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ruesol · 3 months ago

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Lucid Submission - chapter 5

(feudal lord!sukuna x reader)

synopsis:

The fearsome demon king, Sukuna Ryomen, is reborn as an immortal human man as punishment for ruining the balance of good and evil in the divine realm.

To lift his curse and return to his original form, Sukuna must complete the condition bestowed upon him by the deities.

However, it requires him to have a child with the street thief who stole his coin pouch.

fanfic masterlist

chapter warning: light descriptions of stalking and trafficking

“You cannot possibly expect me to read this. I just started learning how to read simple words a week ago!” you whined as you stared down at the words Sukuna had written down on your practice paper—a whole sentence.

Your journey to literacy was fast and progressive, and it was astonishing to your husband how quickly you were picking up new words. Of course, you weren’t as pliant with him as he wanted you to be, but he could tell you enjoyed learning because you were a little less snippy than usual.

“Just try. I promise to reward you handsomely if you can read past at least three words.” His offer only makes you want to throw the pot of ink across the table and onto his pristine white robes.

“You’ll reward me? I am not a dog that you can simply train!” Your knuckles are white and taut when your grip tightens around the horsehair brush your husband had bought you a week ago. Still, you try. The flame of determination eats away at the tinder made of idle desire.

“I…lo–this letter makes no sense–love…I cannot read past this,” you huff in frustration as you glare at your husband. A part of you felt like he gave you such challenges for his amusement, to see if a woman was truly worth the effort of literacy.

But he doesn’t grin or break out into jeering laughter. Instead, he pulls the writing brush out of your grip and places it on the desk. “When I struggle with something, I always step away and meditate. It helps me calm my mind.” His voice is firm and genuine.

“I find meditating quite dull,” you quip, but Sukuna says nothing to rebuke or refute your opinion.

“That is the point. It is to rest your mind from the constant barrage of thoughts. Now, close your eyes.”

When you don’t listen to him, he cocks a brow and stares at you disapprovingly until you do.

“Focus on nothing but my voice.”

“A little difficult not to. I cannot see anyth–”

“And stay silent.”

You open your mouth to say something, but close it again. The sooner you listen to him, the sooner this idiocy ends. His voice is deep and rich. You can feel it reverberate in your chest as he guides you on how many deep breaths you need to take. Had the man not forced you to marry him, you would’ve let yourself fall into his seduction.

“Ready? Now try again.”

You try to reread the sentence, trying to make sense of the puzzle of carefully constructed ink strokes drying on the sheet. Sukuna’s handwriting was much smoother than your jagged edges and ink blots.

“Don’t think about the words. Look at the letters first.”

You do as he says and slowly drawl out the words.

“I lo–love my husband.” Your initial excitement of overcoming your obstacle fades away when you realize what you had just exclaimed out loud.

Sukuna smirked and folded his arms, staring at you with the kind of intensity only a warrior who had won a battle could have.

“You imbecile!” you cried out. “I am done studying for the day,” you huff as you stomp out of his office, heading to his room for some much-needed rest.

It was your only escape from him. At least, when you were asleep, you had no consciousness about your surroundings and could not feel him dauntingly enter the room and slide himself next to you under the blanket.

You figured that if you couldn’t sneak out of the estate with him around all the time, you could manipulate him into disliking you by playing into every stereotype of your social class.

Alas, your husband has been too composed, to say the least, like a brick wall against the harsh winter wind.

You have tried every trick in the book to drive him away, to make him realize that street vermin like you do not make good wives of lords. But he only ignores you and pulls you even closer to him when he snores at night.

You’ve chewed with your mouth open, making sure his eyes catch the grotesque sight of what was once firm tofu on a bed of steaming rice. Much to your surprise, he simply tuts that you are not eating enough and places more food into your bowl, uncaring that it is not a part of table manners protocol for his social standing.

You twist your mouth in uncanny ways when you yawn in the morning so you can remind him of your uncouth upbringing, but he ignores you and heads to the courtyard to exercise with his bodyguards. Nobara rolls her eyes when she tells you he has seen much worse.

You even chuff after slamming your cup of tea down, the back of your hand messily wiping away excess liquid that may drip out of the corners of your mouth, but again, your efforts are in vain–Sukuna asks Uraume to steep more tea leaves and fetch some snacks for you.

Sukuna Ryomen is determined to get what he wants, no matter how obscene you try to act.

The next morning, you wake up to an unexpectedly empty room, with no traces of your husband besides the rumpled blankets and faint warmth of his body on the tatami mat. Nobara is standing guard outside as usual, so you slide the door open to ask her where your husband is.

“Lord Sukuna and Uraume are getting ready for a day-long business trip. They are in the courtyard at this moment. Would you like to see them before they leave?”

Your heart leaps at the thought of being (almost) alone at the estate. Once Megumi and Yuuji would leave for school, you could distract Nobara and make a run for it if luck was on your side.

If you ran fast enough, you could make it to the outskirts of Seion by noon.

The hammering in your chest grows. You just had to make sure that he was actually leaving. You needed that reassurance.

“Yes.”

But first, you get dressed up. You cursed yourself for following the ways of the rich, but Sukuna had gotten you habituated to his way of life. And before you knew it, you ensured your hair looked kempt.

The courtyard didn’t look any different than it usually did, except for the extra heap of snow that had taken a seat on the large cherry tree in the middle. That wasn’t enough to cloak Sukuna’s large body and the striking red stripe across Uraume’s hair.

Sukuna immediately turns away from Uraume when he sees you enter the courtyard. Even though Megumi and Yuuji are much more muscular than you will ever be, Sukuna’s height and build tower over them with no effort. His slight slouch has nothing on Megumi when he straightens up his spine.

You wonder why he needs bodyguards at all.

“I am going to a neighboring town for some work. I will be back tomorrow afternoon.”

He waits for your reply, seeking approval in at least a lone syllable.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of getting what he wants, only nodding and looking away from his face as soon as you are done with him, but his shadow over you doesn’t move. He stays eerily still—a predator scoping its prey. The courtyard falls silent, the ambient shuffling of Uraume’s footsteps as he packs necessities for the trip stops, and Yuuji and Megumi quit talking to each other. Nobara stands a few steps behind you as usual.

Your mind goes quiet too, until you feel the brush of cold lips against the top of your forehead. It’s quick, like a tiny snowflake that melts as soon as it lands on your warm palm. Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as you stare up at your husband in disbelief.

“I–”

“You won’t be alone for too long,” he murmurs as he brushes a hand down your scalp. Your mind does not let you forget how he lightly squeezes the nape of your neck before swiftly leaving the estate with Uraume tailing after him.

Megumi, the less expressive one of Sukuna’s bodyguards, stands with his jaw hanging open, and Yuuji’s eyebrows are near his hairline.

Your throat finally lets you express your embarrassment, but you relieve yourself of it by yelling at Yuuji and Megumi. “Quit gawking and head to the school!”

Not that you were ever of refined nature, but you wouldn’t say your nature is childish—it’s just that Sukuna Ryomen brings out the worst in you.

A kiss on the forehead.

He expresses his feelings towards you like he actually respects you; if he did, then he wouldn’t be holding you hostage and trying to feed you a false story.

Nobara sits beside you in silence, save for the ‘shink’ her knife makes every time she sharpens it. Its blade glistens magnificently as you stare at it in envy. You’d much rather have that in your hand than a writing brush. The words on the paper mock you, stating something you’d never admit.

But you control yourself from snatching the weapon away from your attendant and stashing it in your pocket. You dip the brush in the plate of ink and practice your words. Under the right circumstances, education was as much a weapon as a knife.

Both you and Nobara look up when you hear faint shuffling outside the estate’s walls. It wasn’t hard to miss because the shoji doors to the courtyard were open, letting the light winter breeze in.

“That sounded too loud. I will see if anything is amiss. Do not leave or I will tie you up to a post,” Nobara warns as she sheaths her knife and stands up. You simply wave her off.

“Go ahead, I’m much too weak to escape your clutches anyway.”

Nobara stares at you momentarily before shuffling out the shoji door to where the sound came from, which seems to be from the area behind the estate.

A few minutes pass, and you don’t hear Nobara’s feet thumping in the snow. You peer out the door and look around. Still no sign of her anywhere.

‘Now’s your chance,’ your desire to be free whispers to you. The sound grows louder till it’s all you can hear. The estate's main entrance was shut tight as soon as Yuuji and Megumi had left to teach.

The heavy doors are taunting. All you can do now is climb the courtyard walls. With careful steps, you take your shoes off and tread on the snow, an icy chill shooting up your leg as soon as your socks become wet. You tread as fast and stealthily as you can, hoping that Nobara doesn’t hear the sound of your clothes ruffling.

You had already planned your escape. Once you’re far enough, you’ll sell your outer robes and use that money to travel along the Tokaido Road to Kyoto.

With the motivation and hope of a thousand soldiers, you hopped so your hands could reach over the gabled walls. The edges dug into your fingers, but the pain was worth the hope of freedom. The smooth walls made it hard for your feet to push you forward, so all you could do was rely on the strength of your hands, which, to your dismay, wasn’t much, but it was better than before.

You were grateful that you were at least leaving with a full belly. You wouldn’t have to worry about food for at least a day, enough to be far enough from Seion.

“I didn’t see anything when I checked–Have you lost your mind?” Nobara yells out from behind you. You make the mistake of looking behind and slipping down, the underside of your bicep dragging against the sharp edge of the wall.

You hiss as you land on your bottom, pain shooting up your hips as the snow dampens your clothes.

Nobara wastes no time hauling you by your good arm and dragging you to a post. “Nobara, please, I’m begging you, do not do this,” you plead as she ignores you, ripping a piece of fabric from her clothes to tie your hands to the post in Sukuna’s office.

“You will stay until Lord Sukuna returns. I will get water to clean your wounds,” she says curtly. Her voice has no anger, just a hint of annoyance, like you’ve inconvenienced her. Your voice is scratched raw as you call out to her to be freed. You hope with deep desperation that she will take pity at the sight of a helpless woman, maybe just this once, and let you go.

“Please, think of how I feel as a woman!”

Nobara scoffs as she walks in with supplies to clean your wound. She sits down next to you and dabs at your wound with a wet cloth, your blood bleeding into the white cloth. You hiss, looking away from the amount of blood that has seeped. A small part of you was glad that you could have your wound cleaned by someone else. Had you seen all that blood after slipping out of the estate, you would have surely fallen unconscious before you could even reach the outskirts of the town.

“Please–”

“Enough! I don’t want to hear your incessant whining. I do not regard myself as a woman. I am a demon before anything else,” Nobara reprimands you as if she is speaking to a child. The slight frown on her face and her constant huffing make you feel like your complaints are simply entering one ear and leaving out the other.

“You…too? Has Sukuna Ryomen brainwashed everyone in this estate?

Nobara glares at you, biting the inside of her cheek before shaking her head and cleaning up your wound. “We all came to the mortal realm with him. We are loyal to no one but our King.”

Of course, a lunatic like Sukuna Ryomen would only hire nutjobs like him.

“Why?” Nobara asks without looking up at you.

“Hm?”

“Why are you so keen on running away? Before you came here, you wore dirty clothes and had an empty belly. Why do you wish to leave even after Lord Sukuna has shown you so much kindness?”

“Holding someone captive is not kindness. I do not wish to be forced into doing anyone’s bidding. Especially a man’s,” you answer with a firm voice. You may be a former thief, but you had pride in your beliefs–the only thing you could never lose.

“But why? Why do you ache for freedom so much, even when it means losing all sense of security?”

You don’t know how to answer her. For the first time in a while, you feel like someone has dug deep into your heart to see what you truly keep to yourself. Nobara pokes the sod like something might sprout but ultimately, it’s up to you to unsheath your trust.

So you tell her. You aren’t sure why, maybe it was because she was a woman like you or because it was the first time someone had asked you about what happened all those months ago, but you tell her.

“I do not believe in yokai or demons. The men I’ve met have done much worse. It is much more terrifying than any folktale or legend I have heard,” you begin.

You tell her how you’ve been on the run from a particular man.

“I had found a job as a cook in a brothel a few towns away from here. He was a regular there, often sleeping with different women. I always found that repulsive about him, but the way he talked to me was gentle. Like I was some sort of delicate flower that he wanted to protect.” Nobara’s expression stays apathetic, the only signs of life coming from her were the sounds of her breathing and her wrapping a bandage around your arm.

“I foolishly fell for his tricks and ended up being…bedded by him. He said he wanted to marry me because I was the loveliest of all the women there. I thought that was true until I overheard his two lackeys raving on and on about how all three of them were planning on selling me to some old lord in Utsonomiya.”

Your heart hammered against your chest as your mind revisited that night. How that man had just taken your virtue, and then you had immediately been faced with his true colors. The image of his sleeping face only made you long for revenge. If only you were smart enough to have driven a dagger deep into his chest.

You felt like you could still feel the humidity as you listened to the two men gossip about you as you hid behind a tree, their voices bouncing in your skull like a warning.

“So I did what I could to save myself. He was sleeping in my quarters, so I stole his belongings and ran as fast as possible. I had no idea where I was going, but all I knew was that nothing good would come out of it if I stayed or hid. Men like them are like hunters–once they catch your scent, they will stop at nothing to get you.”

At this point, you could feel Nobara’s presence fading away. You were pulled out of the room and placed into a dark void, running but seeing no hope for any light. Blinded, you relied on your instincts.

“I tried taking odd jobs here and there, but it was never enough. Those scums had found me once–that man had been telling people that I was his wife who ran away.” Nobara froze as soon as those words left your mouth, realization slowly settling in the pit of her stomach, guilt clawing at its lining.

“I was lucky enough to escape before they could get to me, and from then on, I had to make sure that I wouldn’t leave any trace, so I had to resort to stealing and hiding. I have seen them in the neighboring towns of Seion. At this point, they only want to hunt me out of spite,” you bitterly say. Even now, you sometimes feel a strange chill that compels you to look behind your shoulder.

Silence ensues. You and Nobara only stare at the falling snow in front of you. The snow had quickly covered the spot you had fallen onto, only a white film visible over the area, like it was trying to hide traces of you.

You feel conflicted. A part of you is glad that you are met with silence because it is much better than receiving pitiful comments, but another part of you is irate because you want some acknowledgement that you did not deserve what happened to you.

“And to think that the humans believe that they are inherently well-natured,” Nobara mumbled as she untied you from the post. “Do not run away. I will be by your side to make sure of it.”

Your eyes brim with warm tears. At least someone knew you were wronged. The world was not so cruel as to abandon you to at least minimal companionship, no matter how unconventional.

—

Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle of a forest, Uraume cannot catch up to Sukuna’s large steps.

“I hate human–huff–bodies so much.”

Sukuna chuckles to himself as he takes yet another powerfully long step. “This is the most I’ve heard you speak during this hike. I must say it is oddly refreshing.”

Though Sukuna cannot see Uraume’s face, he knows the man well enough to be aware that he is probably looking to the side in annoyance.

“Well, I believe that you will be–huff–happy to know that I wish to strike up a conversation with you.”

“Speak your mind, Uraume.”

“Will you tell your wife how you will obtain the marble?”

Sukuna stops immediately, turning around to stare at his servant. Back when he was the King of demons, Sukuna never second-guessed his decisions. The only job Uraume really had was to enforce Sukuna’s orders and regulations. Nothing more, nothing less. But ever since he turned into a human, Sukuna often pondered about how much he relied on Uraume to guide him in the mortal realm.

“What do you think I should do?” Sukuna replies with a question, annoyed by how unsure he feels about the situation.

“She is your wife, and it is your curse. You tell me.”

“I…do not want to tell her. We do not know what will happen with the child once it is here, and nor do I think she will want to bed me if she knows what our child would signify.” Sukuna is not sure why this is his answer. It makes his heart lurch, and he is not sure why the idea of hiding something so grave troubles him.

“That is betrayal, is it not?” Sukuna only feels secure in Uraume’s presence because the younger demon never judges him. His comments of refutation only help him find newer perspectives, which humans require to judge a situation properly.

The question of humanity versus demonhood arises again–is it right for him to think like a human being, or should he think like a demon to go back to where he belongs?

“And when have our kind ever cared about something like that?” Sukuna simply answered.

“Just so you know, Yuuji, Megumi, Nobara, and I wish to leave the mortal realm as soon as the marble arrives.”

“Why are you telling me something I already know?” Sukuna snapped as he handed Uraume a piece of dried fish from his pack. The younger demon grabbed the fish with both hands before sitting on a tree stump to rest.

