#but it's still vague and mostly caretaking so I'm leaving it here

[blackberry-nightingale]

thigh kisses, your choosing 👁️👁️

Thank you for the prompt! Ask from here!

---

Today was a bad day. It was very rare that Mibium called in sick to work, and even rarer for it to be for mental health reasons. But he'd had a really vivid nightmare last night, so bad he woke up shouting, scaring Dayzel next to him. And he just couldn't shake it from his mind.

Dayzel, of course, was worried. He kept looking at Mibium like he was some kind of wounded animal and it only served to worsen his mood. But that didn't stop Dayzel from trying to cheer him up. He even went out to the grocery store to pick up ingredients to make Mibium's favorite dessert. Mibium could appreciate the effort, but felt guilty for worrying his husband so much. He slumped back in his chair and groaned. He was able to take care of himself for so long... Why was it now so difficult?

He sighed and rubbed his thumb over the inside of his thigh. Rubbed over his mark. His thoughts drifted back and he lost touch with the here and now.

"-ibium? You there?" Dayzel's voice came from the doorway, pulling him back to reality.

"Hm? What?" He tensed and looked back as Dayzel stood in the doorway, holding a plate of dessert.

"I asked how long you've been in here with the lights off. I've been busy for quite a while and haven't seen you this whole time." Dayzel walked over, placing the plate on the desk next to Mibium.

"I um... I lost track of time. I-I don't know. Sorry." Mibium's face pinked in embarrassment.

Dayzel frowned. "No need to apologize dear I'm just-" then he noticed where Mibium's hand was, and his frown deepened, "-worried..."

Mibium gave a half-hearted smile and uncomfortably moved his hand. "You- you don't have to. I'm... I'll be fine."

Dayzel sighed, "I know you will. But right now you're not." He thought for a moment before kneeling down between Mibium's legs. He took a few breaths himself, clearly trying not to drift back as well, but reached a hand out to gently touch Mibium's legs and reached down to kiss his thigh.

Mibium tensed, "Dazzle, I love you but I'm really not in the mood right now."

Dayzel nodded, "I know. I'm not - I'm not trying to initiate anything." He gave another kiss. "I'm just -" he took another breath, "- trying to show you you aren't his anymore. Your body is yours. And it's beautiful, and loveable just as is." He kissed over Mibium's mark deliberately.

Mibium seemed to hesitate.

Dayzel paused, worried he'd pushed too far. "Do you want me to stop?"

Mibium paused, thinking it over, before shaking his head. "No-no you can keep going." He tried to relax his shoulders a bit and let his legs slip open a little further.

Dayzel smiled up at him, and it was genuine and earnest. He nodded and began peppering both of his thighs with lots of little kisses.

[spacemonkeysalsa]

My favorite bug so far

Some bugs genuinely improve the narrative. I have a short list, and this is my favorite one:

In my Astarion origin run, I chose to bite Shadowheart and fully got away with it. The next morning, she's bloodless and doesn't know why. We carry on and in-game days later, eventually run into Gandrel which prompts the party (through one representative) to confront Astarion about the fact that he is so obviously a vampire. In one of my origin playthroughs, it landed on Shadowheart, but I think it was Karlach in this one, I actually don't remember, but the point is, everyone knows he's a vampire now, because Gandrel outed him.

Things continue, and eventually Astarion sort of grows into this role of leadership a little better and even starts acting as a proper caretaker to his companions, finding this to be more emotionally fulfilling than being "guy who gets to make decisions."

Turns out, making decisions is awful. Least fun part of being in charge. Would not recommend.

Anyway, we're just about to go into act two, and I'm a completionist, so we've done everything, absolutely everything. Astarion isn't even romancing Shadowheart in this run, but he still gets her the noblestalk and the statue of Shar, because why not? It's barely out of the way.

She confesses to him about her dreams of becoming a Dark Justiciar and there's some cute convo about her feeling like she can trust him.

And I'm dying inside a little, because if this was a novel, this would be the moment that he confesses what he did, right?! Like, that's what this story needs.

And then I get this bug—you know the one, the "continue" bug.

There's no option to leave the conversation with Shadowheart, and there's no dialogue options to choose from, I can either save and reload and hope that fixes it, or I can press "continue" and just see what happens. And I have gotten this bug a lot, and at this point it's mostly just funny to me, it's kind of interesting to see what happens when you just go with it. It's usually pretty innocuous, and not something that forces you into a huge unexpected knock-down drag out confrontation with the of the Zhent all that often, so—

I "continue" and there's a slight lag, and then it plays out the narration from way back at the very beginning of the run when Astarion still had the options to contemplating telling Shadowheart he's a vampire.

Shadowheart knows he's a vampire. She's known for ages. She regularly teases him about it. But the language is ambiguous, and I'm paraphrasing because although I did record all this, it also looks like I might've lost the files, so to paraphrase: "You and Shadowheart have grown close. Surely, she will understand."

Again the dialogue sorts itself out and I now have options again:

Confess.

Leave

And I'm freaking out a little, because this is just vague enough that it might play out like he's just confessed to biting her in her sleep that one time. So, I tell her everything, and here's her response: "I wish you would have told me sooner, but I understand why you didn't. Is my neck safe?"

Astarion gets to respond: "Safe as houses."

So wholesome. So cute. So perfect. I know it was just a bug, but I'm so used to immersion breaking bugs that an immersion affirming bug was just a delight.

[rainbowsandwhumperflies]

whumptober day 17

don't talk to me about what month it is I still feel like I'm in august. also ik the last whumptober I posted was day eight but I just really wanted to post this one. also I might be done with whumptober this year after this? not because I finished the prompts but because I don't want to keep going. so. but anyway!!

No. 17: “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.” Collar | Touch Aversion | “Leave me alone.”

cws: thinking new caretaker is a whumper, whumpee trying to figure out what they're "allowed" to do, themes of whumpee being owned and referring to themself as a pet, collars, caretaker is trying his best but he's not doing great

1.4k words

Caretaker had told me that I had a room of my own, here. It was an odd statement. Did he mean that I was supposed to retreat here when he couldn’t stand to see my face anymore? That I would only ever be punished here so that this was the only room that needed blood cleaned out of it? That I would be confined here indefinitely, unable to see the rest of the house?

Likes and dislikes were dangerous territory for pets. Still, I thought I’d be very grateful if that last one wasn’t the case and I would be allowed outside (maybe, sometimes, if it wasn’t too much trouble). I would not be ungrateful if I was kept in this room forever. I would never be ungrateful, ever. Especially not in a room with glow in the dark stars on the ceiling and a window. I’d still see the sun sometimes, even. Not today—it was raining, but the rain wasn’t bad either. The soft pitter-patter was oddly soothing.

I moved closer to the window, hoping that it was a thing I was allowed to do and I hadn’t misinterpreted anything. There was a thick blue curtain covering most of the window, and I hesitated. Caretaker had not clarified if I was allowed to touch things in this room, just that I was supposed to be here.

Would it be overstepping to move the curtain enough for me to watch the rain? I could just listen. The sound wasn’t bad. I would be grateful to see, but listening on its own wasn’t bad, and I didn’t know if I was allowed to touch things.

My dilemma was interrupted by a sharp tap at the door, and I spun around to face Caretaker standing in the doorframe of the room. He looked vaguely uncomfortable. Had I been supposed to close the door?

“Dinner’s ready,” he told me after an unnecessarily long pause where I was probably supposed to say something. “Do you, um. Do you like beef stew?”

Likes and dislikes were for humans. “I will eat whatever you see fit to serve me, sir.”

“Right,” he said softly. “Right. I’ve- yeah. Beef stew. In the kitchen.”

The kitchen was blue, mostly. There was galaxy wallpaper behind the stove, and I found myself hoping that Caretaker would give me kitchen duty sometimes, in this pretty place. (Nope- no, I didn’t hope, I just thought I would be very grateful if I was given kitchen duty.)

Bowls (which were purple, in case I decided that it mattered somehow) were already set out with food in them. Caretaker sat down and gestured for me to sit down too, and with the way he alternated between staring at me and avoiding eye contact, I guessed that he usually ate alone.

“I, um. I might just need to mind my own business, Whumpee, but is your collar too tight?”

Yes. That was how they sent us, to prevent running in the beginning if anyone got spooked by their new owner. Loose enough that it wouldn’t affect breathing if you focused, tight enough that it would affect breathing if you tried to fight or run or any of the things pets aren’t supposed to do. I was almost certain that Caretaker had been sent this information, and I didn’t know what he’d define as too tight. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Is it uncomfortable?” Of course it was uncomfortable, but I couldn’t just say that. How was I supposed to phrase it in a polite way? “Just, you know, because we’re eating, and I feel like a tight collar would be uncomfortable to eat with, but I really don’t understand how these things work, I just. I wanted to tell you that if you wanted to loosen it, that would be okay.”

Okay. Okay. Caretaker was- he was testing me. I was not supposed to touch the collar; I knew that. I knew this game. This was a test I could pass. “I would be happy to wear the collar however tight you’d like me to, sir.”

“… Thank you,” he said slowly, which meant I said the right thing, but his tone didn’t really sound like I’d said the right thing. “Would it be uncomfortable to eat in a collar that’s too tight?”

I had not thought about that. Probably, yes, but I was uncomfortable all the time, and I was not going to fail whatever this was so that I could be comfortable. “I understand that I’m not allowed to touch my collar, sir.” I promise I understand, you don’t have to test me on it. “It’s not my place, and I’ll accept however the collar fits.”

“You aren’t allowed to touch it?” He looked confused. I wondered if he somehow missed all the information that should’ve been sent to him. “What if you grew and it didn’t fit anymore, what would you do then?”

“It would be up to my owner to decide when I needed my collar adjusted, and to adjust it.”

He frowned. “Okay. Do you want me to adjust your collar so that it’s looser?”

Pets didn’t want, but- “I would be very grateful if that was the decision you made, sir.”

“Okay,” he said again. “Yeah, I can do that.” And he stood up and walked around to stand behind me, which, shit. I had not followed this thought through. Because now Caretaker was behind me, where I couldn’t even see him and didn’t know what he was doing. Of course, he was allowed to do whatever he wanted to me, and he wasn’t required to warn me, but I liked- I was very grateful when things happened to work in the favor of me being able to see.

Caretaker’s fingers brushed against the back of my neck, and I did my best to keep from flinching. That wasn’t even unexpected; he’d stood up after saying he was going to touch my collar, and even if he hadn’t warned me, I shouldn’t be flinching away from my owner. Good pets didn’t flinch away from the people that tried to touch them.

