of a better word, thick and with a rounded end. But observing amputees around me, what I noticed is that their stumps are more tapered, they also are often uneven instead of perfectly round, and the rest of the limb is often thinner as a result of less muscle mass.

Is this coincidental, or do you think stumps are represented in a way that is assumed to be more aesthetically pleasing to abled folk? How common is the "perfect round muscular stump" thing, if at all??

Hello!

As an artist that seeks out art of disabled characters, it's 100% trying to make the character look "less disabled and more pretty". It's usually not a conscious decision, most people just have pretty=good and disabled=ugly ingrained into them and don't think about it ever. Positive depictions of disabled people will do everything to portray them as conventionally attractive as possible, and there is no disability that is exempt from this.

This applies to everything. Most art showing disabled people will try to keep the disability to the absolute minimum - it's not coincidence that positive disabled characters have to be white, thin, young, if they use a prosthetic it has to be really cool and/or unrealistic, if they use a wheelchair it has to be a manual that has to be really cool and/or unrealistic, and they have to look as abled as possible; an abled model who just happened to be holding a cane is preferable since gait disorders are ugly. Good luck trying to find a drawing of a character using an ostomy bag, with congenital skeletal conditions, with severe spasticity, in one of these big powerchairs, I won't mention facial differences and how non-existent realistic representation of them is. Hell, it can be hard to find art of blind characters who aren't wearing blindfolds and eyepatches (since disabled body part ugly), let alone using an aid like a cane or a brailler (since that's Disability, and not just a quirky character trait).

With stumps, it's the same thing. Most often you don't see them, since they are Clearly Disabled. Usually they're behind a cool prosthetic that's called something else (cyborg bionic automail whatever...) that sounds less disabled. If they aren't, they're probably bandaged, since they are Surely Scary. If they aren't that, they will be perfectly round, scarless (or with that big "starburst" type scar for some reason), symmetrical to other limb, and essentially look like you just erased the rest of a model's leg or arm.

Again, I don't think this is done on purpose, I think artists just don't think enough about how they choose to portray minorities. No one is researching anything, everything is a game of telephone from how someone else draws it, who cares that that person didn't bother to check anything either.

[Disclaimer that we don't have amputee mods]

How common is the "perfect round muscular stump" thing?

Not very common, but someone with a disarticulation (much more rare than through-bone) will have their muscles still attached to something and thus may not have the kind of tissue atrophy like someone with an above the knee amputation will. Even weightlifters with an above/below amputation will have some degree of atrophy (you can look at guys like Max Okun, etc.) so it's not like you can just "exercise it out".

A residual limb can be fairly round, but it mostly depends on where it actually is. A lot of people will have excess skin from skin flaps + tissue atrophy which gives it a different shape, BE amputees can have the actual bone shapes visible on the stump, etc. And of course there is scar tissue (unless it's congenital) which can affect how the limb looks like beyond just the sew line being visible; it can leave the stump with an indent around it, etc.

But all of that is of course Disability and Different, so it gets omitted in art. It'd be cool if this wasn't the case, but what can you do.

mod Sasza

[somerandomdudelmao]

OKAY SO GENERAL THOUGHTS AND SOME HYPOTHESES BASED UPON THE INFORMATION WE HAVE:

Holly is from Teegarden; a place where either all of his species can shapeshift or he himself is some kind of priest of whatever god they worship that has given him the ability to shapeshift. If ALL of the Teegardenians have innate shapeshifting, this makes the bird hunting Inherently More Sinister, but it makes far more sense to me for Holly to be special, because he says he's from a temple and attributes his shapeshifting to god. It also makes sense for Holly to be special amongst his species because Sculptor asked Oscar and Ward 'Which of you is smarter?'

They're keeping higher quality/more unique specimens in The Vault and maintaining them for some reason.

When Ward is still Very Much Ravaged by whatever the fuck the Science Scrapers were doing, we see probably-Sculptor saying they should put him specifically with 'someone peaceful'. We don't know why they have taken this consideration beyond determining he's not going to be a danger to a more peaceful inmate, but we do know Holly is also missing an eye, which means that must be part of the 'forcibly extracting information from a creature's body and brain' process. Ward was not doing any talking, they got the information about Oscar's laptop via stealing it out of his brain. Sculptor was not separating the dangerous smart one from the harmless stupid one. The Echolocators (this will be my shorthand for the rest of the Q) fully believe themselves to be above both these weird little dudes, but they know from experience they can get more, better information about humans out of the smarter of the two.

Holly sighs sadly and says 'they've found another civilization to destroy', and he's been kept alive alone in the vault for an indefinite period of time while the general ecosystem of his planet appears to be intact enough for regular hunting excursions. Either the Echolocators circle around regularly between planets they've previously colonized to keep the base resources on each planet fresh, or they are in the middle of ravaging specifically Teegarden beyond livability, and will move on to Earth next now that they've conveniently found some fun new pets. I believe the use of 'civilization' is significant enough to suggest it's the former, which is Way Scarier because they've also noted humans are edible and taste good.

A species of colonizer aliens being set up in an ant-like colony is delightful by the way. Also I saw someone in the notes saying 'oh no she doesn't know about The Incident' over Ecliptica being like 'I didn't really check on Ward, science is boring to me' and would just like to say No. Ecliptica absolutely knows about the unethical Whatever That Was and The Vault. She just doesn't know if Ward survived or is any semblance of okay. Because Oscar is a cute fun novelty and Ward is some guy she does not particularly care about.

Oh, my God, I want to express my thoughts on your hypotheses so bADLY. But that would be the wrong way to present information that should be shown in a story. But I still want everyone to see it, because carefully analyzing a story is one of the greatest forms of art that amazes me every time🧡