#and he thought he was tainted from that & the abuse he suffered

[tune-on-in-folks]

Day 19! I think this one is a little sweet. A bit short and fast, but sweet. Human Alastor for the win!

Tags/Warnings: Phone sex, masturbation, mutual masturbation, discussion of murder, murderous intent, murderous ideation, fem!reader, abuse mention, reader's husband is abusive. Word Count: 1,735

When Alastor first met you it wasn't by accident, nor coincidence. Instead it was due to his meticulous planning. You were married to a very affluent man. A man who used his wealth for anything but good. His reputation had preceded him, and Alastor was certain that anything and anyone that man associated himself with, was also tainted. Which is what he had thought of you and was precisely the reason he had orchestrated your ‘fateful’ meeting at Mimzy's establishment.

Initially he had approached you in an attempt to get closer to your husband, and if he had to kill you too, what was the harm? But one conversation with you had turned into several, and months later he found himself no closer to killing your husband.

Alastor had been correct in his assumption that by association, you were tainted by your husband. But for all the reasons he hadn't expected. The first time he noticed the bruises he nearly flew into a blind rage. And you had the audacity to laugh it off, as though the abuse you were enduring at his hands, was not worth any fuss. As though your well-being was nothing more than an afterthought, something to be swept aside for everyone else's. It was on that day Alastor became increasingly impatient to kill your husband. He had it all planned out; from the time, to what he would do to make your husband suffer a fate worse than death for hours on end, before extinguishing his pathetic existence.

But you were a distraction.

That's what Alastor ultimately decided you were. A beautiful, wonderful, annoying distraction. You with your beautiful smile, your captivating laugh. Your wondrous eyes, your…he could go on. Get lost in everything that was intrinsically you. And for the past several months he had. He had allowed himself to grow fond of you. He held a deep seated affection for you. He craved you in ways he had never craved another soul before. What he felt for you was raw and vast. It left him feeling split open, as though your very presence had taken an axe to his chest, carving a home there. A place for you alone. It was only natural that the budding relationship between you both blossomed into something more, something deeper. Something sinful. 

It had started with a stolen kiss one night outside of Mimzy's establishment. Upon seeing the time you had pulled him down, pressed a kiss against his lips, and called out a goodbye as you rushed away. He had been left stunned, his fingers brushing against his lips as he watched you run. How he wished he could have given chase. That kiss had spawned the first instances of longing for you. He wanted more, craved it. From that night it spiralled. Soft smiles and lingering touches, small kisses. You were driving him insane, he was certain of it. Until one night he cornered you and took you right up against the wall in an alley. He had been consumed by lust and desire, wanting nothing more than to have you. All of you. You were a thrill unlike any other. Being intimate with you gave him a high better than he had ever known. Not even watching the life drain from someone's eyes compared to how it felt to be with you. To kiss you, to hold you, to fuck you. You were intoxicating.

You were a damned distraction.

Distracting him from what he truly wanted. And that was for your husband to be dead, killed by his hand.

The ringing of his phone snaps Alastor out of his thoughts, his hands tighten around the book he's holding. With a sigh he picks the phone up from the receiver, setting his book aside.

“Hartfelt residence.” He answers smoothly, smiling with false brightness.

“Hello, my love.” You greet him softly, “are you alone?”

His smile softens and he leans back in his chair. “Hello, my dear… What are you doing calling me at this hour? I thought you and your…darling husband had a party.”

You chuckle at the contempt in his voice. “Yeah, well my ‘darling husband' as you put it, is currently fucking his mistress.”

Alastor's hand tightens around the phone in anger, but you continue on, not letting him get a word in.

“So while he's off having fun, I thought I might as well have some too.”

He can hear the amusement in your voice. As though your husband actively cheating on you wasn't such an insult. How you remained so bright despite that man, he'd never know. 

“Some fun?” He asks, wanting nothing more than to snuff out the life of your blasted husband.

“With you, Alastor. Over the phone.”

He laughs softly, “my dear, what fun could we possibly get up to over the phone?”

Your sigh filters over the phone, and he can hear the pout in your voice. “Well I can’t have you in person right now, so can’t I just pleasure myself while listening to your voice?”

He laughs again, caught off guard by your candidness. “And are you, my dear? Pleasuring yourself, that is.”

You flush, “Well I haven’t started! I was…asking. I wanted to make sure it was okay with you, if we did that, if we do that.”

He leans further back in his chair, his voice tinged with amusement. “It’s perfectly fine, my dear... Do you often sneak away to finger yourself?”

You snort, smiling, “Only when I know I can moan your name.”

He can feel his cock twitch in his pants, a sensation that he had slowly grown accustomed to when it came to you. You made his body respond in ways he once found a nuisance, now he welcomed it.

“I think it’s only fair, little doe, if I get to touch myself too.” He decides, hearing your breath hitch.

He can imagine you in a room someplace, your skirts bunched around your hips as your hand creeps towards your centre. He hears a small whimper from you and he wonders how exactly you’re touching yourself.

“Please.” You breathe out, your voice shaky. “I want to hear you too, Al. I want to know that you’re getting as much pleasure out of this as I am.”

He reaches for the clasp of his pants, working it undone. In a moment he’s freed his rapidly hardening cock. He closes his hand around it, pulling a groan from the back of his throat.

“Oh..” He moans, letting his head fall back as he slowly pumps his length. “The sinful things you make me do, my dear.”

You giggle, working your fingers faster, “Ah, but you do them for me.”

He chuckles, the sound deep within his chest, sending shivers down your spine. Your walls clench at the sound. You adored his laugh and the things it made you feel.

“Hah, I do them because I adore you.” He breathes out, his hand moving faster.

He can hear the muffled sounds of you pleasuring yourself, your whimpers and moans growing louder. His own breathing is laboured, the sound of him fisting his cock carrying back over the phone to you.

“I wish..” You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to keep quiet, “that I was married to you, Alastor. I hate him.”

His hand tightens around the phone again at your words, an ache settling in his chest. You occasionally said things like that. Things that made it feel as though you’d taken one of his knives and stabbed him right in the heart.

“Sweetheart…” He murmurs, clenching his jaw in anger at the thought of your husband. “Think of me, not him.”

You whimper, so close to your edge already. “I always think of you..oh fuck, I’m so close. Fuck, Alastor!”

He tightens his hand around his cock, his pace quickening as you moan his name. He hates how low and quiet your moans are. He knows that you’re attempting to stay quiet, keeping your voice down to stop your husband from finding out. It angers him. He wishes he was there, fucking you into your martial bed, drawing out all the sounds he loved to hear from you. He wishes he was there, forcing you to be louder and louder, as he took you hard and fast.

“Keep going,” He urges over the phone, “I want to hear you cum for me.”

“Fuck..” You breathe out, focusing on your pleasure, focusing on Alastor’s soft grunts over the phone.

He wished he could kill your husband tonight. Lure him out with a false sense of trust only to shatter it. Oh, he’d take great pleasure in drawing out the man’s death. Of ensuring that he felt all the pain he had caused you and more. Alastor’s breath hitches as he imagines how your husband would scream, how he’d try to get away, only to find that he couldn’t escape. Alastor imagined that fear in your husband’s eyes, imagined watching the life dim from them. He groans, his release growing nearer

“Ah, fffuck, Al-lastor!” You cry out, a bit too loudly for your own liking, as you cum around your fingers, your body shaking with the effort of your release.

He’s drawn out of his fantasy by your voice, a shiver running through his body as you moan his name.

“There we go.” He praises. “So good for me, sweetheart… Fuck-”

His cock twitches as his orgasm washes over him with surprising force. Hot ropes of cum splatter his hand and slacks, but he can’t find himself to care about the mess at the moment.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, wiping his hand with a handkerchief. “Are you still there, my doe?”

“Still here.” You say softly, having let your skirts fall back into place. “Still missing you.”

He smiles, glad you hadn’t disappeared on him just yet. “What would you say, if I told you I could get your husband to leave? Permanently.”

He can hear the smile in your voice as you reply without missing a beat. “I’d say I’d marry you.”

He chuckles softly, his smile widening. That was all the permission he needed. He was going to kill your husband, make sure he never touched you ever again. No more waiting. No more rushed calls, or stolen kisses, no more longing. It would just be you and him.

He couldn’t wait.

@pumppkinlynn I promised to tag you in this one! So here it is.

[97tears]

there’s like a surprising amount of thomas no shinzou academic essays but one thing i don’t agree about is that they all say juli has some form of internalized homophobia. simply not true

[dark-konohagakure2]

hii, can i request noncon madara capturing tobiramas virgin daughter during a battle and then using her as his personal slave? sorry if this isnt a request you're comfy writing !

tw: noncon, age difference, size difference, kidnapping, enslavement, abuse, breeding, rough sex, degradation, sadism

All characters depicted are 18+

There are very few people that Madara can claim to loathe with his entire being, but if he had to pick one person, it would be Tobirama Senju. Not only had the man constantly discriminate against his clan, but he was also responsible for Izuna's death. Now Madara wants vengeance, and he already has the perfect plan to make Tobirama feel the same pain as him.

During the Uchiha's next battle against the Senju, his main target is not Tobirama, but his daughter, and capturing such a weak girl is almost laughably easy. Madara thinks it's only fair, Tobirama stole someone he loved, and now Madara will steal somebody he loves.

Despite his stoney face, internally Madara feels as giddy as a child on Christmas morning, he now has his hands on not only Tobirama's daughter but Hashirama's niece as well, and he has complete and total power over her, and he plans on using that to his full advantage.

Once he has her in his grasp, Madara will do everything in his power to strip her of all her human dignity, stripping her of her clothes, slapping her around, and treating her like less than dirt, tearing her apart with his harsh words and razor sharp tongue as he makes use of her.

"Shut your mouth you Senju whore. This is what you deserve for having such tainted blood running through your veins, so be quite before I rip your tongue out."

Madara is very rough with his newly acquired slave, holding her down roughly with his bigger body, using his full weight to force her thighs against her chest as he ruthlessly claims her virginity, almost animalistic with the intensity he employs as he breeds her.

He is a much bigger and stronger man than most, so Madara can easily hold her down or lift her up as he takes advantage of her. He'll twist and bend her body in uncomfortable positions to increase her pain and his own pleasure. Madara doesn't care about her comfort, he believes that she deserves every bit of suffering she gets for daring to be a Senju.

Madara doesn't just use her for sex, but for labor as well, making her do demeaning tasks such as cleaning the blood off his weapons and armor whenever he returns from another one of his "dances", he'll even gloat to her during this, telling her with relish about how the very blood she's cleaning off of him is the blood of her fellow clansmen.

Whenever Madara is done with her, he leaves her broken and bruised everytime, his seed leaking out of her holes and her body trembling in equal parts fear and pain. Madara enjoys her pain, knowing that he's not only hurting the girl herself, but her father as well by proxy.

"Does it hurt? Good. That's just a fraction of the suffering your damned father caused me when he killed my brother. Get used to it, bitch. This is your life now..."

Madara sees this as a twisted form of justice in a way. Tobirama took a family member from him, so Madara will simply make himself a new one, and he'll use that Senju bastard's own flesh and blood to do so, the thought of having a half Senju child both disgusting and exciting Madara.

[belokhvostikova]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛 𝐏𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 | After finding out about their exclusion from the school yearbook, Hellfire—Eddie Munson—isn't keen in letting his feelings fall for your attempt to fixing said issue.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Swearing, yelling, crying, and mentions of bullying.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Don’t know why, but I have an obsession with referring to Eddie by his full name, lol. If there are any necessary warnings that were accidently left out, please feel free to let me know!

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 | One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐈. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

By the coming of the fall season of 1982, the Hellfire Club had garnered the stigma of satanic cultists that tainted the lives of those associated. 

What started as a throng—four losers—of curious minds, on an endeavor to escaping the suffocating suburbia of Hawkins, Indiana, transpired into a league of camaraderie, fighting the hellscape of dark wizards and evil lords. Perfect comb-overs and pristine pom-poms who lived on the green laws that housed Reagan signs couldn’t touch them under the guise of their characters who built their strength and thick skin to defeat the wicked of suffering towns and cities through quests. Those four were invincible in the threshold of the drama room.

But in the real world, they had a target on their backs that merely grew as the years passed. 

And Eddie Munson was victim number one, placed at the forefront of all propelled abuse. 

But the beauty of Hellfire allowed the proffering of solutions, in which he quickly found solace within. See, the notion of characters, and qualities, and disguises permitted the perfect opportunity to build a facade unlike one’s truest self, that protected the vulnerable inside. 

The terrors of childhood abuse, loss of loved ones, and the torment of classmates couldn’t be seen on the sneering smirk and scowling eyes that accompanied Eddie Munson everywhere he went. The act of toughness was not a thing to be found difficult; he saw it in its worst quality within the bruteness of his father, and he saw it in its best quality within the perseverance of his uncle. 

Eddie Munson had no issue opening his arms to those who were caught in the pressuring seas of conformity, and he surely had no issue abusing back those who started it first, with a insult or shove being met with his harder kick and punch.

See, both aspects of toughness.

And while the idea may have protected him from the superficial blows of a socially divided high school, it actually hurt the potential improvements to his well being, suppressing all that left him weak and vulnerable, and choosing the outlet of a drink or substance that disabled his mind from the thoughts of reality. 

But Eddie Munson couldn’t care about himself, no ever did anyways. 

Until you. And he hurt you. 

“This is bullshit! Complete and utter fucking bullshit!” If it hadn’t been for the cacophonous shrills of the school cafeteria, surely Eddie Munson would have garnered the usual attention from his antics. But instead, everyone’s attention was captured by the occurrence that was happening on the southern end of the crowded room. “I mean, really, what the fuck is this?!” His broad hand flung a pretzel out of frustration, not bothering to acknowledge the innocent bystander that got caught in the crossfire of his heated action. 

To say Eddie Munson was pissed would be the understatement of the century. 

The gnawing agitation that seemed to innately follow him wherever, had now been triggered by the bright smiles of individual students, paraded in their best attire, with glee of acknowledgement. Today was club picture day, and Hellfire was not included. As the lunch period progressed to its ticking last minutes, students of all age ranges savored the remaining bits of their glorious thirty minute break from school hell, but not Eddie. Nope. Because for every minute of those thirty minutes, Eddie watched as clubs, one by one, walked the notorious stage where all Hawkins High’s productions had been showcased, and sat with cheesy smiles at the notion of being a valued representative for their school’s yearbook.

But not Hellfire.

The heavy, black curtains provided the cleanest backdrop for its low budgeted cost, giving ample focus to the students, who sat with the straightest of all postures, amongst the perfect array of chairs—the good ones, too, not the ones that make your butt go numb after twenty minutes. Row by row, everyone had a place, even being complimented by the two large, fake plants that added a splash of color with their faux green leaves. 

Gareth sighed. “It really is, man.” He turned back from watching the drama club get their picture taken, returning to pick at the cold spaghetti that stained his plastic tray. Everyone got photos, Hellfire got stale food. “But what do you expect, dude? This school already treats us like garbage, as it is.”

“We shouldn't tolerate this treatment, Emerson!” Eddie snapped, slapping Gareth’s hand that was causing the insistent scratch of his fork scraping his plate. The boy could only scoff in defeat at his ruined lunch, now that his plasticware landed on the dirty tiles of the lunchroom. 

Eddie was becoming revved up. He groaned in irritation, feeling the need to slam his palm into the table, eliciting the flinches of each boy.

“Look, well, there’s nothing we can do.” Mike, at an attempt, reasoned with Eddie. But he merely got a seething glare that asked him who does he think he’s talking to. 

“Oh, no?” Eddie snuffed with a mocking face. None of the boys were daring to challenge his eye contact. None of them ever did when he got like this. His worst days. “You boys gotta learn to take what you deserve.” He spoke too calmly for anyone’s liking. “It’s the only way people like us make it through life.”

Eddie jumped from his chair, the force too heavy for the flimsy thing, as it scraped the tile flooring before clashing with the ground beneath. All eyes were on him. Puffing the laps of his jacket, he strutted his way to the stage, all leather and chains, bumping shoulders with those who stood in his way. Done diligently, his worn sneakers stomped the couple steps, announcing his arrival. Those in the drama club were quick to move out of the way, refusing to become belittled for their judgemental stares against the Freak. But they were disregarded. Closest to Eddie Munson sat Nancy Wheeler, co-editor of the 1986 Hawkins High Yearbook. She rolled her eyes, fidgeting with her precious pen that had been used to check-off every name of every member of every club to ensure publication was precise and correct.

“Wheeler.” Eddie taunted, coming close to her table, tightly-balled fists supporting his weight as he leaned close to her face. “Funny,” he peered at his watch, “lunch is almost over and you have yet to call us up.”

There was no need to clarify “us.” Everyone knew—for worst reasons—who they were.

Nancy huffed, professionalism embedded in her character as she responded with such cadence, “That’s because you’re not on the list, Eddie.” And it was such professionalism of cadence that ticked him off. As she held up the roster of all clubs and members, contaminated with the ink of her pen, scratching titles off, Eddie snatched the paper from her hold, Nancy wincing at his aggression. 