I was careful; I didn’t flinch and I didn’t recoil and I didn’t arch my back away from the touch. But I must not have stayed quite still enough, because Caretaker hesitated and lifted his fingers and cleared his throat. “I- just. I’m just gonna grab that collar, okay?” I swallowed, hoping to somehow fix my dry throat, but it only served to push the limits of the collar more. Caretaker reached for my collar again, and I was still and his fingers were steady, pulling the collar off, loosening it a generous amount before clasping it again.

I blinked while Caretaker sat back down. The collar was, it was… very loose. Which was what I’d kind of almost asked for, and a perfect example of why I wasn’t supposed to ask for things. This was looser than collars were supposed to be. This would chafe, when I slept, and Caretaker had been kind and given me exactly what I wanted so who was I to complain?

“Is that any better?” Caretaker asked, and I refocused on the face in front of me.

“Yes, sir. Thank you for your kindness.”

He nodded slowly, eyes skimming over my face, looking for something, but I couldn’t tell exactly what. “Of course, Whumpee. If you ever need the… tightness of your collar changed, I can fix that up for you.”

Trap, trap, trap. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mhm.” He pushed one of the bowls of soup to me. “I don’t know if you’re used to eating with other people or not—I’ve lived alone for awhile, but we can eat together if you’d like. Anyway. It’s beef stew, tonight. If you don’t mind.”

I didn’t. I’d never mind what food got handed to me, especially if he was telling me that he wanted me to eat whatever he was eating every night. He was usually vague, I’d learned, but I was fairly certain that I’d found the right takeaway from that statement. And I lifted a spoon of the stew to my mouth, and it was seasoned well and tasted wonderful. If I was eating like this every night, well, I could handle this stranger being vague and uncertain sometimes. This could be a survivable thing.

[whumpingcrow]

Ink Poisoning - Chapter 13

What's In a Name?

This chapter is pretty long but I'm proud of it and very excited to share it with you all! I feel like the characters really manifested themselves in a beautifully complex way throughout the chapter, I hope you enjoy reading them opening up as much as I did writing it <3 -Crow

CW: Box boy universe and everything related to that, discussion of and use of drugs/alcohol, blood/gore (explicit), mouth gore, aftermath of accidental whump, multiple caretakers, multiple whumpers, memory loss, lots of angst around identity, noncon/dubcon touching/kissing, emeto mention (vague), dehumanizing language/themes, past abuse, past noncon/dubcon, hospital mention, intimate whumper, panic attack, restrained whumpee, needle mention (sort of explicit), reluctant caretaker, begging, whumpee getting stitched up (pretty explicit), discussion of scars/past injuries, dubcon at the end (pretty spicy, 18+ pls) (Let me know if I missed anything!)

Gio doesn’t dare to make a single noise as Nicko pulls him down the crowded hallway to the bathroom. Walking is near impossible, even with Nicko’s help, the tears in his eyes are making it difficult to see, and his face hurts so bad it’s making him nauseous, but he’d be caught dead before he makes any noises of discomfort. In his mind, this pain is punishment, it’s necessary, he had done something to deserve it, and he knows that being vocal about his pain is insurance of even more. He has to focus extra hard at choking back his agonized sobs when Nicko lets go of him to grab some tissue and drops him against the counter. Gio catches himself with his shaking hand that was previously pressed to his bleeding mouth, leaving behind a mess of red on the fake marble countertop. He stares in horror, shuddering through a few panicked gasps. It’s a mess, his mess, his blood, it’s on Master’s things, his nice things, and the stupid fucker will be in so much trouble-

“It’s ok, Gio, I’ll clean that up in a minute,” Nicko says upon catching a glance of his boxie’s doomed expression, “lemme see your face. Come here.”

Who is Gio?

Gio tears his gaze away from his mess, looking up at Nicko. He is covered in blood too, all from his nose. He doesn't seem to care much about it, as he pulls Gio toward him by his wrist. Gio is shocked in himself when Nicko reaches up to pull his other hand away from his injured mouth and Gio doesn't move, staying stiff so that Nicko won’t be able to get a good look at whatever is making Gio hurt so bad. That’s bad, Gio feels instantly like that was the worst thing he could have decided to do. Nicko wants to see the damage, that way he can gauge if Gio deserves more or not. It also isn’t that uncommon for the people who hurt him to enjoy seeing all the carnage, Gio is very familiar with sinister, disgustingly satisfied grins and patronizingly gushy language directed at him when he’s bloody like this. Nicko, though, only softens his grip and sighs.

“Do you need a second?” He whispers. Gio feels himself nod, and then Nicko moves him to sit on the edge of the bathtub before cleaning himself off. He seems unphased by his own injuries, only letting off nearly unnoticeable winces when he touches his tender skin. Gio watches him, mostly to give himself something to focus on besides how badly he wants to scream right then. Some of his blood is drying in between his fingers, over the back of his hand, down his wrist, but he still can’t force himself to pull his fingers away. Some part of him is slightly paranoid that all of his teeth will fall out if he moves at all, and reminding himself of that fear only makes him tense up and start silently crying all over again.

This prompts Nicko to stop what he’s doing and grab Gio, pulling him into the empty bathtub with him. He sits with Gio in between his legs, held tightly against his chest. He’s gentle when he starts to stroke his fingers through Gio’s messy hair, and the tenderness of it pushes Gio over the edge. But still, no sound comes out, he couldn’t survive it if he pissed off Nicko now, it might make him stop holding him so nicely. So he squeezes his eyes shut and lets hot tears slip down his face as Nicko tries to console him, tensing up every time he feels a sob starting in the back of his throat.

“Jesus, Gio, you’re shaking like a fucking chihuahua.” Even with the cuss word thrown in, Nicko somehow manages to keep his voice soft and non-threatening, and Gio looks up at him with his huge, watery eyes. He thinks he might be able to see the ghost of a grin pass over Nicko’s lips when he catches a glimpse of Gio’s blood stained hands.

Who the hell is Gio?

“You’re safe now, little one. I’m not gonna let Salem hurt you again, ok?” Gio had forgotten that Salem was the one who did this to him, and it eases some of the panic to know that Nicko might not be in the punching mood right then, that he might just be safe with him, for a moment. He waits for Gio to nod, and then he reaches forward and grabs onto his wrist again. “Now, you gotta let me see so I can help you. I want you to move your hand.”

Giovanni is stupid, and his stomach and throat are still burning from the alcohol, and behind his eyes feels like something got knocked loose, and every couple of seconds he remembers that he doesn’t remember anything about himself, not even his own name. Regardless of all of that, he still knows an order when he hears one, even though this time it’s delivered to him with a voice that isn’t soaked in anger and he isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to hearing it that way. Gio slowly pulls his hand away from his face, so that if anything is falling apart behind his lips he’ll be able to catch it. All he sees, though, is blood, lots of it, so much it makes him dizzy. It doesn’t help his panic when Nicko sucks in a sharp gasp upon seeing Gio’s face, and he can barely stop himself from covering it up again.

“Oh, Gio,” Nicko breathes, reaching out to trail his thumb softly against his boxy’s cheek, “you poor fucking kid. That is gruesome. Damn.”

Why does he keep calling you that? Who’s Gio?

It’s then that Giovanni can’t hold it anymore. Hearing Nicko’s very obvious distaste at his injury frightens him even more than the blood on his hands, or the insane aching pulsing across his face. He lets out a panicked whimper, shaking his head side to side. Take it back, he wants to say, say you were just kidding, say it isn’t as bad as it feels, say I’m ok. And then Nicko’s hand slides over his face softly, and when his fingertips near too close to the busted up mess Gio’s mouth is, Gio flinches away like Nicko’s hand is made of fire.

“D-don’t t-to-touch it!” He pleads weakly. It hurts to speak, he can feel the blood in his mouth and in between his lips, he gets nauseous down to his bones, in a way that wouldn’t be relieved by any amount of vomiting. “Please-!”

“Quiet, Giovanni,” Nicko murmurs dangerously, his voice the same vaguely frightening tone he had used the night he gave Gio acid and pinned him to the bed, so Gio decides right then and there to listen and shut himself up before he repeats the mistakes of that night and makes Nicko mad, “just be quiet and sit still. I’m gonna make it better.”

…Giovanni. Gio….Giovanni….

It’s then that Giovanni comes to the conclusion that he will never understand the way anyone above him thinks, that, because he is no longer a person, he just doesn’t know how to comprehend social norms and underlying meanings. He didn’t get it when he was in training and all of his perfect behavior and effort to be good were only rewarded with starvation and isolation rooms and getting the rest of his impurities beaten out of him. He didn’t understand it when his old master would practically maim him and rave on about his undying hatred for his boxy only to later splay him out on his mattress and make him feel something similar to what Gio guesses pleasure feels like. And he really doesn’t understand it when Nicko leans close and, after a long night of Gio hoping he would, finally kisses Gio, right on his bleeding mouth, when Gio had just begged for it to be left alone because of how badly it hurt. He wonders if Nicko thinks the blood is attractive, and he doesn’t understand that because Nicko is also still partially covered in blood, and all Gio wants to do about it is close his eyes and pretend it isn’t there until it’s all cleaned off, not lick it clean like it seems Nicko is trying to do. Gio figures that his brain just works differently, that the meaning of blood for him is different, thanks to his past, and maybe people, actual people like Nicko, don’t have any reason to want to run for the hills at any glimpse of red. Gio suddenly remembers part of the art lesson from a bit ago, when Nicko made that stranger kiss Gio and talked about red signifying lust. He still doesn’t understand how anyone could think that way. Red is pain, red is fear, red is failure, red means that Gio will never be good enough.

Nicko doesn’t kiss him for long, and when he pulls away to wipe his tears, his lips are now messy with Gio’s blood and not just his own. He smiles softly, even though Gio is still sniffling miserably, and then he lifts up a small towel that Gio hadn’t noticed him holding. Gio is still reeling drunkenly in a sea of hazy confusion, so he doesn’t really react when Nicko gets closer to him with the soft material, or when the door is suddenly flying open and Ben is stumbling in. Nicko sighs heavily at the disruption and looks up at his roommate grudgingly. Seconds later, Gio follows his gaze with his vision swimming. He wishes that he could stop being drunk right then and there, it isn’t fun now. His heart lurches in his chest at the idea of booze not making him feel good anymore, it only reminds him of the sickening numbness he felt after an overload of Rory and her pills. He was only just starting to be able to feel again, he knows for a fact that he won’t be able to handle a second round of the painful emptiness. But the intoxication stays, a thick sludge infiltrating his veins and making him dizzy, confused, frighteningly numb.