“I am just reminding you.”

—

The journey to the brothel was gruelling, but being instantly greeted with a shot of sake rejuvenates the spirits of Sukuna and Uraume.

Now a married man, Sukuna stays stern as ever when a woman with carefully done hair wraps an arm around his elbow. More women gathered around the two men, fawning over how handsome Sukuna was.

Which was no lie–though his stature was intimidating, Sukuna made it look appealing, a sharply angled jawline with a straight nose, and plush lips made him look like every woman’s dream man.

If only Sukuna thought the same way about himself. He felt like he had lost himself when he had first woken up to see that his human form lacked his tattoos–the markings that showed he was a powerful demon.

Sukuna pulled out a red pouch filled with coins. The jingle caught the women's attention as their heads immediately moved in its direction. “The one who will lead me to Gojo Satoru will be rewarded handsomely,” Sukuna announced, back stiff, trying to show as least amount of interest as possible. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to act that way; you hadn’t even asked him to commit to you as a partner.

A woman giggles as she pulls Sukuna to one of the rooms. “Allow me, sir.”

She insists that she enter the room with him, but Sukuna quickly dismisses her, only placing the pouch of coins in her hand and pushing her away by her shoulders. He beckoned Uraume over, and the white-haired man scurried over, away from the women who had begun to flirt with him.

When he enters the room, he sees exactly what he was expecting–a dashing young man with two women by his side. They giggle as he whispers something under his breath when he sees Sukuna enter the room.

“You seem lost, my friend,” Gojo Satoru jests. He pours himself green tea and takes a sip, chuffing loudly once he finishes, unbothered to play into false politeness. They were in a place of lust and debauchery after all.

“I am not. You are Gojo Satoru, are you not?” Sukuna asks.

“What is it to you? Do you owe me money?” Gojo’s unserious yet aloof nature irritates Sukuna, but he had not gone through the effort of travelling through the thick snow to go back with nothing.

“My name is Sukuna Ryomen. I am a lord in Seion. I wish to learn how to make a woman like me enough to bed me,” Sukuna cuts through the nonsense like a sword cutting through tall weeds. The only objective is to reach the other side of the field.

Gojo Satoru bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach as his face turns rubicund, mouth agape. The women gasp before staring at Gojo with knowing smirks. They snicker quietly, and Uraume sighs at the sight. Sukuna understands his frustration but does not physically mirror it.

“Oh, you are serious about this,” Gojo says after catching his breath and noticing that Sukuna’s face was stone-cold serious. “You are a tall and strong man. You must be blind if you do not see all the women outside this room who want nothing but your body,” he continues.

“Well, this is about a particular woman–my wife. She does not like me. I have been told that you know the art of love and seduction. Teach me your ways.” Embarrassment–it’s the only word that flashes through Sukuna’s mind when he looks at Gojo’s smirking face.

“Since you are being so polite, I will help you. But, my advice does not come for free–give me the man standing with you, and what you wish to know shall be yours.”

Uraume immediately stands behind Sukuna to shield himself. “I will give you anything else,” Sukuna quickly says. How does one trade a human for secrets?

“Fine. I am a lord just like you, so I wish to have one–no, two of your ports,” Gojo says with two fingers out. The women next to him nod at his demand like he is sane.

Sukuna internally grimaces at the sight. Human greed is so grotesque, yet it is often seen in its rawest form–husbands who leave nothing but fish bones for their wives during dinner, children who steal sweets from others, men who bed many women because they do not try to become likable, lords who collect too much tax in the name of the Emporer’s new regulations.

“I accept,” Sukuna answers. Letting go of material goods was not a new practice for him, especially now that he would leave the mortal realm anyway. Hopefully, within a year’s time, if he followed Gojo’s advice well enough.

“This woman must be very special to you if you are willing to give up something so important. Have a seat, we have much to discuss.”

Sukuna could only ball his hands into fists to accept whatever the man would spew out of his mouth.

----

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justinspoliticalcorner · 2 months ago

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Peter Stone at The Guardian:

Donald Trump’s Department of Justice has taken radical steps to target his political foes, back a harsh agenda against undocumented immigrants and help business allies – steps which underscore its politicization under the attorney general Pam Bondi and undermine the rule of law, say ex-prosecutors and legal experts. Some even say that the department has in effect become Trump’s “personal law firm”. Since taking office a second time, Trump has relied on staunch loyalist Bondi and an elite group of justice department lawyers to investigate critics from his first administration plus political opponents and curb prosecutions of US business bribery overseas. Ex-prosecutors point to how Bondi and the department’s top lawyers have halted some major prosecutions, fired or forced out lawyers who didn’t meet Maga litmus tests, and were instructed by Trump to investigate a key Democratic fundraising vehicle as examples of how Trump and Bondi have politicized the justice department. Critics note that once Bondi became attorney general, she issued a memo establishing a “weaponization working group”, which pushed a false narrative that investigations by a special counsel into Trump’s efforts to overturn his 2020 election and his improperly retaining classified documents were politically motivated.

The transformation of the Department of Justice under Bondi has put a premium for staff on “personal loyalty” to Trump, say ex-prosecutors, which has damaged the rule of law and provoked multiple rebukes from courts and the resignations or firings of veteran prosecutors. “The steps Trump and Bondi have taken using DoJ to punish enemies and reward allies while firing those who object radically transforms and politicizes DoJ in a way that not even the worst who have gone before them ever contemplated,” the former federal prosecutor Paul Rosenzweig said. “Trump’s transmuting DoJ into his personal law firm is, in effect, a rejection of the founding principle of the rule of law.” Other ex-prosecutors see the department marching in dangerous legal lockstep with Trump’s agenda and damaging its mission to protect the rule of law. “Bondi and DoJ lawyers have certainly tried to make personal loyalty to Trump the justice department’s guiding principle,” said the Columbia law professor and ex-federal prosecutor Daniel Richman.

Critics note Bondi has also echoed Trump’s dangerous rhetorical blasts against judges who have ruled against his administration’s sweeping and haphazard drive to deport undocumented immigrants by labeling them “low-level leftist judges who are trying to dictate President Trump’s executive powers”. After the FBI arrested a Milwaukee judge for allegedly obstructing the arrest of an undocumented immigrant, Bondi went on Fox News to threaten other judges who may defy their agenda. “They’re deranged. I think some of these judges think they are beyond and above the law, and they are not. We will come after you and we will prosecute you,” she said.

[...] Other moves seem to reflect Trump’s enmity towards journalists who report critically about his administration. In a reversal of recent department policy, Bondi revoked journalists’ free-speech protections by greenlighting authorities to force journalists to reveal confidential sources in leak investigations. Meanwhile, Bondi also seems willing to protect political allies, such as when she declined to open an investigation into “Signalgate” despite extensive documentation that top national security officials had improperly shared classified information as an attack was imminent in Yemen against the Houthis. Ex-prosecutors say that Bondi and the justice department’s willingness to make personal loyalty to Trump paramount damages the rule of law.

AG Pam Bondi has turned the DOJ into Donald Trump’s personal law firm with the goal of shielding Trump and his allies, while going after his foes.

#Pam Bondi #Trump Regime #Trump Administration II #Hannah Dugan #US Department of Justice

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sleepingdeath-light · 1 year ago

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shadowheart smut hcs ; 18+

requested by ; nobody / self indulgent

fandom(s) ; baldur’s gate 3

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; shadowheart (including: her dark justiciar ending, her selunite ending, and how she is during the main game)

outline ; “smut hcs for shadowheart”

warning(s) ; sexually explicit content, switch!shadowheart, sadomasochist!shadowheart, lingerie kink, corruption kink, role play, praise kink, body worship

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

main game shadowheart / general headcanons

she’s a switch by nature and can be either a harsh dominant who delights in putting you in your place and flaunting her authority and power over you, or a bratty submissive who is intent on making you earn your place in her bed and won’t make her submission come easy — her demeanour remains the same for the most part regardless of her role, as in she’s not going to suddenly become an obedient little princess once she’s in your bed and allowed you to sexually dominate her, but when she’s subbing she’s more likely to try and push your buttons and try and get you to break and punish her (or, at the very least, to prove to her that you’re able to keep her under control without taking things too far and breaking an agreed upon boundary)

she does have some sadomasochistic tendencies and certainly won’t shy away from rougher forms of play if that’s what you enjoy (e.g. spanking and other forms of impact play, choking and other forms of breath play, hair pulling, marking, etc.), but it’s not exactly something that she brings up during a casual encounter unless you’ve already displayed an explicit interest in those things — otherwise she’ll only really bring up that side of herself after you’ve already been intimate once or twice and are familiar enough with each other to engage in that sort of thing without taking any serious risks (of course being a cleric herself she’s more than capable of healing you both if things get dicey, but she’d prefer to save her energy and spell slots for a time when they might actually be needed, i.e. one of those battles your ragtag group somehow keeps running headfirst into every couple of hours on your way back to baldur’s gate)

shadowheart generally prefers to be on the bottom of whatever position you’re in (and will rebuke any accusations of her being a ‘pillow princess’ because of this preference with about as much sass and snark as you might have come to expect from her), but she’s not completely opposed to topping if you’re less experienced than her or just really uncomfortable doing that (sex isn’t as enjoyable if only one of you is getting off, so if you mention your preferences or limitations to her then she’ll just help you work around them without getting offended or turned off or anything like that) — when it comes to the actual positions themselves, though she’s pretty much up for anything that she can comfortably contort her body to accommodate there are a set few positions that are unbeaten favourites of hers: missionary, cowgirl & reverse cowgirl, and wall/standing sex

while she’s not one to dress up herself (not least of all because your current lifestyle doesn’t really make purchasing and carrying around impractical outfits like lingerie very feesable) she definitely makes her appreciation known whenever you make an effort to pretty yourself up for her and won’t make any attempts to disguise her flirtations or the way her eyes are trailing up and down your body — bonus points if you surprise her with this after bringing her to a secluded area away from camp with plenty of good (or at the very least not-as-shit as the stuff you usually end up getting stuck with on the road) wine and enough food to keep you going until you’re forced to walk back to camp and actually get some rest before another day of travelling, fighting, and problem solving

she’s very talkative during foreplay, both as a domme and a sub, and she’s more than capable of using a mixture of praise and teasing and demands in order to get you into bed with her — the better she knows you the better she gets at pushing your buttons, quickly picking up on exactly what language, what phrases and in what order, are the most effective at getting whatever response she wants out of you (be that to make you flustered and aroused, to help guide you into sub-space, or to goade you into fucking her into her ‘bed’ until she’s too far gone to think about the tadpoles in your heads or her future under lady shar’s guidance)

you’re far from her first partner, which is something she’s never tried to hide from you, and even if she can’t remember specifics in her current state it’s still abundantly clear that shadowheart knows exactly what she’s doing (even if it does take her some time to adapt to your specific needs and preferences as a lover) — this also means that if you’re inexperienced with others that she’s familiar enough with her own body and what she enjoys to help you out and guide you (she will absolutely tease you for it, as she does with most things, but it’s not intended maliciously and she does let you know that she appreciates your efforts and that your lack of experience nothing to be ashamed of)

shadowheart equally enjoys giving and receiving oral, but she does have some preference when it comes to how you both go about either of the two — when she goes down on you she tends to take her time with you, giving you just enough stimulation to make sure that you feel something and react to it without giving you enough to actually push you over the edge, refusing to go further until you stroke her ego enough and beg for it in the way you know she likes (and then she’ll go rough and fast, skilfully pushing you through orgasm after orgasm until there are tears streaming down your cheeks and your voice is too hoarse for her to even hear what you’re saying anymore)… and when she’s receiving oral she much prefers to mount your face and just be able to use you to get off, riding your tongue and lips as you grope at her thighs and moan and groan into her cunt, trying to keep her voice steady as she praises and teases you, not stopping until you lose your patience and grab onto her hips and take control from her (or, if she’s the dominant one that evening, until you perform the agreed upon safe-action and snap her out of her fervour)

dark justiciar shadowheart specific headcanons

she’s equally as comfortable topping or bottoming for you, but once she’s accepted her new role in the nightsinger’s church shadowheart becomes much more confident as a domme and much less willing to hand over control to anyone else in any context — and as a domme she becomes much more sadistic and willing to degrade and hurt you (that being said, she still never crosses your agreed upon boundaries and never does or says anything that will push you away from her or leave any serious lasting damage in its wake — she may be crueler these days, and her lady may not permit any outside attachments, but she still does care for you and doesn’t want to lose what little of your connection still remains before her goddess forces her to cut you off)

she’s comfortable enough with flirting and playing with you in public and semi-public settings as long as you don’t act overly familiar or intimate with her (she’s a dark justiciar now, love isn’t something that’s welcome in her world) — so while groping, grinding, spanking, fucking, and making out are all on the cards as long as she’s not in a sacred place or around company where such acts wouldn’t be permitted, things like kissing, hugging, cuddling, and the sharing of ‘sweet nothings’ are all off limits for you both

in previous years she was never too fond of being called any specific thing in the bedroom, nor did she ever feel the need to call her bedmates anything in turn, but recently she’s found herself to be extremely receptive to you referring to her by her title (‘dark justiciar’, ‘justiciar’, or even ‘mistress’ in the right circumstance), and calling her that is pretty much guaranteed to have her giving you a look that promises nothing short of an eventful evening and a struggle to walk the next day — honestly doing anything that praises her for (or generally just emphasises) her devotion to lady shar and her role in her church is enough to appeal to her ego and get her hot under the collar (does this count as a religious kink? maybe)

she has a very distinct and obvious corruption kink and constantly teases you about leading you down a darker path and converting you to her lady’s church, sprinkling these comments in amongst her usual teasing when she’s got a finger or two inside of you (or when you’re inside of her) — granted for as much as she wishes you’d join her, shadowheart does still value you as a person and won’t force you to convert as she has others in the past… but if you engage in a bit of roleplay in the bedroom and decide to indulge her thoughts and lean into the whole corruption and conversion thing then she’s definitely not going to be complaining about that (in fact it’s only going to make her more aroused and more desperate to hear you scream her name)

because she’s no longer able to publicly claim you as a partner, nor behave in any sort of way that might indicate a sense of monogamy or devotion between the two of you, shadowheart has developed something of a marking kink when it comes to you and you’ll rarely make it out of an encounter with her without an obvious mark or two — most of her marks are hickies and bites as those are the easiest for her to give you, but she’s also partial to the idea of permanently branding or scarring you in some way (with your express approval, obviously)

as a justiciar shadowheart’s pretty much always busy with some task or another (overtaking a town, demolishing ‘lesser’ gods’ temples and artifacts, educating and finding new recruits, helping other believers settle into their new roles in the church, etc.), which means that it’s exceptionally rare that the two of you are able to afford to be with each other for more than a few minutes at a time — thus quickies have become a necessary staple of whatever it is you share: pushing each other against the wall and making out with your hands under each other’s clothing to hurriedly get off before she’s called off to the thousandth meeting of the week, bending her over her desk and fucking her to completion (or vice versa) before she’s set to retire for the evening, sneaking away during a rare get together with old friends to get off amongst the shrubbery and returning back to camp before anyone noticed your absence, etc… (needless to say you both become very familiar with each other and consequently very effective at making the most of what little time you have)

she prefers positions that allow her to be more detached from you as she struggles to fully repress her old feelings when she’s with you: doggy, concubine, reverse cowgirl, one of you facing the wall and the other stood behind you, and so on — if she can’t see your face then she can’t get distracted by things that should no longer influence her, which means that you can both keep seeing each other without shar’s explicit disapproval

selunite shadowheart specific headcanons

after a lifetime’s worth of pain and strife, she finds herself settling into her new quieter life with you and greatly enjoying the chance to slow down and appreciate the little things about being in a relationship that she would have never given much thought before you — this naturally means that she leans more towards long and thorough foreplay (with lots of body worship, praise, and playful banter) as opposed to quickies focused on just getting you both off as soon as possible (it also means that she’s much more cuddly and affectionate after sex, but that’s neither here nor there)

she prefers positions that allow for the most intimacy and connection, such as missionary or spooning, but there are occasions where she wants nothing more than to just be fucked stupid until the pains of her past can’t reach her at which point she generally doesn’t care what position she’s in as long as it ensures you hit all the right spots inside of her when she needs you to — either way, she’ll still appreciate you making the effort to make her more comfortable (grabbing her hands and squeezing them reassuringly, kissing her lips/cheeks/spine/shoulderblades/neck, whispering comforting words and sweet nothings just low enough for her to hear them, etc.), and know that she’s always going to do the same for you when she’s able to do so

as much as she adores the relaxing mundanity and routine of your new life together, she can still appreciate shaking things up with some roleplay here and there — usually this means roughly recreating certain scenarios from your adventuring days or handpicked scenes from the books you’ve picked up from stores much like sharess’ caress, they’re always a little bit silly and a smidge awkward at first as you each take some time to settle into your roles, but it’s always a good deal of fun and absolutely worth the time it takes to set up beforehand and clean up after you’ve had your fun (she always insists on being very thorough about this after going to sleep after one half-assed cleaning and waking up to some assorted flower petals stuck to her backside… including one that she later realised to be an irritant if left in contact with the skin for a long period of time, like sleeping on it for several hours… needless to say she was not pleased about that)

settling down doesn’t make her tongue any less sharp and even years after making a home with you she’s still just as able to tease and banter with you as she was back on the road to baldur’s gate — of course nowadays her remarks aren’t as biting and usually come when she’s either being a brat and goading you into taking charge, or when she’s teasing you for being so reactive to her touch as a domme, and there’s a lingering softness in her voice that was never there before, but rest assured that domestic bliss hasn’t tamed that part of her and, gods willing, it never will

now that she’s settled down and actually has a stream of income, she’s much more able to doll herself up to surprise you after you’ve been out tending to the garden and the animals all day — she has an extensive collection of lingerie sets in different styles that all somehow manage to suit her perfect despite the stark differences in design and materials from one set to the next

she’s very vocal about how much she enjoys watching you work the land and how distracting of a sight it is for her, especially if you happen to roll up your sleeves to do it, which naturally means that the best way to rile her up is to do exactly that and then ask her if she wants to go inside and take a quick break from your daily chores — you will not make it to your bedroom, you barely make it far enough into the house to land on the settee before she’s on you because she knows exactly what game you’re playing at and she’s not about to waste any more time than she needs to in order to get exactly what she wants

shadowheart is a big fan of outdoor sex so long as nobody else is around to catch you — for example, she’s perfectly fine making love to you on the beach beside a secluded lake or in the middle of the forest on a moonlit night, but she’ll politely shut down any propositions from you if she knows that there are other people close enough by that they could hear you and catch you both in the act