“The Art Club, the Aviations Club, the Math Club,” He read off, “the fucking ROTC shitbags!” He slapped the paper down with a harsh slam. “Some fucking wannabe soldiers, who aren’t even a fucking club here, can get their fucking picture taken, but not Hellfire?!”

Nancy was attempting to control her emotions from the ambush of his angry words, his spit coating her delicate makeup with every yell of his tirade. “Look, Eddie, that’s the list Principal Higgins gave us.” She pointed between herself and you. 

Shit, she pointed to you. 

You, who’d been quietly watching this shitshow go down, standing near the edge of the stage, with a camera held tightly in your sweaty palms. While his outburst had you racking with worry, it also elicited a wave of sympathy due to their obvious exclusion, clear as day as to why Principal Higgin’s didn’t want their association with Hawkins High. It was fucking awful. 

But Eddie Munson didn’t see you. He saw you.

You, as in the fake smile that accompanied your obnoxious cheers, where’d you hangout with your bitchy friends, mingling amongst Jason Carver’s goons, before heading back to school the next day where you ran the student body government, finding yourself involved in all school activities, making the Principal's List and Honor Roll every year, and was about to be crowned prom queen by May and valedictorian by June.

And now, partnering with the Newspaper Committee to create ‘86’s yearbook.

Though he may not have known you, Eddie Munson fucking hated you. 

He followed Nancy Wheeler’s pointed finger, now aiming his degrading scowl that shot bullets at you, and you peered down from the intimidating stare. “Oh, I see!” His terrorizing laugh stifled the already straining atmosphere. “Fucking, little Miss Pom-poms jerked Higgin’s cock to make sure we weren’t included. Isn’t that right, princess?” His sneering smile showed just how amusing he found your evident discomfort to be, as he marched his way towards you, the tip of his toes scuffing your pristine sneakers. “Tell me, sweetheart, was Carver there, too? Huh?” 

“N-no, w-we didn’t do, uh-”

“Uh, uh, uh.” Eddie mocked. You could feel his large eyes scan your face, taking in all your features, and seeing your chest heave from the confrontation. “Bunch of fucking pussy, all of you, huh?” He glared, refusing to break from you luring eyes.

Saved by the bell, the obnoxious ringing gave you an out, and Eddie was quick to jog back to Nancy, who was beginning to pack up her station. For a second, his daunting demeanor relinquished, and his eyes softened with panic. “This isn’t fair, Wheeler, and you know it. C’mon.” He pleaded. “We’re as much of a club as any other bullshit clique here.” Eddie tried to reason, as Nancy sighed, trying to quickly gather her things.

Despite his hostile behavior, there was merit to his concerns. Hellfire was a club, and though Eddie Munson was the biggest asshole you’ve ever met, you understood his petition. Everyone knew why they weren’t included. They were never included. 

“Your own brother is in the club.” Nancy stopped in her tracks and looked at Eddie. “Look, I’m sorry, Eddie, really, I am. But if you have a problem, take it up with Higgin’s not-”

“Maybe we can just take their picture.” You felt stupid for interrupting, hearing your voice waver under their snapping, stern stares—one more of anger than the other. “Um, Higgins already approved of our, uh, layout, so he may not even see the final draft until it’s already been printed.”

“And then what, we get in trouble? Not happening.” Nancy affirmed, more comfortable with disregarding Hellfire than staining her clean track record. 

Eddie scoffed. “Fucking screw this!” He stood straight, adjusting his posture. Any shot at his ego and feelings went unnoticed, as he returned to his callous attitude. There was a moment in which he simply stared you down; all that was clouding his judgment was your refined Hawkins High cheerleading sweater. Your well known name printed at the forefront—cursively embroidered in velvet gold—encasing the pinnacle of all things Eddie Munson hated. As Nancy Wheeler left you be, Eddie trudged his way against you again, hot breath fanning across your smaller stature. “I don’t need your fucking bullshit pity. You understand?” He gritted with clenched teeth.

 And he merely left it at that, nudging passed you, as he joined the stagger of students who were fleeting out of the cafeteria. 

And you stood in disbelief. 

-

You were crazy. You were out-of-your-fucking-mind crazy.

It was late into the night, and you were ready to break school rules for something so trivial, but seemed so desperately important to others.

You groaned in the palms of your hands, as you stood outside of the newspaper room, stolen key in hand. Why were you even doing this? Eddie Munson was an asshole to you. He didn’t like you. But this wasn’t for him. No, this was for the other members. Yeah, the other members, like Nancy’s brother, Mike Wheeler, or Lucas Sinclair, you sweetest kid you’d ever met on the basketball team, who were both totally innocent in all. Jesus shit.

“Hey!” Chrissy waved out to you, as you watched her flood out of the gym doors with the rest of the squad from practice. Clearly, your plans of leaving early to avoid them fell through. “What are you doing, I thought you left already? You coming?”

“Yeah, no, I just need to check over some things for the yearbook.” You lied, with your infamous fake smile. “Don’t know how long it’ll take, so I’ll just have my dad come pick me up.”

“Make sure my picture is front and center!” Jessica joked, as the girls laughed, and waved you goodbye.

As soon as they left, your head dropped back in your clammy palms. In all honesty, leaving would probably be a better choice, right now; you could drop your heavy cheer bag, get out of your sweaty shorts, have a nice bath, and dine out on some food. But instead, for whatever reason you tried to excuse in your brain, you’re here. Probably getting ready for whatever shit Eddie Munson was going to shout in your face when you appeared. 

But fuck it.

-

“The weathered wood creeks beneath your feet as you confront the abandoned foundations of Barlok’s Tavern.” An unnerving sense consumed the boys, as Eddie’s bravado narrations subjected their quest through the ominous grounds of Havocs Beacon. “The merchant of Dunbar Armory has promised this place to be of pure seclusiveness, unknown to even the commoners who dwell the treacherous forest.” All attention was sucked, this was the escape. The escape from the conformity that abused the boys. And Eddie Munson was their protector. “The fate of decision lies in your hands, boys. Do you enter or run?”

They peered at one another, unsure of their next move. “Remember, there is no shame in running.” Eddie’s malicious smile worried them.

But before a consensus could be determined, a soft knock spooked the boys, Dustin’s shriek being most evident. Eddie’s eyes shot at the door, narrowing with his brows furrowing. Everyone went quiet. Too quiet. Maybe they misheard. But sure enough, a delicate knock came again.

Eddie trajected from his throne. “One of you expecting someone? On Hellfire night?!”

His agitated voice was quick to receive a series of stern no’s and insistent head shakes that saved the boys from an invective of shouts for interrupting Hellfire. But for whoever was behind that door? Yeah, they were about to be hit with a diatribe of yells. 

Eddie’s breath heaved with irritation as he stomped his way to the large door, swinging it open with a heavy, “What-” But he was quick to shut up. 

You timidly dropped your balled fist from the air, and held eye contact with Eddie. His gaze was intimidating, but unlike the earlier occurrence in the lunchroom, it was weirdly softer. His eyes widened at the tired state in which you appeared; sweaty hair messily splaying your head, face heated from clear exertion, your lip plumped raw from your nervous chewing, and then he looked down. Unabashedly, too. You watched his eyes peer at your glistening chest that was displayed from your low cut long sleeve, then found his attention primarily focusing on your tight spandex shorts that hugged your hips and exposed your legs. 

“Um.”

His eyes shot back to yours, but you lost the ability to formulate words, both of you staring silently at one another.

“Uh, Eddie?” Jeff’s voice snapped him back to reality, as he turned back to see his buddies—all terribly confused—watching his blanking face obviously check you out.

His vulnerability was showing. And just like a switch, Eddie turned back to you, “What the fuck are you doing?!” You cowered at his sudden yelling. “We’re in the middle of a fucking campaign!” 

“I-I’m sorry.” You stuttered from embarrassment, as you saw his friends watch and wince at you. “I-I just needed to, uh, take your photo. F-for the yearbook.”

“What?” He scoldingly questioned you. 

“Your picture, um, Hellfire’s picture.” You pointed to his shirt. 

Before Eddie could get another word out, Gareth, who you only recognized as a random friend of Eddie's, did, “We’re getting our picture taken?” A small smile appeared on his face at the idea of inclusion.

“Wait, seriously?” A young, curly-haired boy spoke up.

There was a glimmer of hope oozing from their expressions, one that they didn’t get to experience often or lavish in, just at the mere idea of getting their picture taken, because it was a big deal, and seeing their excitement was enough to take Eddie’s hatred with honor to grant them their wish.

So you nodded your head. “Yeah, I’m here to take your picture.” You smiled, waving the stolen camera to prove so.

“Is this some fucking joke to you?!” And just like that, your smile was gone. “Don’t mess with their feelings for some sick joke!”

“N-no, this isn-”

“This is just a prank?” Eddie’s friends’ sullen voices simultaneously asked. 

“No!” You were quick to assure. “I promise, it’s not. I would never.” You ignored Eddie’s scoff. 

“Then why didn’t we get called up during lunch?” Mike, who Nancy Wheeler informed you about, asked. 

“That was totally on me. After lunch,” you nodded towards Eddie, “I asked Higgin’s why you weren’t included, and he was just as confused.” You lied. You never visited Higgins. It was obvious why he didn’t want to include them. “And, well, apparently it was just some fluke with the system, and you guys were included! All of you, uh, Eddie Munson, Mike Wheeler, Lucas Sinclair… and t-the rest of you.”Lucas gave you a shy wave, which you softly returned, as he’d always shared his sense of not fitting in just yet with the basketball team. You were there to reassure he was okay and welcomed—and right now, thanking god that you knew him and Mike’s name to confirm your lie. “It was all on the revised list, and I should have checked the first one better. Totally my fault.”

Eddie stared at you warily. 

“So, uh, come on!” You smiled, and the guys were quick to flood out of the drama room. 

“Wait! W-We’re in the middle of a campaign!” Eddie warned. “We’re not fucking stopping for some dumb photo! I mean, c’mon, guys.”

Everyone stopped.

The younger faces of the group fell, as they contemplated going back or following you. Jeff sighed, walking up to his longtime friend with pleading eyes. “Come on, man. Just let us have this.” He whispered. 

Eddie groaned, taking in the faces of the younger crowd, and nodded regardless, “Fine.” And a cheer of the younger boys echoed through the empty halls. “I’m bringing our logo! Wait- can I bring our logo?” Dustin—the young, curly-haired boy—asked.

“Uh, yeah, by all means, go ahead.” Logo? With a gummy smile, he ran back into the drama room, shortly returning with the round shield that mimicked the drawing on their shirts, encapsulating all that was the beauty of Hellfire. 

Lucas smiled up at you, “So where are we going?”

“Oh, well, I didn’t have time to set up the fancy stage, so…” you thought quickly, “…against the wall in the main hall should be fine. Is that alright?” You grinned back. “We can just hang your logo up, though you guys will definitely stand out from the formality of the other photos.”

“Good.” Eddie mumbled. “Wouldn’t want to conform to this bullshit school, anyways.” He sneered, bumping into you with no apology. 

Ignoring his hostility, you cleared your throat and directed the group of boys into the main hall, clear of all lockers, and decorated with plaques and awards honored to the Hawkins High establishment throughout the decades of operation. Catching sight of the familiar photo of Principal Higgins—one that had been countlessly vandalized by yours truly, Eddie Munson—you made the rash decision to dismantle it from the rusty nail that was drilled in six years ago when he first became principal. “Okay, hand me your precious shield.” You smiled at Dustin.

“Handle her with great honor, your majesty.” He unleashed his greatest—not so great—British accent with a bow to his knee. 

You giggled, joining his playful antics, “Wouldn’t think to do any less, kind soldier.”

Eddie studied your interaction. His lips were fighting to flash a tiny smile, but his ego was stronger, choosing to focus on his sneaker scuffing the floor rather than you. 

You, who was breaking every belief in the Munson Doctrine about prissy cheerleaders who hung off the arms of meathead jocks, and who was actively making his group of bullied outsiders feel included with your kindness; such kindness that Eddie was adamant he could not fall for. No matter how nice, how pretty, or enticing you were, all he saw was you. 

You stepped back from hanging up their logo. “Okay, how’s that?” You asked the boys. After Dustin’s insistent need of a little to the left and just a bit to the right, it was perfect. “Alrighty, you guys line up there, and we can take a couple.” You smiled.

Every member was quick to find their designated spot against the wall, Eddie though, he slowly walked up beside you, as his friends got ready. He sighed, as he looked down at your warm face, “Are you actually putting us in the yearbook?” For a moment, you wanted to savor the little moment of bliss, in which Eddie Munson wasn’t throwing an insult or condescending comment towards you, but his genuine concern about your sincerity had your heart aching at his unmistakable plea to wanting to be included, also. 

You softly spoke with a gentle nod to your head, “Yeah, of course.” You smiled at him. “Right where you guys deserve to be.” But his deep stare into your eyes had you pulling back from the moment that was happening, “J-just like Higgins said to do.” You were quick to add. 

 His heart could only manage a tight-lip nod back. “Right. Higgins.” He eyed you before joining his friends. 

You took a deep breath. “Okay, guys-”

“Wait, you don’t expect us to, like, stand up straight or whatever?” Mike interjected. 

“No, no,” you laughed, “be yourself, do whatever you’d like and just be comfortable.” You smiled, holding Eddie’s eye contact for a second longer than the others. “Okay, big smiles!”

Lining the camera to focus on the seven boys, you peered through the lens to see their uniquely catered pose establishing themselves through their individual personalities. Thumbs up, leaning postures, hands on hips, and beaming smiles, you snapped the photo with a large flash. You peered away from the camera and titled your head at Eddie. “What about big smiles did you not understand?” Your lips twinkled with delight of teasing. “You, too, Wheeler.” You giggled.

“Trust me, I look best without smiling.” Mike was able to rationalize.

You playfully rolled your eyes, “Okay, and your excuse?” You smiled at Eddie, who was undoubtedly using all his willpower to bite back a grin. 

“I don’t smile.” His stern voice was no match for his wavering smirk.

“Why not, it’s so beautiful?” You giggled, as his cheeks flushed with redness, apparent that he was not expecting such a compliment. “Come on, for me!”

His smile started appearing at you, though his friends were quick to ruin the moment. “Oh, you are so beautiful, Eddie.” Jeff mocked with a girly voice.

“Just wanna kiss you.” Dustin was quick to add kissy faces.

“Fuck off, both of you.” He shoved them, though his laugh was evident along with his smile, and were happy with such accomplishment.

Because you weren’t lying, Eddie Munson had a beautiful smile.

“Alright, alright, alright.” You laughed. “No more teasing. I want big, beautiful smiles—with the exception of Mike—so I can get the most perfect photo.” 

The boys shook out any giddiness, and were quick to, once again, get into their own poses. Eddie, for once, showing you his crookedly perfect smirk as he leaned into his friends comfortably. Instructing them to get ready, you realigned the camera and focused on their beings, capturing the fun that was occurring at Hawkins High’s center hall at 8:59 p.m.

“How lovely.” You smiled at them, as they cheered and excitedly congratulated each other for actually being in the yearbook. 

As you watched the utter glee consume their face, you caught eyes with Eddie. He flashed you a small grin, one that lingered longer than he was anticipating, but how could he not? No one had ever thought to include them, and here you were doing just that, tugging on the string of his heart because you cared. You actually fucking cared.

“Okay, um,” you caught their attention, “sorry for interrupting your game, you’re free to go back. I’ll be sure to have these quickly developed for the yearbook.” You smiled.

You were quick to get a multitude of thank you’s from the boys, though it was then when Eddie suddenly fell uncharacteristically quiet. He cleared his throat, snapping back to reality, and once again, his apathetic face was nimble to mask his genuine smile that was once shining on his face. As the boys started flooding back into the drama room, you turned to catch his staring at you, though when you went to flash him a smile with a small wave, you were only met with cold eyes that stared your figure down. The same eyes that degraded you nine hours earlier at lunch. The eyes that you thought you managed to break through after today. 

Speed walking away from his glare, you fumbled into the newspaper room, returning the stolen camera. You took a minute to adjust yourself, still stuck in your sweaty practice clothes, that only seemed tighter after Eddie’s scowl. But maybe you were just reading too far into it. He had been smiling at you before, maybe he was simply slipping back into his character to resume his campaign. 

Placing the camera back—Nancy was going to have one out with you when she found out—you locked up, closing the heavy door quietly behind you. It was once you did so, a heavy hand prevented you from walking away. Turning you around, you were, once again, faced with Eddie’s daunting demeanor as he stood over you. 

It seemed like a common occurrence now, that every time you came face-to-face with him, his unnerving eyes were always studying your face, from your eyes to your lips. “H-hi.” You gently spoke, breaking his trance from his detailed staring.

He cleared his throat, “I know Higgins didn’t tell you to do that.”

He wasn’t wrong, and it wasn’t like you exactly sold your lie too well. “Uh, yeah, b-but you guys still deserve to be included, and well, I’ll just take the fault if Higgin’s does find out. But I can assure you he won’t, so you’ll still be in there, I promise.”