“Holy shit!” Ben exclaims, words still bleeding into each other from how tipsy he is. He touches his own mouth with an unsteady hand, fingertips brushing on a spot just above his upper lip as he winces in sympathy. Gio didn’t even realize that the pain was radiating from that area until Ben does that, and after it hits him it’s all he can notice. His upper lip hurts, his front teeth are hot from the pain. “That does not look good, Nicko. Holy fucking shit.”

Gio’s breathing picks up again, he finds himself reaching for and grabbing hold of Nicko’s hand desperately, no doubt covering him in even more blood. Nicko doesn’t say anything about it though, only give’s Gio’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Jesus, Ben, I just got him to calm down-”

“He needs stitches. He- Salem did that? Fuck, dude.”

“Ben, cut it out, you’re gonna-”

“I’m serious, if he doesn’t get that shit fixed his face is gonna be all fucked-”

“Shut up, Ben!!” Nicko snaps. Ben flinches at the booming voice, but not nearly as much as Gio, who squeezes his eyes shut and turns his face away from Nicko to try and avoid another blow to his face. Nicko groans at the both of them, rubs his bloody face tiredly, drags a hand through his hair. “I can’t take him to get stitches, Ben. He’s a fucking… I can’t just take him to the E.R. or some shit. You know that.”

Ben falls silent at that, looking between Nicko and Giovanni with an insurmountable degree of disapproval written into his face. Gio wants to melt, slip right down the drain of the tub with all his blood and never be seen by anyone again. He imagines, for a second, simply existing in the pipes, just him and the rust. It seems infinitely better than the unforgiving stares that seem to follow him around relentlessly. At least he would be mostly alone, and it might even be quiet. He would kill for it to be quiet for just a little while, for the thumping of the music and the shouting and laughter outside to disappear. Ben’s lips press into a thin line, then he’s frowning deeply, and then his shoulders square up just a little bit as he says: “Nicko.” That’s all he says, for a moment. Just “Nicko.”, his voice the same tone Gio imagines parents would use to speak to their disobedient child. “Nicko.”, like if he taints his name with enough disappointment it will make him change his mind and realize what he’s doing wrong so he can correct himself without making Ben waste his breath.

Eventually, he jerks his head in the direction of the boxy. “He is hurt. Ok? Look at him. Look at his fucking face. Figure out how to fix it before I do. I’m not kidding. You can’t just hide him in your room until it goes away, this time. Got it?”

“I might be able to help,” someone else says from the doorway, and the tension in the room swells when everyone sees Salem standing there, “I could call-”

“Get the fuck out of here-” Nicko begins, but is quickly (and unusually) silenced when Ben raises his hand. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t have to, because the movement alone is all it takes to shut Nicko up again. Salem leans against the door, looking at only Gio with a frown etched deep into his brow. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he might’ve been crying, and his hands are shaking as he fidgets with his phone.

“Uh… I have a friend who worked in the emergency room for a while. I could call her and ask her to come help.” Nicko scoffs at him, and Salem only looks more dejected and guilt ridden at it. He drops his stare to the floor, sniffling to himself for a second. “Come on, Nicko. Let me help him. Please.”

Giovanni doesn’t like hearing Salem beg, it makes his skin crawl and his stomach flip upside down. It makes him sort of jealous, admittedly, to have someone else begging Nicko for anything, and it makes him even more jealous when Nicko nods his head grudgingly.

“Fine. Whatever. But this doesn’t fix anything, you know.”

Salem sighs, long and sad and full of regret, and then turns and leaves the room. Ben, for whatever reason, stays right where he is, wobbling next to the sink and watching the disaster play out. Nicko looks back to Gio, who is staring blankly in front of him with teary eyes, and takes the moment his guard is down to press the washcloth against his injury to at least try and stop the bleeding for a second. Gio whines, but otherwise doesn’t really react. It frightens Nicko when he’s mostly unresponsive like this, scares the shit out of him that someone could hurt a person enough to make them not even want to try to avoid pain, like they deserve it. In the beginning, he didn’t realize that’s what it was, thought that Gio could just tolerate a lot because of what he’d been through. But now he realizes that isn’t the case at all, that Gio sits quietly and takes every ounce of pain handed to him because, in his eyes, it’s justice.

“Hey,” he mutters, leaning closer to Gio to try and get his attention, “hey, look at me for a second, Gio. Please.”

It’s Gio, now. When Nicko is being nice it’s always Gio. It rolls off his tongue like melting icecream dripping down fingers on a hot day, and just as disgustingly sweet. If only it were actually meant for him. It’s only meant for Gio.

Who is Gio?

Gio obeys immediately, of course, and Nicko lets out a breathy sigh at the doe-eyed, ‘what did I do wrong this time’ look he’s given. He can feel Ben watching them as he brushes Gio’s hair away from his face, he can’t find it in him to care, though. Especially when Gio leans right into the tender touch like it’s the only thing he needs to relieve him of his agony.

“You know you aren’t in trouble, right?” He whispers. “This isn’t…you aren’t being punished for anything. All of this was just an accident. You weren’t supposed to get hurt. It’s important to me that you know that.”

As he’s speaking, Nicko pulls the towel away from Gio’s face to check on the gash on his lip. There’s a second where he can see the full extent of the injury, the huge, jagged, tear on his upper lip, so deep that Nicko had been able to fit the tip of his tongue in it like a gruesome puzzle. Ben had been absolutely right about it needing stitches, and Nicko finds himself praying that Salem’s friend will be able to fix it. The wound fills with blood again after a second, and Nicko presses the cloth back against it before it starts spilling into Gio’s mouth again.

Before he makes himself sick with guilt and worry, Nicko instructs Ben to hold the towel in place for Gio so he can make all of the party-goers leave. As he’s leaving, he hears Ben tell Gio “it’s all gonna be ok buddy. We’re gonna make it all better soon, I promise. Just hang in there.” and, once again, he’s perplexed as to how he ended up as the boxy’s favorite. Part of him suspects it has to do with the papers and the training and Gio knowing he belongs to Nicko, but there’s a smaller suspicion that Gio might just be fucked in the head now, looking for love and tenderness and kindness in the wrong person. It makes him want to yell at the poor thing, make him realize how stupid he is for that, make him see that he deserves so much more than Nicko can give him. But he doesn’t know how to teach someone who believes that pain is fundamental to their existence that they deserve someone who would never dream of hurting them. So for the moment, he just ignores it and leaves his box boy in the care of someone far nicer than himself.

—-----------------------------------------------

Her name is Cassandra. That’s the only thing Gio knows about her, and she is holding a very sharp needle and trying to get close to his injured face. Cassandra, Salem keeps switching between calling her that and Cassie, and she is going to hurt him. He doesn’t remember when she got there, or how he ended up sitting on the kitchen table instead of inside of the bathtub. He remembers that his mouth hurts, and that he’s been bleeding, but everything else is blotched out of his memory. And now this stranger, Cassandra, is closing in on him with a needle and Nicko has his hands wrapped tightly around Gio’s arms to keep him still. He can feel himself crying, in a way that’s so out of control it scares him more than the needle or Cassandra or Nicko’s bruising grip on him.

“You have to stay still, Giovanni,” Nicko warns him, his lips brushing right against his ear and his breath carrying across his cheek, it reeks of alcohol, which Gio feels like he never wants to swallow ever again, “if you don’t stay still it’s only going to be worse.”

Giovanni. Giovanni is for when Nicko is frustrated, when he is warning his stupid box boy that he’s nearly fed up.

What is a box boy?

Who is Giovanni?

Gio shakes his head just a little, hears himself making pathetic sounds as he tries to breathe through the dense panic. “P-Please, please no mo-more, please don’t l-let her- ple-please, Nicko!”

He doesn’t realize that he’s started thrashing against Nicko until his hands tighten around his arms further, and despite his panic and confusing drunkenness, his training kicks in and he stills himself. Nicko doesn’t want him to move, so much that he’s hurting him, so Gio obeys. Even then, he can still hear himself begging pathetically for Nicko to not let Cassandra hurt him.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Cassandra says to Salem, who is standing behind her with his hand pressed worriedly to his mouth, “he’s too freaked out, I can’t…this doesn’t feel right, Salem.”

Salem’s eyes widen at the idea of this stranger not stabbing Gio with the needle, he starts to shake his head furiously. “No, no no no, Cass,” he pleads. Cass is a new one, Gio’s head starts to swim with all of the names this woman has. “Come on. You have to help him. Please.”

Cassandra looks nervously around the room, biting her bottom lip. As she turns her head to look at Salem, her dirty blonde hair swings around in its ponytail. Gio watches the dainty silver chain around her throat shift across her skin as she sighs heavily at the desperate look he’s giving her.

“Fine. But I wanna talk to him for a second.” No one in the room moves, except for Gio, whose chest is rising and falling with each hectic breath in. Cassandra rolls her eyes, her thin brows twitching into a quick frown. “Alone. I meant I wanted to talk to him alone.”

Nicko is still for a few moments, staring down Cassandra with some sort of challenge in his eyes, unwilling to leave Gio’s side. But then Cassandra is sighing, and lowering the needle like she’s more than ready to just put it away and avoid this fiasco, and Nicko lets go of Gio altogether. He only panics more, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to get in a deep enough breath around his sobbing. He doesn’t want Nicko to leave, it feels like part of him is missing every time he’s far away, and he’s already so scared he knows he’s just going to fall apart with him gone.

“Hey, Gio.” Cassandra says softly. He doesn’t open his eyes, shrinking away from her voice as much as he can. “That’s your name, right? Gio?”

It must be.

Who is Gio?

She doesn’t sound threatening, doesn’t sound like she wants to hurt him at all. She might even sound nice. But Rory has used that same tone of voice with him before, and she tried to kill him. Still, someone is speaking to him, asking him a question, and what kind of box boy would he be if he refused to answer her?

“Y-Yes…” He whispers. He still doesn’t look at her, still doesn’t move toward her.

“Ok. My name’s Cassandra.” She pauses for a long time, and Gio wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole so that he doesn’t have to listen to the suspenseful silence anymore. Then, she clears her throat and starts to speak again. “This must be really scary, huh? If I were you I would be terrified.”

She’s frowning at him once his dark brown eyes are finally focused on her. She isn’t even holding the needle anymore, it’s now set down on the counter behind her with the rest of the threatening instruments she brought with her. But even more jarring than her not holding a weapon anymore is her empathizing with him. “What?”

Cassandra shrugs her shoulders, then slowly steps forward and lowers herself into one of the chairs at the table. Gio watches with apprehension as she tugs at the bottom of her bright pink shirt to readjust it. The color is comforting, it reminds Gio of the sweater Salem had given him, the one he wears when Nicko isn’t around. He realizes his lungs aren’t burning so badly anymore, the tears on his cheeks are drying now and not being coated with new ones.