#sleepingdeath #minors dni #minors will be blocked #ageless blogs dni #ageless blogs will be blocked #smut #smut hcs #gender neutral reader #bg3 smut #bg3 x reader #shadowheart x reader #shadowheart smut

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dancingchopines · 11 months ago

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I don't like Jane Seymour being characterized as a doormat. When I look at the facts we have in front of us, she seems more like she was being practical and trying to survive. Besides bearing future King Edward VI, Jane did three things I'd like to examine as queen:

made strict requirements for her lady in waiting's dress and had a more sober court

championed the Lady Mary

begged Henry for mercy and for the monasteries during the Pilgrimage of Grace

The first seems like a sensible tightening up of standards to try and shield herself and her ladies from accusations of impropriety, of which Anne Boleyn had been accused of.

For the second, besides being a kindness, it was politically sensible to speak kindly of Mary because if the King suddenly died, Mary (legally disinherited or not) likely still had a good chance of being crowned.

The attempted intervention for the old ways was possibly Jane's biggest political move and Henry rebuked its strongly, ominously urging her not to meddle. However, the fact that she would even risk that indicates to me she had some strong opinions of her own. But the fact that she didn't bring it up again seems less like passivity but the good sense not to rouse the king's anger.

When Jane (whose time as queen was rather short) is said to have been passive and meek, I personally think, how should she have acted instead? Catherine of Aragon was strong-willed but Jane witnessed her be painfully put aside. Anne Boleyn too of course was famously opinionated and vocal, and Jane became engaged to Henry the day after her execution. Catherine of Aragon was of powerful royal family to offer some protection, and Anne had been the king's infatuation. Jane was neither of these things, and she had seen her two predecessors with them not fare well. I think it was entirely sensible of Jane to keep her head down low.

On a more 'out there' level of personal speculation, I wonder if Jane would have tried to be more vocal on her beliefs if she had survived Edward's birth and especially if she had had more sons. If she had one or more sons, she would have powerfully cemented her place as queen and had more leverage to speak. As unhinged and vengeful as Henry was, I doubt that if he had had a surviving queen who had borne him sons, he never would have disposed of her.

Source: sorry, not as official this time, but pages 131-134 in Divorced, Beheaded, Survived: A Feminist Reinterpretation of the Wives of Henry VIII by Karen Lindsay. I actually disagree with Lindsay's takes, I think she is oddly harsh on Jane.

#dancing chopines thoughts #jane seymour #tudor history #tudor memes #I feel very passionate about this for some reason #henry viii #the tudors

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m1ckeyb3rry · 1 year ago

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hi mira i’m going to rq for jjk (gojo specifically) :) kinda inspired by a fic idea of mine so if i see you post it maybe it’ll give me inspo to actually write too LOL — this is also a little long sorry, you can shorten as you wish 😓 maybe it’ll get the brain juices going idk

Y/N was really close to geto (i was thinking siblings but do whatever) and when he turned curse user and left, it made Y/N rethink why she was a sorcerer herself. she believed in geto’s ideals, but seeing his mindset 180 made her question if the same thing would happen to her since she was always weaker-minded than him. so she quit dropped out of the school and gojo never saw her since

skipping to the present, Y/N became a sorcerer again after having a conversation with geto some time before he died. with yuji being sukuna’s vessel, she goes to the school herself and sees gojo (their last convo was actually an argument leaving everything [him] behind). gojo’s just really stubborn, but he’s there when Y/N really needs him. from there they only keep encountering each other until they make up, their feelings are all out on the table, etc. etc.

── CHIAROSCURO

Synopsis: You don’t really know who you are without Suguru Geto. Satoru Gojo doesn’t know who he is without either of you.

Event Masterlist

Pairing: Gojo x Reader, Geto & Reader have something less than romantic but more than platonic going on

Chapter Word Count: 6.7k

Content Warnings: angst, mentions of death, flawed y/n character, major time skips, most plot events happen off screen, characters are probably ooc tbh i haven’t written for jjk in months

A/N: finally finished the first of the requests I’ve received so far!! it ended up being way more geto-centric than i had planned for it to be though i’m so sorry angel 😭 and it was also getting way too long so i decided to end it by just hinting the development of the rest of the story you mentioned LMAO i hope that’s okay 😫

Additional: part of my 500 follower event! see the event description and rules to make a request of your own.

Most people grew up with one shadow, but according to your mother, you had lived your entire life with two. The first was the same as the one everyone had, that darkening of the ground in the shape of your figure. The second was the boy who lived next door — or, at least, that was what she told you.

His name was Suguru Geto, and despite his dark features and darker clothing, he had a perpetually sunny demeanor, always quick to offer you a gentle smile whenever you glanced his way. He was polite even when it wasn’t required of him, and though your mother teased you for it, you knew she was secretly grateful for his presence in your life.

The greatest thing Suguru had ever done for you, though, was not teach you manners. It was that he gave you someone to follow. Perhaps it was true that he was your shadow, but it was his in which you cowered when you were frightened, when the brightness of the world was too harsh for your eyes, which, when it came to cruelties and horrors, were as sensitive and new as a child’s.

Suguru was always happy to take on that role. He would stand in front of you, his shoulder blades pinching together as he puffed out his chest and rebuked whichever neighborhood child had dared to tease you. They all ran from him when he was like that, when his brow grew heavy over his eyes and the corners of his mouth twisted into a scowl.

Not you, though. You stayed behind his back, blinking owlishly at the way the others scurried, laughing along when Suguru likened them to mice with a click of his tongue.

Suguru didn’t like those who hurt the ones weaker than them, so you didn’t, either. Suguru thought that the role of the strong was to protect the frail, so you did, too. Whatever Suguru believed, you did as well, because what else was there for you? It was easier for you to hold onto his hand and press against his back, to allow him to tell you where to place your feet, so that there was never even a chance of you falling.

That was why it wasn’t a surprise that, upon Suguru being scouted as a sorcerer, you were extended the same invitation. It was a natural consequence — where he went, you followed, and so when he packed his things and went to Tokyo, it was both of your bags that he was carrying, while you peered around the train station and wondered what kind of place you were going to end up in.

Your new classmate was the one that picked the two of you up. He was tall — taller than even Suguru, though the majority of his body consisted of his legs — and had an unearthly appearance, with pale hair carefully mussed into a seemingly thoughtless style and black glasses which slid down the bridge of his nose to reveal eyes like diamonds.

He was the most brilliant thing you had ever seen. Lowering your eyes, you stepped back into Suguru’s shadow, earning you a scoff from your classmate and a worried exhale from your friend.

“Blech,” he said. “You’re supposed to be my classmate, really? How’re you going to keep up, huh? I’m the strongest sorcerer in the world, you know.”

“I think we’ll manage just fine,” Suguru said pleasantly, though there was an edge to his voice, his teeth like knives when he smiled and offered his hand. “I’m Suguru Geto.”

“Satoru Gojo,” your classmate said, shaking Suguru’s hand firmly. “Looking forward to working with you.”

“Likewise,” Suguru said. “And this is Y/N L/N.”

“Hi,” you said, swallowing even as you said it, pursing your lips and glancing around, wishing for some kind of escape. Gojo hummed and then poked you on the forehead.

“Aw,” he said when you did not visibly react beyond furrowing your brow. “I thought you might fall over or something.”

“I see,” you said. “Um. Well, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go before our teacher gives us all detention for playing hooky.”

Unlike Suguru, Gojo didn’t allow you to follow him around. He made fun of you when you were scared and poked you on the forehead if you cringed away from his taunts. The latter occurred so frequently that you were surprised there was not a permanent indent in your skin.

“One day I’ll get you, pretty Y/N,” he’d always promise you. “Seriously! I mean, you barely have a backbone in the first place, so it’s really a wonder you’re standing at all.”

At first, Suguru used to demand he stop, but as the months went by, his protests grew weaker and weaker. You supposed that it must’ve been nice for him, to stand beside someone for once instead of constantly throwing himself in front of them. You could not blame him, but you found that you missed him more with every passing day.

But what was there to be done about it? After all, you were nothing compared to the two special grade sorcerers. You did what you could and found it was, for the most part, sufficient, but sufficient would never let you exist beside either of them in any way that mattered. So you fell behind, and this time, it was not a conscious choice but an unavoidable circumstance. This time, when you hung back, Suguru continued forward without you.

Empty-minded and weak-hearted. That was what your teacher called you. He sent you on the simplest missions he could, and still you struggled. Sometimes, this meant you would sit alone in the classroom until it was long past dusk, listening to your teacher ramble and shout.

“You are not weak!” he would say, his hands clenched into fists by his side. “By all rights, your technique is perfectly serviceable. You are not weak, Y/N L/N!”

“Yes, sir,” you would respond meekly.

“At least, you should not be,” he’d say. “Yet somehow, inexplicably, you are. Even a Grade 2 curse nearly got the better of you. Your classmates are exorcising special grades on their own! Aren’t you disgusted with yourself?”

Suguru, and sometimes Gojo, would wait outside of the door for you, lingering until they heard the shuffle of your feet, the soft sniffles which announced your arrival. Then Suguru would wrap a casual arm around your shoulders and tell you that it was fine if you were weak, just as long as he was around to protect you, and Gojo would do that infuriating thing where he’d poke you in the forehead and pretend like it was a miracle you hadn’t toppled over yet.

Otherwise, you did not see your classmates. Shoko Ieri was far too busy learning to do things you could never hope to accomplish in your lifetime, and Suguru and Gojo were called on to complete assignments with such unhealthy regularity that their education actually suffered for it.

You never knew what they did on their missions. You never cared to ask, either. The details would only make you queasy, and in this new world where you were not permitted to shudder and seek out the safety that Suguru so willingly provided you with, you tried to avoid things like that. Harsh things, brilliant things, cruel things — all of them you ran from at an equal pace. Without Suguru there to defend you, you turned into one of those children he had so-despised in your youth. Always running. Always hiding. Always shying away from anything resembling a challenge.

It was after one such mission that Suguru returned differently. You knew he had changed because he crawled into your bed that night instead of his own, drew the blanket up around his shoulders and pressed his weeping eyes against your collarbones.

“It’s no good,” he said after the third time you had asked him what was the matter, your hands nervously skimming over his shoulders, smoothing over his rough hair. “Everything’s been ruined, Y/N. Or maybe it was always like this. Maybe you’re the only one who’s ever understood the world to begin with.”

The next morning, when his feet touched the ground and he slid out of your bed, you were hit with the strangest feeling that you would never see him again. Not in the way you were used to seeing him, anyways. Sitting up in your bed, leaning against your pillows, you watched as he left, though when he went to close the door behind him, you reached out your hand.

“Wait,” you said. He paused, raising his eyebrows.

“Is everything okay?” he said, his knuckles growing white from gripping the handle.

“I want to look at you,” you said. You knew without knowing that the instant the door shut between the two of you, you would lose him forever. Your best friend. Your shadow. You wished that there was a way you could reach out and save him, but the thought of you saving someone was outlandish. Impossible. Laughable.

“Yeah?” he said. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and it did not reach his irises, but nevertheless, he somehow managed to muster up a smile. It was not gentle as much as it was exhausted, but still, he smiled as best he could at you. “Okay.”

You hugged one of the pillows to your chest. “I miss you a lot.��

“I haven’t gone anywhere,” he said.

“Not yet,” you said. “I think you will someday, though. You’ll go somewhere far away, and I won’t be able to follow you there. You won’t even want me to.”

“What kind of place is that?” he said. “I’ll always want you to follow me around, Y/N. As long as I’m there, not a corner on this planet could be a place I don’t want you to follow me to.”

The door creaked shut. You stared at the blank expanse and thought to yourself that he had always been very good at lying.

From that day forward, there were two opposite phenomena which occurred simultaneously. On the one hand, that blinding radiance of Gojo’s was magnified by the minute, and on the other, Suguru withdrew further and further into a grey sort of monotony that, try as you might, you could not pull him from.

“Gojo,” you said one day, tugging on his sleeve and flinching when he turned to look at you. As per usual, he pressed his finger into your forehead.

“Yikes,” he said. “Seems like you’re still lacking in the spinal department, dear Y/N. But just so you know, I’ve cheated off of your math homework enough times that you really shouldn’t be scared of me.”

“Please help Suguru,” you said.

“Eh?” Gojo said. “What do you mean? Help him with what, his math homework? I’ll just give him yours to copy as well, so why don’t you cut the middle man and show it to him yourself?”

“No, not with — just, he’s going away, and I don’t want him to, but he doesn’t — you’re the only one,” you stammered.

It was even more difficult to speak with Gojo now than it had been when you had first come to school. That was because it was only recently that you were realizing that that way he made you feel, that shyness, that apprehension, was not because of his gleaming, sharp countenance, but rather something else, something soft in your heart that thudded to life whenever he smirked at you.

“You want me to take his mission for him?” Gojo said, his nose wrinkling. “What, so the two of you can go on a date or something? Forget about it.”

“What?” you said. “No, what — a date — that’s not what I meant!”

It was too late. Gojo was gone, and with him, your last chance at helping Suguru vanished, too. In fact, Gojo avoided you until you went home from the summer break, making a face whenever you glanced his way, and by the time you came back to start the next year, it was too late for anyone to do much of anything.

“Y/N L/N,” Masamichi Yaga said, entering the library where you were writing a paper for your literature class. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, his cheeks a dark, flushed color, his teeth gritted together so hard that a muscle in his jaw twitched periodically. “Do you have a moment? It’s urgent.”

“I was just working on the essay that we were assigned, but it can wait,” you said agreeably, all too eager to give yourself a break from the work. Pushing aside your paper and pen, you stood up, massaging your wrist. “What is it, sir?”

“It’s, er…” His shoulders slumped. “I’m really sorry, Miss L/N.”

You tried to run through the list of things that he could be sorry for, but only one thing came to mind. You froze, your eyes widening. He had been on a mission, hadn’t he?

“Suguru,” you breathed. “Is it — it’s not about Suguru, is it?”

“In a sense, it is,” Yaga said.

“Is he alright?” you said. “He has to be alright.”

“We believe his condition is fine, considering what he’s done,” Yaga said.

“‘What he’s done?’ Why are you being so vague? What’s going on, sir? Please say it plainly,” you said.