Your reassuring voice that was laced with nervousness made him drag his hands across his face in frustration. It made all what he was about to do that more difficult. “Look, what you did back there…” He huffed. For a second, you thought that he may actually thank you and apologize for his previous actions towards you. But that’s not reality. “Don’t ever fucking do that again.” The way your face dropped had him slowing the lump in his throat knowing that he caused it. 

“W-what?” Your eyes became round with confusion, and Eddie screwed his eyes shut to refrain from looking into them and being swept away. “B-but I thought-”

“No, no, stop.” He cut off your quivering voice that was sinking his stomach into a deep pit. “I, uh, I told you before that I don’t need your pity. We don’t need your pity.” He casted his face down, unable to face your disheartened look.

“No, Eddie, I promise, this wasn’t out of pity.” You were swift to defend. “I did it because you guys deserve to be in the yearbook, just like you said. I swear-”

“You’re gonna get their hopes up!” His. His hopes up. You flinched at his booming voice, attempting to find the strength to control the stinging in your eyes. “Some gorgeous, popular cheerleader being nice to them, leading them to believe all’s good, they won’t get hurt, only to come back and find you and your friends tormenting them as if today never happened!” 

“No, I wouldn’t! I never even have! I’ll tell my friends to back off, Jason and Andy, I’ll tell everyone to stop, I promise. I didn’t do this to be some savior, you were just right earlier, and it wasn’t fair to exclude you guys.”

“Stop, just stop!” He couldn’t trust your words, though every fiber in his body was yearning to, but he just couldn’t subject himself to do so. His hands pulled on the roots of his hair. He wasn’t going to fall for you, in no alternate reality did Eddie Munson falling for a perfect cheerleader ever work out in his favor. He was an asshole before, and he’ll be an asshole right now, because that’s what kept him safe. “Just stay away from me- I, uh, my friends! Just stay away from my friends.” He choked with a shaky sigh, watching as you were fast to wipe away a running tear while looking away. Fuck.

He sighed, chest heaving with emotions he didn’t want to come out. “Just stay away.”

Eddie Munson was choosing to run.

Before he could crack from your glassy, round eyes, he marched back into the drama room with a heavy slam to the door, leaving you there.

Alone and crying.

[mikichko]

⛔ this blog is 18+ !! minors and ageless blogs please dni ⛔ part of: blurb a day series (is it really a blurb atp? who knows) cw: allusions to abusive parents

johnny’s never understood your uncomfortableness with family scenarios. 

when you had first started dating he chalked it up to how fresh the relationship was. maybe, you felt it was too soon. so he simply nodded, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and moved on. when it happens again, he still doesn’t think much of it, after all, he knows you better now. he’s well aware of your anxious tendencies, had even reassured you that yes his friends do in fact like you five minutes before a scheduled dinner. he knows you’re probably tying yourself in knots over the thought of meeting his family. so he gives it more time. 

he doesn’t get the chance to ask again. instead, he finds you in a corner of your pitch-black apartment with the heels of your palms pressing into your eyes. despite the pressure your tears still leak through, he can see the wet trails they leave behind. can see the tension in your body as you press your feet on the floor and push yourself into the wall. it all starts falling into place after that. 

he’d known you weren’t close to your parents, rarely mentioning them. but you still maintained contact with them. sent greetings and happy wishes during holidays, carried out the occasional checkup call, and doing everything good children are supposed to do. because after all, you were a good child. their best from what he’s heard. but, when he finds you, willing yourself to calm down as your body thrashes through emotional responses, he begins to understand. 

you’d told him stories. he’s heard bits and pieces of the unjust treatment you’d endured but, he realizes now that that had only been what you thought him able to stomach. after, when he’s done holding you through your turbulence, your dam finally breaks. you tell him he’ll need breaks, that it can’t be disclosed at once, but you start. it takes days, your progress halted by the involuntary reactions your body produces, but you manage. 

johnny had thought he’d known true anger before you finished. had felt the red-hot waves of it crash through his body before, but he was wrong. he’s never felt anger like this. this time, it seeps the warmth out of his body, chilling him from the bottom of his feet to the top of his skull. it turns him rigid, the only soft parts of him are the arms that hold you and the lips that press kisses to your temple. he can’t wrap his head around it and it only serves to make him angrier. 

he can feel himself sliding back into soap. can feel the burn of bile creeping up his throat as he replays what you’ve told him. there are not enough words in this forsaken language to verbalize the lengths this man would go to protect you and hearing this? learning what his beloved had suffered at the hands of those who were meant to nurture and protect you? johnny prays that whatever god exists gives him patience because if he asked for more strength he knows what soap would do.

but anger serves no purpose for you now. instead johnny molds it, shaping it from the horrid black mass that taints his thoughts, into devotion and admiration. he presses kisses to your heated skin, thick calloused fingers brushing away fresh tears. he murmurs how proud he is against your skin, enduring such hardships and still being so kind. the praise continues long after you’ve succumbed to sleep, your body tired and spent from such an emotional toll.

in this moment, as johnny looks at your slumbering form, he makes a promise to himself. a promise to bottle the black mass. to store it in the depths of his soul, on a barricaded shelf where it’s not at risk of shattering. it’ll live there until he needs it. until you need him. to be your champion against those who have shown you such cruelty.

[littlemoondarlingarts]

Did an artstyle study of the gorgeous art of @iliothermia and I genuinely learned alot so I'm very thankful that he gave me permission to do this 🙏🏻🙏🏻

As usual, rambles and process pics under the cut, be warned that I talk alot because this drawing was a true labor of love both for his art and Rouge

I wanted to use elements from his art but at the same time i know how deeply personal his art is to his own life and struggles and culture so i tried to be as respectful as possible (and if I failed at that please tell me I have no problem in deleting this) and tried to minimize my use of direct elements from his art to keep it to the skull which was heavily inspired by a drawing he has done, the waves which are such a beautiful staple of his art that I just couldn't not put it and the use of candles and small floral patterns and the style of the mold, but I tried to keep the rest to things that are symbolic to the character.

While he may have restraint to not explain everything, I'm not famous for that lol, so I will be explaining the symbolism behind my choices.

Part 1: the symbolism:

The red rose is Rouge's flower and it is heavily associated with him. The meaning of it being romantic desire and passion mixed with the thorns of it perfectly sum up his position as a beautiful black widow.

Voyeurism is a big part of this drawing and it is first noticed with the eyes motif on the roses' leaves, this symbolises his response to his trauma which left him feeling like an unwanted pervert on his own self. I can talk about this aspect of his story for hours but I'll spare you lol.

The X-ray cutouts are his complicated relationship with his own body and death, it is a thing that is constantly on his mind as he suffers from suicidal thoughts but at the same time he is always running away from it in fear, but he knows that eventually, he will have to stop running.

The candles melting represent him being only wanted when he is useful, when he is giving parts of himself up for others to use and abuse, when he is lighting their lives by slowly draining his own.

The piano is one of the rare things that bring him happiness and peace, but he needs to be heavily dissociated to be able to enjoy it which is represented by the hands being disconnected from the rest of the drawing and just floating in their own reality.

The snake represents two things, one is him being venomous to those around him, the mistakes he's made, the promises he's broken, the pain he's caused etc. But it also represents those who slowly wrap themselves around him in a warm embrace, presenting themselves as a saviour in his most dire times only to end up being the ones who will hurt him the most.

The book is about his obsession with keeping track of everything and of studying people, accidentally turning himself into an unwanted voyeur on their lives to the point where he has written the life stories of many people who would never want to be remembered through his eyes in his little books.

The butterflies are him, both in the way they are seen as "the good insects" and the beautiful delicate ones despite the fact that they eat flesh sometimes, it is also related to the way his simple presence for a few minutes in someone's life can create a whirlwind of change that will leave it unrecognizable, or he can simply be another body in their bed.

The hair turning into waves is meant to reflect the way he is always drowning in his own thoughts, a hand crafted constant state of misery.

The beta fish are some of the most beautiful and colourful fish out there, yet they are seen as cheap and easy first pets, leading to them being neglected and given environments that are too small and crammed, making their beautifully slow death the only thing they can offer to their owner. I don't think I need to explain more..

The skull is probably someone he's loved, or someone he's killed, or both.

The heart is his, it is rotten and covered in mold, any love he offers is tainted by his inability to heal and it is spreading to infect every aspect of his life.

Part 2: the inspirations:

The roses are a homage to the way Rachamim always places flowers in his art, either in the background or as a focal point of the illustration, most of the flowers he uses are cultural in nature, so I opted to not reuse any of them and changed it to a flower related to my oc.

Eyes are a repeated theme in his art, whether it be angel eyes, the evil eye or anything else, and as you can tell both of these are cultural and religious and while the evil eye exists in my culture, it does not in my oc's so I didn't use it. Instead I opted to pay homage to one of his beautiful merman drawings in which he used the plants to make an eye-like shape that stares at the viewer.

I thought I was being real smart in turning the hair into waves but yesterday I saw an illustration where he did the same so rip to me thinking i was being original lol.

The snake and butterflies are my way of replicating his use of animals while trying to not directly copy any animals that have a connection to himself or his culture/religion.

The beta fish is just to reference the ever present fishies in his art. I know he uses them because they represent friendship for him and they are the only animals safe from the evil eye (thanks for the fun fact) so I uh... I don't really know if this was disrespectful or not to be honest but I tried to use a different type of fish, idk this might still be slightly problematic and again I'm always ready to delete this if it makes anyone uncomfortable.

The waves are a direct copy of how he draws the gorgeous waves in his art, another case of something I fear may be crossing the line because the waves are drawn in the style of cultural jewelry 😭

The tiny flowers are an obvious reference to his own tiny flowers that decorate his art and characters.

The skull with the candles is heavily inspired by a specific drawing of his.

The cutouts are my way of paying my respects to my absolute favourite piece of art he's done without directly copying its concept because as far as I can tell, it is a very personal and emotional piece.

The mold style is a reference to his mold man (I forgot his name I'm sorry).

And the candles are another repeated motif in his art as well as the pillars and the pant style.

And ouf I sure do talk alot don't I? I just really love the amount of things I was able to cram into this piece and I haven't even mentioned everything😭😭 I will NOT be doing this again because I'm simply not as patient as he is and as proud as I am of the result, this was torture. I hope I didn't disrespect him, his art or his culture and I genuinely tried my best to be as respectful as possible but I might have some blind spots due to our experiences being so vastly different so again, please don't hesitate to inform me if you want this deleted!

[iovetecchou]

If I Can't Have You... ⧸ Jouno Saigiku

༞ Part 1.

༞ Contains...! angst, dark themes, detailed descriptions of anxiety and panic attacks, gaslighting, mind-breaking, slight!physical abuse, very toxic relationship, asshole!jouno, just absolute pain and suffering. use of pet names (darling, princess)

༞ GN Reader.

༞ 1,557 words.

Everything after that fateful encounter with Jouno was a blur. You have no idea how you even made it back to your shared apartment in one piece. His venom-laced words rang through your mind— over and over again.

You were in shock. This whole time you were nothing but an “Easy fuck.” to Jouno. The man you loved more than yourself. The man who took over your every thought, every action, every semblance of happiness.

You gave everything up for him, and for what? All you could focus on was the ringing of your heartbeat in your ears. Your fingertips going numb from all the anxiety coursing through your body.

“Ah… it’s six already? I need to start making dinner.”

You thought out loud. Your body moving on its own, as though you weren’t controlling your actions. Even now, Jouno held the strings. Present or not… he owned you.

Your brain couldn’t possibly comprehend that this was your reality. All that echoed in your mind was,

“If you so much as think of leaving me… I will know, and I will kill you.”

You knew you were screwed. Even if you began packing your things now, leaving and never looking back. Jouno would find you; and kill you. As promised.

Your mind played out constant scenarios of how you could escape and run away without a trace. But it was futile; Jouno would use everything in his arsenal to hunt you down.

Tears blinded your vision as you continued to prepare supper. Your shaky hands placing two plates atop the dining room table; an act that once brought a smile to your face now tainted.

Meals always brought you two together. You always valued those times spent with Jouno. Laughing over stories about his ‘idiotic’ colleagues from the day as his lips curled up into a soft smile. Complimenting you on your meal, telling you, “No one could compare.”

So all of that was a show? Just an act he maintained to keep you complacent? Did all of your cherished moments truly mean nothing?

The door swung open just as you finished up. Causing fear to course through your entire being. You froze as Jouno's words rang through your shared apartment.

“Princess, I’m home! I knew that divine smell from the hallway was coming from our place. Nothing compares to your cooking, darling.”

You physically could not speak. The words were trapped in your throat as you turned to face Jouno. He was smiling sweetly your way, walking over toward the table and taking his seat.

“Well? Aren’t you going to give me a kiss hello? I did just get home from a hard day of work, you know.”

Why was he acting as though nothing was wrong? You were more than certain that everything that went down today was real… right?

“O-Oh… right, I’m sorry.”

You managed to squeak out. Shaky legs made their way toward an awaiting Jouno. You placed your clammy hand atop the table for support. Leaning in closely toward him, even though every fiber of your being was screaming at you to pull away.

The second your lips captured his, you felt sick. No longer did his embrace feel safe; quite the opposite. Jouno smirked within the kiss at your physical reaction. Your heart was beating a mile a minute, your body trembling in place.

You pulled back as fast as you could. Noticing the lipstick stains on Jouno's collar as you stood upright. You felt nauseous, your stomach turning in knots from the sight alone.

"What's wrong, princess? You seem shaken up."

Jouno quirked a brow, reaching a hand out to soothe your hip. You took a quick step back, dodging his embrace completely. Jouno looked stunned for a split second before his expression twisted into something sinister.

His lips were curved into a nasty frown, eyebrows knitted where they lay. Jouno's whole expression became shaded, and his body became tense too. Your eyes widened as you watched his hands ball into fists from where they rested beside him.

"Oh… so there is a problem then, hm?"

His voice was razor sharp, not even a trace of Jouno's usual witty tone could be found. All you could do was shake your head in disagreement as you took a few more steps backward. Startling yourself as the cold countertop grazed your lower back.

Jouno rose to his feet slowly, making his way to stand before you. He towered over you, his hand grasped your chin firmly. Tugging your face up toward his own before he spoke up once more. "What… did you go mute? Use your fucking words."

"Yes..?"

His fingers dug into your cheeks as he forcefully shook your head in agreement. Pulling a small yelp from your lips.

Jouno smirked at your painful cry, making your heart ache even further. You scored your bottom lip with your teeth, not letting him get that gratification off your pain again today.

"Or no..?"

His grip got even harsher as he shook your head in disagreement this time. A shit-eating grin etched into his features, immensely enjoying the way you shook in his grasp.

To say you were fed up at this point was an understatement. Your fear subsided for a moment, being replaced by rage. You brought your hands up to grasp Jouno's hand. Yanking his digits away from your face and pushing him backward with everything you had in you.

"Of course— yes! There's a fucking problem. Why are you acting like nothing happened today? I walked in on you practically fucking another person— and you told me if I try to leave, you'll kill me. So of course there's a fucking problem, darling."

Jouno's smirk only grew wider at your words. His maniacal laughter filled the room, fueling your irritation even further.

"What? What's so fucking funny, Sai? Hm..? Tell me, was all of this— our whole relationship just a cruel joke to you? I gave up everything for you, everything. My family, friends— hell, I gave my whole life for you! And all you can do is fucking laugh in my face?"

His laughter only picked up the more you spoke. His hands grasped the edge of the dining table as he leaned back for support. Throwing his head back, reveling in his own amusement.

You couldn't think clearly. Your whole world was turned upside down in less than twenty-four hours. The person you loved more than anything was now nothing more than a stranger to you. But the worst part of it all; was that you still loved him— at least, a specific version of him. The one he showed to you, and you alone.

You reached out to him, balling the front of his uniform in your fists. You shook Jouno with all your might. Tears of frustration rolled down your cheeks as you cried out,

"Stop laughing— stop fucking laughing! I hate you, I fucking hate you…"

"No… you don't, princess. And we both know it. I bet the day I asked you to be mine was the greatest day of your life, hm? But to me… it was just another Friday. It meant nothing to me— you mean nothing to me. Accept that this is your life now, Y/N."

His words rattled through your whole being. Cutting you up from the inside out. Jouno was right… that was the happiest day of your life.

Was it so wrong of you to assume he felt the same way? That your relationship, the time you spent together, held any comprehensible significance to him?

You were too exhausted to fight with him further. Too shocked to even process that this was your life now. In that moment of realization, you didn't feel anything anymore. The tears still flowed freely, blurring your vision; but you couldn't care less.

"Accept that this is your life now, Y/N."

"This is your life now, Y/N."

Those words played through your mind like a record that endlessly skipped. You knew you couldn't escape; Jouno would kill you. Your family had no clue where you were and you didn't have friends anymore.

This was the end of the line for you. So were you going to accept it, or fight it?

Your body froze; your hands released the front of Jouno's uniform and went limp at your sides.

All of a sudden, your head snapped up. Jouno listened to your every move, trying to anticipate how you would react next.

"Darling, your dinner is getting cold. Why don't we eat before it all goes bad, hm?"

Your voice was eerily calm as you walked around the table. Making up his plate; as if nothing was awry. Jouno couldn't help the chuckle that slipped past his lips as he took his seat.