“I just mean that I’m a stranger to you, and you’re hurt pretty bad…I get why you’re scared. That’s all I’m saying. It makes sense that you would be scared of me.”

Gio nods at her, unballing his hands from the tight fists he didn’t realize he was holding. His joints ache for just a moment after he relaxes. He can’t remember ever experiencing this, usually when people insinuate that he’s afraid of them, it’s with an air of power, a way that makes it obvious to him that they’re pleased with it. Cassandra just sounds like she feels bad for him, like it causes her turmoil to imagine how frightened he is.

“When I was a kid,” Cassandra says, her voice carrying softer than it was moments ago, like she’s trying to get Gio to understand that these words are only for him to hear, like she really wants him to listen, “I used to be really scared of storms. The wind used to freak me out so bad that I would hide under my bed until it went away, cause it felt safe. But sometimes being under the bed didn’t make me feel any better, so I had to go get help from my mom. And she would always…” She trails off, smiling sadly at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. Then, she looks up at Gio and shakes her head. “It’s easier if I just show you. Can I…?”

He doesn’t even flinch when she reaches forward and takes his trembling hands in her own. Her fingertips are slightly cold, he can feel the metal of one of her rings against his knuckle. When he chances a look down, her nails are glossed over with the same pink as her shirt. He sighs softly, allows his shoulders to drop an inch at a time. Cassandra lets out a tiny scoff of a laugh, lighthearted and not menacing at all, really. Gio looks up at her to see her smiling, her cheeks are slightly rosy and her hazel eyes are gleaming at him. He feels almost like the alcohol hit some sort of reset button and has cycled back to the beginning, making him warm and happy and stupid and fine with it. He smiles back at her.

“See? It’s already working. Now, copy me, ok?” She nods at him, waits for him to imitate that, and then she takes a deep breath in through her nose. He watches her narrow shoulders rise with the inhale, and she holds her breath and watches him until he does the same. It comes in slightly shaky, but his lungs are grateful for the entire inhale, his chest feels a little lighter already. Then she exhales through pursed lips, like she’s blowing out the candles on a birthday cake.

Gio doesn’t remember the last time he thought about a birthday cake, or birthdays in general.

He tries to do that the same, but the way his lip is busted doesn’t allow for the exact movement. Still, he closes his eyes and blows the air out of his lungs, extinguishing the tiny, imaginary flames.

“It’s red velvet. I know you said that’s your favorite.”

He doesn’t respond to her. The reasoning has long since been forgotten, but he thinks it has something to do with being happy, not knowing how to voice it. Maybe he’s always been stupid, even before stupidity was beaten into him. How hard is it to tell someone they make you happy? How hard is it to thank them for giving you help, a lifeline to escape an otherwise chaotic and cruel world? He doesn’t really know who she is, she’s just a voice, a feeling, but he knows he owes her the world, knows he doesn’t know how to begin thanking her. He remembers all he could do was kiss her, and then act even more stupid and dip his finger into the cream cheese frosting and smear it across her nose. He remembers hearing her laugh felt like home, he remembers that night it was so hot they had to sleep with the windows open and no blanket, but she was holding him close anyways, like the heat was worth the skin contact. He remembers being happy, and he thinks it must’ve been the first time in a while. He can almost feel her with him then, watching this all play out with an amused smile that lets everyone around her know she’s finding some deeper meaning, some cosmic irony, to everything happening. She might laugh. He can hear her saying:

“So, who’s this ‘Gio’ everyone’s going on about?”

“I’m a Leo,” He whispers, opening his eyes to look at Cassandra again. He isn’t panicking anymore, feels the most relaxed he’s been in a long time. “The craziest thing…I just remembered that. That I’m a Leo.”

Cassandra giggles, rubs her thumb over the back of Gio’s hand. “A Leo, huh? I’m a Picses. Although I will admit I have no idea what it means, I’ve never paid attention to that…sort of stuff…” She trails off at the same time she pulls her hands away from Gio, tilting her head at him. “Ok. Would it help make you less afraid if I explain what I’m doing? The sooner it’s closed back up, the better.”

She’s allowing him to prepare himself? Giving him the option to know exactly what comes next, a choice to brace himself? It’s unheard of, even Nicko shuts himself up while tattooing enough to leave Gio constantly on edge for the next area or depth of pain.

“Yes, that would help, I think.”

Cassandra stands up with a victorious smile as she snaps a pair of gloves on, then turns and grabs the needle she’d set down earlier. “This is a numbing agent, ok? It’ll just be a real small pinch, and then it should make everything else painless.”

“P…Painless?” Gio questions, the word catching uncomfortably in his throat.

“Yeah. I don’t want to hurt you, Gio. I’m here to help you.” She leaned forward slowly, still holding the needle somewhat distantly. “It might help if you close your eyes. I can countdown, if you want.”

That is not the right name…

“No,” Gio muttered abruptly, “No, I’m ok like this. Just go.”

Cassandra smiled, and then Gio watched her face fall into concentration as she brought the tip of the needle to his mouth. She was right, there was a small pinch, one that made his breathing hitch for only a second, but then nothing. Even the dull pain of the injury started to melt away. When she pulled away from him and set the syringe down, she nodded her head at him. “Well done, Gio. That’s the hardest part.”

….never heard that name before….

Giovanni allows Cassandra to do absolutely anything she wants for the next 20 or so minutes. He doesn’t complain or flinch or argue with her as she stands in between his legs and carefully stitches up his mouth. The oddest part about it is that it doesn’t feel like a trained response, it doesn’t have anything to do with obedience and more��desire. Desire to let her help him, desire to allow her to touch him. She is close to him in a way that’s making his stomach jittery and his hands shake, and the feeling is familiar in a way that, for once, doesn’t hurt him. He’d felt it moments ago, the same peacefulness he could distantly feel from the brief memory of his birthday. It’s embedded in the way Cassandra’s fingers rest against his lower lip, the way her hips press against the insides of his thighs when she moves closer, the way her pink shirt wrinkles just so against her ribcage. It’s been so long since Gio’s felt anything from his old life that didn’t make his brain thud against his skull with reminders of punishment. He never wants her to stop touching him.

“It’s not gonna be perfect when it’s all healed,” Cassandra sighs as she brings a pair of scissors up to his mouth and cuts the final string on his lip, “but I dunno, I think the scar will make you look tough. Kind of badass.”

He chuckles, as much as he can without really being able to smile, nodding his head at her. She allows her stare to linger a while longer on his face, and for once he doesn’t feel like there’s a secret promise of pain if he holds eye contact with her.

“How does it feel?” She murmurs, leaning away only enough to pull her gloves off. The pale blue is stained with his blood on the fingertips, and he snaps his eyes up to her face so he doesn’t have to be tortured with any more red. If it were possible to detest a color in the way one detests a person, Gio would wish red so much pain and agony that it might hide itself away from the world and never allow anyone the misfortune of seeing it ever again. And if he were to love a color…

He decides right then and there that it has to be pink.

“Uh. Wonderful,” Gio finally responds, “thank you, Cass…Cassandra.”

She looks, for a second, like she’s going to laugh at him, at his slurred words and droopy eyes, but she doesn’t. She resolves herself to a grin instead, a tiny nod of her head. “You’re very welcome, Gio.” Cassandra steps away from him inches at a time, he feels colder suddenly. Scared. Especially when she says, “Should we invite your degenerate friends back in?”

Gio is a stranger. Gio isn’t real.

He snaps his head toward the doorway of the kitchen. He can see the end of the hallway, empty, the corner of the couch, also empty, and the T.V. isn’t on, and he is completely alone with Cassandra. He is all at once incredibly sober.

“They aren’t my friends, Cassandra.” He whispers abruptly, looking right at her, admitting with square shoulders and a straight face. Her face twitches into a small scowl, maybe it’s disbelief, maybe it’s disgust, Gio once again finds himself terrifyingly unaware of what she’s thinking, unaware of her intentions or motivations.

“No?” She finally asks, tilting her head at him. She turns away from him completely, then flips on the sink and begins to lather soap over her hands. “Salem doesn’t seem to think that. He seems to really care about you. When he called me he was freaking out so bad I thought he-” she suddenly shuts herself up, watching her own hands as she rinses the suds off of her skin. She turns the sink off. “It’s just been a while since I’ve heard him so upset. He cares about you.”

It’s different. Gio doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows it and Salem knows it and Nicko knows it and Rory knew it, Cassandra or Cass or Cassie or whatever should know it as well. Salem does care about him, but to say that they were friends just doesn’t fit right. Same with Ben, even though he’s nicer to him now and actually talks to him sometimes. Hell, even Rory thought she loved him at some point, and she hurt him more than any of them have. And Gio cares about them, too. But it’s unspoken knowledge that at the drop of a hat, if they want to do something heinous to him, all they have to do is ask Nicko or get Gio alone and coax the idiotically trained boy to do what they want. Ben had done that once at a party, trying to show him off to a group of girls. All he had to do was tell Giovanni to kneel, hold his drink for him, and it didn’t matter if Gio wanted to or was aware of why these people were so entertained. They couldn’t be friends to him, not with that much power over him. Not when he isn’t even a person like any of them. He’s just a toy, an object, something to buy and use and sell and destroy and discard. That’s all he could ever be to these people, and just because some of them play nicer with him than others doesn't mean they are friends to him.

“I care about him, too.” He finally resolves himself to say, glaring down at his hands. Now, Cassandra chuckles softly, then she takes a deep breath like she’s about to say something, only to quiet herself when she hears footsteps in the hallway. Gio is unaware of the headspace he slips into easily when he can see Nicko again, but Cassandra picks up on his suddenly poised and rigid posture, the widened eyes that track Nicko’s movements with a peculiar mix of fear and adoration, and the nearly missable smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth when he notices Nicko looking at him. It’s tangible, the infatuation Gio holds for Nicko, even though he was just trying to tell Cassandra that he wasn’t friends with any of them.

Nicko has cleaned the blood off of himself and changed his shirt when he comes back into the kitchen. He looks fine, really, apart from a potential bruise on his jaw and the bridge of his nose being red and swollen. His hair is tied back messily, a few flyaway strands framing his face. He takes in a shaking sigh of relief when he sees Gio’s face isn’t bloody anymore and his lip is no longer a gruesome wound but a jagged, stitched up line. He glances at Cassandra, who is drying her hands with paper towels carefully, stare focused on Gio. But Gio is only looking at Nicko, and Nicko loves when he does that, when he acts like Nicko is the only person in the world, like there isn’t anyone else to look at.