“It’s your parents, Miss L/N,” he said, spitting it out all at once like the phrase itself was poisoned. “They’re dead.”

Your stomach dropped. You had imagined so many things. In your nightmares, you saw your classmates dying, your teachers, even yourself. But never your parents. Your parents, who were so far removed from this awful world. Your parents, who only a month ago had sent you back to school with a pair of new shoes they had saved up to buy. You parents, who had never harmed anyone in their lives. What had they done that was so terrible it warranted such a sudden death? What were they being punished for?

“How — how did it happen?” you said. “Was it a curse?”

“Miss L/N…” Yaga said, his entire self deflating. “I’m really sorry.”

“What? Stop apologizing,” you said, tears gathering in your eyes. “Just tell me. Stop saying sorry and tell me!”

“It was most likely Suguru Geto,” he said, handing you a piece of paper. Your vision swam, and you could barely make out the words. All residents of the village were killed. Jujutsu High investigated. Based on residuals…all 112…the work of Geto’s curse manipulation. Sentenced to death. Sentenced to death. Sentenced to death.

“No,” you said, your voice cracking. “No, why would he do that? My parents loved him, and he loved them, too! We grew up together, so why would he do that?”

“Based on the evidence, he most likely killed his own parents, too,” Yaga said. Your hands wound themselves in your hair as you tugged.

“That’s a lie,” you said. “Suguru isn’t like that. Suguru is good! Suguru looks out for those weaker than himself! He protects people, Yaga. It must be a mistake. It has to be a mistake!”

“Miss L/N—” he began, but you were already running, sprinting as fast as you could. There was no way. There was no way. There was no way.

Your house and the one beside it — Suguru’s house, a voice in the back of your mind nagged you, that’s Suguru’s house — were blocked off with yellow caution tape. Dozens of police officers were milling about the scene, barking into handheld radios, conversing tensely. One of them noticed you and extended an arm to stop your approach.

“Stay back, ma’am. This is an active crime scene. No outsiders allowed until the investigation has been concluded,” the officer said.

“That’s my house,” you whispered. “Officer, that’s my house. Why are there so many people here? It’s not true, is it?”

The officer didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The pitying frown on his face told you everything you needed to hear. It was true. It was true. Your parents, your parents were dead, and that meant —

What had it been like for them? Had your mother welcomed him? When she opened the door for him, had her eyes crinkled at the corners in greeting? Had she offered him tea, as she usually did, because she was so fond of him and he was so fond of the drink when made by her hand? And what of your father? Had he reached over to clap Suguru on the back, or had he tried to grab him in an affectionate headlock so that he could mess up his hair with all the zeal of a man half his age?

You threw up. Some of the vomit splattered onto the officer’s shoes, causing him to fold his lips into a thin, disapproving line. Taking a step back, he reached over to pat you on the back as you heaved and hacked, trying to expel the knowledge from your mind and finding that you were entirely unable to.

You walked back to the train station in a trance, your eyes reddened and glazed over, your mouth sour from the taste of the stale crackers the officer had handed you, your hands shoved in your pockets as you tried to remember to breathe through your nose. The officer had offered to escort you to the station, but you had refused. You needed the time to think, and anyways, what did it matter? No ordinary person could hurt you, and no sorcerer would.

“I didn’t think you’d come back alone,” a soft voice said from behind you. You turned around, your insides roiling at the very sound, your ears ringing as you took in Suguru’s casual posture. His hands, too, were in his pockets, and the streetlights cast misshapen, dancing shadows over his face, the effect worsened by the odd tilt of his head.

He was refusing to look at you. That was why he was standing like that. He couldn’t bear to look you in the eyes, and that was the only confirmation you needed.

“So what?” you said. “I did. Are you going to kill me next?”

“What?” he said. Briefly, he glanced up at you in alarm, and then, like he had remembered he didn’t deserve to feel betrayed by that kind of question, he slouched back down into the same apathy of earlier. “No.”

“Just do it,” you said. “Just do it, you fucking asshole! Why would — you — you killed my parents! You killed my parents, and now you’re just talking to me as if nothing happened? Why? Why would you…?”

His expression did not budge again. “They were filthy monkeys who deserved it.”

“Huh?” you said. The statement was so bizarre that, for a moment, your anger was forgotten. “What the fuck?”

“This world doesn’t need more non-sorcerers running around,” he said. “Every single curse you’ve ever fought, it’s their fault. Those idiots who don’t know how to control the meager amounts of cursed energy they have, they’re the ones who cause curses to manifest. You should be thanking me, Y/N. This’ll make your life that much easier.”

“Do you really think that's the case?” you said.

“Yes,” he said. “With my entire heart, I think that it is.”

You had always, always followed Suguru. When he said to protect the weak, you did so. When he said to take care of others, you did that, too. Whatever he told you to believe, you believed. But how could you do that this time? How could you believe in the person who had murdered your parents?

“You killed my parents because of your stupid theory,” you said numbly. “You killed my parents. Suguru, you killed my parents.”

You didn’t care about the one hundred and twelve villagers. That was the most shameful thing: if it had just been that, then you might still have followed him. He could’ve convinced you — no. You could’ve convinced yourself that it was fine, that he really was looking out for you in that peculiar manner of his. It wouldn’t have been impossible. Even now, your resolve was so weak, and it was only the thought of your parents that allowed you to cling to it at all.

“They asked about you,” he said dully. “I let them. My own parents, I didn’t give them a chance to say anything, but yours…I let them ask. I guess you could consider it my last favor to you.”

The ringing grew louder. You pushed your palms against your ears in an effort to drown it out, but you couldn’t. If anything, it just grew louder and louder, more and more insistent. You couldn’t shake it off. You couldn’t make it go away, just like you couldn’t make Suguru’s words go away.

“It was the only thing they worried about. In their last moments, it wasn’t their own lives they begged for…it was yours,” he said, his gaze far away, his irises unreadable as he recalled that moment. “How strange is that?”

“Shut up,” you said.

“I told them you were okay,” he said.

“Shut up,” you repeated, though it was unsteady and unconvincing. “Shut up, shut up.”

“They were pretty happy about that,” he said, in a tone filled with dreamy recollection. “They didn’t fight much after I promised you’d be okay. What simple creatures they must have been, that even while dying they could only think to rejoice!”

You screamed. It was wordless and brittle, a symptom of your lungs’ collapse as you broke into sobs, fumbling in your purse for your phone. Suguru watched as you unsteadily punched in a number you had never bothered to save, not trying to stop you, maybe not seeing the point.

“Gojo,” you said when he picked up, before he could even say anything. “Gojo, please just — can you come get me? Please come get me.”

“Okay,” he said, to your surprise. He didn’t argue or call it a waste of time or point out that you were still bawling as you spoke. “Where are you? I can be there pretty soon if I steal one of the managers’ cars, I think.”

“By my house,” you said. Suguru did not move, showing you his hands, as if he was giving you permission to do what you wanted. It was your choice. If you just told Gojo that he was with you, then you had no doubt he’d be apprehended within minutes.

“I see,” he said. “I’ll be there as quickly as possible.”

You were the one who hung up, not him. You were the one who made the decision. You were the one who looked at Suguru and then turned your back to him so that, for once, he was the one behind you.

“I can’t reconcile it,” you said, using the ends of your sleeves to blot at your tears as you hiccuped. “I can’t understand it. Even after everything, I still want to follow you. I still want you to be my shadow. I still want to be yours.”

Don’t turn. Don’t turn. Don’t turn. You couldn’t turn around. If you turned around, then that meant your old teacher was right. Empty-minded. Weak-hearted. You could not turn around.

A dry breeze rustled through the leaves on the ground, sounding like footsteps against pavement. Don’t turn.

You turned. You should’ve known better than to expect anything different from yourself. You had never been someone who could stand in the front for very long. You would always turn. You would always run and cower and hide.

Anything you might’ve said died on your tongue as you saw he was already gone. You were alone. You had let him go. You had allowed that mass murderer, that criminal, to walk away from you. What kind of a sorcerer were you? Empty-minded. Weak-hearted. That sort, then. The horrible sort.

When the headlights of the car Gojo had borrowed swung around the corner, you had long since curled up on the grass, your cheek to the mud as you tried to grasp what you had done.

“Hey,” Gojo said. “Y/N?”

He must’ve gotten out of the car at some point, because suddenly, he was crouching before you, pulling you to your feet, his limbs awkward and gangly as he cocked his head, still wearing those ridiculous sunglasses despite the darkness.

“I’m a piece of shit,” you said, and then you were clutching the collar of his uniform jacket. “Why am I like this?”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“He killed my parents,” you said. “He killed my parents, and I let him walk away.”

“Who?” Gojo said, but it was a rhetorical question. He knew who. You looked up at him miserably, and he shook his head slightly, like he couldn’t quite comprehend what you were saying. “You let who walk away?”

“I don’t think he was planning on seeing me,” you said, letting go of his shirt and pleading with him to understand. “We weren’t supposed to meet.”

“You saw Suguru,” Gojo accused, and now it was his turn to take you by the shoulders, his fingers digging into the muscle of your biceps, his eyes wild. “You saw him, and you didn’t tell me.”

Your lower lip trembled. “He killed my parents, Gojo.”

“That’s not true,” he said.

“It is,” you said. “It is, he told me it is, and I couldn’t even do anything when he said so.”

“Why?” Gojo hissed. “You only had to tell me! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just didn’t!” you said, and then you were crying again. “I couldn’t. Oh, they’re dead, and he killed them, he killed them, and they only asked about me when he did. Why am I the one who gets to live?”

His hands traveled from your arms to the nape of your neck, the heels of his palms pressing into your jaw as he tried to force you to look at him. But you couldn’t, of course you couldn’t, you hadn’t been able to before and you definitely couldn’t now.

“You know Suguru better than anyone. Don’t you think there’s something else at play?” Gojo said. He wasn’t asking for you. He was asking for himself. He wanted you to reassure him, tell him that it was alright, that his best friend wasn’t the monster you both knew he was. How was it fair? How could you be expected to reassure him?

You shoved him off of you. “No.”

“Then why’d you let him go?” Gojo said. “You must’ve thought that there was a reason, or else you would’ve told me. It’s the only explanation!”

“No, it’s not! The only explanation is that I’m shitty and weak and stupid, and I can’t help but rely on him. No matter what I do, I’ll rely on him! People like you don’t understand what it feels like. You can stand on your own, but I’m not like that!” you said, and then you were grabbing his hand — he always did that, you noticed, always turned his Infinity off for you even now that it was an automatic, constant process — unfurling his fingers and jabbing his index finger at your forehead. “Do you get it? You were right. I don’t have a spine. I don’t have one at all!”

“Pull yourself together, Y/N,” Gojo said. “He’s still out there. We just have to reach him before the others do, and then we can talk to him. If it’s the both of us, then he’ll listen. He’ll explain everything!”

“He already did,” you said. “You just don’t accept it, but that’s different than him not explaining at all.”

“So what, then? You’re just going to go back to the school and live your life as normal?” he said, scowling at you. “How could you even think of doing that? In what world does that make sense? You can’t go back and pretend like nothing happened!”

“It’s true. I can’t,” you said, because it was the fact you had been avoiding since the day you first set foot in the school, which you had always known in the back of your mind despite how you denied it. “I can’t go back at all. I can’t be a sorcerer.”

It was a rare thing to see Satoru Gojo speechless. If it were a lesser occasion, you might have laughed at the way his lips parted and his eyebrows knitted together in such a foreign way.

“Why not?” he said.

“I’m afraid I’ll follow him,” you said. “No, I know I will. If I stay, then I will definitely follow him.”

“You won’t,” Gojo said. “Follow me instead. Follow me if you have to, but you can’t leave. Not you, too.”

Another rarity: Satoru Gojo was afraid. Not of your absence, but of the changes it would bring. With Haibara gone, Suguru vanished, and then you…what would even become of the school? When so many pieces were taken away from it, could it even be considered the same place?

“I can’t end up like that,” you said. “I can’t even risk it. I became a sorcerer because of him; I’ll leave because of him, too. Anyways, you hate when I follow you. You prefer people who can stand on their own two feet. I know that about you now.”

“If you run away, I won’t forgive you for a long time,” he warned me.

“Then don’t,” you said, stepping away, though still facing him. “What good is your forgiveness, anyways? It won’t bring my parents back. It won’t bring Suguru back. I don’t even want you to forgive me, Gojo. I want you to hate me until you die.”

It was the last time you saw him for so long that his memory blurred away at the edges. The way he said your name, the way his hair shone in the sun, the slope of his nose and curve of his neck…once, these were things you might’ve been able to list with a great degree of accuracy. Not anymore, though. Now, if you thought of him at all, it was only that final image of him, framed by the headlights of that still-running car. It was not your name he had called out as you walked away from him, but something bitterer, a promise said with such sincerity it was all but a Binding Vow.

“Ten years,” he had said. “That’s how long I’ll hate you for. Not my entire life. Not until I die. Just for the next ten years.”

Life as an ordinary person was easy. Life without Suguru was harder. But you learned. You learned, through the years, how to stand on your own two feet. You learned how to live with only one shadow instead of two. You learned how to let your eyes adjust to light, gradually instead of all at once, so that it was an easy progression and free of pain.

There were times when you thought you had seen one or the other of the two who you had run from. There, across the street, was it Suguru reading the newspaper? Or in the bakery you walked past on your way to work, was it Gojo who was admiring the displays? They always vanished before you could grow close enough to ascertain their identities, though, remaining ever out of your grasp, existing as nothing more than phantoms in your periphery, refusing to let you forget the past entirely.

The first time you called Gojo was a year after you left the school. You weren’t expecting him to pick up, and when the automated message prompted you to leave a voicemail, you almost hung up in resignation. Something stopped you, though, and despite feeling entirely ridiculous, you cleared your throat.

“Ah, it’s Y/N. But I guess you probably knew that, considering you didn’t pick up. Well, I don’t have anything much to say, but I just wanted to call and make sure you were doing alright. I’m okay. The anniversary of my parents’ deaths is coming up, so I was planning on visiting their graves. I got a new job. Somewhere that I never would’ve expected to work when I was younger. It’s nice. I like my coworkers. They’re nothing compared to you, of course, but they’re fine enough. Anyways. Um. I guess that’s it. I don’t think you’ll call me back, but I just wanted to let you know I’m doing okay.”

It was a routine. Every year, on that day, you’d call him and leave him a voice message. He never once answered — you doubted he listened to the voicemails at all, either — but it soothed you to leave them, to leave one last connection to the world that had taken up so much of your life, and for so long.

More often than not, that time felt like a dream. If it weren’t for the thorned mourner’s bouquets which left pricks in your fingers or the ten calls you had made to Satoru Gojo, you wouldn’t have believed any of it had happened at all. Sorcery, curses, shadows and killers, best friends who betrayed you and boys you ran from, these were all things better suited to storybooks than real life.

Your mother’s favorite flowers had been roses, and you always made sure to bring some with you when you visited your parents’ graves. Roses for her and white chrysanthemums for your father, who had never had a preference for any particular flowers but was so sentimental that he would weep at any blooms being set by his headstone.

The roses were the ones that made the pads of your fingertips bleed, leaving bright red drops the same shade as their petals on the tissues you brought with you. You’d set the bouquet down and wrap your fingers with the tissues, watching as blood seeped through the thin paper, and then, without fail, you’d cry.

“It’s been so long without you,” you said, when enough time had passed that you could not be considered anything but an adult despite feeling like little more than a child. “It’s been so long, and I still don’t know what to do. Mother, father, I am grown now, yet constantly I wish I could ask you for advice. What was that song you’d always hum when I was tired, father? How did you make that tea of yours, mother? When did you know you loved one another? And a million other, sillier things. If I could think of nothing more pressing, I’d ask you about the weather, the time, and your plans for the weekend. I’d bid you a good morning and a good night. I’d complain about the rain and my job. Just as long as it meant I could talk to you again.”

You could not help it. You wept, bloody tissues fluttering to the ground as you ground your fists into your eyes, trying to stem the flow of your tears. Your breath came in quick, short gasps, and you rocked back and forth from your heels to your toes in an attempt to lull yourself into a state of calm. Back and forth. Back and forth. It was the only thing you could do, but it was not enough.

Someone’s hand settled upon your shoulder, and it had been so long since you had felt even a semblance of physical affection that you did not immediately bat them away. Instead, your own hands fell to your sides, your head hanging as you watched the newcomer set a bouquet beside the one you had brought. Orchids and lilies. Lovely, pale things that contrasted sharply with the red of the roses next to them.