He didn't say a word, simply just honing in on your reactions. Sensing for anything out of place, he couldn't find such things. Your heartbeat was regular, body temperature was back to normal. And he couldn't hear any wavering in your voice.

He had broken you; completely. There was no fight, no drive left inside you. All that was left was a shell of the person you once were. An altered version of yourself, one that Jouno molded you to be.

"Same time tomorrow for dinner, Sai?"

"Indeed, same time tomorrow."

[aemonds-sapphire]

Weakness

Summary: Aemond can’t afford to care about you. Life has long taught him that he’s underserving of such feelings. It’s safer this way. Right?

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort. Mentions of blood and neglect/abuse. Aemond’s POV.

A/N: I’ve been wanting to explore Aemond’s mind for a while now. From his POV. This feels very personal and even though it’s somewhat different from what I usually write, I hope you can still connect to Aemond somehow and that this feels true to his character.

Word count: 1k

Aemond knew the pits of rejection far too well. It had become second nature to him. It consumed him whole and it had morphed into something way darker as he grew older.

He was certain that if there was driving force behind his thirst for revenge then that the fear of abandonment was the root of it all.

Feelings were doorways to suffering. However, Aemond had learnt long ago that some doors are better left shut. Allowing himself to care for someone was a weakness he simply could not afford.

It was a nuisance.

A dangerous one.

Slowly, he lifted one hand and brought the pads of his fingers to trace the rough edges of the scar that ran across his face.

A painful reminder.

No. Just a reminder.

Pain had forsaken his thoughts. He had made sure it stayed that way.

His body was now a reminder of what happens when one allows feelings to overcome reason.

He was a vessel of hatred and revenge, fully committed to having thise who had wronged him pay for it.

Even his beloved mother had forsaken the idea of changing his mind, devoting herself to praying for him in the hopes that some invisible force might rein him in.

He had several cuts across his face from the practice he shared with Criston Cole earlier that day. Aemond made him swear he would not hold back and he complied, unleashing all the swordsmanship knowledge he possessed.

Flesh heals and these were evident wounds that he was still not as skilled as he had hoped.

In truth, he could always ask you to aid him, but the mere thought of having you so close made his stomach turn.

No matter how strong someone was. How well trained they were. How disciplined their mind was. There came a time when something — or rather someone — slippped through the cracks and managed to become a weakness.

Much like the sun insisted on shining through the curtains of his bedchamber. Or much like the drops of blood that eventually found their way down his face and were as tears.

You were a weakness he couldn’t afford.

Deep down, in the depths of his heart, Aemond feared that he was not enough.

That he was broken beyond repair and no one wanted to be left with having to fix both his body and his mind. He utterly feared that if you turned him down it would awaken something darker inside him. That he would feel as small and insignificant as he did when he was younger.

When they all laughed.

When he lost his eye.

When his father demanded no justice for his loss and was willing to have him questioned for the depravities of others.

Aemond Targaryen was ten years of age when he realised he was but an afterthought on his father’s mind. Someone who was supposed to love and care for him unconditionally, saw him as an insignificance.

He could feel another bloody droplet streaming down his face, prickling the skin along the way.

Unconsciously, he brushed it clean before examining the red stain tainting the pad of his thumb.

It was the closest thing he had to tears these days.

He no longer cried. There were days the flames of hatred raged deeply within him, but it was never enough to bring him to tears as before.

Aemond had far better control of his mind now that he was older and wiser.

Truth be told, he didn’t mind that at all.

And he’d rather have it this way.

Suddenly, there was a faint knock on the the door.

It was you.

“Aemond… can I come in?”

He wanted to say no. He needed to say no.

His body had become so numb to physical pain that he only realised he was gripping his knees too tightly when he saw his knuckles turn white.

Another knock. “Aemond…”

“Leave,” he firmly said.

“Do not push me away.”

He had to.

“Please,” your voice was but a whisper, but it was enough to cause his heart rate to quicken. “Your... wounds… I can help.”

He scoffed. You really had no idea that his fixing was beyond skin-deep. That was why he couldn’t stand being near you anymore. You triggered so many feelings within him.

Feelings were weaknesses.

You were a weakness.

He couldn’t afford having one.

He had promised himself that he would be a good son to his mother, a good brother to his sister Helaena and brother Daeron, and that he would tolerate Aegon. But that was as far as his courtesy would extend.

Aemond cared not for others.

Or so he tried to convince himself.

You.

He cursed you for haunting his thoughts. He cursed you for being you and for being so... 

“I do not need your help. Leave.”

His words betrayed his heart, but he was used to it.

The doorknob rattled briefly. “I’m not scared of you.”

You should be. He could easily burn you to the ground if you kept on pushing him.

With one swift motion, the door swung open.

There you were.

The newfound source of his turmoil, standing quietly and determined to defy him.

Aemond briefly considered demanding you to leave at once, displaying the unpleasant side him that he had honed over the years.

However, surely enough, the moment you started pacing towards him and knelt at his feet with that loving face of yours resting on his thighs, he knew he had no will left in him to push you away.

“Good morning, dragon,” you taunted him in a low voice, offering him the sweetest smile.

A smile he most certainly did not deserve.

“Hmm,” he mumbled as he allowed his hand reach your cheek.

You immediately closed your eyes, welcoming his touch.

“Let me help you,” you said after a moment, brushing your lips across the palm of his hand. “Please…”

Help? Did you even know what that proposition entailed?

Before he could measure his words, Aemond spoke, “Help with what?”

You opened your eyes and kept them locked with his.

“Fixing you.”

[yourlocaltreesimp]

Forever and Always

2nd place raffle prize for @triplecatattack, a 600 word oneshot of Yan!Courage and Guide!reader.

TW: Child abuse, yandere, obsession, implied murder, he’s a bit unhinged

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Ever since he was little, he could see you. You grew up alongside one another, ghostly hand wrapped around his. You kept him entertained as he worked, chatting on about whatever met your interest as he did whatever labour his parents gave him. It was not a fun life, but it was enough with you there. He could count that no matter how much he suffered, it would be ok. You’d be there to mend the wounds and ease achy muscles. But as he got older, the more he realised how abnormal your presence was. Sure, he appreciated always having you, but it wasn’t normal. His parents made that clear. He lost count of how many times his father beat him bloody whenever he was caught talking to you, screaming about how you weren’t real. But that couldn’t be true. Not when you cradled his jaw and cleaned the blood from his skin, leaving him totally healed by the next morning. You must’ve been an angel, he thought. Sent from the goddesses just for him. And when he got the mastersword, it was only further proven in his mind that you were meant to stay by his side. You taught him to fight with grace and compassion, how to heal those hurt by monsters and taught him that there was love left in the dead, leathery thing he could call his heart. There were books and myths that told of how you were made just to keep him safe and loved. That you were real. That you were bound to him by your very soul.

It made it harder when you left, your soul ripped from his. He felt the emptiness without you there, without each little whisper. He felt so angry that the word didn’t cut it. He wanted to shake his younger self that thought you were abnormal and wished you’d leave so he wouldn’t get new wounds, tell him to be more grateful for the time that he had with you. He wanted to crack the bones of every person who told him you’d stay, who shipped him off to this fate without warning. He wanted to take Hylia from her throne and leave whatever evil there was to overtake it. He’d smile, knowing whatever fate would meet her, she’d be deserving of it. He would play no hero for her. She did not deserve it. He was never a hero for Hylia’s grace, but for yours and yours alone. He was never mad at you, you were far too good and kind to ever be mistreated. You’d have never left him if you had the choice. Forever and Always, you promised.

And it seemed you made good on your promises. You were here again. Whole and absolutely stunning as the day he lost you. Sure, eight other men in tow, but nothing he couldn’t deal with. No one he couldn’t slaughter. Sure, you lost your memory of him, but nothing he couldn’t remedy. You just needed time. Your soul was made to fit the gap of his own, and surely, you’d understand once you’re together once more. You’d come to terms that those men, not just the heroes, died for good reason. Perhaps he could even get a kiss for such hard work, but he’d never ask anything of his Angel that they’d be uncomfortable with. He was already a sinner, the blood on his blade not any that could be washed off, but he’d never dream of tainting you. His hands that are so violent would find their way around you with the tenderness you taught him to have. His words, so sweet with the kindness you showed him. And he’d treat you with all the love he had in him, no false idol worthy of his worship.

[mysteria157]

Chapter Two

Pairing: Black Fem!Reader x Hitman Toji Fushiguro

**While I personally do not think this chapter is too dark and angsty, I AM NOT YOU, so please be sure to read the CWs before proceeding.**

CW: Profanity, Physical Abuse, ANGST, Emotional Manipulation, Naobito being a piece of shit, Hitman duties (idk what to call it), Blood and Violence, Depressive Thoughts, Obsessive Coping Mechanisms, Comfort, Toji being down bad.

Word Count: Don't worry about it.

Summary:

Toji hasn't always been cold and calculated. Beneath that harsh exterior is a boy who was made to feel like he never belonged in this world.

Authors Notes: Hello! Thank you all for waiting!

This fic is going to have dark elements as I've stated before. We all know that Toji suffered abuse from his family growing up and that's largely a reason why he acts the way he does. So I really wanted to explore that in my fic and specifically in this chapter.

As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated! Enjoy and thank you for your support!

Previous Chapter | Twitter | Ao3| Masterlist | Next Chapter

Dividers: @royallaesthetics @eloquentmoon | Header: created by myself (fanart from Pinterest)

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

look at you.

still standing

after being

knocked down

and thrown out

-Alex Elle

*** Toji ***

The first time Toji tastes freedom, it’s a decade into his bleak existence, amidst the sweltering summer heat. The thick, humid air clings to his grimy skin and makes him feel more uncomfortable than usual. His room—or he supposes it’s a small house—is nestled among overgrown trees and an unkempt lawn. 

To an outsider, his ‘home’ looks to be a greenhouse shed but with poorly painted walls and small windows. However, within the compound, it represents the dwelling of the man who tainted the revered Zenin bloodline. While they cannot exterminate the one who is responsible for polluting their family, they can make it seem like he never existed, to themselves and the outside world. 

He’s far from the main house, but it’s quiet, and even though the breeze always feels nice between his matted hair, it always carries the undercurrent of trash from the large garbage can that rests against the compound walls next to his abode. It’s all he smells no matter the season. The garbage can is one you would find outside restaurants or large establishments, and when it’s trash day, a large truck parks on the other side of the compound, reaches long metal prongs over the white brick walls, and pulls the can over to dump it. 

On trash day, it would be so easy for Toji to jump those walls, to hop on top of the plastic lid of the garbage can and let it carry him over. But like many things, fear and hopelessness hold him back. His entire family has never offered him a kind word or a smile, but they are nothing compared to his uncle. Naobito is the head of their family, feared by many within and outside of the compound. His position requires him to be good at many things, and if there is one thing Naobito is especially good at, it’s making Toji realize his insignificance. 

“You think you can just leave? Where would you go, boy? No one in this city wants to take in another child. Especially one of low birth.”

“Insignificant.”

“Useless.”

“A stain on something we have worked hard to uphold.”

These words echo in his ears day after day, month after month, year after year, ever since he could comprehend words enough to know their sting. He’s always felt small, always believed the only purpose he has is to breathe and do nothing else.

But today is trash day…

Maybe it’s the hunger that has been gnawing at his stomach for the past two days or the discomfort of dirt clinging to his skin beneath his sweaty yukata. Maybe it’s the sting on his cheek from his uncle’s morning slap, the mocking reminder for the millionth time not to dare do anything besides what he is told. Maybe staring too long at the garbage can and feeling his heart jump when the truck parks on the other side of the walls is a sign; a fleeting feeling within him, his own body telling him to do something before he withers away. 

It all sparks a sudden surge of strength, propelling him to climb on top of the plastic garbage lid as the metal prongs dig into each side of the can and lift him and the trash. Adrenaline helps him dig his fingers into the plastic of the lid as gravity pulls him over the walls of the Zenin compound.

He’s prepared to be tackled and dragged by his hair back inside before anyone can see him. He’s ready to fight back with the remains of his strength if he needs to. But as he slides off the garbage lid and his feet touch the cobblestone ground, only silence greets him. The trash collectors don’t see him and they drive away without turning back and he’s grateful. He’s so grateful, he can hardly breathe.

The compound isn’t in the middle of the city center like he once thought. From the many festivals and jovial sounds he would hear on the other side of the walls, he expected bustling laughter and sounds of merchants advertising their goods. But it turns out, the compound is perched on a hillside. He guesses it makes sense for one of Japan’s wealthiest families to be tucked away for safety and overlooking the world to feel more powerful. 

Even though he can see what looks to be a village a walking distance away, the compound also overlooks the city and a large river that Toji doesn’t know the name of. He’s never been taught anything, never learned how to read, never learned basic arithmetic or history. He knows nothing other than the fact that he lives in Tokyo, to eat the rancid food he is given and not talk back when his uncle visits him to teach him a lesson about whatever is bothering him that day.

Laughter echoes in the distance, the unmistakable laughter of children—maybe some his own age. Some who won’t sneer at him as if he’s a piece of shit stuck to their shoe. 

His legs carry him towards the village, the sounds of the breeze dying down to be replaced with yelling and laughter and normalcy he’s never heard before. Vaguely, his mind screams at him to go back home so he doesn’t suffer later, but he squashes it down. He will do anything to see faces besides the angry ones of his family, to breathe in scents beyond garbage and contempt, and to taste flavors other than the remnants of meals prepared by the Zenin’s esteemed live-in chef.

Ignoring the persistent growl of hunger in his stomach, his mind focuses on absorbing the sounds of the bustling marketplace that he finds himself in. Vendors haggle with customers, offering a variety of goods—fresh produce, meat, and fish—all waiting to be transformed into dishes that Toji wishes he could eat. The uneven cobblestones are ragged beneath his feet, not smooth and pressed down like in front of the compound. These stones protrude from the soil they are rooted into and catch on the thin shoes that barely protect Toji’s feet. But he navigates the crowds seamlessly, wide-eyed at the unfamiliar sights around him even though the brush of people against his body makes the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

An elderly man dozes off beside a vendor stand empty of customers. A woman, younger but with a haggard face, stands guard at the makeshift register, casting a cautious glance in Toji’s direction. He can feel her disapproval and with her gaze, the weight of his disobedience settles upon him—he should be at the compound, under his uncle’s hateful eyes. Hastily, he averts his gaze and quickens his pace, disappearing into the crowd with newfound urgency.

His ears pick it up before his nose smells it—the sound of sizzling and the smell of dough. Toji can’t help but gawk at the long rows of metal scoops, each containing batter with octopus, pickled ginger, and tempura. The sides bubble and cook, frying from the yellow of fresh yolk before the vendor’s deft utensils turn over each ball of dough, revealing perfectly cooked Takoyaki. He’s tasted it before, albeit soggy and half-eaten, but the memory now stirs a desperate craving within him. He could have it now; fresh and untainted by someone else’s bite. But the lining of his pockets holds nothing but lint; he’s poor with not a penny to his name. 

The vendor sets her utensils to the side, pausing in her efforts to catch Toji’s wary attention. When his gaze meets hers, he’s stiff and ready to flee. He’s sure the Zenin family’s influence looms large over the city; she could easily summon someone and report his escape. He’s not ready to go—he won’t. As he edges backward, his thin shoes slip on the uneven cobblestones, nearly causing him to stumble. 

But whatever look is in her eyes softens, replaced by something unfamiliar—a warmth that unsettles him, makes him almost nauseous, quelling his hunger while stoking the flames of fear in his belly. Her gaze sweeps over him—his disheveled hair, grimy yukata, the smear of dirt on his cheek. Instead of scowling or sneering and spitting at his feet, she smiles. Soft and warm without any pretense behind it, a genuine smile that makes Toji relax and the fear dissipate. She plates a dozen takoyaki into a long paper bowl, tops them with Kewpie mayonnaise, bonito flakes, and powdered seaweed, and shoves a pair of chopsticks into one perfectly rolled fried dough ball before she slides the bowl over to him.

“Eat up before it gets cold, honey,” she says kindly and the tone almost makes the breath in his throat catch.

Snatching the bowl, Toji’s actions mirror the desperate way he consumes the food that Naobito tosses at his feet after withholding a meal for days. Along with an education, he was never taught manners. His cousins know which forks to use for every dish, he knows to use his hands and savor anything he can get before it’s taken away. He offers the vendor a brief nod, eyes shy and looking away from her for as long as he can muster before he ducks away from the stall.

The takoyaki melts on his tongue and he can taste every speck of seasoning that she added. Ignoring the wary glances directed his way, he licks Kewpie off his fingers, uncaring of the bonito flakes that cling to his chapped lips. It’s the best thing he’s ever eaten—delicious, warm, fills his belly, and when he finally wipes the bonito flakes from his lips some tears collect with it. He doesn’t acknowledge the sadness that climbs up his stomach and nestles in the back of his throat. He can’t—what use would it be to cry over a life that will never change? Over a meal for once prepared for him and not someone else?