As he steps across the kitchen toward him, Gio looks more and more nervous. Especially when Nicko drags his fingers over his arm softly. “Are you feeling better?”

Gio nods quickly, his darkened irises flicking nervously as he takes Nicko in completely, his mouth, his eyes, his shoulders, his posture, his hand that isn’t touching Gio. He always looks like he’s trying to figure him out. Nicko often wonders if he’s come to any conclusions, but he looks just as lost and nervous every time. Even more so when Nicko pulls the chair Cassandra had been using right in between Gio’s legs and sits down. And then again when he reaches up and takes his face gently into his hand.

“Does it hurt?” He mumbles.

“N-no. Cassandra made it p…painless.”

“Good. That’s good, Gio.” Nicko smiles at him, then lowers his voice further as he leans toward Gio. “You just tell me if it hurts and I’ll make it go away, ok?”

It’s Gio now, Nicko is being nice. Speaking in that tone that makes him worthy of worship, makes anyone it’s directed at melt and ache, just for Nicko, no one else. If only it were meant for him, and not for this stranger Gio.

But maybe he could just pretend…

“Ok, Nicko. Thank you.” His voice is a pitiful murmur as he presses into Nicko’s warm palm, and Gio thinks he can see his eyes soften in response. Or maybe he’s just seeing what he wants to see.

“Alright,” Nicko sighs pointedly, pulling away from Gio to stand up, ignoring how the boy sways forward in the absence of his touch, “let’s get you in the shower and then go to bed, yeah? How’s that sound?”

When Gio slides off the table and is back on solid ground, the sharp throbbing behind his eyes and the lingering dizziness of booze almost knocks him back down, and Nicko has to go as far as looping an arm around his waist again to hold him steady. Gio finds that he’s scolding himself for his clumsiness, his throat tight with the anxiety of being so visibly useless like this. But then, Nicko is pulling him even closer and whispering into his hair: “It’s ok, Gio, I’ve got you. You’re ok.”

Yeah, he could just pretend. He could be Gio, if that’s what will make Nicko keep talking to him like that. He could be anything Nicko wanted him to be.

“Try not to get the stitches too wet,” Cassandra pipes up suddenly, “and uh…I guess I’ll just come back when they’re ready to come out.”

Nicko thanks her, but it comes off as borderline dismissive, sort of preoccupied with trying to help Gio shuffle out of the kitchen. Gio can hear her scoffing to herself as they leave the room.

Gio looks at himself in the mirror as Nicko turns on the shower. The dark string that Cassandra used to stitch up his mouth stands out starkly against his pale skin. It will definitely scar, soon it will just be another jagged white line that only serves to remind himself of the fact that he’s broken, not good enough. If he had been good enough, he wouldn’t have gotten the injuries in the first place. He is bad, he is broken, he is hideous, he is used up and ruined and it is painfully, visibly obvious to anyone that looks at him. He doesn’t want to feel like that anymore, it keeps eating away at him. In that moment, he knows he would do anything to make it go away.

“I think the water’s warm enough.” Nicko tells him. When he turns to look at Gio, he seems intrigued as he leans heavily against the countertop to turn around. Then he’s smirking and stepping hesitantly forward. “Do you…uh, do you need help taking your clothes off, Gio?”

It’s so nice to pretend to be Gio. It’s easy.

“Please, Si…Nicko.” His cheeks grow a little rosy when he realizes his mistake, drifting his gaze to the floor passively. Nicko is quick to close in on him and take him by the collar of his shirt. He gives a gentle tug, but Gio is still so fucked up he is yanked rather hastily forward. His world tilts around him, his head grows light and fuzzy around the edges. It’s just like the day at the tattoo shop when Nicko’s hand was too tight around his throat, or any of the other countless times someone has pushed him off the ledge of consciousness. It lasts for only a second this time, and Gio can hear himself breathing out a relieved but exasperated “woah” as he tries to blink the stars away from his vision.

“Y’alright?” Nicko checks. He flashes a smile when Gio nods his head slowly, not breaking eye contact with Nicko for a few heartstopping moments. He lets Nicko move him around so he can pull his shirt off of him.

When Nicko kneels down and begins to undo his pants, Gio reaches back to hold himself steady on the counter. He can’t catch his breath when Nicko looks up at him, looking right at him as he slides his jeans down to his ankles slowly.

“Will you shower with me?” Gio mumbles. He can feel Nicko freeze up a bit, shifting his hands so they’re wrapped around Gio’s calves loosely, still gazing up at him.

“You want me to shower with you?” Nicko repeats. He doesn’t sound mean or teasing about it, there’s no sarcasm in the question, as far as Gio can tell, it’s just like he’s asking it as a way to double check that it’s what Gio wants.

“I…I can hardly stand up straight…” Is the only excuse he can manage to force out, before Nicko is trailing his fingers up and latching them loosely onto the waistband of his boxers.

“Is that the only reason you want me to shower with you, Gio?”

Maybe he’s always been Gio. Maybe his other life was just a bizarre dream. Maybe it’s always been this way and it always will be. The way Nicko says that name, his name, makes him feel like he’d be happy with that.

He only hesitates a little bit before shaking his head in admission. “No, it isn’t.” He confesses. Nicko smiles, he’s pleased with the answer, and Gio can breathe again. Then, he’s slowly tugging Gio’s boxers down to his ankles to join his pants, and it’s all Gio can do and more to keep breathing.

“Alright, I’ll shower with you.” Nicko smiles as he says it, and Gio blushes at the way he just keeps repeating it like that, although he’s not really sure why. He stands up straight, he’s taller than Gio is, so much that he has to tilt his head back to keep looking at him head on. He wants to thank Nicko, but he can’t get the words out. His mouth is starting to hurt again.

The water is much too hot on Gio’s back, he tries not to squirm away from it as best as he can. He just convinced Nicko to shower with him, he can’t compromise it now by complaining. And the stinging of the scalding water on his skin is very much worth the gentle tenderness of Nicko’s hands rubbing soap against his bloody skin until the suds turn rust colored and swirl down the drain.

“Hey,” Nicko says suddenly, making Gio tilt his head up to look at him instead of the miracle of his soft touches, “I’m uh…I’m sorry I kissed you earlier. You were hurting, I shouldn’t have done that.”

Gio hears himself sigh softly, although he can’t really find it in him to scold himself for it. He’s drunk and tired and his head is pounding and he’s still just some ugly and ruined toy Nicko keeps making the mistake of trying to play with. He misses Rory for a split second, then realizes he only misses someone being infatuated with him, using him and not feeling bad about it, making him feel, at least momentarily, like he has the ability to be desired.

“Are you sighing at me, Giovanni?” Nicko laughs.

Giovanni when he’s being bad, Gio when he’s good. That’s all it ever has been, and it’s never going to change. It’s all he’ll ever know. Why does that feel so disappointing?

“M’sorry.” Gio whispers, looking away from Nicko entirely now, focusing instead on the droplets racing down the shower curtain. Nicko’s hand is on his face now, tipping his head up so he looks at him. Gio almost wants to cry at how gentle even that is.

“Why are you sighing at me?” It doesn’t sound like a trick question, doesn’t sound patronizing or teasing at all anymore, just curious. But Gio could’ve just been imagining that.

He bites down on his bottom lip as he ponders his answer, flinching at the dull aching the light pressure ignites in his teeth. Nicko frowns at him, stroking his thumb over Gio’s cheekbone lovingly. It makes Gio positively weak. “I don’t like when you say stuff like th-that.” He cringes at his own insolence, knows that Nicko can do and say whatever he wants to him, it doesn’t matter if Gio likes it or not. But Nicko asked a question, and the truth, the real answer, was that when Nicko told him how much he regretted doing anything of that nature it was more painful than anything he’d ever done to him. More than when he roughed him up and threw him outside like an animal that he couldn’t stand to be around, more than the maddening hours of needles inside of him.

Nicko nods at him, Gio is surprised at just how understanding he looks for a moment. “Do you want to tell me why?”

Gio is slightly baffled that Nicko even has to ask, that it isn’t obvious to him already. “Um. I li-like you a lot, Nicko. And I want you to…It’s just that all I think about is how- b-but I don’t want to-to make you regret, you know, to regret it, cause you do, and it’s-it’s… I don’t like when y-you say you regret it because I want…I want…you.” Even he can hear how jumbled and confusing his stammering comes out, and he shakes his head to himself. “I’m s-sorry…”

“I don’t regret it.” Nicko states quickly. “I never said I regret it, Gio. I just said I shouldn’t have done it.”

Maybe it’s disappointing because it doesn’t feel real enough. Maybe he just needs something to make it feel a little more real. Maybe then he can be happy as Gio.

“I wanted you to, Nicko. I always want you to.”

Both of them fell quiet at that, each of them surprised to their own degree at the admission. Nicko takes a deep breath, starting to trace his fingertips over Gio’s face, first his cheekbone, then his eyebrow, the edge of his jaw. Gio tries hard to keep himself upright, looking at Nicko, owning up to his feelings instead of cowering away from them.

“Always, huh?” Nicko finally mumbles. There’s a hint of amusement in his voice, Gio doesn’t know if that should make him relieved or worried.

“S-Sometimes I feel like such an idiot because it’s all I can th-think about.”

Nicko smiles at him, is he getting closer? Gio can’t think straight, not that he’s ever been able to, especially when Nicko wraps his fingers around his waist, just underneath his ribcage. “That’s very cute, Gio.”

Not quite real enough. Something more.

“I like you so much it makes me hate everyone else.”

That pushes Nicko somewhere else entirely, and he’s pulling Gio close against him and kissing hungrily at his throat. There’s nothing between them, the shocking intimacy of wet skin on skin and Nicko’s tongue trailing over Gio’s Adam's apple before pressing his lips into the skin there pushes Gio over the edge, and he can barely stifle the desperate whine he lets out. He can feel Nicko smiling against his throat.

“It hurts, Nicko,” Gio breathes, reaching up to hold Nicko’s shoulders so that he doesn’t move away from him, “make it go away, p-please.”

“What hurts?” The words are spoken right into Gio’s skin, it makes him tremble in Nicko’s arms.

“Everything.”

Nicko starts to really pull away then, and Gio whimpers as he loops his arms around his neck and presses himself flush against Nicko.

“You said y-you would make it go away. Please, Nicko, make it go away. Ju-just for a second, even, please.” Nicko is frozen, it makes Gio even more anxious. “Nicko, please, I need you. You don’t understand, you don’t understand…”

So Nicko, after so long of holding himself off, complies. He presses Gio carefully against the wall and touches him in a way that no one ever has before: selflessly. He doesn’t try to use Gio, he doesn’t do anything that might feel good for himself, he only focuses on making Gio feel better. The boy is feebly gasping and humming every so often, and Nicko praises him for being so quiet.