“You said in your voicemail that you’d be here at this time. I hope it’s okay that I came.”

It was Satoru Gojo. He no longer wore the sunglasses you remembered him to; instead, a black blindfold was wrapped around his eyes and forehead, causing his pale hair to stick up like he had been shocked. He did not quite smile when he noticed that you were looking at him, but something resembling that expression crossed his face.

“Gojo,” you said. “Why are you—?”

“It’s been long enough,” he said. “You’re a really hard person to hate, Y/N L/N. I did my best, but it was difficult. I hope that you know that.”

“So you’ve come to, what, tell me you forgive me?” you said. “Thanks, but I don’t need it. It’s as I said: your forgiveness means nothing.”

“Nah,” he said, and then he was grabbing your hand and squeezing it tightly. “I’ve come to bring you back to sorcery with me.”

“What?” you said. “No. I quit.”

“You didn’t quit, you ran,” he reminded you.

“That’s the same thing,” you said. He grinned. It was the kind of grin that would’ve blinded you when you were younger, but you found that it was not so brilliant anymore. You found you liked it even more than you once had.

“Not in my books,” he said.

“Gojo, I’m not strong enough. I can lead a normal life without you and Suguru and the others, but if you throw me back into sorcery, I know I’ll cave,” you said. “I’ll turn back into that cowardly little girl I once was. I’ll seek out that shadow which I’ve spent so long learning to exist without.”

He sighed, and then he poked you in the forehead. “Not the case. See, you didn’t even waver this time! I think you finally did it, Y/N. You grew a spine.”

“Why do you want me to come back?” you said. “I’m not strong like you. I won’t give you anything you don’t already have.”

“It’s selfish,” he said. “I don’t want to tell you because it’s selfish, and you’ll laugh at me.”

“If you don’t tell me, then I won’t even consider it,” you said. Though his eyes were covered by the blindfold, you could sense him rolling them based solely on the way he pouted.

“I’ve spent the last ten years hating you for leaving us — for leaving me behind,” he said. “Everyone else was gone. I needed someone, but you left too, and then I really was alone. I want to drag you back into hell because I can’t face it by myself anymore.”

There were things left unsaid in that. Why you, for one? He could have anyone in the world, so why, after ten years, had he come to find you specifically? Why was it now that he could no longer bear the hell that was sorcery alone? But Gojo was not the sort who ever revealed his true self if he could help it, so you supposed those things would have to go unsaid for a little longer.

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay?” he said.

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll come back, but I have a condition.”

“What is it?” he said.

“The next time I leave, or run away, or quit, don’t hate me for quite as long,” you said. “Don’t hate me at all. I know I told you that I want you to hate me until you die, but I don’t anymore.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” you said, in a direct mirror of your previous exchange.

“Okay,” he said. “Come on, then. Follow me.”

“Oh, that, too,” you said. “I won’t follow you. If that’s what you’re expecting, then you can forget about it. I cannot allow myself to follow anyone ever again. I cannot be that weak, or I’ll become someone I despise. Someone I don’t want to be, ever again.”

His expression morphed into one of shock, and then he did something so odd as to be beyond all rationality and logic. He beamed at you before patting you on the head. It wasn’t condescending; it was the kind of gesture that was like a promise, or a warning, depending on who you asked. Maybe in this case, it was both.

“It’s alright. Actually, it’s better if you don’t,” he said. “I like you more when you don’t follow anyone at all.”

#gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #reader insert #canon au #m1ckeyb3rry milestone #m1ckeyb3rry writes

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jadevine · 12 days ago

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His Lordship Araw

What's up folks, I submitted some of my weird Filipino-American poetry to a press a few months ago, but I haven't heard back from them and I don't know if the project is even underway yet, so I guess I didn't make the cut? This is part of a very loose "series" called "Elegies to the Anito" where my fictional self has "conversations" with the Tagalog spirits who like, hang out and get mad about colonization with me, but you don't need to read all twenty poems or anything. This is ultimately just my decolonization feelings.

In these times of climate change, I often wonder what exactly our sun-spirit is doing, and how he relates to "places that are suddenly burning while other places are suddenly freezing." The Sun was an oppressive chief/king who almost burned the world to a crisp, because tropical heat does NOT mess around.

He is often called a sun-GOD by modern folks, but like... he's just The Sun in the really old bare-bones mythology, that barely takes up more than a couple paragraphs. As noted in the poem, I literally just call him "Araw" because my modern human brain needs something to CALL HIM.

His Lordship Araw

There are those who say That Apolaki is the Tagalog sun-god; The brother of Mayari, the half-blinded moon-goddess, And son or relative of Bathala. Apolaki is said to rebuke our ancestors For submitting to foreigners with white teeth And giving up our ancestors’ gods.

But As far as I’ve heard He is a younger (and post-colonial) god. Although the worship of him is not wrong, Only new.

The only story I’ve heard of a precolonial Sun Is a chief or king of the skies And in some places, the whole of the islands.

The Sun in those stories was ill-tempered And brutal Forcing mortals to crawl before him. He tried to burn the world Or bring down the skies And sometimes both. That is when Bathala Maykapal gouged out his eye, Winning the world and the duel-- And the Sun promised not to burn everything down.

I do not know what to call the unnamed sun but Araw. In my mind, and my childhood memories of Philippine heat, This harsh master Who knocks everyone down Seems closer to how the tropical sun feels than Apolaki. A sun-spirit-- Hot-blooded, heavy-handed. Compared to a sun-god-- Tempered, and noble, and well-spoken.

But We need the sun to live, too. And I wonder if there were stories after Araw was dethroned. How did he cope after losing his eye? Did people learn to trust him after his defeat?

One hot day (at least this close to San Francisco), Araw barges in again. Without Bathala around, I flinch. I have seen Araw before--tall, dark-skinned, handsome-- But all the little details intimidate me. His build is a fighter’s: Muscled but loose-limbed, and shockingly fast. His fine robes are the scarlet of blood, that only kings and fighters were allowed to wear. His curls are tied back, with his unhidden eye patch seeming starker than a bare socket. And no jewelry adorns his battered skin, though the old kings were covered in gold.

“Be not afraid,” he tells me. “I will not harm you. I have only heard you thinking of me.”

So I try not to, Though his own heat leaves smoke trails about him. “Araw,” I ask him, “I know you don’t like the Filipino flag, But what do you think of Apolaki? Should I ask him for help, or you?”

“I told you that I care not for drawings that have nothing to do with me,” he frowns. “Nor do I care which gods you worship or forget. For I am no god, but the Sun. I am here whether you like it or not-- And your ancestors did not like me.”

It is not a warning or a threat, more of a shrug.

But I think of how cold I am here So far from Luzon. People feel my freezing hands and worry that I’m anemic. I feel better in summer, but never warm enough.

Haik, my people’s sea-god, Is warm as a mortal man is And he curls up at night as a mortal man does Though it’s never warm enough At least not when he leaves.

“Have so few people talked to you of the spirits?” Araw wonders, and then laughs. “Of course. You blunder from group to group, and you make people uncomfortable. Like I do.”

And part of me is ashamed For Araw to see All the “crazy or not” parts of my spiritual wanderings.

But he also said, I am like him. And I am always trying to find Someone--anyone-- Who knows what the hell is happening.

“I don’t know if I can help you with that,” Araw says. “But I have seen many things, and made many mistakes. Perhaps I can help you avoid them.”

Araw is not like Bathala--so much older, so casual. Nor is he gentle and sad, like Haik. But the heat of the sun beats down on me Makes the air stumble and fall around him

And now I am finally Warm.

#elegies to the anito #writing #filipino mythology #precolonial philippines #urban fantasy

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natasha-in-space · 1 year ago

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All Good Things Must End

Ray/gn!reader;

From the beginning, you trusted Ray with all your heart. He was the embodiment of your fairytale dream come to life. Your respite from all the unappealing troubles of the outside world. But all fairytales have an ending to them. And yours is not as happy as you expected.

CW: brief mention of violence, erratic behavior, depiction of a codependent relationship. This is a Danger Ray fic! Set during V's route. Loosely based on the 7th day outgoing call to V (11:51 AM, after the 'Provoke' chatroom).

Lovely dividers by @/saradika-graphics!

Ray was a good man. A kind man. A fragile man, even. His entire appearance would remind you of a beautiful but delicate flower. So starved for love and warmth, yet so sensitive to every harsh touch of the wind, even the slightest of pushes against its soft petals would make it start to wilt. A flower that needed nothing but some gentle care and love for it to come into bloom. And, of course, you were willing to give him just that. After all, why wouldn't you be? Ray has been nothing but kind and caring towards you, ever since you stepped foot into this strange place, guiding you along the way while holding your hand and not minding any of your clumsy mistakes. He was understanding. Attentive. Curious. Always checking in with you and eager to hear about your day. Never ignoring you or making you feel stupid if you didn't understand a thing or two.

No wonder you found it so easy to open up to him in your short time here. You trusted that he would do no wrong by you. Just as he promised.

At least... that's what you thought. And appearances can be deceiving. Oh, so very deceiving. Now, it felt downright humiliating just how much of a blind fool you really were. How stupidly determined you were to deny and rebuke anyone daring to challenge your views on Ray.

You loyally refused to trust Rika's musings about Ray's 'darkness' during your brief stay with her, dismissing them as nothing but her twisted philosophy that you couldn't even begin to comprehend. You impulsively denied V's numerous warnings not to trust in Ray's sugary words, reassuring yourself over and over again that surely his affections for you must be true and earnest. You turned your back on every nagging suspicion buzzing at the back of your mind during short moments of unrest. You knew in your heart that Ray was a kind, tender boy. He was simply confined to an environment that would exacerbate his worst traits.

And he was only human, right? No one is immune to harmful outside influences being forced down upon them. Anyone could end up in his place one day, even you. It was no reason for you to be hostile and distrustful of him.

Then again, maybe that was just your mind trying desperately to keep you calm in the midst of a horrible storm you found yourself being forcibly thrust into. After all, accepting just how truly bad and out of your control things truly were here... How utterly helpless and vulnerable you were, with no one there to come save you if you needed it... How trapped and isolated you were in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but miles and miles of lush mountain forests, with no civilization in sight...

Just the thought of it would make a heavy lump of acidic bile rise up to your throat. The sad truth is... Ray simply provided you with feelings of solace and comfort that some deeper, weaker part of you was so desperate for. Losing that was something you were not ready to face yet. He was there by your side from day one. He had a better understanding of you than anyone else did. Of course you would cling to his familiar presence for this brief feeling of stability you yearned for so gravely.

In retrospect, it was always a losing battle for you to try and win. You could have done better. You really, really could have done so much better. Yet it still hit you harder than a sledgehammer to the back of your skull, when the bitter reality has finally reared its ugly head to you, without any regard for your fragile heart.

You resent yourself for hitting that call button despite your gut screaming at you not to. You were already well aware that you would regret doing that, somewhere on the back of your mind. But, in the moment, your worry for your friend overpowered your lingering anxiety. Maybe out of some sense of duty. V made it all the way here, just to save you. You played a big role in his capture, in a way. If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't be in danger. And not knowing a single thing about his whereabouts or even his state was... daunting.

So, you dialed his phone number.

You anticipated that he wouldn't pick up. Maybe you would receive a very brief phone call with him begging you to keep yourself safe, like he always would. Or even just a quick exchange of words between you two that would maybe give you even the tiniest of clues on his whereabouts. Something you could then relay to Seven. Make yourself useful. Actually do something, instead of just sitting there and driving yourself mad with dozens upon dozens of anxious thoughts clouding your mind.

What you received was worse than you could have ever imagined.

It was one thing to hear pained groans, gasps, and raspy coughing on the other end of the line. You already had an expectation that V would not be okay when you hear his voice. It still left your knees feeling weak and your heart lurching in your chest with a dizzying intensity, but you could handle that, to an extent. What you couldn't handle was also hearing a familiar soft-spoken voice that has become an unstated but undeniable source of comfort for you. A voice that was now sounding so cold and angry, that your brain had a hard time comprehending what was happening, seemingly shutting down completely, as you remained deathly quiet for the whole duration of that cursed call.

Ray just was not supposed to be there.

You have heard him get angry before. You have heard him lose his grip on reality before. You have heard him say things you couldn't truly agree with, despite you still going along with them regardless, to avoid causing him any disturbance. Those were all aspects of him you were not blind to. You just actively chose to overlook them whenever they would come up. Something that you probably shouldn't have done.

-But you never heard him be so downright cruel and vicious before. Seemingly not at all disturbed by the very real sounds of suffering from the other living person there with him. Even getting angrier at them.

Like it was something completely normal. Not at all worth getting upset or worried over.

You couldn't wrap your head around the fact that this was the same man that worried himself sick over you simply scraping a knee. He was so caring, so empathetic to you back then... over a small cut, of all things. And now, that very same man was not at all disturbed by such grave suffering happening right in front of him.

No, by the sounds of it... he was actively causing it.

And that's not something you could live in peace with.

The call lasted for a maximum of two minutes. That's the time that your phone would display to you whenever you mindlessly return to it, anyway. But it felt way longer than that. For those two horrible minutes, your ears were ruthlessly subjected to the merciless reality you were so desperate to avoid facing up until that very moment.

The bitter truth was that Ray is not a fragile flower. Nor is he a prince from a fairytale. For, fairytales are not reality. No matter how much you want them to be. He was a man, a human being, just like you. Just like every other person in this building. And much like any human being, he was more than capable of causing harm by his own two hands if he so chooses. In fact, he would do so purposefully. And a victim of his spiraling wrath was no longer some faceless unlucky believer that you could forget about in a matter of hours, despite you genuinely feeling bad for them. No, it was your friend. A friend who fought so desperately to save you, even at the cost of his own safety. A friend you have come to care for in the short time you have known each other.

A friend, you knew for sure didn't deserve to be suffering in the way that he was. By the hands of your other friend you cared for just as deeply.

Such reality was just too cruel for you to bear.

So, you do the most foolish thing of all.

You confront Ray head-on.

"-Y/N, you must be confused... I've done no wrong. I do admit that I... did loose myself for a moment there, but- but it was his own fault! If he just kept quiet and drank the elixir like my Savior has instructed, I wouldn't get so upset with him. And he kept saying his stupid lies... He wouldn't shut up. My head hurt so bad... You have no idea."

You are left feeling sick to your very core by the soft apologetic smile reflected on Ray's face, once you do have a chance to finally face him again. No matter what you say, how hard you try to show him how wrong and cruel his actions really were, it was all completely pointless. For someone so seemingly skittish and subservient, Ray was frustratingly stubborn in his beliefs. It was like throwing a tennis ball at a wall. The more force you put into your throw to get your point across, the harder it just bounces right back into your face, leaving you with the painful sting of your failure.

You shake your head, an ugly mess of emotions steadily clouding your sense of judgment. At some point, you lose track of your location and position. All caution goes out the window. All that remains is a debilitating feeling of betrayal, clutching at your insides like metal rods slowly puncturing your very heart. "It is still wrong, Ray! How can you not see that!? He was suffering, and you just- just-"

The words don't come out of your mouth, obstructed by the suffocating lump stuck in the middle of your throat. You were going in circles now. You have been trying to get through to him for almost ten minutes straight, and still no results. You have to take a moment to try and regain your breathing. A soft glowed hand rests gently upon your chin, causing you to tilt your head to meet Ray's gaze instead.

You are disgusted by the genuine concern etched onto his delicate features. By the unfeigned emotions of nothing but genuine care and affection swimming in his eyes as he looks at you. By the tender touch warming up your clammy skin. All of it is sincere. You know he is not lying to you. Not right now, at least. And that is a sickening realization to come to.

More than anything, you are disgusted by the simple fact that you cannot perceive him as a monster or an angel. Ray is no perfect prince from a fairytale, no matter how hard he may try and appear to you as such.

He's a human.

Just like you.

And this implies that he is capable of all the atrocities that any human being is capable of. As much as he is kind to you, he can also be cruel to others. As much as his hands soothe and tremble when they brush up against yours, they can also hurt and sully those he harbors hatred for. It's not all black and white, as you would like to delude yourself into thinking.

And his actions were truly appalling to you. You couldn't live in your fantasy world anymore. It was sullied. Destroyed beyond repair. Your Wonderland has been corrupted from the start, and you just denied each and every sign of it, until it was too late.