He stuffs the remaining takoyaki down his throat to push down the urge to sob, savors the taste for as long as he can, and sucks the seasoning from under his fingernails just as he feels something bump into his feet. When he looks down, he can at least recognize that it’s a soccer ball. The dirt turns the white patterns on it almost black, and it looks well-used.

“You gonna give that back, or just stare at it?” a voice demands.

Toji collects the dirty soccer ball and looks up to find a boy who might—hopefully—be his age. His black hair is short and his eyes hold an expression of boredom and grit that reminds Toji a little of himself. He holds out his hand and gestures for Toji to hand over the ball with so much impatience that Toji glares, tossing the ball back without a word. In truth, he’s struck silent because this is the first time in his life that he’s seen another kid his age who doesn’t look down on him from the encouragement of family.

The kid purses his lips, a bushy eyebrow lifting as he thinks something over in his head before he meets Toji’s gaze. He tosses the ball from one hand to the other, back and forth with a practiced air that Toji wishes he had. He’s skinny but his cheeks are full and his arms aren’t bony which shows he’s well-fed. He doesn’t wear a yukata but his shorts and shirt are freshly washed and free of stains from constant use—just dirt off the ground from playing. 

Envy, it’s the only thing that Toji can feel in this moment. Because this kid gets to eat food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He gets to wear nice clothes, play with friends, and breathe air that’s fresh and smells of takoyaki. It’s not fair. It’s not—

“You wanna play?”

Toji’s eyes widen at the unexpected invitation. Play? With another kid? He’s seen his cousins play with each other in the large expansive fields of the compound but he was never allowed to join. He’s familiar with games he’s made up on his own—counting how many times a bird chirps before noon or how many different animals he can imagine in the clouds—but playing with someone else?

“It’s nothing crazy, you don’t gotta think so hard about it. You comin’ or not?”

Toji hesitates, his fingers bending the sides of the now-empty plastic bowl in his hands. He really should head back to the compound because it’s been over an hour. Someone has to have tried to come to his shed and bully him by now. He has to go back. He has to.

But—

“Okay,” Toji replies instead and follows the kid down the cobblestone street.

***

It’s dusk when he finally reaches the white brick of the compound walls again. The evening breeze is thankfully not as sticky as earlier in the day and glides through his hair to cool the sweat on the back of his neck. His skin is dirty from the people he brushed against in the alleyway, from running in fields with a speed he never knew he had, from kicking a soccer ball and falling into the grass to play with a friend he can now call, Shiu. His fingers are tacky from the Kewpie that he licked off hours ago as well as seasoning from the Yakitori chicken skewers that Shiu conned off a vendor.

He never knew he could have so much fun. He’s never been able to experience it once in his life and having to say goodbye to Shiu, to lie and say he would be back in a few days, makes his stomach curdle with sadness and his eyes sting with tears that he’s too elated right now to let fall.

The compound walls, once towering and frightening, now seem conquerable. With a full belly and a newfound sense of strength, Toji takes a running start, vaulting over the barrier and landing with a thud in the neglected grass. He falls to his knees and plops into the cushion of the ground, rolling onto his back with a huff. 

He doesn’t know where it comes from, but he giggles, it’s light and unexpected, mingling with the night air, and helps his lips curl into a rare smile. He gazes up at the starry sky, stars that he wishes he had names for but still uses their presence to create warriors and animals to tell himself stories on nights when he can’t sleep.

“No matter what I tell you, you still never listen.”

The sound of his uncle’s voice shoots an electric jolt of fear down Toji’s spine, propelling him to his knees before he can draw another breath. He can’t have his back on Naobito, he needs to have his eyes on every movement even though it won’t make a difference.

His breath is lodged in his lungs, forming a tight knot that constricts his chest and parches his throat. The sight of his uncle, the sound of his voice, and the scent of his overpowering cologne, make him break into a sweat immediately. It’s a Pavlovian response and his body yearns for some sort of survival instinct that has long since been beaten out of him. But he tries, god does he try to defend himself every time.

Toji sits back on his haunches, shooting an ineffective glare up at his uncle that does little to penetrate the unnaturally smooth texture of Naobito’s skin. Toji can’t run, where would he go? To the other side of the compound where another member of his family can grab him by the hair and drag him back to the underbrush? To the front gates that are always locked and manned by security guards who control who can enter and exit?

“I’m guessing you ran your mouth to everyone you saw. Told those commoners that you’re a poor, neglected boy trapped in the clutches of the Zenin family.” Toji should have done that, but he was too caught up in good food and having friends like a kid should. He shakes his head at his uncle, unwilling to form words that bubble with the now overwhelming queasiness within him. “Oh I’m sure you did, didn’t you?” 

Toji shakes his head again, more eager, more insistent even though his heart begins to race in his chest. What’s the point in trying to prove himself to someone who’s already made up their mind? It’s useless, Toji knows that, but he continues to be honest, shaking his head over and over, hoping that maybe just this once, his uncle will believe him.

Naobito scoffs, his peppered mustache twitching with the movement of his mouth. The raven hair on his scalp is always gelled and brushed back no matter the time of day. He exudes wealth in tailored suits and eloquence with a nasty edge that cements his authority within the family. He’s a mean man, a rotten man. A man who subjects Toji to torment no matter the time of day. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the authorities are on their way here right now. Ready to arrest your family, to haul away your catatonic mother so she can’t defend you.”

Naobito’s words are a sharpened tool of manipulation, Toji knows the pierce of it against his skin. But the thought that his own actions would endanger someone else, makes him start, to open his mouth in a plea.

“I didn’t—”

But before he can say another word, a searing pain grips his scalp, forcing a hiss of agony from his lips as Naobito yanks him by the hair through the thick grass and drags him away. Knotweed scratches his face and scrapes against his ankles as he kicks desperately, trying to find purchase on the ground before his uncle can do anything else. 

His heart pounds in a recognizable rhythm, adrenaline coursing weakly through his veins, its effects dulled by the overwhelming fear. His fighting doesn’t matter. Toji knows the routine all too well—the sensation of the wooden floor beneath his back when he falls onto it, the sting of a slap across his face, the ache of a knee to his gut. 

Toji hasn’t sobbed in front of his uncle in a long time, but he can’t suppress the wretched sound that escapes him as the yakitori and takoyaki resurface and leave his mouth bitter. It feels like the worst punishment he’s ever received, the consequence of eating wonderful food that was never meant for a peasant like him. He took it in, and now it’s on the ground. 

He shouldn’t have jumped the walls. He shouldn’t have even thought about it.

Stupid.

Worthless.

Insignificant.

“Now what did we learn?” his uncle’s bored drawl cuts through the air, indifferent as his own flesh and blood cries in front of him. It’s just another day for him and he enacts punishment based on ideals that have been hammered into him by his own father and the father before him.

Naobito pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away specks of blood from his knuckles. His perfectly groomed hair is now disheveled, falling over his eyes, glowering with disdain down at his nephew. Towering over him, Naobito radiates dominance, his imposing stature a constant reminder of Toji’s weakness. Toji hates it. He hates Naobito. He hates his entire family. He hates that his very existence brings so much distaste to those who should be protecting him. 

His ears are ringing and his face hurts, and large, calloused hands grip Toji’s cheeks, squeezing them painfully and forcing his gaze upward to lock with evil eyes. His charcoal irises hold no depth or uniqueness and they’re devoid of warmth. Pure hatred, it’s all that oozes from his uncle’s gaze. He’s endured that hateful look every day for the past decade, yet it feels just as fresh as the day before, just as painful to the inside of him. 

Toji chokes on a tight breath, groaning against the pressure of nails digging into his skin. He’s devastated by the stench of sweat, dirt, and vomit, and he’s so tired. All sense of strength that filled his hollow bones on the other side of the walls evaporated as soon as the sound of his uncle’s voice shot into his ears like a rifle.

“I said,” Naobito begins, voice low and filled with venom. His breath smells faintly of whiskey, but Toji knows he would inflict this pain upon his nephew completely sober. “What did we learn?”

Through the delirium of it all, beneath the horrible smells around him and the pain that radiates from his stomach up to his hairline, he registers the tremble in his body. He’s shaking, quaking in the grip of a family member who has done nothing but terrorize him as early as he can remember. Toji wants to spit in his face, wrap his hands around his pale neck, and squeeze until the life leaves his body.

But he’s not strong enough. He will never be strong enough.

So he does what he’s been conditioned to do, what he knows will appease his tormentor.

“I’m useless,” Toji whispers, tears finally welling in his eyes, shame gnawing at his gut. No child should ever have to utter those words, yet Toji speaks them daily.

Naobito hums in satisfaction, sickly sweet, eliciting a sharp twist in Toji’s stomach. If he throws up, he hopes it gets on his uncle’s finely pressed suit. He hopes the stains never come out, hopes he has to throw it away and spend more money for a new one. 

“And what else? You are…?”

The pucker of Toji’s lips quivers as they curl to form the words and his vision swims. The sight of his uncle becomes hazy, and Toji is thankful that he can’t see his face if only for a moment. 

“I’m…insignificant.”

Even though his uncle’s features are a blur, Toji can still see the whites of his teeth as he smiles. It only makes the tears fall quicker and scalding, dripping down dirty cheeks and onto his uncle’s fingers that still dig into his cheeks. He recoils in disgust, shoving Toji away as if he’s been burned. The fingers are gone, free from their biting grip, but Toji can still feel the indentation of them on his cheeks, branded and there to stay for as long as he lives.

Clutching the wooden floor beneath him, Toji’s nails try to burrow into the hard surface and he desperately wishes the floorboards could open up and swallow him whole. Tears stream down without reservation, smacking onto the dark wood next to his dirty fingers. Since his birth, he’s known not an ounce of happiness, not an ounce of peace or love, and is always the subject of his family’s wrath. He’s just come to accept what he’s forced to repeat day after day. Of what he is.

Insignificant.

Useless.

And that thought, the terrible and ever-present thought that his life has no meaning, only makes him cry harder. They’re harsh sobs that rattle in his chest and make him hiccup with every inhale, and he can’t stop them. Finally, his uncle has taught him a valuable lesson.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears Naobito scoff as he stands on his feet and readies to retreat and leave Toji in his misery. The routine will continue in the morning—cold water through a garden hose to shower him down, leftover breakfast from the main house, and another dusty yukata to wear.

Toji knows it like the back of his hand. And like so many times before, Naobito rolls his eyes, stuffs his dirty handkerchief into his pocket, and utters the same words.

“Stop—

***

“—fucking sniveling.”

It’s the third time Toji has to say it in so few minutes and his patience is wearing thin. They always get like this, it shouldn’t surprise him, yet his annoyance refuses to morph into practiced indifference, despite his years on the job. A part of him recognizes the fear in the man’s voice and the tears that run down his cheeks. He held that same emotion and cried many times through years of beatings.

But that was a long time ago, and this is different. This isn’t a man who has spent years under the abuse of his family, this is a target, successfully hunted down by Toji. Right now, it’s just another Tuesday. Another contract. Another paycheck. 

Toji doesn’t give them names; attaching emotion is pointless in a job he is always eager to finish so he can get paid. But he needs something to keep his mind focused; so he uses adjectives or random words to effectively detach himself. His current target’s name? Greasy.

The moniker suits him, evident from the persistent shine on his bald head, the stain of sweat that builds at his collar, and a dingy button-up that hugs his beer belly. His beady eyes are filled with tears, his lower lids red and swollen and a thin chapped lip split down the middle. He squirms and wiggles in his chair and every part of him seems slimy, reminiscent of a snake fresh from its egg. And Toji hates snakes. 

What the hell is he again? A stock broker? Hedge fund manager? Toji doesn’t really remember nor does he really care, it’s not relevant anyway. His career is but a small stepping stone for figuring out the best approach for reconnaissance.

It takes Toji a week to track Greasy’s movements in the vastness of the city that is part of America. Despite Toji’s skills in navigation, everything is unfamiliar. But he adapts quickly—he has to.

Greasy works a typical nine-to-five and has a corner office in a nice skyrise downtown that he spends most of his time taking personal phone calls inside of instead of working. Toji knows because the building across the street is empty and just as tall with large glass windows that are blacked out to those on the outside. On the 42nd floor, Toji has a perfect view of the back of his target and watches every day to note every detail of his routine.

For lunch, Toji stealthily follows Greasy to the same 7-Eleven at 12:35 PM, watches him purchase the same cherry slushie and tuna melt for ten dollars, and grimaces beneath the cloth mask that covers his mouth as he watches Greasy scarf down the food like the pig he is on the journey back to the office. At 5 PM, Greasy walks from the office to the train station, takes the Red Line to another city, and arrives home thirty minutes later.

The routine is as mundane and uninspired as the man himself. Yet, it’s the days marked by suspicious behavior from his client that pique Toji’s interest. Those are the days Greasy indulges, presenting the perfect opportunity for Toji to strike.

On Monday and Wednesday, Greasy tells his wife he has to work late and clocks out at 4:45 PM, riding the same Red Line but exiting the train at a stop before his usual. He climbs into a shiny Mercedes, kisses a much younger blonde woman, and disappears until 11 PM when his client reports that he’s arrived home. Like many others of his kind—seedy and grimy and consumed with themselves—Greasy remains oblivious to Toji’s presence. The last thing on his mind is his wife and children as he indulges in infidelity.

He’s climbed the ranks of his job but failed to realize the ease of it is from his wife’s influence. He’s too selfish to recognize that cheating on a governor with a dark side would not only incur her wrath but also put her in the spotlight due to his carelessness. He’s too conceited to realize his mistress only fucks him because her house and car are being paid as long as she continues to entertain him. He’s stupid in the best way for a mission like this, and ignorant of the world around him. 

It turns out, Greasy has been fucking on the side for half of his marriage. And he’s been taking a little bit of his wife’s money that she earns as a politician to fuel his alternative lifestyle. His wife is easy on the eyes, gave the loser two kids, and remained faithful even though her husband slept with anything that had a pulse. The only things Greasy gives his wife in return are two children and an STD. She’s angry, distraught, and filled with rage. Rightfully so.

Thanks to the help of the department in his organization that handles all things technological, Toji is able to SIM swap the mistress’s phone and send Greasy a message to meet her in a different location. Specifically, one of the many random establishments throughout the city that have been bought by his organization under the guise of something else. 

Greasy walks into Toji’s trap, ignorant and vulnerable, and now here he sits—tied up and squealing. This contract is so easy that it’s almost upsetting. He doesn’t usually like to get his hands dirty, but mental stimulation would have been a nice distraction.

Toji doesn’t get it—cheating. He’s always been one to stick with a woman and take what he can before he moves on to the next. While his intentions are never worth a gold star, he does things one woman at a time. Cheating seems…exhausting. And he’s been exhausted for most of his life to stay away from it if he can.

He’s not one to be tied down anyway.

At least he thought so.

“Earn me.”

Your words echo in his mind, a precursor to what might become a throbbing migraine because he shouldn’t be thinking about you right now. You shouldn’t be in the dark, bloody recesses of his thoughts focused on killing. The room will only stain your smooth brown skin and ruin you, consume you, and corrupt you in ways beyond repair. He can’t afford your gaze to turn into anything other than teasing or annoyed when you look at him.

“I s-swear. I’ll do-do wh-whate-ever you say just—“ 

Whiny. Sobbing. Annoying.

“Shut up,” Toji grumbles, using the muzzle of his Glock 43 to massage his temple.

He’s tired, his brain now pulsating and being fueled by the stench of Greasy’s body. Despite the amount of money that he can get from revenge contracts, they are typically handled by those ranked lower than him. Revenge contracts deal with anything personal: infidelity, a family member that is despised just enough to warrant making them disappear, two legal companies doing whatever they can to take the other down. Anything with a vendetta.

They are driven by anger, hatred, and bitterness. Heavy and unnecessary emotions that Toji has to deal with before he can complete the job. Clients often demand specific proofs of guilt, from signed confessions in blood to videos of their target with tearful apologies to a picture of a severed finger if they are demented enough. To the client, it’s freeing. To the world, it’s insanity. But to Toji, it’s tedious and he has no choice but to get it done.

He pulls out his phone, ignoring the absence of notifications from you, and dials the burner number provided to all clients.

“Is it done?”

Most wives would be a sniveling mess under such circumstances. But not this one. She’s been wronged to a degree that her sadness washed away a long time ago and all that was left was rage, revenge, and unyielding determination. It takes a special someone who has been really hurt to stoop this low into darkness.

“Not yet, honey. Doing what you wanted remember?” 

Toji sighs, putting his phone on speaker as finally rests his gaze on the disheveled and pissy state of Greasy. His other hand steadies the gun aimed at Greasy’s dick and the hiccuping words flow once again. He’s so goddamn loud. Toji needs Ibuprofen, food, a fucking text from you (but he’s not thinking about that right now), and some sleep.

Greasy has already exhausted the usual litany of cries, but Toji endures the same performance again for his client on the phone.

“I’m sorry!”

“I won’t do it again!”

“Please give me another chance!”

Blah, blah, fucking blah.

In the early years of Toji’s time in darkness, he watched this performance firsthand. It’s a feeble attempt to cling to life, words uttered in desperation on the precipice of death, holding little substance. Once the adrenaline dies down, old habits resurface, seeping through the cracks formed by fear. And Greasy’s wife won’t be willing to pay such a hefty price a second time.