Nicko is so close still, he doesn’t see when Gio starts to cry. Gio has won, he’s convinced Nicko to give him exactly what he wants. His mouth is against him, whispering nothing but sweet compliments and kissing him in a way that makes Gio swoon, and his hands are just as heavenly as Gio has always imagined, and it’s perfect. And yet, Gio is still miserable. It still isn’t satisfying. Because even when Nicko is pressing his body close and holding Gio’s shaking frame as he shudders his way through an orgasm, whispering, “That’s it Gio, so perfect for me Gio, God Gio you have no idea what you do to me like this, I’m so happy I have you all to myself Gio, you’re mine, Gio, I love that you’re mine and no one else can have you Gio”, it still doesn’t feel real enough.

Because Gio isn’t real.

None of this is real.

This is all some sick dream.

This is all just demented play pretend.

Nicko helps Gio out of the shower, wraps him in a warm towel, kisses his forehead sweetly. He wipes Gio’s tears away without acknowledging the fact that he’s crying. Gio vaguely notices he doesn’t really feel any of it happening to him. Even when Nicko brings him back to his bedroom and puts him in a soft sweatshirt and some silky pajama pants, he doesn’t feel it. Or when Nicko pulls him down onto the mattress and holds him closer than he ever has before, he’s still completely numb to it. He doesn’t know if he will ever be able to feel things the way he used to, or if he was ever even able to feel things in the first place, cause he certainly wouldn't remember, and the thought makes his chest even more hollowed out and cold.

When he falls asleep later, Gio dreams about red velvet birthday cake. It’s more painful than any nightmare he’s ever had.

[trashcatsnark]

I'm glad you liked my AU, I was kinda nervous that I'm bothering you ':D 1. V is of course allowed to stay with the Aldecaldos with no problems, since they're already a part of the family, but Johnny is only allowed to stay if he 1. will work on jobs with them to earn his keep 2. will do different chores around the camp 3. will behave; he starts a fight or something like that and he's out. Johnny is determined to be on his best behavior so that he's allowed to stay and look after V. After what they've been through together, he couldn't bear to be split from them again, especially not over something so stupid like starting a brawl. 2. He doesn't really socialise much, he's too focused on V. Aldecaldos tolerate him, but he can feel that they are a bit uneasy around him, and he can't really blame them, he's a man who died 50 years ago and was brought back to life, not exactly something you see every day (though I'd imagine they'd warm up to eachother after a post-gig bonfire, with Johnny showing off his guitar chops). 3. Johnny and V live in the same van, of course. Graciously donated by the Aldecaldos, it's their new home and mode of transport when the caravan moves. It's a bit small, but it's managable and slowly starts to fill out with different trinkets, items, postcards and photos from their travels. They usually sit on the steps in the mornings and sometimes look at the starry sky on the roof in the evenings. 4. If V feels good enough to leave the van, Johnny is always near, like a shadow. Just a local oddity, a merc who died and came back to life twice and a world-famous terrorist rockerboy that now watches over them in pretty much complete silence and a permanent scowl on his face, nbd. 5. Johnny usually keeps his hair tied, partially because it's more practical and he hates having a swety neck, and partially because it fucks with his facial features and he's harder to recognise by bystanders like cashiers. 6. V is in no condition to drive, so Johnn usually does it when the caravan has to move. V either chats with him to keep him company, reads him books or screamsheets out loud or does crossword puzzles with him. 7. Johnny sometimes missess the fact that he can no longer feel what V is feeling, mostly because it would make the whole "caretaking" thing much easier for him, just letting him know what V needs without words. Now he actually has to guess or ask, and he doesn't know which is harder. He looks at V and feels like he should be able to do more for them, but he has no idea what that more would actually be.

Firstly, never worry about bothering, I absolutely adore how many asks and messages I’ve been getting lately! I may be slow to reply sometimes but I’m honestly just am really happy to see people wanting to read my dumbass replies, if anything I worry about giving bad replies since I am the “queen of fuckups” as Johnny has so elegantly dubbed me and my V before. 

Ahhhh, I love it so much, firstly I love bitchface Johnny always lurking over V because he’s a protective heathen. V just has to be like, yeah, no he’s really a sweetie though...well, okay no he’s kinda an asshole, but like he’s my asshole so it’s fine.  And the rule of Johnny, please behave, and he’d try so hard but you know there’s a part of him that’s always like that son of a bitch looked at V the wrong way and i want to punch him but god damn it, i cannot and will sit here consumed with internal rage for the rest of the night 

Also ponytail Johnny owns my whole soul. my V wakes up to him in sweatpants and hair in a ponytail once and is like shit I died and gone to heaven. I like to imagine if anyone still is ever like wait... “are you Johnny Silverhand?” he just gives a completely vague non-committal response of like “who knows.” (I also love ideas of him being like Tony Hawk in that he’s never fully recognized or people assuming he’s some fanatic who just runs around dressed like Johnny Silverhand like Elvis Imposters or him more often being confused for Keanu Reeves since he exists in universe) 

Johnny pulling a here’s Wonderwall at the campfire just for the joke of it, sometimes when he’s in a really good mood he’ll take requests (tho mostly just V’s, if anyone really for sure wants to hear him play something specific they know to ask V to ask for it) 

Living in a van, I imagine it majorllllly reminds Johnny of band days, touring, he’ll tell V all his stories of living in a van with Kerry, Henry, Denny, and Nancy for months at time. Having to listen to Henry and Denny fight the entire damn time, nearly puking when they’d had to listen to the two make up. Nancy losing her mind trying to reign in her feral children of bandmates, at times just choosing to drive instead of stay in the bus because you can handle so much. Kerry constantly stealing Johnny’s pants. Johnny bringing people back to the bus and later getting yelled at because he inevitably left...evidence of it on something that didn’t belong to him. (sometimes accidentally and other times, well, Kerry deserved it) Having to share a bathroom with them all and threatening to piss on Kerry’s bed if he didn’t hurry it the fuck up.  He has a billion stories, that he knows V already knows, but they still wanna hear em, so why not. 

I also fucking live for Johnny and V just hating the fact they aren’t linked the way they were before. They actually have to talk, god the horror. I definitely imagine  my Johnny and V following the separation occasionally find themselves having to tell the other person “we have to use our big girl/boy/person words, now” They’ll catch the other staring off into the distance and be like “you just were trying to talk to me through your mind rn werent you?” or V will be thinking things to Johnny and be like “why are you ignoring me???? wAIT I HAVE TO TALK” They feel this distance that they never knew existed before. 

I know in your AU V probably wouldn’t be up for it, but when they would be or any V and Johnny with nomads verse;  part of me feels like Johnny would be torn on wanting to pilot the Basilisk with V. Because half of him is worried about the claustrophobia of it, he hates cramped dark, closed in places. But fuck fuck fuck, he wants that neurological link with V. He wants it. And if they do it, he’ll feel so at peace that he finally has his person back in the deepest sense of it, that he forgets all about being stuck in that coffin.  

I also majorly think, while not as severe as the one between the twins in the beat on the brat fights; they don’t wanna be the same person. But they do want some form of neural synchronization implants. I imagine they might have something where they can read each others minds, it do be the future, just something that lets them always feel connected. Vik looks at them like they’re stupid, you fought to be separated and now you just wanna climb back into each other’s head. 

[jedi-bird]

In a few days it'll be the anniversary of when I first stumbled across both ao3 and tumblr. I wasn't in a good place then; mostly I was numb and just struggling to get through the day. I was a caretaker for my grandpa and spent everyday making sure he ate and took his pills. I was the only one so I never had a moment to rest or take care of myself. My mom had just died and I never had a chance to process or even grieve. I was told by everyone around us, even my own family, to think about grandpa. "He just lost his only daughter. You can't show any emotion around him because he's very upset." No one ever asked how I was doing or even if I needed a break. They never did, even up to when I cut off all contact last year. I was considered selfish and "dwelling on the past unnecessarily". I've still never fully processed what happened though I'm finally trying.

My days were busy and kept me distracted; there was no time to think when I barely had time to sit down. But nights... nights were hard. I couldn't sleep, which wasn't exactly new, but it was made worse by the thoughts and voices that liked to tell me that what happened was my fault. These voices, liars that they are, were made worse by my stepfather, whose abusive personality I had been forced to interact with for the first time in eight years. This event started a series of nonstop calls and texts which ranged from him asking why it happened to demanding I tell him what she was hiding (she wasn't hiding anything other than a hatred towards him); he alternated between begging me to move in with him to take her place and blaming me. Then the midnight visits started.

He lived two hours away and would almost nightly drive down, arriving at our house about midnight and just stay until dawn. Sometimes he'd stay in his car, watching our house, but usually he'd get out and walk around our yard. He'd try to look into our windows, especially mine. I could hear him moving around the yard. It didn't take much to know it was him. He'd done this before.

I should have called the cops but years of abuse and feeling worthless made me think there wasn't a point. They didn't seem to care when I reported to the sheriff in charge of my mom's case the things he had said and hid from them so why would this be any different? It made sleeping even harder; I couldn't turn on a light to read because then the phone calls would start, I couldn't leave my room because he'd see me moving through the house, I couldn't even listen to music. But I could use my phone. Light on low, hidden under a blanket, I found a world that I hadn't been able to interact with before. I read stories and saw art work; I escaped and hid away from the world. Long before I joined either group, I lurked in the background and survived. Usually, as the sun came up, he'd finally leave and I'd get a few hours of sleep.

Today, I can't find most of the stories I first read. Some the details were so vague that searching yields nothing while others I'm sure don't exist anymore. But the memories are there and they are some of the only pleasant ones from that time. I joke that fandom saved my life but in ao3's case it's probably true. It kept my sanity when nothing else did. So happy anniversary week to me and here's to more to come. I'd like to remember good things about this week rather than the bad. Today I couldn't sleep. Tomorrow will be better, knowing that I have something familiar to fall back on.

[theangrypokemaniac]

There's a sneering attitude that the dub is inherently inferior solely for being a dub, and when I say 'dub' I mean the American one. No one attacks the South American interpretation, funnily enough, or the variety that exist globally.

Why not if foreign languages are so abhorrent?  Do you think it's kewl to hate America?

That's so original you know.

If the moan centres on the dub changing certain things, well that's a pointless stance, because it's impossible to do otherwise.

What's accepted in one country is not always permitted elsewhere, so either you make those alterations or it's never shown. I'd prefer seeing a slightly toned down version rather than have it never reach the West at all.