"My prince/ss... It pains me to see you in such distress. Though, your tender heart is another trait of you that I adore," Ray whispers to you softly, his thumb lightly brushing over your cheekbone. He was touching you so gently, it's almost like you were made out of glass. And yet, just a few hours earlier, these exact hands were causing so much suffering to someone you care so deeply about. The thought prompts you to swallow hard and clutch your hands together as they start to shake. He continues, seemingly undisturbed by your lack of a positive response. "-But believe me when I say that that villain is not deserving of your compassion. He tried to take you away from me... To ruin what you and I have built together. I cannot stand by and watch him do that to us. What if you got hurt because of him? I would never forgive myself, if that were to happen."

You shut your eyes, refusing to accept the reality unfolding before you. Everything was wrong. So very wrong. One part of you wanted to scream and shout at him, to make him see the twisted nature of his words by pure unrelenting force if you have to. But there was another part of you that contemplated just giving up and concluding this interaction altogether. The debilitating feeling of helplessness was just too much for you to handle.

You are not allowed to do either of those things, however. Instead, another hand lightly rests on the small of your back, pulling you in towards the source of your distress. And you don't fight it. You feel your forehead come in contact with Ray's chest, his flowery scent filling your senses, as both of his arms are now circling around you. You hear a happy sigh fall from his lips. It all seemed like a very cruel joke on you. A moment that seemed so sweet and touching, bringing you nothing but more hurt and anguish.

Did he really not see anything amiss with any of this?

"I missed you so much, my flower... You know, when I heard that liar try and talk to me like he knew you better than I do, I felt like I might just strangle him right then and there. Make sure he never utters your lovely name ever again." Ray's voice is slightly gruff from how quiet it is against the side of your head. A low hum vibrates in his throat as he nuzzles into your hair like an affectionate cat would, breathing in your scent with all the longing you could possibly ask for. Though, the only thing that comes from his affections is a sickening feeling of dread for you.

"-But I thought of you. I thought of your lovely smile... Your eyes, your voice. I know I shouldn't think like this, but... You gave me more strength than my Savior's words ever did. What I did... I did for you. For us, Y/N." He continues, taking a step back from the hug to look at you. Your gaze is cast low, as you don't reciprocate the gesture. You can't bring yourself to look at him right now. It's hard to even keep yourself from putting your hands over your ears to avoid hearing it all. He gently tilts your head up, however, making it clear that he wants you to look at him. "Please don't be upset... It breaks my heart to see you sad because of that villain."

That's when the dam inside of you finally shatters, all repressed emotions spilling out in a violent wave of hopelessness you cannot bring yourself to stop. You wrench yourself away from Ray's arms, your own hands now clenched into tight fists as you look him directly in the eyes. There's a fire burning ever hotter inside of your chest, and you make no attempt to put it out. You let it take over you completely, consequences be damned.

"Villain?Villain!? Ray, he did all he could to save me! And you locked him up and tortured him for that!"

Your mind is screaming at you to stop. To stop and fix things before they spiral too out of your control.

You're being too aggressive. Too blunt. Too disobedient. Staying safe requires you to be both calm and smart about this. And you are neither of those things right now.

But you don't care.

Even as you see the emotions in Ray's eyes shift from that suffocating affection to a mix of desperation and frustration you know well. He makes a step towards you. You make two steps back. This makes his brows furrow in what you could only assume was dissatisfaction.

You never backed away from him before.

"Save you...? No. No. Y/N, he tried to steal you from me. Poison you with his lies, like he has done to my Savior. He did it to me, too! I'm the one who saved you. I did what had to be done to protect you!" You can actively hear his voice changing from the shaky disbelief at your denial of him to rough desperation to prove you wrong. It's borderline scary how quick those changes are occurring right in front of your eyes. Almost in a blink of an eye. It's yet another blaring warning for you to stop.

One that you ignore.

Instead, your frustration boils up inside of you, making you sneer at his stubborn refusal to see reason: "By hurting him!? By making him choke and gag in pain? What was the point of-"

Your angry line of thought is instantaneously interrupted by a small yeep that slips past your lips, as Ray closes in on you in just a couple of quick steps, grabbing at your wrists with a tight grip. Tight enough to cause you some discomfort. His eyes are wide, and his breathing is noticeably shaky. Like he's fighting to get enough air into his lungs and failing miserably. He yanks you close, making you stumble into him without much time for you to struggle or push back against him. Mostly due to your state of pure disbelief. You never expected Ray to actually do anything to you. And while he wasn't actively hurting you, this was still shattering your perception of him to bits and pieces. Or, what remained of it.

"That was nothing, Y/N. He deserved all of that. He deserved that and more. You feel sad for him? You wish mercy on him?" You are suddenly pushed back against the wall, and Ray's slim form keeps you trapped in this makeshift cage you created for yourself with your reckless actions. Ray's voice grows shakier, yet also significantly lower. It sounded dangerous. Angry. His nose brushes up against yours, as he's leaning so close to you, you can't focus on anything but him. Your breath hitches as you instinctively press yourself up against the wall, the panicked pounding of your heart echoing in your temples. "You have no idea how badly he hurt me. What pain I went through because of that- that-"

You can't help but wince in pain as his grip on you tightens. An action that seems to immediately shake Ray out of his temporary fit of anger, as he gasps and quickly lets go of you, stumbling backwards with a frightened expression painted over his features. You don't even have to look at him to know that he is probably in a less than stable state of mind. You are left staggered, betrayed and confused, as you stand there, eyes cast low, rubbing at your wrists. They didn't hurt. Not much, at least. It's the psychological aspect of it that left an impact of you.

Ray's voice feels muffled as it reaches your ears through the constant flow of thought in your head.

"I- N-No, Y/N, I'm sorry, I didn't want to- Are you hurt?" You can see him taking a step back towards you, hand reaching out for yours, probably to check on your wrists. You can tell he's scared. And upset. Probably guilty. Which makes this even harder for you to grapple with.

Either way, you cut him off, not wanting to hear any more of this. Partially because you understand that staying to listen will only cause you to break further, if it was even possible at this point. Because he sounds so genuine, nervous, and miserable, it makes your heart ache for him despite yourself. Makes you want to look up, smile, and say that you're okay. That you two can figure it out together.

And you don't want to repeat the same mistake twice.

"Just... Leave, Ray." You mutter out quietly, not raising your eyes at him. You sound a bit too soft for your liking, but it'll do. Swallowing, you repeat yourself for good measure. "Please. Leave."

There is a prolonged pause between the two of you. It's almost too lengthy for comfort. Neither of you say anything for a while. But the tension in the air is thick, and it does not fade with time. It only grows. Crawling over you like snakes. There is a fear within you that prevents you from looking at him. A fear of seeing the pain in his eyes. Or, instead, to come face to face with that same anger that felt so alien to you.

Ray finally speaks up. His voice is barely audible.

"...N-No..."

He moves closer to you still. For the second time today, you are finding yourself backing away. But now, you turn your back on him and keep your hands locked where you can see them. You can feel them shaking. With a sigh, you repeat: "Leave."

And, as you soon learn, that was not a very wise choice for you to make.

You're quickly spun around before you can think to act, and Ray's fingers are digging into your shoulders with a disturbing intensity, leaving you little time to react. He's observing you as if you were a wounded animal that was left behind after being hit by a car. Like you're the saddest creature he had ever seen. And, for some reason, that look scares you more than the previous anger he showed you.

"I can't believe this..." He murmurs under his breath, his eyes darting over your figure, almost like he was searching for something physical on you that could be visible to the human eye. But he doesn't find it, and that seems to upset him further. You try to pull away from him, only to get jerked back in again, his hold on you tightening.

Only this time, he does not pay any attention to your visible discomfort. He was too occupied with his own thoughts that you were not aware of. It's like he doesn't even see you. Not fully, anyways.

He holds your chin and tilts your face to examine you more closely. As he does, his shaky breath sneaks over your cheek and causes you to shiver in place.

"He... He poisoned you, didn't he...?"

The hushed murmur sounds so utterly ridiculous that it almost makes you forget about the disturbing nature of this situation for a good moment. Yet, he was completely serious. And he wasn't even talking to you, by the looks of it.

"What? Ray, I-"

"-That's why you are saying all these things to me... That's why you don't trust me anymore." Ray cuts you off as if you were not there, his brows furrowing into a deep scowl, but not one aimed directly at you. One of his hands grips onto your chin, while the other finds your hand and takes it into his own, his fingers sliding between yours. He grasps it tight, in a hold that would feel reassuring, if it wasn't for the circumstances. "My Y/N wouldn't tell me to leave. I should've guessed..."

A shiver of fear runs down your spine. As your outburst of frustration subsides, you slowly start to realize the seriousness of this situation for you, as the fire of anger and betrayal subsides. Now you wish Ray was angry again. At least then he still listened to you. But how can you fix things when he doesn't even acknowledge you?

"-Don't worry," You are brought back to reality by a warm and assuring smile on Ray's face. One that only makes you feel nauseous. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, making your breath hitch. Staying there, he whispers onto your skin, like a secret promise only for your ears to hear. "I will fix it, my prince/ss. I shouldn't have been away from you for this long in the first place... My Savior is far too busy to give you the care and attention you need. But now, I'm here. And I'm not leaving your side again. I promise. I'll make sure you are smiling again."

He does not let go of you again. While your fairytale might have been broken, his has only begun its story. And his happily ever after is not something he will give up on. Even if you did.

#mystic messenger #mysmes #mysme #mm #ray choi #choi ray #mystic messenger ray #saeran choi #ray x reader #saeran x reader #i am spraying him from a water bottle because he's being a bad kitty #but uh #anyways #i love his more dangerous side in v's route #the scene with him torturing v is one i don't see many talk about #also he's a bit more erratic here #not as premeditated as danger ray is usually portrayed #i read through and listened to his bad endings and his overall behavior #and it's a thing i am very fascinated by #how quick he is to lose his composure and act out in a way he feels guilty for moments after #or how quick he is to switch #from the panicked desperation to complete delusion #and i feel like once that switch happens #you're done #you're just done #he won't listen to you #he's too stuck in his own head #it happens during the another story bad ending #and it somewhat happens in his bad ending during v's route #he's very possessive or you and - subsequently - his fairytale reality

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rtblack · 1 month ago

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A Night is all I need-Ch8: First Infection

Jessie was sitting in her chair in the office. She was currently working the night shift at the police station. She had her headphones on. The door to her office was closed. Jessie was a gorgeous woman. She wore a brown ponytail. Her skin was light brown and smooth, and her eyes were choco brown. She was wearing her blue police uniform, which emphasized her curves.

The door to her office opened and an older, grey-haired man entered. Right away, Jessie removed her headphones and pretended to do her work on her computer. Well, there was still the pile of documents on her desk, and since Jessie had arrived at work, that pile of paper had not changed. The man stared at Jessie, and normally he would now rebuke her and shake his head disappointed—but this reaction never came, and it left Jessie kind of stupefied.

"Mmh, John, everything alright with you? You look kind of serious, even more than normally!" John took a seat and gave his answer:

"We suddenly received thousands of calls about humanoid monsters appearing everywhere in the city. Well, I told myself that must be a prank, but to be on the safe side I sent people to the different locations—because for a prank, this is too much. When I was on my way to go look for myself, I received a call from the government. It does not look good for us. Luckily, the military is already on the way. For now, we should go outside and look at the situation ourselves. Help wherever help is needed." He stood up, not waiting for an answer from Jessie—yet Jessie herself didn't know what to say in the first place, so she simply tagged along.

They left the office. Not two seconds after that, two police officers entered the station. One was heavily wounded. It seemed like an animal had clawed his chest. The other one seemed in better condition and was helping the wounded officer. The man who was helping had a bandage around his leg. Jessie ran to a table and swiped everything away, while John ran off to get some bandages. Jessie helped her colleague, and together they laid the wounded officer on the table.

"What happened out there?" Jessie inquired. But the man who wasn’t badly wounded could only reply with a stutter. Then he turned around and pointed toward the exit, and his face darkened at once. He dropped to his knees. That man was of no use. Luckily for Jessie, the wounded man managed to speak. His voice was weak, but Jessie was able to hear him:

"Monsters… monsters are attacking us. And if—if they bite you," he turned his head to the police officer who was having a mental breakdown, "the person turns into a monster!" He tore Jessie toward him and whispered into her ear: "He was bitten!" Jessie’s face turned pale at once. The wounded man let go of her arm and fell back. The light in his eyes faded, and lastly, his heart came to a halt.

That’s when John came running with all the bandages they had. When he stopped before his dead colleague, he cursed:

"Fuck!" But there was not enough time to mourn, for it could be that soon another colleague would be dead—Jessie was pointing her gun at the kneeling man. He wasn’t able to see anything because his head was down and he had covered his ears with his hands. And he seemed to be mumbling something. The arm holding the gun was shaking. Jessie bit her lips—hurt herself to suppress the fear inhabiting her bones. If what her colleague said was true, then soon that man too would…

John grabbed her arm and slowly lowered it.

"Jessie, what are you planning to do?" Now it was Jessie who whispered: "The dead police officer said that a person that gets bitten will turn into a monster!"

"I heard what you said!" Jessie and John turned toward the police officer who had been crouching on the ground. Slowly, he rose back to his legs. (Jessie: I whispered—how was he able to hear it?) "I heard what you said!" the man repeated. His voice was harsh, no longer shaking, and even his demeanor had changed—turned kind of sinister. However, the man still looked like a human. Everything was normal… except the blood that flowed out of his eyes like tears. Jessie and John retreated, and now both were pointing their guns at the man who simply stood there.

"Wow. So that's how you are, Jessie and John? You’ll kill me? Just like that? How long have we known each other?" He advanced one step—

"Stop right there!" Jessie bellowed. "I don’t have time for this shit! I’ve watched enough zombie movies to know what happens now! So don’t fuck with me!"

"Fuck with you?" the man demanded. "Well, if I could, I would, hahahahahahah." (Jessie: He has totally lost it!)

John placed himself before Jessie and uttered: "Jessie, wait. And you, Cole, I would appreciate it if you could work with us. Aside from the blood, you don’t look like a monster to me. Yes, your behavior changed a bit, but tell me—how does a monster look in the first place?" Cole inhaled and exhaled. He then smacked his head. He used a table to his side to stay up. As he was about to answer, the exit to the police station exploded. A flame of sea arose—and out of those flames, a woman stepped.

Overview

to chapter 9

to chapter 7

#story #love #horror #development #mystery #writing #series #drama #emotions #author #blogging #writer blog

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it-happened-one-fic · 1 year ago

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Ink and Magic - Tactician of the Scalding Sands

Author Notes: Part 4 of this sort of halfway non canon compliant what if with the overblots and their aftermath! A lot of what I said for part 1 counts for this section too. This isn't exactly romantic. in fact, I would say it counts as more platonic, but it certainly can be taken as shippy. This will also be a series, though the Diasomnia section won't come out until that entire matter is resolved in game. As per usual, reader is gender-neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Spoilers for Book 4: Schemer (Tactician) of the Scalding Sands!

[Heartslabyul] [Savanaclaw] [Octavinelle] [Scarabia: Youre Here!] [Pomefiore] [Ignihyde] [Diasomnia]

Type: Gender-neutral reader/ fic series/ Can be platonic or romantic/ fluff/ angst/ comfort/ Spoilers for Scarabia overblot.

Word Count: 1809 Words

The blot monster strained upwards, its giant arms reaching up towards the sky, before it burst apart, splattering ink everywhere as Jamil stood, fighting to stay upright even as everything fell around him.

Scarabia students were collapsing everywhere as his spell gave way under the immense pressure of the blot monster being defeated, but even then Jamil strained against this defeat.

A frustrated cry ripped itself out of him before he spoke; his breathing labored as he slowly began to succumb to exhaustion, “I was finally going to be number one…”

He stumbled forward, his arms trembling as he looked up first at Kalim before he continued, his voice shaking with emotion that he usually restrained, “I was finally going….”

His gaze shifted and his dark eyes met mine, causing me to go still as he held my gaze with an expression that contorted his handsome, but usually neutral, face into an expression that spoke purely of frustrated anguish.

And that was when I felt it. The familiar pang of sorrow that would spur me forward even as Jamil finished speaking, “To be free….”

I was in motion before he’d even finished his lament and began to pitch forward toward the floor. Distantly, I heard Kalim cry out something akin to my name, but he went ignored as I rushed towards Jamil’s already limp form.

I caught him in my arms with a grunt, the weight of his plummeting body forcing me to my knees even as Floyd and Jade appeared on either side of us, one’s mismatched gaze meeting mine before a loopy smile curved across his face. Floyd.