Removing the phone from speaker, Toji presses it firmly to his ear to drown out Greasy’s heightened cries. “You get all that, honey?”

“…yes.” 

Mrs. Greasy sounds a little unsure, but she can’t back down now. That’s the other irritating thing about revenge contracts. Deeds fueled by emotion are unpredictable, and in a business like this, you need to be absolutely certain of what you agree to. She could back down, but then that means she knows about this little business and Toji’s organization will have no choice but to come after her.

No, he needs this signed and sealed with a deposit in his account by the end of the night.

Toji waves the gun dismissively, rolling his eyes at Greasy’s flinching. “You wanna stay on for the rest?” It’s a courtesy Toji always extends, twisted though it may be, offering some semblance of closure to his clients.

Greasy’s face is a mess of mucus and sweat, and the front of his pants is wet. It’s fucking disgusting, but there’s a part of Toji that revels in the sight. Perhaps it’s the years of desensitization, but Toji relishes seeing those who deserve to get their due. Rotten people. Terrible people. And while cheaters aren’t inherently evil, they seldom learn until their world crumbles around them.

“Just get it done,” Mrs. Greasy replies firmly, though a tremor in her voice betrays her fear. She should be afraid and drowning her worries in bottles of wine tonight. It’s one of many logical responses to ordering the death of a cheating husband. She hangs up without another word.

Normally, Toji has a few words before he pulls the trigger or tightens the noose or whatever nefarious thing he’s ordered to do before his target goes limp. But the throbbing in his head has blossomed into a migraine just as he expected, he hasn’t eaten in ten hours, and he hasn’t heard from you since last night.

To put it quite simply, Toji is pissed off.

So he cocks his gun and does what he needs to do.

Despite the deafening roar of the gun, the ensuing silence is gratifying to his head. He doesn’t bother with the mess, that’s someone else’s job and he shoots off the text to the appropriate party. In a few hours, Greasy’s body will be dealt with in whatever way the cleaning crew decides. A death certificate will be signed by a coroner and an autopsy report will be forged by a pathologist—two of many on his organization’s payroll—and to the public Mr. Greasy will have been a loving man killed by his own heart. It’s almost poetic how efficiently things are run.

Thick red droplets splatter the grimy concrete, falling in a rhythmic cadence Toji knows all too well. Scenes like this are etched into his psyche, a constant hum in the background of his thoughts like a relentless generator. The instinctual response is to recoil, to scream, to flee at the sight.

But Toji has learned to numb himself to the gore and violence of his profession. To reach the level he has attained, to gain that notoriety, he had to confront the brutality without flinching. He had to absorb it, dream about it, and recall it with clarity when necessary, sketching it on a canvas as if it were fresh in his mind. 

Despite the beating he received, the small taste of freedom Toji savored at ten years old was just the beginning. Sneaking out became a routine and it didn’t take long for him to learn from Shiu how to swindle, scam, and steal. Every time he scaled the walls of the compound, Naobito’s wrath got longer and more painful. As if to teach him a lesson, as if the pain would make him fall back in line. 

But his uncle failed to realize that he took that hope from Toji long before he decided to seek more freedom. He had taken everything from him. He had nothing left to lose.

On the day that he learned of his mother’s passing, he leaped over the white brick walls and never returned.

The streets became his domain, cobblestones his makeshift bed unless a caring vendor offered him a room for the night or Shiu was able to convince his parents to let Toji sleep over for a few days. They ran the streets together with other kids their age, and as they grew, so did the prevalence of crime.

It didn’t take long for Toji to get mean, to embrace the cruelty that always radiated from his uncle’s pores. Survival demanded ferocity and each fight he got into honed his strength and capacity for violence until it simmered perpetually beneath his skin.

Despite the bloodshed ingrained in his past, Toji shies away from memories of his first kill. He was too young, too naive, and too angry. He refuses to conjure the face of his victim, to entertain the image of the man he eliminated in defense of an older woman who was being attacked. He pushes that memory down into a dark corner where he can never see it. He refuses to remember more.

But Toji does remember how cold it was that night—the rain, the tremble of his hands around the gun, the precision he summoned, the hollow emptiness that followed. Naobito’s influence had carved out any trace of emotion, leaving behind a vessel capable only of detached efficiency. It’s so ironic that it’s laughable. He became the very thing he feared.

When larger and more menacing gangs began to cast their shadows, Toji realized it wouldn’t be long until he would have to fall into one just to survive. He remembers a member from one of the more vicious gangs recruiting him. Not Yakuza, but just as structured and disciplined with a hideout, hot food, and warm beds. How could he possibly say no? 

In a year, Toji ascended the ranks, earning his place as Wakagashira—second in command—at the age of seventeen. If someone needed to disappear, Toji was the man to get it done. Morals were luxuries he couldn’t afford; his survival depended on their sacrifice.

Those efforts paid off. He moved from the local hardcore gang to a legitimate organization that gave him a mentor who showed him how to read, encouraged him to get his GED, and taught him how to be disciplined and mature. He began to get paid for his work and his world changed. 

He no longer had to think about his next meal; it was always within reach. He no longer endured cold showers from a garden hose and the leaky roof of his shed; he had comfort and a cheap apartment. He no longer sought affection; it was thrust upon him by every woman his age who could breathe the same air as him.

Everything that he has earned in his life, has been by his own hand, his own skill, his own diligence. 

But no amount of money and comfort can wash away the brutal beginnings of his life.

Toji swipes his finger on his phone screen, a new ritualized distraction that gives him satisfaction when he watches a row of orange jewels disappear. He’s reached level 150. And while he can’t make any money playing Candy Crush, it still fuels the addiction that he used to harness when he places bets. He has yet to admit freely that he’s a gambler, but you’re no idiot. His determination to win as many games of Spades on the 4th of July at your uncle’s was the first giveaway. 

“Jesus. You always this messy?” a voice from behind him calls out, prompting Toji’s hand to instinctively fly to the gun on his side as he whirls around. His breathing halts in reflex, ears straining to capture any subtle sound to give him an advantage. Yet, the sight that meets his eyes—a group of people clad in grey jumpsuits, their insignia faded—elicits only a frustrated exhale. “This how you do things over in Japan?”

There’s an undertone to the comment that Toji recognizes, but doesn’t bother to acknowledge as he walks past the crew and out of the warehouse. There’s no point entertaining them. No matter the contract, the cleaning crew always complains. New recruits in the organization, no matter how promising, have to work their way up and show they can handle any job. So Toji knows what it’s like to complain during cleanup.

But it is true, this isn’t how Toji does things. He’s quick and precise without leaving a mess, silent and stealthy—a reputation that has elevated him within the ranks. He’s heard the whispers, and seen the way those of lower rank either tense up or shine their eyes at him when he’s near. His boss boasts of him as Japan’s notorious hitman—nameless yet highly sought after for his efficiency. The Invisible Man.

With his years in the game, Toji can call the shots on how he does things. He only kills scum. Scum lower than himself. Raised in squalor, abused by those meant to care for him, he knows evil intimately. Each bullet he delivers to his targets brings a semblance of peace, and a sense of justice to his troubled soul. 

There was a point in his life when he wasn’t so troubled. Somewhere beneath the layers of filth and pain lies a man sheonce knew—a man of tenderness and warmth, embraced for a fleeting moment. A brief, yet exquisite time filled with the gentle caress of her hands, the comforting cadence of her voice, and the birth of a son, a fragment of her very soul. She was able to push through the anger he gave, wrap her hands around his, and never let go.

But like all things in Toji’s life, he’s constantly reminded that he is nothing. That he deserves nothing. And the world made sure to take her away to reaffirm that devastating fact. Six years of barely holding himself together in front of a child who needed him, made him realize he needed to do better. 

He’s not ready to give up his career just yet—he’s not sure if he ever can. However, one thing he is sure he can do is provide his son with a better life. He’s not the best father, he will admit to it, and he always has enough connections to give Megumi protection from his family and the dangers of his job. But it’s not enough anymore. He needs to be more involved, more attentive, more of a parent to fill the hole left by his mother. He can make sure his son has a childhood worth remembering.

Not like his own.

America is big, which means more opportunity, which means more money, and an entire continent away from the echoes of his past.

He should forge a future worth pursuing—a future where his kid can have simple joys he never got to experience; maybe a dog, a nice private school, and a father with a convenient job. Retirement flits through his mind more frequently these days, but he knows that truly getting out of the business may be next to impossible. A small part of him longs for that freedom again, a chance to escape all the shadows of his past. However, as his phone buzzes with yet another notification, he’s jolted back to the grim reality that he lives in.

Unknown: Not your usual leftovers but you still got the job done. You should have your payment later today.

Toji: Good. No more revenge contracts. I mean it.

Unknown: I have another if you’re interested, a classic one and done. Want to get you situated in the new market before people start demanding you.

Toji: Gimme a week.

Unknown: I can do that.

***

He’s downed three Ibuprofen, scarfed McDonald’s, and washed away the remnants of blood and frustration from his skin. In the bathroom mirror, his chest is flushed from the vigorous scrubbing, his scars appearing more pronounced against the backdrop of crimson. Each scar serves as a stark reminder of his tumultuous life, where every gain is intertwined with bloodshed and agony. 

Under the dim glow of the streetlights outside your uncle’s house, you likely didn’t notice the scars that mar his skin, a fact for which he’s grateful. It would only be more that he would have to lie to you about and he hasn’t thought of the story that he will tell you when you finally ask him.

He has no idea what sort of card he’s pulled to have you in his life. You deserve someone accomplished—a doctor, lawyer, or politician—certainly not a man who deals in bullets and bloodshed, someone like him. Men like Toji don’t deserve the kindness of a woman. Men like Toji don’t deserve the softness of skin scented with Shea butter and a hint of vanilla or the radiance of sunlight dancing on curly hair. Everything good and beautiful in this world slips from his scarred fingers. 

He feels insignificant, worthless, a stray wandering the streets, latching onto any speck of attention. Yet, despite your piercing glares and the thin thread that you have him on, you possess a warmth surrounded by fiery edges. The urge to subject himself to that searing heat is almost unbearable.

Both of your lives are consumed with demanding professions; his by contracts, yours by on-call duties and long shifts. It’s been about a week since your date and you both text frequently. You’re busy with your fifth consecutive 12-hour shift and you haven’t messaged him all day. He knows you’re busy, but there’s a piece of him that has been trained to expect unhappiness. 

Deep down, he knows you have every right to cut ties with him forever. He’s deceiving you in the worst possible way. If you were to uncover his deeds, the dark agreements he’s made and completed, you would surely turn away without a second glance. He had no intention of wanting more of you after that night. But women like you are rare, fleeting in appearance and he’s a selfish fucker. So, so selfish.

He was ready to ask you out again before the reality of his harsh world dragged him away. A contract that he thought would be simple and quick, had dragged into a week-long affair; interrupting little moments he could be spending with you. 

In those moments, alone with his gaze fixed on Greasy as he observed his behavior, he thought of you. He thought of seeing you again when you’re not yelling and screaming at a referee. Maybe for dinner? Somewhere decent where he can snicker at the way you glare at him in the low lights. Somewhere he can see you in a dress besides the red one he met you in, curls framing your face, naturally long lashes narrowing as he flirts with you without shame.

The knowledge that he doesn’t know more about you, leaves an odd fluttering in his stomach that he can only describe as annoyance. He’s known you for over a month but you are as mysterious as you are beautiful. With his skills, he could easily dig into the far corners of his organization to discover more about you. But the mere thought of knowing parts of you without your permission leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

He’s slept around enough to know a good-looking woman when he sees one, and you stood out like a genuine gem amidsta sea of counterfeit trinkets. Toji can’t deny that he approached you that night with a certain goal in mind, but the instant he looked down and called you ‘princess’, the minute you shot him a glare that could rival a city’s destruction, he was hooked.

He’s drawn to women who are independent, strong-willed, and able to speak up for themselves. The assertive ones were rare until he met you. That night at your uncle’s, you exuded a resoluteness he had never encountered before. You took pleasure solely for yourself, oblivious to the fact that your selfishness merely made you more enticing, inviting him to sink his fingers into your flesh and take root indefinitely. He had never been so delirious with lust, so utterly out of control with his body as you took and took. The sex was amazing, toe-curling, and intense but it wasn’t just that, it was you.

You, you, you—fuck.

Normally, he’s content with momentary encounters with women; lingering around for a few weeks, taking what they offer until he moves on to the next. It’s a practiced air that he’s used to breathing.

Breathe in—a good fuck on Monday that has a little bit of money for him to take advantage of until Friday. Breathe out—she’s had enough of him or he’s taken his fill and he finds a nice brunette on Saturday.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

But the air is a lot thinner when he tries to breathe you in, tight in his chest and too much but also not enough.

Because you’re a fierce little thing, yet he can see hints of vulnerability beneath the steely resolve of your gaze, a softness rarely revealed to others—especially men and those who challenge you. There’s a familiarity in that vulnerability, a long-forgotten sensation buried deep within him, hidden away in that same dusty recess of his being that’s been rattling for attention a lot more lately. 

The allure of you is like a swift current within a crystal-clear stream, beckoning him to immerse himself despite the rocky terrain beneath. Against his better judgment, he’s plunged headfirst without thinking about what he’s doing—about what’s at stake—and letting the current take him away.

You must have seen something in him, because, despite your protests and excuses, you dropped your defenses enough to show more of yourself. Enough to smile at the daisies he gave you when you thought he couldn’t see. Enough to mold your soft lips against his one more time.

His mind wanders back to the present again and falls into a familiar urge that has to be satiated. He knows that whatever it is, it stems from his childhood, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. He runs his fingers over his skin, tracing each scar he’s come to memorize to ensure nothing appears out of place. He can distinguish those from Naobito’s cruel hands and those earned from years in the field. He knows. Yet, he still feels the need to double-check, from the locks on the front door to the latches on every window, even poking his head into the attic before bed just for reassurance. 

He has to be sure that he’s safe, that he is secure in his home, away from prying eyes because Naobito could be his neighbor. He could be here in the US, here in this city, here watching his every move and he has to be safe.

His fingers tremble against the cool porcelain of the bathroom sink as his heart races, each breath shaky and uneven as it falls from his throat, his eyes fluttering to push away the sting as he begins his own routine that comes up a few times a week. A steady mantra to quell his rising panic.

He’s not here.

He will never be here.

He will never hurt you again.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

You’re safe.

He hasn’t had to worry about Naobito in a very long time, but the logic of that falls to the wayside no matter the time of day. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone about it, he’s fine. The fear and pain will fade away with time. 

It will.

The chime of his phone interrupts his thoughts and makes him flinch. He exhales another shaky breath and presses the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, using the pressure to ground himself and get his thoughts back in order so he can go about his day with what remains of his sanity.

“Fuck,” Toji whispers and slides large hands down his face before snatching up his phone and making his way to his living room to plop on his couch.

Toji rolls onto his side, the cotton of the couch pillowing his cheek as he stares at the eggshell wall of his living room. The house he’s purchased is spacious, more than he’s ever had, but it’s not for him. It’s for Megumi. His son deserves a proper home, a place to grow and thrive. But it lacks warmth, devoid of the touches that make a house a home. The hardwood floors have no rugs to clothe them, the living room only has a couch and TV with no stand beneath it and the walls are bare and without character. Maybe he could go furniture shopping this weekend? Invite you if you’re not too tired from working.

When he finally checks his phone, his heart thumps heavily in his chest when he sees the notification from you.

You: I’ve had such a shit day. My car wouldn’t fucking start and work has been so busy. I’m exhausted.

Relief floods him too quickly for him to swallow down and analyze later. There’s no stopping it now, and Toji finds himself sitting up on the couch, his nose almost touching the screen of his phone as he types his response. So many thoughts bubble within him at once. The urge to ask you what he can do, the urge to come over to your house so he can take care of you—so many urges that his late wife would effortlessly draw from him against his own volition overwhelm him. 

Toji: How did you get to work

You: I took the bus.

He growls under his breath at your response, his mind flashing with every single danger possible at the thought of you traveling alone at night. Any sleazy man could watch the stop you get off, take note of the street, and come back later. Someone bigger than you, stronger than you. And even though you’re fierce and strong yourself, evil usually wins. The thought makes his blood boil. All you had to do was tell him about your car, and he would have picked you up immediately. But the words from you that shine from his phone are a blatant reminder of just how little you rely on others.

Toji: I’ll pick you up.

You: I get off at midnight. Toji it’s fine.

Toji: I don’t care. I’ll be in the parking lot when you come outside.

You don’t respond, leaving Toji to wonder whether you’re simply swamped with work again or pointedly ignoring him out of defiance. He’s showing up whether you like it or not. He tosses his phone toward the end of the couch and rolls onto his back, his gaze drifting up to the ceiling. 

Popcorn ceilings. He despises them. It’s a trivial thing to fixate on, but the textured surface only amplifies the visibility of dirt and grime, reminding him of memories of the dilapidated greenhouse shed where he grew up; of dust and dingy yukatas and soiled food. Toji realizes that the stupid thought is so annoying because of how quickly it reminds him of his life. It’s a vicious cycle of how his mundane thoughts can instantly make him think of a painful memory. 