This is without considering the technical obstacles that a direct translation brings. The words do have to fit the mouth movements, and if they don't, truncation must follow.

America and Japan are different; the population of the former are not going to comprehend the references to the latter's history and culture, which necessitates some divergence from the original to give it mass appeal.

Anime is a branch of entertainment. It has to attract the public's good will to stay in business. If impenetrable, it'll fail, with all the resulting unemployment and finacial losses that brings.

Those in charge of dubbing understandably think they're on safer ground promoting familiarity rather than the strange, but that's not to say Pokémon was stripped of its identity. On the contrary, it was like nothing I'd ever encountered before.

I may have watched Western cartoons then, but the idea of doing so now is silly. I won't give time to any modern animation unless it's Japanese. Growing up on the dub has not produced an ephemeral fan less serious or 'true'.

The 4Kids dub had wit, humour, deep emotion, suggestive comments and flights of fancy. The voices fitted the characters well.

Unlike the current one, where everyone sounds on the verge of vomiting, but then they're clearly working with substandard material on a miserly budget. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear after all.

Dubs can be bad, but the very state of being a dub doesn't confer worthlessness automatically. Considering the work gone into them, attempting to gain your favour, it seems rude not to appreciate the time and energy spent in production.

Knowing a little about history, sub-only fanatics remind me of the kind of folk who opposed an English Bible, because it was too good for the oiks to read the word of God.

Of course it was alright for them, rich enough to be taught Latin, but not so much the ordinary man.

It amuses me how dozens dismiss the dub, but see no hypocrisy in using its evidence to further their ship or anti-ship arguments, so it can't be that revolting.

It's also bizarre that so many hold sacred the sub of a series currently in a frenzy to shed every aspect of its anime and Japanese origins, leaving a vague, rootless ghost, supposedly making it easier to slip down the gullet of the masses.

Pokémon I've seen referred to as a 'gateway drug', as in the anime that introduced a generation to the entire concept. This means the dub. You would not have got enough kids in the late Nineties to read a screen rather than watch it, and even today most would lose interest rapidly.

Where would you be without that dub? Unless you're Japanese, your first experience of Pokémon will have been a dub, and if not the American, the one where you live, which was only made because there was the funds available.

You may have then progressed to watching the sub, but only because that dub stirred love in your soul.

Where would the franchise be without that dub? You think Pokémon would've grown to be a world-wide obsession raking in billions by itself? No, it'd still be a solely Japanese phenomena, and most likely never lasted this long.

Its decades of supremacy rests on the quality of that dub. It sold games and merchandise to kids by the ton, giving an incentive to keep the series going. If you're not a fan from the first wave, then your favourite era would have never existed had it not been financially attractive carrying on.

The team who wrote the first film actually preferred the dub, moved to tears by its emotive use of music, therefore they aren't so precious as the fans.

Where would anime be without that dub? Pokémon brought it to the West. A handful slipped through previously, but made minor impression.

To those who would dismiss Pokémon entirely in favour of more 'worthy' output such as Studio Ghibli, I would say that Pokémon, first the games, then the programme they inspired, must have an integral quality to have caught on in Japan, which isn't exactly short on similar concepts.

To have gained popularity in a crowded market, and so fervently a dub became an option, can only have come about because it held a certain magic.

It was the dub that smashed a hole in the cultural barrier, setting free the tidal wave to engulf the world. In Pokémon's trail followed Digimon, Cardcaptors, Monster Rancher, Yu-Gi-Oh! et cetera.

Without Pokémon, I doubt they'd have been translated, and definitely never broadcast on mainstream television. That came about as channels desperately hunted down anything Japanese to serve as the next craze.

I really appreciated the effort made by 4Kids in converting every aspect of the series to suit American tastes, including changing text on signs, letters and books into English. I assumed this was standard practice until I watched others.

I could never be as involved in them as I was Pokémon because of that block. It was like being denied access to the deeper waters, fenced into the shallows, and implied a rushed dub, with little care shown but to chase the same crowd and money.

If personified, the dub 'n' sub wouldn't be one human being, but rather identical twins: the same to a casual observer, but easy to tell apart by the more attentive.

It's like the games: Red and Blue are versions of a single adventure, but not totally one. Take the dub and the sub the same way. They are parallel dimensions running on separate rails, and beyond reconciliation, and that's before we consider that, sub and dub alike, each generation has only a faint relation to its predecessor, working on its own whims.

Everyone has a favourite, or can like both, and there's nothing wrong in that, but so many are proud of the fact they hate the dub, as if it conveys a revered status of supremacy.

When Disney films are shown abroad, they too are translated, and I'm sure references and jokes are redesigned to make sense to the locals. It's no use selling yourself as a comedy then being surprised when the audience refuses to laugh, having no idea what you mean.

If people prefer that one, for being what introduced them to Disney as a whole, or as a fond memory of childhood, then so what?

I don't mind if their view of a character is minutely at odds with mine, having seen the original, because what they think is canon to their version, so can't be wrong.

I don't go round declaring every Disney dub to be pathetic by its nature, that viewers of them are of a lesser breed of fan for preferring their own tongue, even though more of the world's population understand English than they do Japanese.

If you enjoy one tailored to your country there's no crime in it, just as I like one at least comprehensible to mine. It's not even my culture, but I pick it up mostly.

The choice must be made on which to follow, and this blog runs on dub canon, as that has a claim on my heart. Just because I don't acknowledge what takes place in the sub doesn't mean I'm unaware of it, but it has no bearing on what I write.

The idea that the dub alters things willy-nilly without rhyme nor reason is also mistaken. Often it does it because the original does not make sense.

In the sub, I know Nanny and Pop-Pop are just a couple of old duffers taken at random and dropped in to a castle, supposedly as James's far away nannies.

Oh yeah, that's a cushy position. You doing a lot of child care from miles off?

Mind you, it used to describe 'em as 'caretakers' on Bulbapædia, as if Nan serves as housekeeper whilst Pop tends to the garden.

That's right. Ma and Pa finally got some work out of this pair of freeloaders.

They're not related, remember? No, no, absolutely not, no way. Of course their style reflects that. They just gave Pop a 'tache, thick eyebrows and a bigger nose, and Nan got a bun and lines in her hair, but there's certainly no connection. Oh no. Such a thing is ridiculous.

They're NOT family. No. Yet Hoenn James still panics they might learn he's joined Team Rocket, spending the whole episode trying to hide the truth.

Why? Who are servants to criticise the son of their employers? Why should their opinion be of any consequence to Hoenn James, especially when his parents, fiancée and butler are cognizant of reality?

Children of aristocrats are usually brought up by governesses, thus develop a stronger attachment to these figures rather than their parents, but that isn't the case here.

James lived with Ma and Pa, not the codgers minding the castle. He would have very little contact with distant employees compared to those who waited on him daily, so why seek out their approval?

Hoenn James apparently was permitted visits to Nan 'n' Pop, which is strange considering they're not relatives. Why them and not any other house-stters?

That's right, Ma and Pa sent their son to one of their properties without them, entrusting him to the care of two shrivelled pensioners of his size that he barely knew, and who could keel over at any minute. There are no other servants present. Apparently Nan and Pop clean an entire castle by themselves.

Oh, and they run a makeshift Pokémon sanctuary, but since it's not their home it has to be done with Ma and Pa's blessing, who also have to pay for it, but they're eevul aren't they?

The idea that somehow Nanny and Pop-Pop have not cottoned on to James's occupation by now is risible.

Servants gossip about their masters. I bet the entire household of his home know, and so in turn does the county. That Nan and Pop remain oblivious proves how isolated they are, for no one's thought to inform them.

When it came to dubbing it, they were made his grandparents, removing all the above nonsense. Of course he visits his nan and granddad, it's their gaff and their money funding the place, and it is likely his mother or father would keep James's job a secret, for fear the shock would finish 'em off.

It should do really. If they're not bothered by it that's a sign of where his rapscallion ways were inherited.

They aren't facially akin to Ma and Pa, but display the same additions, so if staff it's bloody lazy, as if nannies have to resemble your parents, but inventing a blood link excuses the slothful characterisation.

Every reference I've seen on Tumblr relating to the coffin-dodgers calls them Nanny and Pop-Pop. Apparently the dub decision is met with universal approval. It does have redeeming aspects then.

Now the sub writers, rather than ignore this development, took to it too. They aren't exactly bursting with ideas these days and are probably grateful for the lifelines offered.

Remembering James had parents, they forced a likeness between them and Nanny and Pop-Pop. How else do you explain the inexplicable ageing, even when Sinnoh Ma and Sinnoh Pa are younger than Ma and Pa?

I've also known for years that the sub has this woman as Jessie's foster mother, not Ma Jess, but that's stupid.

I can grasp the idea that Jessie and Ma might have endured extreme deprivation, considering that's what Team Rocket has brought to Jessie anyway, and that they may have lived at the bottom of Mew's mountain prior to Ma's death.

What I find difficult to take in is that social services (or as they're known where I live, the S.S.), however notoriously awful they are, would give a child to a mad bitch in a shack with no running water.

Come on, they have to at least pretend to be concerned for Jessie's welfare.

As Jessie is very young, bereavement can't have befallen her in the distant past, so how can she be happy this soon after becoming an orphan? How could the grieving period be a cherished memory?

If that woman's creaming off the money, why hasn't she fixed the place up by now? Where do the payments go, sniffing glue?

Then there's the depiction. If this is just some daft bint never to be mentioned again, why do they conceal her face? Who cares what she looks like when she's unimportant?

Here's another figure from Jessie's past. She isn't disguised, and why not when she too briefly appears and is then forgotten?

Who was she?

The only sort of characters they tended to hide were other members of Team Rocket:

During the early scenes featuring Giovanni, he was enveloped in shadow, adding both intrigue and a sense of menace.

Madame Boss also got this treatment, even though there was probably no intention to ever feature her in the anime. What's the use in keeping an appearance a mystery if it'll remain masked?

With that pattern, it implies this woman is in the same category, like Ma Jess.

When it came to animation, it definitely was intended to be a foster mother. Not her real one. No.

What did they do?

They gave her Jessie's skin tone and purple hair hanging down her back!

You know, like Ma Jess?

Any colour would've done. Any at all, and being anime I do mean any colour, but no. The choice was made to give her the looks of the exact person she's not meant to be!

Is it that surprising the dub simplified things?

I don't mind if you like the dub, sub, both, or any from around the world, but I'm tired of the smug condescension, as if we all agree the sub is the only one that counts, and that dub fans are grunting troglodytes, or not 'proper' aficionados.