I felt arms supporting me from behind as I was eased the rest of the way to the hard ground. And this time, I did briefly fight it.

I didn’t know why this kept happening, but I shared Ace’s concerns about my connecting to each other overblot victims. But it was too late. I was already slipping away into the dark place where all would be explained.

It wouldn’t be long before I learned exactly what had driven Jamil to the breaking point.

But what greeted me wasn’t darkness this time. Instead, I found myself frowning at an unfamiliar room where two easily recognizable boys were playing a game.

A younger version of Kalim looked up, his wide red eyes sparkling as he gazed at Jamil. Even as a child, his face was full of affection and joy as he leaned towards his playmate, “Hey! Let’s play, Jamil! I’m gonna beat you this time for sure!”

The small Jamil let out a sigh, already worn out from playing whatever game it was that Kalim wanted to continue, and let out a tired protest, “This again, Kalim? You know I’m just going to keep winning. Can we play something else instead?”

Kalim hardly had time to react to Jamil’s tired words before the darker-haired boy had received a harsh rebuke from the two adults present, whom I quickly realized were Jamil’s parents. After all, they looked so similar….

“Jamil! Don’t you take that tone with Master Kalim!”

I cringed in sympathy as the woman swatted at Jamil while the man apologized profusely to the young Kalim, who was looking in startled confusion between Jamil and the two adults, “Master Kalim, thank you for playing with our son.”

Kalim looked perfectly confused and startled as Jamil’s mother also turned to him, a nervous smile on her face, “You’re kind enough to share your company. Truly you’ve been brought up well.”

The woman had barely finished speaking before I heard Jamil’s voice from right next to me, just like the other overblot victims had been when I’d seen their memories.

“My very first memory as a child was seeing my family bow before Kalim and his parents. I couldn't stand the sight of it.”

His tone was calm, just as I was so used to hearing it be. But what progressed through his memories and narration was deeply entrenched resentment. All towards the cheerful boy who called Jamil his best friend.

It made me wonder exactly how much of who I’d been interacting with was the real Jamil and how much was carefully faked. But in the end, no one could be as calm and unperturbed as Jamil had pretended to be.

I listened and watched patiently, though, learning about Jamil and Kalim’s shared past scene by scene of this odd black-and white-film made up of Jamil’s memories.

Apparently Jamil had been forced to always be second best…

And in many ways, his frustrations reminded me of Leona’s, save for the fact that Leona’s dissatisfaction seemed… Well, more aged.

Plus, unlike Jamil, Leona’s trouble seemed to be more fueled by the fact he couldn’t succeed. Jamil, on the other hand, seemed more upset that he couldn’t show his numerous skills and talents. Instead, he always had to let Kalim shine while he remained in the background. A vigilant shadow to Kalim’s brightly shining presence.

And perhaps all of it was made worse by the fact that Jamil’s bitterness was tainted by what I could see was clearly genuine affection.

It was obvious from his voice and their interactions that, despite everything, Jamil really did care for Kalim. And how could he not when I could quite literally see the amount of love Kalim held for his retainer?

He was frustrated because Kalim was what was holding him back, and it was obvious that he desperately wanted to hate Kalim. It was also obvious, though, that Jamil deeply cared for the young man who was always cheerful and supportive of him, even if Kalim didn’t realize that he was the one holding Jamil back.

As scenes of Kalim repeatedly talking about how Jamil was the one he trusted most, Jamil’s facade started to crack.

“We’ll keep helping each other out, Jamil!”

The break was restrained at first, with only a slight bit of tenseness to Jamil’s voice as he spoke, “Stop.”

But Kalim didn’t stop. He couldn’t hear Jamil, and he couldn’t see what he was putting his retainer through as he smiled sunshine through each memory.

And then the last one came. Different from the others in that Kalim was actually showing some seriousness towards his friend, as he smiled in an almost sad way that clearly spoke of how much he meant the words that came from his mouth.

“I know you’d never betray me, Jamil.”

There was no restraint this time as Jamil almost screamed his response, his voice cracking with weighty emotion as he all but pleaded with Kalim, “Just stop!”

I almost grimaced at the raw pain in his voice. Because, as much as he might like to pretend otherwise, I could clearly hear it in his voice and see it in his memories. Jamil didn’t hate Kalim. He may want to, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

And the fact that he couldn’t truly hate Kalim made his situation that much worse.

After all, just like so many adults had said in Jamil’s memories, Jamil was clever. He knew Kalim wasn’t really at fault. Rather, it was the situation.

“Kalim, your mere existence means that I…. I… I have to live my whole life deferring to you!”

I almost flinched at his yell, directed at nothing as the black and white image of Kalim faded out so that now only darkness was visible as Jamil finally broke down.

But I understood it now. Jamil was wracked with guilt, frustration, and pent-up hatred that he couldn’t direct at anyone.

By the end of the narration, Jamil had almost completely broken.

The last thing I heard was his quiet, broken voice from out of the darkness yet from right beside me, where I couldn’t see him, “I… Even I… I wanted to be number one, too.”

My eyes flew open as I inhaled in slight surprise at the bright lights overhead, and the first thing I heard was Kalim sobbing Jamil’s name and Grim grumbling about something.

Jamil didn’t wake up immediately, though, and I slowly realized that I was lying on the floor with his arms wrapped loosely around me.

I pushed myself up, my arms still trembling ever so slightly as I shifted into a sitting position, unable to fully extract myself from Jamil’s hold.

“Ah, Angelish, you’re awake,” Azul's voice came from behind me, but he soon stepped around me. Causing me to look up at him as Floyd and Jade slowly slipped away from Kalim’s side, where he knelt next to Jamil.

Azul’s gaze flickered between me and Jamil before at last coming to rest on me, “So, did it happen with him too?”

I nodded silently, looking down at Jamil’s peacefully slumbering face before speaking quietly, “Yeah… I saw everything.”

Azul pursed his lips at my soft words but straightened, beckoning Jade and Floyd over, “We monitored you while you were out. While we couldn’t wake you, you also didn’t seem to be in any danger. However, it did seem like you were enchanted or something.”

I opened my mouth to respond, half-touched that the three of them had kept a check on me, but I stopped as Jamil groaned slightly and rolled over, one arm sliding off my lap while the other remained curled around where I sat.

“Where am I?” He even sounded groggy as his eyes flickered open and, surprisingly, quickly, landed on me.

I smiled slightly at him as he slowly sat up, his eyes widening as soon as he spotted me before he frowned and a guarded expression appeared on his face.

And he wore that same frown and kept glancing my way during the entire, lengthy explanation. In fact, it wasn’t until Kalim offered to be equals with him and suggested that the two of them should start off as friends once more that Jamil’s focus finally left me so that he could tear into Kalim.

I cringed in sympathy for the pale-haired boy, but I also couldn’t say that I was upset to see Jamil finally letting loose.

After seeing his memories, I’d been concerned about the two young men’s relationship and had wondered how they would move forward. Being totally clear with Kalim would be necessary, and, unfortunately, that would mean Jamil snapping at him sooner or later.

And, as soon as Jamil’s gaze met mine after telling Kalim that he wasn’t going to hold back anymore and would never throw another competition again, a small part of me wondered if he somehow knew about my concerns.

But my worries about him and Kalim weren’t the only thing on my mind. The more it happened, the more I was beginning to wonder what it was that drew me to these young men who overblotted and why I got to see their memories and hear their thoughts.

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theshakykid · 8 months ago

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En Route (Peter Parker X Reader)

PART 7

Summary: Peter Parker is aboard the Argo III, the world’s biggest passenger ship. He was sent by Tony Stark to strike a deal with Silver Sable, a wealthy businesswoman. But Stark’s deal will have to wait, as Peter has set his eyes on something- or someone - else.

“Mr. Parker.”

The voice was unmistakably commanding and cold. Peter stiffened and turned around slowly, his eyes widening as he saw Silver Sable standing at the end of the hallway. Her platinum hair caught the warm light of the corridor, and her eyes held a piercing intensity that seemed to pin him in place.

“Oh, Miss Sablinova,” Peter said, trying to straighten himself up and wipe the nervous look off his face.

She stepped closer, her gaze unwavering as she studied him. Peter couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed. “Quite the interesting time to be wandering the ship.”

“I was just—uh, getting some air,” Peter stammered, trying to regain his composure. He felt uncomfortably warm in his casual clothes, especially with Silver Sable looking at him like she could see right through him.

“Well,” Silver Sable said, a slight smirk curling on her lips, “since you’re here, Mr. Parker, I think it’s time we had a conversation about business.” She glanced briefly at the closed door of (Y/N)’s room and then back at Peter. “Unless, of course, you have other priorities.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed, and he felt a jolt of panic. Did she know? How could she know? He shook his head quickly. “No, no. I’m ready. Let’s talk business.”

“Good,” she replied curtly. She turned on her heel and gestured for Peter to follow her down the hallway. He swallowed hard and quickly fell into step behind her, trying to shake off the lingering heat in his face.

They walked in silence until they reached a quieter section of the ship, a private lounge overlooking the vast ocean. Silver Sable stopped by the window and gazed out, her expression unreadable.

“Mr. Stark sent you here to strike a deal on his behalf,” she began without preamble. “But it seems that Mr. Stark’s trust in your abilities may have been misplaced.”

Peter felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He wanted to protest, to defend himself, but something in Silver Sable’s tone told him to stay quiet and listen.

“You see,” she continued, “my organization had nothing to do with the loss of Stark Industries’ shipments. That was the result of opportunistic criminals trying to disrupt our operations. But regardless of whose fault it was, I’m here to offer a solution.”

She turned to face him, her eyes sharp. “In exchange for your company’s latest technological developments, we are willing to replace the missing shipments and ensure the security of all future deliveries.”

Peter blinked, trying to keep up. “You want our tech?” he asked, suddenly feeling a lot more out of his depth than he already did. “But Stark Industries—”

“Mr. Stark’s technology is already of great interest to certain parties,” Silver Sable interrupted, her voice smooth but firm. “This would be a mutually beneficial arrangement. Your company gets its shipments, and we receive exclusive access to select advancements.”

Peter opened his mouth to respond but hesitated. This wasn’t the straightforward deal Tony had briefed him on. Silver Sable was adding a new twist, and he didn’t know how to play this. But she was waiting for an answer, her eyes narrowing slightly as the silence stretched on.

“I—I’m not authorized to make that call,” Peter admitted, trying to sound more professional. “But I can pass this along to Mr. Stark and—”

“Mr. Parker,” she interrupted, her voice cold and cutting. “You are here as Mr. Stark’s representative. I need a decision, and I need it soon.”

Peter felt his pulse quicken. “I understand, but I still need to clear this with him.”

Silver Sable’s lips pressed into a thin line, and Peter braced himself for a harsh rebuke. But instead, she nodded once, sharply.

“Very well,” she said. “Contact him. Tell him what I have proposed, and make it clear that time is of the essence. I will only wait so long for his response.”

Peter let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I’ll—um—get on that right away.”

“See that you do,” she replied. She turned back to the window, signaling that the conversation was over. “And, Mr. Parker,” she added without turning around, “if you’re going to represent Stark Industries, you may want to present yourself with a bit more… composure.”

Peter felt his face heat up again, realizing that she probably noticed his earlier state of disarray. He muttered an awkward “Yes, ma’am” before backing away and making a quick exit. As he walked briskly back toward his room, his mind was a storm of emotions—embarrassment, relief, and a newfound sense of urgency.

He needed to call Tony. Now.

As he dialed the number, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the dark window. For a moment, it seemed like there was a shadowy figure standing behind him in the glass—a trick of the light, maybe, or just his tired mind playing tricks.

He turned quickly, but the room was empty. Peter’s heart hammered in his chest as he stared into the shadows, half-expecting someone to step out.

Nothing. Just his overactive imagination. Or was it?

Peter shook off the chill creeping up his spine and focused on the call. He needed to get Tony up to speed on Silver Sable’s proposal and the unsettling vibe of this ship.

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cariantha · 2 years ago

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Hunger Pains

Book: Open Heart, Post-Series

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Sawyer Brooks)

Rating: Explicit

Warning: 🔥NSFW, ⛔18+ Only, contains explicit sexual content

Category: Fluff, Smut, Halloween

Word count: 2.6K

Summary: Sawyer is in a bad mood. Ethan helps her calm down.

Prompts:

🫦From Anon: Can I get a fic with Ethan giving MC a love bite or hickey?

☀️From @peonierose: Ethan & Sawyer + “sunshine”

🍬From @jerzwriter: "Actually, I like candy corn!"

Events:

🎃For @choicesoctober event: Costume / Halloween / Vampire / Meme

🥰For @choicesprompts Flufftober 2023 event: I want to take care of you.

“Mr. Cox. An appropriate name for such a dick,” Sawyer thought to herself, blood boiling as she exited Room 513.

The patient being cared for inside could easily steal the title of “Biggest PITA” away from the infamous Nigel Platt. And only making matters worse, her consultation had been interrupted multiple times by a cocky intern eager to show off.

Once the door closed behind her, she spun on Dr. Perkins.

“How many times have we told you not to interrupt when your resident or attending is speaking with a patient? If you do that again, I’ll make sure you are written up.”

Sawyer strode to the nearby nurses’ station to update Mr. Cox’s chart. The obstinate intern followed.

“How am I supposed to learn anything around here if I’m not allowed to ask questions?” he argued.

“You start by shutting the hell up and listening. Had you done that in the first place, we wouldn’t be standing here having this conversation. If you were really trying to understand something back there, you would have directed your questions to me. Instead, you attempted to conduct a medical history interview on an extremely agitated patient minutes before he went to surgery,” she scolded.

“This is–”

Her patience was wearing thin, and Sawyer spoke over him. “Jaaackie, get Dr. Know-It-All away from me before I go all Ramsey on his ass,” she demanded through gritted teeth.

Having caught the exchange's tail end, Jackie looked up from her tablet.

“I think you just did,” she answered, “and Perkins, the patient in 506, needs a new catheter. Now.”

“But that’s not even my pati-” he complained.

With one harsh look from the Chief Resident, Dr. Perkins finally tucked his tail between his legs and sulked down the hall.

"You're breathing fire today," Jackie quipped as she rounded the desk to leave.

Sawyer ignored her and continued typing furiously on her tablet.

Jackie and Bryce traded places down the hall, getting on and off the elevator.

“Hey, have you seen Brooks? I mean Ramsey. Brooks-Ramsey?” Bryce guessed, unsure what to call his friend since she and Ethan surprised everyone by eloping a couple weeks ago.

Jackie pointed in the direction of the nurses’ desk. “I hope you brought snacks. She’s in a mood again,” she warned as the steel doors closed between them.

A minute later, Bryce slunk next to Sawyer, bumping shoulders to get her attention.

“Finally. What took you so long?” Sawyer rebuked, shoving the tablet towards him. “Here, take this guy away. And while you have his head open, feel free to poke the part of his brain that disables his speech.”

“Well, aren’t you a pocketful of sunshine this morning,” he teased.

“After a few minutes with this asshole and you’ll understand why,” she said, storming off.

“Annnd, Dr. Ramsey, it is,” he decided.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

Shortly thereafter, Sawyer sat in the diagnostics office and stewed silently as the team meeting ran over schedule. Her annoyance grew more intense with each passing minute as Ethan and Harper debated, and Tobias egged them on for his own amusement. No longer able to take it, she interrupted.

“Do you need me? Because, if not, I have patients who do.”

Her three colleagues snapped their heads in her direction, surprised by the bite in her tone. With raised eyebrows, she looked at the team leader and challenged him to respond.

Ethan cleared his throat. “Uh, let’s see how the labs come back and continue this discussion when we have more information.”

Harper and Tobias quickly got out of Dodge as Sawyer stacked her notes and gathered her things. When she stood to follow, Ethan reached for her hand and held her back.

“Hey, what’s wrong? What’s got you so wound up?”

She exhaled deeply, his touch instantly calming her.

“I’m sorry.” Frustrated tears welled in her witch-green eyes. “I'm super cranky. These third-trimester hormones are no joke. My mood the last few days has been…”

A single teardrop fell down her cheek.

“Come here,” he urged, pulling her into his lap. “It’s been, what?”

“It’s either been hangry or hornery or both,” she pouted and sagged her shoulders.

Cracking a smile at her dramatics, “I know what ‘hangry’ is, but ‘hornery?’”

“Horny and ornery.”