Maybe that’s all his brain can do—think of the bad in his life. He’s not meant for happiness. Wonderful things like you are beyond his reach, and even his own son couldn’t be further detached from him. His thoughts are murky and desolate, so burdened with despair that he’s amazed his body still finds the will to wake up each morning. But he does, for some reason, he still does.

***

A few minutes past midnight when you slide into his car, Toji inhales the weary air you breathe out. Your bun is loose, curls frizzed along your hairline, your scrub top has baby spittle on it, and there are circles under your eyes. You’re absolutely exhausted, but Toji’s heart stutters when he glimpses the determination in your gaze—resolute and fierce even when dead on your feet. 

And suddenly, he can’t help himself. He leans over and presses his lips to your cheek, siphoning the softness against the chapped edges of his lips to make the coldness in his chest warm over. You don’t smack him or tell him to behave or call him names for taking something without asking.

“Am I at least allowed to do that without you smacking me?” Toji asks you, a soft smirk on his face as he takes in your familiar glare. It almost washes away the blood and murder he had his hands in this morning.

You wave him away in mild annoyance, but Toji sees something on your face. With his years of perception, he notices the subtle tug of your cheek as it pulls inward for you to bite down on it, your lips fighting to contain the smile that threatens to bloom. One day, he will pull a smile from you freely. One day.

As he drives to your apartment, he unconsciously takes deep inhales to savor the delicate vanilla beneath the sharp tang of hand sanitizer and sterile hallways that radiate from your side of the car. He turns on the classic rock radio station that he played last time you were both in the car together, and you hum along again without thinking. Only this time, your hums are broken, and without strength, your head lolling against the window until you slowly fall asleep.

When he parks the car at your complex, he doesn’t wake you up immediately. In sleep, you can’t scowl at him, but even now, your demeanor remains guarded. Your shoulders are tense, hands clutching the strap of a well-worn leather bag, cheeks flushed with a fever you vehemently deny even though he can smell the common cold in the car. 

Only two minutes have passed, yet his thoughts are consumed solely by you. Not about the people he’s killed. Not about the abuse he’s suffered. Not even the echoes of Naobito’s taunts that intrude when he least wants them to. 

Just you. 

He will earn all of you, just like you asked of him.

That rattling in his chest he felt the last time you were both together makes itself known again, pushing against his belief that his happiness will never be permanently his own. Maybe the sight of you rolling your eyes and offering him little pieces of affection with the smirk you try to hide is the very thing he needs to breathe a little easier. 

He doesn’t know. He hasn’t quite figured it out. 

So for now, he’ll grasp whatever morsel of solace he can, disregarding the ache in his chest that gets worse when he breathes in your air, knowing you remain unaware of such a significant aspect of his life.

He hopes this never catches up to him, and if it does, he hopes that you can forgive him. He hopes that he can forgive himself for taking from you when someone more deserving should occupy his place. 

Until that reckoning arrives, he’ll indulge in his selfishness, because right now, it’s the only thing bringing him a semblance of joy.

Thanks for reading!

©mysteria157, all rights reserved. DO NOT copy, plagiarize, reupload, modify, or translate (without permission) my work to other accounts and platforms.

[ange1sang]

downpour.

mickey x ian (gallavich) fic

wc: 2.5k / au where gallavich meet at college but everything else is the same / pining, mentions of past abuse/domestic violence, domestic, fluff, hurt/comfort, bipolar ian

summary: mickey has always known love and care to be tainted with violence. living with ian, he learns how to take care of someone without hurting anyone else.

The TV glows in the dark of the living room, illuminating the walls with fuzzy grey and blue light that flits back and forth as the scenes of an old drama rerun change. Mickey is only half watching, a half-full mug of flat Red Bull in front of him on the coffee table and a half-finished theology paper on his laptop beside it. The cursor in the word document blinks at him rhythmically, an impatient 'what are you waiting for?' repeating itself over and over while he tries to convince himself he isn't procrastinating, just waiting for his brain to clear out the bleary remnants of the morning's hangover.

He wouldn't be so distracted if he wasn't alone in the apartment, but the clock is steadily ticking further away from 'late night' territory and closer to 'early morning' and there's no sign of his redhead roommate to keep him company with the quiet sound of tossing back and forth in his bed or the less quiet sound of putting on the kettle to make instant ramen. Mickey's been at college for a while now, but the year at college has done nothing to dull the ringing a silent home leaves in his ears. He's used to siblings running down corridors, banging every corner with a limb or two on the way, fights breaking out, yelling from next door or across the street while the train tracks rattle overhead, struggling to drown out any voices that don't belong to it.

That's why he'd thought renting an apartment with the kid from his Human Struggles class would be a good idea - he had too short a fuse to make it any more time in the dorms without breaking a dozen more noses than the two he had managed in his first semester, and having a place to himself made him more anxious than he was willing to admit. Just viewing apartments by himself had spooked him, every creak and squeak the house made around him putting him on edge like a horse with cataracts. Ian had seemed like the perfect solution.

As far as Mickey is aware, Ian Gallagher comes from a big family just like his, and while it seems that Mickey won the competition for whose upbringing had been the most troubling, Ian carried more baggage than anybody else he'd met so far at college. In a selfish sort of way, it comforts Mickey that there's somebody around who can understand even half of what he went through back home.

It doesn't bother him that Ian can be spacey or sleepy, or that his mood still swings sometimes despite the complicated combination of pills he takes morning and night. Their schedules fit well with each other's, they proofread each other's assignments (always finding more mistakes than expected, and always quietly correcting them without telling the other), they chase each other around the cramped apartment waving dirty socks in each other's faces and fall asleep on the couch together so they can bicker over who fell asleep first the next morning. It's a healthy balance between the quiet Mickey has been looking for and the chaos he thrives on.

What Mickey does mind is the topsy-turvy schedule Ian has been running on lately, disappearing at odd hours and showing up days later looking deflated, like a grimy happy birthday balloon shoved in the trash next to empty beer cans and drug store receipts. When they'd first moved in together months ago, Mickey wouldn't have paid any mind to gaps in Ian's schedule or the expression he wore when coming in the front door. He wasn't sporting any black eyes or gunshot wounds, so as far as Mickey was concerned he didn't have to ask if he was okay. But now, blinking at his half-assed paper on the necessity of human suffering for God's existence, he realises he isn't waiting for a hangover to clear, nor is he procrastinating. He's waiting for Ian to come home.

"Fuck's sake," he mumbles, pushing himself up off the couch and pacing over to the kitchen window. Careful not to topple the embarrassingly full ashtray on the window sill, he pushes the window open and grabs the pack of L&M blues sitting on top of the microwave (Ian's choice of nicotine, not his) and lights it with a purple lighter painted black with cheap nail polish (his sister's old lighter, not his). As the cigarette smoke clouds the corner of the apartment they've dedicated to their weekly chainsmoking sessions, Mickey looks out of the window to see that it's raining hard, bullet-like raindrops painted orange by the flickering street lamps. He feels a tug in his chest and tries to pretend he isn't picturing Ian's ginger hair soaked through and sticking to his forehead. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead and sighs. "Fuck."

The clock continues to tick while the rain pours, as reliable as the twinge of anxiety Mickey feels each time he finishes a cigarette and his flatmate still hasn't come home. He's barely resisting the urge to pick up his phone and call Ian's work number, shoving his free hand deeper and deeper into his trouser pocket to remind himself that he isn't his flatmate's boyfriend, let alone his keeper, when the sound of a key struggling to find its way into the front door lock breaks him out of his anxiety.

He curses under his breath and throws his cigarette into the sink, almost tripping over his own feet as he makes his way to the door. He keeps his face straight as he turns the lock, trying to convince himself he wasn't rushing, and breathes a sigh of relief when he's met with the sight of Ian standing in the doorway.

Ian's red hair looks closer to black from how wet it is, rainwater running in little rivulets down his forehead and dripping from the tip of his red nose. His eyes are red-rimmed, his hoodie soaked through and sticking to his skin. He looks more like a block of ice than a person, and even in the warmth of the apartment building he's shaking like a leaf in a storm.

"Shit, man," Mickey mumbles. A landslide of questions are on the tip of his tongue, from where to why to are you okay to what the fuck, but he bites his cheek and swallows them all. He puts a hand on Ian's frigid shoulder and pulls him inside, paying no mind to the trail of water his sneakers track into the house. "Come on."

They trudge through the living room, ignoring the tacky sex scene on the TV and going straight for the bathroom, where Ian perches himself on the edge of the bathtub. He sniffles, and the meek sound echoes in the tiled room like a firework going off the day after New Year's. Mickey reaches out and gingerly pushes a lock of dripping hair away from Ian's forehead. He's reminded of all of the times his siblings wandered through the front door in far worse shape and how he left them to take care of themselves while he blared burned CDs in his room. For a reason he can't name though, the thought of leaving Ian alone to lick his own wounds makes his stomach turn, so he gives his shoulder a squeeze and doesn't complain when it makes his palm wet.

"One second, okay?" he murmurs, and leaves the bathroom to gather a dry change of clothes from Ian's wardrobe. He pauses for a moment to look around his flatmate's room once he has the clothes gathered in his arms. He's only seen the inside of it a handful of times, usually when bringing Ian coffee or meds to help him get through any bumps in his highs and lows, but those times he hadn't paid attention to much other than the redhead himself. Now he takes notice of the posters Ian has put up over the past few months, worn paper that has been folded dozens of times along the same lines, and the stack of CDs that they don't have a player for. Each of them has a title written on it in blue Sharpie, some of them in Ian's handwriting and some of them not. Mickey traces a fingertip over a star drawn onto one of the cases, distracted, before remembering Ian is still sopping wet in the bathroom.

In the bathroom Ian's shivers have turned into full body shudders, teeth chattering even with his jaw clenched, the joint tense beneath his freckled skin. Mickey sighs and sets the pile of clothes aside, fumbling as he picks up Ian's towel.

"Here, take your shirt off," he says, trying his best to sound his usual authoritative self even though he's more than a little unsure of whether it's the right thing to say. Ian shoots him a look like he wants to make a joke, but doesn't open his mouth to say anything. Mickey rolls his eyes. "Come on, before you catch hypothermia or somethin'."

Ian complies, moving his arms like they're made of lead as he shrugs off the hoodie and then peels off the tank top he was wearing underneath. Mickey wraps the towel around his bare shoulders and gingerly pats dry the back of his neck. His false confidence falters when his thumb brushes against Ian's neck, feeling how feverish the other's skin feels against his hand. He stops moving, thumb still against Ian's neck and stomach tying itself in knots not even the best of boy scouts could untie.

"Mickey?" Ian croaks, eyes searching Mickey's expression like they're scared of what they might find. He leans his neck back into Mickey's touch a fraction of a centimeter, their eyes locking on each other's.

"Look, man, I'm not good at this... Taking care of people and all that shit," Mickey mumbles, letting go of Ian and shoving his hands into his pockets again, staving off the embarrassment and confusing concern that's bubbling up his throat. Ian watches him like a hawk, not even the shivers taking his attention off of Mickey. "You want me to call someone? You said your brother and sister can help if you need anything, right?"

"No, it's fine," Ian replies, pulling the towel tighter around himself.

"You sure? They probably know how to do this better than I do," Mickey says. The words come out more self-deprecating than he means for them to, a reminder of how love and care were so often synonymous with violence when he was growing up. If he cared about his sister, he'd beat on any guys who upset her. If his father cared about him, it meant pistol-whipping him in the living room. If anybody cared or loved anybody, violence would always be involved at some point or another. Taking care of someone else had never meant bringing them a change of dry clothes, or patting down their neck with a clean towel. It had never meant the pit of worry that had opened up in his stomach each time Ian was late coming home the past few weeks.

"I'm sure," Ian reassured him. When Mickey remained skeptical, Ian shrugged and finally directed his attention to the tile grout beneath his boots. "If I wanted their help I would've called them. I just wanted to come home."

Mickey takes a moment to process what this means - that Ian chose him over his siblings, their messy apartment over his childhood home - and finally lets out a breath that he's been holding for what feels like hours.

"Alright," he murmurs. He reaches out to keep drying Ian's neck and slowly moves on to his face, wiping away ever little river of rainwater that makes its way down his temples and jaw. He dries Ian's hair as gently as he can, running his fingers through the red locks once he's done to keep them out of Ian's face. Ian lifts his head to look up at him, pressing his head into Mickey's palm like a stray cat, and offers him a small smile. Whether he's thanking Mickey or reassuring him, Mickey isn't sure. "I'll go make some coffee."

"Thanks," Ian replies, chewing on his bottom lip as he watches Mickey leave.

Mickey turns off the TV on the way to the kitchen, steeping in the silence of the apartment as he goes about making enough coffee to last them the rest of the night and tomorrow morning. The air in the kitchen smells stale from all the cigarettes he smoked before Ian showed up, and as the coffee brews the room begins to smell like a cheap diner. Mickey leans against the counter, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes like it might shove down the potent cocktail of feelings coursing through his veins. It's no use of course, especially not when Ian pads into the kitchen in dry clothes and wet cheeks that glimmer in the low stove light.

"Hey," Mickey starts, watching as tears pour from Ian's bloodshot eyes and down his freckled cheeks. His instincts takes over then, overriding every lesson he learned at home about keeping his distance and lashing out at anyone who came too close, and he steps forward to pull Ian into an awkward but gentle hug. Ian tucks his face down against his shoulder, tears soaking into his t-shirt and the tip of his nose still icy when it touches his neck. Mickey feels himself relax as he holds Ian. It feels right, he realises, to take care of somebody like this. Or maybe not just somebody, but Ian. He gives the back of his neck a gentle squeeze. "You're home, you're alright."

Ian nods against him, shivering even in the warmth of Mickey's hold. When they finally pull apart it feels like hours have passed, and Mickey is the one who finds himself shivering now that they're apart. Timidly, he wipes the tears from Ian's cheeks with his thumb, then pours him a mug of coffee and lights a cigarette for them to share. They smoke in the living room until the downpour outside has come to a stop, no more rain hammering against the roof and no more raindrops racing each other down their windows.

On any other night Mickey would've left Ian and headed to his room to finish his theology paper or jerk off or just pass out, but the sight of Ian's wet lashes anchors him to his spot on the couch. When Ian moves closer to him, resting his head against Mickey's shoulder and shutting his eyes, Mickey doesn't flinch or move away or make a joke about what a softie Ian really is. Instead he lets his own head rest atop Ian's, cheek pressed against his damp hair, and moves his hand to hold Ian's knee.

The kind of closeness that has terrified him his whole life feels nothing other than comfortable in this moment, warm and tender like Ian's skin was beneath his touch. He shuts his eyes and falls asleep counting Ian's breaths.

[liyuee-qixing]

"In fact; I'm fucking terrified."

Scenarios: Characters with GN! MC freezing as a trauma response.

Characters:Satan, Leviathan

C.W/T.W: Trauma, implied abuse, implied abandonment issues. might be ooc

DISCLAIMER!!:i DO NOT romanticize depression,trauma,or any mental health in any ways,as I suffer from it too for the past year. This fic was made with no intentions to insult any person or community.

Author Note:my head is so dizzy I'm might pass out

Satan

Gehenna,a country with more violence tendencies than the other,a cruel country with it's people fist made of iron. Not to mention the nation streets were filled with Angels and bodies decay,the smell of old blood fill in your lungs in just any seconds you step in the alleys and streets.

You should've used to it by now,you better be used to it. But you didn't,when Satan or Sitri killed an angel right Infront of you, usually you shut your eyes tight,but this time.. it was different.

The angel blood splattered right Infront your eyes,the gory scene you were forced to see is enough to make you feel like puking,just enough for the past experiences to play back in your mind.

You cannot hear Satan or Sitri words,hells,or shout,you freeze there,the now broken,gory description of the angel body were right Infront of you,the smell hit your nostrils,inhaling,exhaling,your eyes started watering.

"maybe if I was a better child.."your trains of thought were quickly read by Satan,he immediately know that your actions was a trauma response.

He jumped Infront of you,taking your hand in his,as he wipe your tears away,not with panic.

"look, we're in this together, it's all will be alright"

He made sure from the day on, you'll never feel something such as bad to yourself,to never remember the shady blood tainted past of your,to forgot an old scars.

"how are you?" "I believe you" "take it slow" sweet affirmation pouring from his mouth just ensure your comfort,his hand finding your hair to stroke in a meanwhile.

Leviathan

You've heard worse; useless,ugly, undeserving,was nothing new to you, it's a daily things you receive everyday on your plate,you always gulp them down without fighting back, without any words, without telling anybody; because you have no one. Your body slowly reduced into a jar of unstable emotions with passing days.

Why are you surprised when Leviathan words were stabbed into you at right that moment,you thought you were used to it by now? Did you seriously thought Leviathan is going to protect you,just as he said? How dumb,in the end you'll have no one,again,nobody,your breath hitched as more of his insult fell down from his serpent tongue

You? The descendants of Solomon? The oh so great king of kings? Crying because you thought somebody is truly your friend and now insult are seeping through his mouth? How immature,you reflect no great ruler of all kings,your eyes twitching trying to suppress your tears

Say something,but your lips quiver and tongue back away, desperation is eating you alive,the results of not having any friends and being bullied come rushing stabbing at your heart,that sure to bleeds, without realizing, you're already crying Infront of the great leviathan,silently, without any sounds,you just stood there,in middle of the room,hands reaching out for him,but not moving.