None of us would be here were it not for the dub. Pokémon would not be here. I think it deserves some respect for how much of a difference it made, to my life and to yours.

[spookyshake]

I'm REALLY sorry I don't want to seem like a weird stalker or anything but I was looking through petpages and I really wanna know.... is the reason why Imawa looks the way he does because of the fireworks? What's his connection with the twins? (I assume they were the two little kids in the picture w/ young!Imawa) And what does the hissi inn keeper/cult leader do in terms of cult stuff? I really love your ocs and your art!

NO WORRIES!! I’m extremely flattered you’re interested in them, so thank you!(and honestly I’m quite a bit of a petpage stalker myself hahaha)

Brief answer: -Imawa and the Twins are siblings! Imawa is the eldest by a large margin.-The fireworks are more of a recurring visual symbol/theme than anything else-The Innkeeper uh…she and the cult are outwardly altruistic, BUT SHE DEVOURS PEOPLE……

Long answer: I actually have some concept art/material that I’m currently working on for them, so here’s a REALLY HUGE barely coherent dump of some details I’ve been mulling over. Things are subject to change as I go along and refine it, but the general ideas are here.(warning:  heavy-ish stuff ahead…?): 

[Imawa and the Twins]-They’re siblings!Imawa is older than them by about 10 years or so, and acted more as a caretaker/parental figure.-They’re a bit of a (perhaps overly) tragedy-wrought family.-From a remote farming village in the mountains of Shenkuu, their family was ostracized within the community on account of an ancient offense from generations ago.The offense, the crime, the taboo- whatever it was that occurred in the past was clearly no longer relevant in the present, but in such a sequestered society, it was simply convenient to have a scapegoat for ill happenings and misfortunes.Thus, the family lived under extremely poor conditions.-Scorned by the community and avoided like the plague by the villagers, the only thing they could rely on was each other; family was the most important thing.-The Twins were the lights in Imawa’s bleak life. He wanted nothing more than for them to have a better life, and often went out of his way to keep them entertained by crafting little trinkets and toys with whatever he could find.He’d probably do ANYTHING for them.(the general basis behind the Fireworks images/short script)-The Twins themselves were often perplexed by the odd rules they had to follow in order to stay out of trouble with the village, as they didn’t understand the nuance behind the shunning they experienced.They were blissfully unaware, and were mostly content to just spend time running around and playing in the mountains as kids do; but they were also very curious.-The family consisted of the 3 siblings, and their parents. -Was very close-knit despite their hardships, and maintained a meager but otherwise peaceful existence on the very outskirts of the village settlement.

[EXCEPT THINGS ALWAYS GET WORSE]-While the twins were still very young, their mother had succumbed to an otherwise curable illness; they weren’t able to get any medical attention due to the taboo placed upon them by the villagers.So she died a tragically preventable death :’ (-This was the true start of everything going down hill, though it wasn’t immediately apparent. -Their father fell into a deep depression after the loss of his wife, but he tried his hardest to keep going for the sake of the children. A listless and meek man, he always made it a point to warn the children to stay out of trouble with the villagers.-Imawa became extremely protective over the twins after the passing of their mother-He felt a great anger towards the cold-hearted villagers and a helplessness towards their situation. -(Around this time is when the past-firework image is placed chronologically)-(Some drastic(?) series of events happen that causes the 3 siblings to end up at an orphanage run by the Cult; still working the exact details of this part out)

-(The whole family is so miserably prone to misfortune, big or small, that I’m fairly certain there’s something more sinister going on in the background of the village, which I might expand on later from a different perspective)

[Imawa - Then and Now]-Originally a Grey Kacheek. -Weak of constitution, he couldn’t really help his father out much in the fields so he took to doing household chores and looking after his younger siblings.-KIND OF A ‘MOM’…..since their mother died while the twins were still very young, he sort of naturally took on this sort of role (perhaps unknowingly) to fill that void. 

- (This quality remains at his core even in the present day. While generally unfriendly and distrustful of others, he really looks after those that are close to him (Paskur, Delivery Grundo) and hides surprisingly high domestic skills. Also kind of obsessive about keeping places tidy.)

-Was always very resourceful and mature for his age, and quick to learn.-Young Imawa initially hoped to take the Imperial Exam and get a governmental job at the capital, in order to improve the family’s living conditions and just get away from the poverty and scornful villagers. …Things didn’t really pan out in the end.

-While at the orphanage, he was scouted by some shady Virtupets officials for his unusual intelligence (the non-civilian, Dr.Sloth-associated Virtupets?)Desperate to grasp at any opportunity to help his siblings lead a more normal life, he took their offer to be trained and employed at the Space Station, on the condition that the Twins would be properly cared for at the orphanage through his salary.

-He failed to take into account how his absence would affect the young twins. -Shoyru Boy, too young to understand how their older brother was looking out for them, became increasingly distraught as he felt convinced that Imawa had all but abandoned them.This lead to his great fear and anxieties towards abandonment; family was always the most important thing, but what can you do when even family leaves you behind? Their mother, their father, and then Imawa- it was far too much for him to handle.-Kacheek Girl became inevitably chained to her twin as his keeper; while they’ve always been at each other’s side, it took on a much graver meaning as she was now his only mental support. She had to quickly take on a role of responsibility, though she kept holding onto a vague hope that Imawa would come back for them soon.

-While working for Virtupets, Imawa willingly elected to be mutated, as his frail body was starting to fail him– he couldn’t afford to die.-It was largely successful, and granted him a body with an enhanced metabolism and sensory processing. His previously failing eyesight became exponentially sharp and clear.BUT…. it also made him extremely sensitive to light and sound, and prone to crippling migraines.(He LITERALLY can’t quite see the fireworks the same way as he did before :( )-By taking this decision however, he became very afraid of returning to the Twins, and having them see how horrendously he’s changed. Kind of dug his own grave, in a way.-Convinces himself that he’s monstrous and hideously twisted at heart and his mutant appearance an apt reflection of that…..BUT he’s actually very much soft-hearted, with a rational perception of morality and common sense.….However, that doesn’t mean he won’t follow through with questionable or morally reprehensible orders. 

[The Cult]-At the surface the cult appears as a sort of charity organization, and often runs food drives, charity events, volunteer programs, and other humanitarian (N…neopetarian??) efforts. -They have a pretty good reputation and nothing seems very suspect, save for the sometimes EXTREME sense of self-sacrifice the members seem to display.Maybe a bit TOO friendly, as well.- The Twins play a part in this by hosting charity concerts and personally helping out at events. The cult supports and organizes their idol activities, and the staff members consist almost entirely of cultists.The plan is to spread the influence of their ideology through mass-media (and in doing so, roping in new members)-The cult tends to target and appeal to those that are in bad situations and are prone to influence; the poor and displaced, youths with issues, those fraught with heavy worries and problems, individuals without a place to belong, etc. Sometimes you also have the types with savior complexes that need fulfilling, or just general do-gooders who are drawn to the idea of doing good for the community.-The cult provides a tightly-knit, supportive community structure bound by the idea that ‘Everyone can help each other if you give your selves willingly’

[What’s actually happening behind the scenes]-Hissi Innkeeper has a delusional belief that she’s a manifestation of the Thousand-Year Martyr, an obscure altruistic figure from a local legend whose story acts as the foundation for the cult’s ideology.-She idolizes the Martyr as her ideal of true beauty– Self-Sacrifice.In fact, she’s so enamored by the very idea of the Martyr that she’s come to believe that SHE /IS/ THE THOUSAND-YEAR MARTYR.She’s both a worshipper, AND the idol of worship itself.-In order to fully ‘become’ the Thousand-Year Martyr, she’s gone to excessive lengths to prolong her life and maintain her beauty– emulating the supposedly immortal figure.-Initially her methods were pretty benign.She dabbled in things like traditional medicines, cosmetics, charms and potions, weird diets, prayer and offerings, spells, etc.But when they didn’t have the effect she desired, she began dipping into more…questionable, occult practices.-More bluntly: She EATS people, under the belief that their flesh and blood will give her new life.-She’s one step away from becoming a real monster.

-While she truly believes in and endorses the cult’s main ideology of Self-Sacrifice, it also serves as a perfect ideology to condition her most devout followers into willingly offer up their flesh and blood.-The conditioning process usually starts off with smaller, secret gatherings that call for ritual offerings of blood, which gradually escalate as the devotees become entrapped in the mythos of the process.-Some of the funds that support the cult were gained by devotees who gave up their worldly possessions, as part of the gradual sacrifice process.-Not everyone in the cult is aware of the more sinister side; there are many peripheral followers that just attend the seminars and charity events, and don’t go much further than that.

[The Cult’s Structure, summarized]—Outer Layer—-Charity organization.-Ingrains members into the community through kind acts and philanthropy, and introduces them to the altruistic(?) ideology behind the cult.-Relatively benign, but often uses peer pressure as a tactic to indoctrinate new members.

—Middle Layer—-The actual ‘Cult’ level. A cult of personality combined with a mystery cult.-Cultists are initiated into the secret rituals and formally introduced to the ‘mythos’ behind the cult.-The Innkeeper/Cult Leader serves as a proxy and avatar to their idol of worship (Thousand-Year Martyr), and adds an occult/mystic element that asks for the cultists to offer up their blood in the name of the Martyr.-The Martyr itself is characterized to the cultists as a sort of conceptual being or divine force that exists within everyone– omniscient, benevolent, sympathetic, compassionate, forgiving, and able to bring about miracles….but requires the worshippers to first show their own ‘kindness’ in return.

-The cool bonus is that you get your very own pretty cultist garb, made from Hissi Innkeeper’s (shed) skin. WOW WHAT A DEAL!!

—Inner Layer–-Hissi Innkeeper’s personal circle.-If you’re here you’re either really high up in the ladder, or completely ready to be served up as dinner.Maybe both.

[Innkeeper and the Twins]-The Innkeeper considers the Twins to be like her very own children, and she dotes on them dearly.-She took in these unfortunate twins from the orphanage (sponsored by the Cult) during one of her visits, and she’s since raised them as her own and indoctrinated them into her cult.-….However, she’s not above using them for the purpose of the cult. They act as her close agents for monitoring and spreading the cult’s activities at a wider scale.-The Twins also participate in and sometimes lead the blood rituals.-While Shoyru Boy is completely loyal and unquestioning, Kacheek Girl holds a fear that one day they may be next on the platter.She can’t really run away or even confront the Innkeeper though, as she does feel a deep appreciation and obligation towards her for taking care of them. There’s also the fact that she couldn’t ever leave her brother behind and betray his trust….-A bit of a complicated ‘Hansel and Gretel’ sort of situation.