You wanted to scream,yell,beg for him to not leave you,the look of concerning did not fit his handsome face,his insults stopped for a seconds,as he stare at you blankly,you wanted nothing more than to scratch your skin,tear it apart and disappear,you want nothing more than to not feel the way you feel right now.

"I need to do better for you"

Levi might not know how to immediately deal with you suddenly freezing,he'll let one of the nobles deal with it having to put his envy down for a moment just for your own sake

Though it seem dumb and childish for him,he tries to ensure that he is your friend from your point of view,he tries to not insults or say things that he doesn't mean or know wouldn't end good,doesn't mean you can have another friend though

"ermmememrmrm this is ooc as shit" how do you feel if I shove 60 tennis balls down your throat>_<

[randomreader92]

Hazbin Biohazard AU

Based on the AUs from @nunalastor's posts

Notes for pre-Baker Estate Alastor:

His smile is still present but less unhinged.

Alastor has some trauma from an abusive father and serving in the trenches as a Radio Operator but is still a relatively normal guy... for now.

Alastor is an up-and-coming radio host and waiter.

Alastor was roommates with his best friend Guy Winters, a detective, who went missing during a case. After three years of hounding the local police, spreading the word on the radio and amateur detective work, Alastor finally receives news via a letter written in Guy's handwriting asking him to come to the Baker Estate.

He comes armed with a hunting rifle since Guy is likely in danger.

Alastor does call Mimzy to let her know what's going on, just in case.

Notes for Beginner Baker Estate Alastor:

He thought he was prepared for anything. He was not.

Manages to fight off a crazed Guy with his rifle, only to get ambushed and then shot by Jack. By his own rifle, no less.

That Jack Baker is bringing back all sorts of repressed childhood trauma.

He is force fed the "Special Feast" Marguerite made for him before the cop can interrupt them.

He finds the Officer (an older white gentleman) through the window and tries to ask for help but isn't understood. The man is dismissive of Alastor's ramblings, accusing him of trespassing and maybe even being the one responsible for the disappearances in the area.

This experience taints Alastor's perception of the Police (not that he had a high opinion to begin with).

Despite his dismissiveness, the Officer is compassionate enough to give the clearly terrified Alastor a knife to defend himself.

Notes for Expert Baker Estate Alastor:

He is no longer terrified of the horrors around him, just so very tired.

Neither Guy nor Alastor was happy with their decision to “put down” Eveline, a severely traumatised victim of abuse, but the danger she posed to herself, and the world, was too great to be allowed to continue.

Alastor has a stronger psychic bond with Eveline than the others because he understands what she’s feeling. He remembers what it was like, being a powerless child surrounded by adults who are either indifferent to your suffering or active participants in it… and the catharsis of striking back against your abusers and finally having the power to take control of your own fate? He knows it all too well.

Notes for Post-Baker Estate Alastor:

After the Baker Estate, Alastor has a new mission; to hunt down those involved with the creation of the E-Type series and those who abuse the fairer means.

It is during these hunts that Alastor notices, even though Eveline and her Mold is gone, he still has a craving for human flesh and rotting meat. He starts making a secret meat box specifically for himself, so that Guy never finds out. However, Guy is a detective and figures it out anyway.

Chris and Alastor become good friends after the Baker Estate, Chris acting almost like an older brother figure to Al. Chris even calls him “a good guy” when Alastor confesses to his guilt over Eveline’s death after one too many drinks. However, Chris does notice Alastor’s darker tendencies coming to the surface as the years went on but is unsure of how to act on it.

Guy is diagnosed with a incurable lung condition as a result of the exposure to the Mold and poor living conditions at the Baker House.

Due to Guy’s fragile physical health, Alastor starts overworking in order pay the medical bills to the point of mental and physical exhaustion. They get into fights over it, with Guy begging Alastor to “please look after yourself!”

At some point, Guy accidently gets another woman pregnant. When the woman confesses that she doesn’t want a child, he decides to take the newborn in himself after discussing it with Alastor.

Alastor was secretly terrified a little nervous about living with a child, but it was love at first sight.

[altocat]

Um. Long essay ahead, sorry lol.

We are talking about the Genesis-Sephiroth drama and I must say: Genesis is so very human and I love that. I think he seriously thought that Seph needed to hear some cold, harsh truth to finally see why Shinra sucked and why he and Angeal had defected. So, he just went straight for Seph’s most painful issue—his mother and the answers regarding her. 

I know we react viscerally to the idea of Gen having known about Seph searching for his mother and then weaponizing that, but think about it. Angeal is dead by that point and Genesis is on the verge of death. He is desperate. The man is broken to pieces after discovering that his entire existence had been a lie, an experiment, an abuse of power, etc., and that his own adoptive parents had “betrayed” him. He basically was reduced to an orphan that discovered how awful his care-takers were and how they had used him. 

On top of all this, he lost Angeal, his closest childhood friend, to the SAME horrific downfall. I don’t think we talk enough about how Angeal’s death probably messed with Gen, but I feel that he gets noticeably crueler and frailer afterwards. Shinra took everything from those boys, and Gen’s last hope for any salvation was Sephiroth, who was STILL letting himself be under Shinra’s command. Genesis absolutely wanted to hurt him with a wakeup call and went for the heart with his dagger. 

He probably thought he was doing well, that Sephiroth needed it, and yes, a strain of bitterness from their past rivalry tainted his words, but wasn’t it all just forgivable drivel in the face of their deeper friendship? In the end, Sephiroth could overlook that after seeing the light, yes?

Genesis wasn’t an idiot. He really did believe Sephiroth would help him despite the rude awakening, but what he lacked was deeper insight and empathy for his old friend. 

Genesis had a normal chldhood. He understood family, he understood the idea of a “hometown,” he knew how to hold friends and have fun with his life—he had autonomy despite the lies surrounding his birth. Sephiroth had absolutely none of this throughout his life and had trusted his heart only to his friends—one of whom was dead by that point and the other seemingly a traitor who appeared to use his greatest weakness against him before demanding a part of his very essence. Sephiroth had nothing left in that moment.

Genesis did truly descend into his frenzied, imagined glory-tale of three friends that were all monsters and could save themselves together, thinking that he had a chance to full-fill that dream, but he made the mistake of underestimating Sephiroth’s crumbling mental stability as a human being. We saw what discovering the truth did to two kids that grew up fairly normal. It ruined them, killed them, made one of them cruel in many ways. Gen and Angeal suffered immensely believing they were monsters and eventually reshaped pieces of history in retaliation.

But Sephiroth? The “other” child of Shinra? The solitary one? The one that had been violated directly from the womb…not just through his mother’s cells…but from the time his own life force began to take shape? The one that had been raised to be a killing machine with no true connection to the outside world? His discovery of the truth broke his psyche and led to apocalyptic events. 

Genesis simply failed to consider this, so his “splash of cold water” mixed with his own bitterness, which would have been cruel enough under normal circumstances, actually led to extremely dark consequences. I absolutely believe he knew that Sephiroth had been searching for his mother for his whole life, that Sephiroth had indicated it or brought it up at some point during their youth, regardless of whether the picture was involved or not.

I absolutely think Genesis weaponized Sephiroth’s gaping wound in that area, but I don’t think he realized how damaging it would truly be. He forgot that his friend was not at all “normal” and that his orphanhood was a different entity—something colder and more feral than most. Even most orphans are not completely deprived of normal lives and raised as weapons. We see this with many other characters. So many that lost their families or never knew them still found a way to make a place for themselves in the world or substitute their loss with something else.

Sephiroth literally could not do this as Shinra’s weapon. He had tried with his two friends and lost them both. He was already collapsing under the weight of it all, and Genesis simply did not see it in time. So, he played with fire and paid the price. That look of hurt on his face when Seph rejects him is genuine and raw and real. He had faith in them, in their friendship, and thought that it could withstand a bit of turmoil like it had in the past—but that only could have maybe been the case if Sephiroth had not been who he was—if he had been normal.

Genesis never quite fully understood his hero in the end and it makes me so fucking sad.

I don't think I could have said it better myself. Amazing analysis.

Genesis is a severely misunderstood character. It's really easy to dismiss him without taking a closer look at his feelings and motives. I think there was plenty of bitterness towards Seph, but we all seem to forget that Genesis' deepest, dearest desire at the end of the day was to share the apples with Sephiroth in a moment of acknowledgement. Genesis hurt Sephiroth badly, but there's more layers to it than just petty rivalry and Genesis being terrible just for the sake of it.

[amnignsity]

Feverish

Seo Changbin x GenderNuetral! Reader

₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ.꒰ᐢ⸝⸝•༝•⸝⸝ᐢ꒱⸒⸒₊˚ʚ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ.

MDI??!

Contains: Obsessed!Lovesick!Changbin, Begging, Pleading, Angst, One-sided love, Toxic relationship, slightly gore descriptions like blood, throat cut+ings, k!llings.

No specific Gender reveal on reader ¦].

Also this is kinda like one scene then moving onto to the other scenes - basically recalling the past events.

╰┈➤ "Please keep touching me like that..."

Changbin pleaded as he grasps onto your hand - holding it against his face as he leans onto your divine touch. It scorched him so bad, it felt so toxic and you both know it was, he can't help in midst of his needs get feverish against the feeling of your forced endearment towards him.

On his knees while he looked up at you standing in front of him as he gives you those gazes - his eyes so glossy and big filled with longing and loving that you couldn't help but let yourself maybe give in once more. He was obsessed.

Obsessed with the ways your hands linger every inched of his body, Obsessed with the way your eyes locked onto his whilst you straddle him from above, Obsessed with the way your kisses - the taste of your lips was permanent against his tongue.

He couldn't help but see you and only you as his only one true love. But was really love? Or just his need for a taste of surveillance? You wondered while you looked down upon his laying figure. Eyes thats filled with tears looking at you with such solicit as he begged for another caress of your hand against his skin.

"Please...I beg of you...."

He let's out a sob as your hands wonder all over his sensitive body - filled with your lip marks and bites, he wished for them to be permanent. Not wanting for such blessings to dissappear. Using him as your gazette and your tongue being the biro that leaves those aching marks that he's so captivated by that even his own passion for music, the rhythms and melodies can no longer strive through his obsession.

You cursed yourself as you give in to him once more, glancing up as his eyes met your intense look filled with desire and sorrow. He couldn't help but only feel the slightest of grief whilst he allows himself to drift off to the pleasure only you can give him.

So vulnerable and submissive underneath your touches.

You boy filled with aching need and passion,

have yet to learn control.

"Please for only a minute more...Allow me to get drunk off just an ounce of your affection, my love..." He pleads like an broken record as you grabbed the handles of your suitcases.

He kneels down hugging you by your waist as he looked up with such a broken gaze - a tear drips down his face while letting out a sniffle. His hold was like iron shackles wanting you to stay forever in his own twisted world filled with toxicity and abuse.

No he doesn't hurt you - he will never for if he does he will slit his own throat knowing that the one he calls his, has a graze a single bruise or an ounce of hurt withering in their heart shall he be judged to a death sentence.

But he couldn't help but beg and plead for you to stay as he could barely breathe in a lonely solitary - filled with unwanted thoughts and feelings only you could fight away and vanish from just a second of your presence.

"It's for the best, Changbin..." You uttered as you removed his hold and left his house, yours and his house that he worked hard for. He looks at you with such agony letting the tears drip down like the blood that had drip down his nose due to excessive exhaustion and sleepless nights just wondering and withering on his bed when you both got into your first fight.

Oh how bad it destroyed him when he caused you such sufferings you didn't deserve...

He was obsessed with you. To the point that even death couldn't kill this sort of passion within him. He'd shed his own blood if needed...

He would even let his hands be painted in red, tainting his fair skin with such a disgusting and vile color if you ordered him to do so...

He'll get you back even if it means till the ends of the earth.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Author's note: So I haven't really been doing angst stuff despite what my name actually stands for - so yea¦]...

Anyways I didn't really have a large thinking process with this although maybe I could boyfriend scenarios with this type of Changbin - and yes he is a pillow prince in this.

This is what my original writting style kinda looks like.

ᯓᡣ𐭩Mxlist°

[jennifersminds]

bestie what Lana Del Rey songs fit tvd characters or just tvd to you?

my bestie, my love, thank you so much for this ask !!!

as someone who's endlessly obnoxious about both tvd and lana del rey this is quite literally a dream come true so-,

SONGS FITTING TVD AS WHOLE

Video Games

"It's you, it's you, it's all for you. Everything I do, I tell you all the time"

tvd at it's core is about people doing unjustifiable things for 'love'. Whether i choose to read some relationships as more of a predatory obsession, the crux of this show is damaged grieving people sacrificing and further damaging themselves and others in the pursuit of it, see the mikaelsons with eachother and the salvatore's with Elena and Elena with basically everyone. And I've always read Video Games as both one of the most beautiful love songs of all time but also as an acknowledgment of codependence and lost potential. The song romanticises monotony and mundane life, which is fair. but there's a touch of melancholy beneath the surface of picture perfect normalcy. much like tvd itself.

Love

Look at you kids with your vintage music Comin' through satellites while cruisin' You're part of the past, but now you're the future Signals crossing can get confusing

...

Look at you kids, you know you're the coolest The world is yours and you can't refuse it Seen so much, you could get the blues But that don't mean that you should abuse it

following that theme,

"part of the past but now you're the future," Could refer to any of the vampire's in the show but I personally love it when thinking of Elena and the doppelganger's before her. In the background of all of history but with an endless future before her. "You could get the blues, But that don't mean that you should abuse it," EVERY FKN KID ON THAT SHOW. And yes I mean kid, the MF gang were children. And they did, in fact, get the blues and abuse it.

ELENA

Norman Fucking Rockwell

"you're just a man, it's just what you do, you're head in your hands as you colour me blue."

Anyone who's read my endless rambling before knows where I'm going with this but, jfc the salvatore's !!! Both Stefan and Damon (and canon as a whole but wtv) view their mistreatment of Elena as something unavoidable. Following the theme of horrific acts in the name of love from earlier, Stefan didn't have a choice in entering Elena's life. To him, it was his right, his purpose. (he had to know her).

Despite Elena being a grieving child who did not need any more bullshit in her life. He had too. And when that later caused even further turmoil, both from his own actions and indirect, unintended consequences. He metaphorically put his head in his hands, it wasn't just her suffering but him. In fact, if he really thought about it, later in canon, that is. It was almost equally her fault what happened. From his POV atleast.

Damon basically follows all the same beats but is more open about it, bemoaning his own lost chances with Elena as something completely disconnected to his very purposeful and avoidable choices to cause her pain. He's impulsive, it's not his fault.

"Goddamn, man child You act like a kid even though you stand six foot two"

Damon could only dream of being 6'2 but you get it.

Pretty When You Cry

"I'll wait for you, babe, you don't come through, babe You never do, babe, that's just what you do"

For one, she is very pretty when she cries, and two, see above.

ELIJAH (essentially every 'she fucked that old man' song in ldr's discography)

Million Dollar Man

"Someone as dangerous, tainted and flawed as you,"

"You're screwed up and brilliant Look like a million dollar man So why is my heart broke?"

He is screwed up and brilliant and he does break my heart.

BONNIE

Season of the Witch

Obviously, like... (also Davina, I never talk about her but that's my girl)

Pretty When You Cry

"I'll wait for you, babe, you don't come through, babe You never do, babe, that's just what you do"

Similarly too Elena, she's also pretty but the thesis of Bonnie's character is unfortunately being let down by the people around her. If tvd hadn't had jplec as a showrunner we probably would've gotten some proper character arc about that before season eight but...

ELEJAH

Cinnamon Girl

"There's things I wanna say to you But I'll just let you live Like if you hold me without hurting me You'll be the first who ever did"

kill me. literally fucking kill me like it's them fr.

BEKLENA

Doin' Time (yes it's a cover but Lana owns it tbf)

"Me and my girl, we got this relationship I love her so bad, but she treats me like shit"

The toxic girlfriends I deserved but wtv.

"I'd like to hold her head underwater"

Because she drowned her.

REBEKAH

Old Money

"But if you send for me, you know I'll come And if you call for me, you know I'll run I'll run to you, I'll run to you I'll run, run, run I'll come to you, I'll come to you"

Stuck in an endless cycle of finding freedom and falling back to help Klaus when he needs it.

"The power of youth is on my mind Sunsets, small town, I'm out of time Will you still love me when I shine From words but not from beauty My father's love was always strong My mother's glamour lives on and on Yet still inside, I felt alone For reasons unknown to me"

Never ending quest for humanity and mortality, her eventual fate of taking the cure. The loneliness of her thousand years etc

Honorable mentions for, Young and Beautiful (pretty much everyone's mortal x immortal ships anthem but specifically the Klarolines fuck with it so hard which I repect). Say Yes to Heaven, also works for literally every ship but it's always very Kolvina to me.