With a shake of his head, Ethan caressed her swollen belly. “So, what I hear you saying is you’re irritable because you're either hungry or horny…”

“Right now, it’s both,” she interjected, her fingers seductively dancing up his chest.

“And the cure for this condition is to either feed you or fuck you?”

“Look, I’m not saying food and sex would solve all my problems, but it would sure help me calm the hell down,” she admitted with a coquettish grin.

“Well, as much as I’d like to help you satisfy your hunger pains, all I can offer right now is this.”

Ethan reached for the bowl of Halloween candy on the conference table.

“Boo,” she scowled playfully. Sawyer stood and sifted through the options, “I’ll take the candy corn off your hands and leave the chocolates for you. I know they’re your favorite.”

“Actually, I like candy corn,” he said, ripping a small package open with his teeth and pouring them all into his mouth.

“Seriously?” she asked, surprised.

“My dad loves them. We always had a bowl out during the season. I used to push them up on my canines when I was a kid and pretend I was Dracula.”

“Aw, cute. Well, if that’s true, then I’ll take some of these too,” she reached back into the bowl and stuffed her pockets. “Supposedly, chocolate is a good substitute for sex. Feed two birds with one scone.”

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

A couple hours later, Sawyer was at the lab demanding the results for one of her patients.

“What do you mean it will be another four to six hours? I ordered these tests yesterday!”

Her raised voice began to draw the attention of others, including her indirect supervisor. Ethan was just finishing a consultation with the hospital’s lead hematologist when he heard the uproar.

The lab assistant snapped back. “Look, lady, we’re doing the best we can. The tech will run the test when he returns from lunch.”

“Lady?! Do you see this badge? That’s Dr. Brooks to you.”

Sawyer spewed red-hot anger as she spun on her heels. From several feet away, Ethan could practically feel the heat radiating from her. Her neck and cheeks were crimsoned, and her fists clenched at her sides.

“That’s enough,” he admonished, taking Sawyer by the wrist and swiftly pulling her into a familiar, dark supply closet.

Ethan loomed over her as he backed her into a corner.

“I know… I’m sorry,” she apologized. Sad cat-like eyes pleading for forgiveness.

“This kind of stress isn’t good for you or the baby,” he advised. “This is serious, Sawyer. You leave me no choice but to help you calm down.” The corner of his mouth began to turn up in a sly grin as he ran his hand over her hair.

“Oh, thank god,” she sighed, crashing into his lips.

“We’ll…have to be…quick…and quiet,” he murmured between desperate kisses.

As Sawyer slipped out of her shoes, Ethan lent a hand, sliding her pants and underwear to the ground. As she stepped out of them, Ethan unzipped his pants and pushed them down to expose his rising need. Their white lab coats provided a curtain of privacy if anyone walked in on them.

Lifting her up around his waist, Sawyer tried to wrap her legs around him. With several extra inches around her midsection, she had a hard time locking her swollen ankles behind him and finding a comfortable position.

“Ethan, my belly. This isn’t working,” she squirmed under his hold.

Determined to make this work despite the cramped space, Sawyer slid down. She shrugged off her lab coat, turned her back to him, and placed her hands on the wall.

Ethan took the hint immediately. His hands roamed under her shirt, starting at her sore back. His thumbs applied light pressure as he worked down her spine, earning a few grateful groans. He also spent a few seconds massaging her ass, finishing with a gentle squeeze.

Closing the small gap between them, Ethan reached around and tenderly appreciated her baby bump. Then, slithering his fingers into the cups of her bra, he ghosted around her sensitive nipples.

Sawyer felt his breath next to her ear and turned her head to meet him in a passionate kiss, his erection poking and teasing her backside.

Navigating in the dark, Ethan leaned back to align himself with her entrance. “God, Sawyer,” he gasped, easily gliding between her slick folds. “You are so ready for me.”

She looked over her shoulder with a smile and jokingly reminded him of her libidinous mood swings. “What’d I tell you? Me so horny.”

With an amused shake of his head, he pulled back gently and then began to pump his hips. Slow and soft at first.

“Mmmmm, that feels so good, babe,” Sawyer mewled.

Ethan picked up the pace. He pushed harder and deeper but was careful not to get too rough with his pregnant wife or her precious cargo.

“Ohhhh,” she let slip a little too loud.

“Shhhh, baby,” he breathed heavily, working up a sweat.

As her legs began to tremble, Sawyer kept her hands firmly braced against the wall for support.

“I’m close… cover… my mouth,” she panted.

With a hand on her hip to hold her close and steady, Ethan reached around with his other and gently covered her mouth. He leaned in and pressed his chest against her back, resting his chin in the crook of her neck. “Let go, beautiful,” he mumbled against the feel of her rapid pulse.

After a couple deep pumps, Sawyer’s whole body shuddered. She moaned her satisfaction into Ethan’s hand. The vibrations pulsing through her body and the warm breath against his palm provoked his own release. Clamping his mouth onto her neck, he muted himself.

The euphoria made her forget all her aches and pains. So, when Sawyer tightened her muscles around Ethan’s still bursting length, it hardly registered when he bit down hard on her throat.

They didn't spend much time basking in the afterglow to avoid getting caught. Ethan gave his wife a loving kiss, and when he was certain she could stand unsupported, he pulled up his pants and helped Sawyer step into hers.

With a quick peek into the hallway, Sawyer checked to see if the coast was clear. “Hold on… it’s Wen,” she whispered, holding up a hand to halt him.

When Dr. Wen disappeared around a corner, they exited the supply closet.

“Do you think she heard us?”

“If she did, I’m sure she assumed it was only one of the ghosts that she believes haunts these halls,” Ethan chuckled. “The more important question is, are you feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Well, let’s make doubly sure and head up to the cafeteria for some lunch.”

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

Later that night, at home and in the shower, Ethan pushed wet hair away from Sawyer's neck and discovered the frightful bruising.

“Oh, Soe, I’m sorry,” he expressed, carefully skimming his fingers over the bite mark. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Sawyer touched the tender spot and moved around him to see her reflection in his shaving mirror.

“Oh my gosh!” she laughed as she traced her fingers over the imprints of his teeth. “I married a freakin’ vampire!”

“I’m sorry. But, hey,” he innocently smiled back in the mirror, “...only a vampire can love you forever.”

He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face into her neck. “Mwahahaha,” he snarled at her ear before placing a delicate, healing kiss on the love bite.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

The next day, the newlyweds arrived at work hand in hand and walked toward the attendings’ locker room. Pausing just outside the door, Sawyer turned to face her husband.

“Hey, just a reminder that I volunteered to help in the clinic this morning. Carrick said he would do rounds for me.”

“I remembered,” Ethan said, bending down to give Sawyer a quick but loving kiss on the lips. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. I’ll see you later,” she returned, reluctantly releasing his hand.

Stepping into the locker room, she spotted a familiar face. Well, sort of.

“Whoa, that looks soooo good, Elijah. Gross, but so realistic,” Sawyer awed.

“Thanks! Those in the research department agreed to dress up like lab experiments gone wrong.”

“Well, mission accomplished. And, Happy Halloween, by the way. I know it’s your favorite day of the year.”

As Elijah excitedly talked about his zombie character - which, of course, was inspired by a new John Carpenter video game - Sawyer tugged on her white coat and checked her reflection in the mirror.

The bruising on her neck was much more prominent the day after and under the hospital's harsh fluorescent lighting. She tried to adjust her hair and fix the collar of her jacket, but it was no use. She dug through her bag, searching for her makeup case, quickly realizing she had left it at home.

“Shit,” she thought to herself.

“Aren’t you dressing up this year?”

Elijah’s question brought her back to the conversation, and an idea popped into her head.

“About that… do you have any more fake blood?”

“Yeah, there’s a tube in my locker. Help yourself,” he offered on his way out.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

Down in the free clinic, Sawyer examined a very inquisitive eight-year-old who noticed the bite mark and the two drips of dried blood on her neck.

“Say ‘ahhhh!’” she instructed, using a tongue depressor to check the back of his throat. “Good, no swelling back there.”

“Doctor! Did you get bit by a vampire?”

“I’m afraid I did,” she admitted, putting on a bit of an act.

“Was it Dracula?”

“That’s still up for debate,” she laughed to herself, picturing little boy Ethan with candy corn fangs.

“Did it hurt?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Did he suck your blood?”

“Justin, for goodness sake,” his mother chided and rolled her eyes.

“It’s fine,” Sawyer waved her off.

“Did he make you into a vampire too?”

“No,” turning her back to the young patient and facing his mother, she muttered, “...he just got me pregnant.” The patient’s mother cackled out loud.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

That afternoon, Sawyer was on the fifth floor to check on a patient when she spotted Ethan stepping into the hallway with Esme and her intern. When they were safely out of the patient’s earshot, he wheeled around on the intern and launched into a stern, familiar lecture.

“...It doesn’t matter that you’re still learning… Whether this man lives or dies is on you… There is no room for mistakes…”

When he finished his tirade, Ethan marched to the nurses’ station and began tapping away on an iPad.

“Don’t sweat him. He’s all bark and no bite. Isn’t that right, Dr. Brooks?” Esme asked as Sawyer approached the scene.

Mrs. Ramsey shook her head vehemently. “Oh, no,” she spoke loud enough for Ethan to hear, “he bites alright.” When he looked up with a raised eyebrow, she winked and kept walking.

A couple minutes later, Ethan’s phone pinged with a text notification.

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

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Last month’s local election results in Turkey delivered a harsh blow to President Recep Tayyip Erdogan and the ruling Justice and Development Party (AKP). Just under a year since the presidential election, in which Erdogan won another five years in power, Turkey’s opposition party—the Republican People’s Party (CHP)—won big victories in the majority of the country’s largest cities, including Istanbul, the economic powerhouse of Turkey. Thirty-five provincial capitals (out of a total of 81) now have a CHP mayor, while the AKP-led People’s Alliance has just 24. The CHP also scraped past Erdogan’s party in the country overall, garnering 37.8 percent of the votes compared to 35.5 percent for the AKP.

The CHP’s victory is a hopeful signal of the resilience of Turkish democracy and its electoral system. After the CHP’s disappointing results in last year’s presidential election, where it only managed a little over 47 percent of the vote, its share of the national vote came as a shock to many experts. It was a surprising achievement, not least because nearly 90 percent of Turkey’s media is in the hands of the government or its supporters, granting the ruling party a lopsided advantage when campaigning.

For years, analysts have argued that Turkey has slid away from democracy and given way to authoritarian politics—with Erdogan leading the way. A single election does not erase years of calculated efforts to centralize power and remove checks and balances on the president. And yet, despite an uneven playing field, the opposition largely prevailed. Even Erdogan himself acknowledged that “regardless of the results, the winner of this election is primarily democracy.”

There may or may not be any real feeling behind the president’s statement. But the fact that he gave these conciliatory remarks on the night of the election is, in itself, surprising. Erdogan is not in immediate political peril himself. The next presidential elections will not take place until 2028. But it turns out that he has less space in which to maneuver than some analysts previously assumed.

At present, Erdogan is constitutionally limited from running for election in 2028. There’s been speculation that a new constitution could lift that limit. But the uncertainty introduced by the recent opposition victories makes that much less likely, buying democratic forces in Turkey more time.

It’s not clear what would be in a new constitution, but it could include an end to current term limits on the president, a move away from Turkey’s long-enshrined status as a secular state, and the strengthening of the central government’s power over the judiciary. However, introducing the constitution—which the president has stated he intends to do—would require a public referendum. Moving forward with a new constitution after these election results could risk strong public rebuke, and Erdogan may now feel far less confident in a referendum victory.

The requirement to hold a referendum for amendments to the constitution (enshrined in the document since 1982) provides a level of protection for Turkish democracy. Compare this to Hungary, where the erosion of democracy has largely been carried out through legal means. Hungary’s original constitution tipped the balance in favor of large parties and, in 2010, when Fidesz (Prime Minister Viktor Orban’s right-wing populist party) won 53 percent of the vote, it was able to convert its small majority into 68 percent of the seats in parliament. Subsequently, though the bar for writing a new Hungarian constitution was set at a four-fifths majority, the rule itself could be overturned by a two-thirds majority—which Fidesz did and immediately began drafting a constitution that gave the government significant new powers.

In contrast, the Turkish constitution means that Erdogan is still beholden to the public. He has already made significant changes to the constitution, including amending it in 2017 to shift from a parliamentary system to a presidential one. Those amendments were accepted both by parliament and—narrowly—through a referendum. Further revisions, and the introduction of a new document, will require significant public support the president may not have.

Turkey’s democracy also benefits from its decentralized voting process, which makes manipulating results on election day more difficult—and voter turnout is consistently high, with turnout at around 76 percent in last month’s elections. Allegations of election fraud are not unheard of, but the diffuse, paper-based nature of the process makes systematic fraud harder to accomplish.

In another indication of the resilience of the Turkish electoral system, electoral authorities overturned a decision by the local election board in Van, which had handed the mayoralty to the AKP candidate, despite the Peoples’ Equality and Democracy (DEM) party candidate besting him by 28 percentage points. This may be a small victory for democracy but is an unusual outcome in the Kurdish-dominated southeast, given the central government is traditionally not disposed to side with Kurdish voters.

Critically, Turkey’s political opposition is still an effective force and has not been excised from the electoral system, as it has been in other countries. Closing political and civic spaces is a common tactic for authoritarian leaders—such as in Venezuela, where arbitrary arrests and the criminalization of opposition parties’ activities were reported during regional and municipal elections in 2021. The disproportionate resources at the AKP’s disposal have made campaigns increasingly unbalanced, and the government has taken advantage of the legal system to jail and disqualify opposition candidates. Still, the CHP’s victory in seven of the 10 most populous Turkish cities and its overall share of the vote show that real political opposition, key to a functioning democracy, can still operate.

A single, if surprising, election doesn’t mean Turkey’s democracy is thriving, or even on the mend. It may be difficult for the opposition to sustain its current approach for the next four years. Ekrem Imamoglu—Istanbul’s mayor, often touted as a potential CHP presidential candidate—faces multiple court cases that could be used to bar him from running for president. Erdogan may turn to more authoritarian tactics to hold onto power, and how he chooses to respond politically could impact the future of Turkish democracy. If he doubles down on restricting the political space, including by following up on the outstanding court cases against opposition candidates—it will be for the worse.

But first, Erdogan will have to start by addressing his country’s economic woes. Inflation climbed to nearly 70 percent in March, and interest rates hit 50 percent the same month. Though the crisis hardly touched Erdogan’s popularity in the presidential election last year, the same does not seem to be true for his party. To have any hope of recouping the AKP’s political losses, Erdogan will have to improve the outlook for millions of Turks hit hard by the economic crisis.

If he succeeds, it would be a win for the general population—though it may also mean he seizes the opportunity to capitalize on any upswing in public opinion to introduce his proposed new constitution. He may also seek the support he needs for a referendum by pursuing a closer relationship with right-wing nationalists and Islamists. By tempting traditionally conservative AKP voters back into the fold, he could regain those he lost to the Islamist New Welfare Party in last month’s election.

Turkey has a long way to go before it can be considered a liberal democratic country. Its democracy has declined precipitously in the past 15 years; but this election signals that there are pockets of resilience. That’s worth paying attention to. A more resilient Turkish democracy merits encouragement and hope—not least because, as a global swing state, the choices that Turkey makes may have an impact beyond its borders.

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beefromanoff · 1 year ago

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Going Under Ch. 30

summary: Gianna and Bucky getting used to their new normal. Gianna performs for the first time since her tour.

characters: Bucky Barnes x OC

soundtrack: Silver Springs - Fleetwood Mac

warnings: fluff, pop star fantasy x love story, set in an AU where the Avengers reunite after Civil War, pre-infinity war, slight angst, hurt/comfort, lonely reader/OC.

author’s note: more angst, so many emotions! this is the plan I've had for this story for SO LONG. I am so so glad to finally get to write it, as painful and sad as it was. it has to hurt before it can get better. pls trust me.

ilysm, thank you for reading! please let me know what you think!

chapter list

________________________________

Gianna

The early morning air in New York was crisp, announcing the slow arrival of spring. Gianna, wrapped in an embarrassingly expensive coat, sat alone at the patio of a small coffee shop near her apartment. The sun was barely making its way over the buildings, casting long shadows on the empty streets. It was a place she and Bucky had never visited, a quiet spot she had discovered on her own. As much as she longed for the comfort of old familiar shops, she couldn’t help but feel thankful to have found places untouched by painful memories.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as Gianna sipped her cappuccino, staring into the swirls of foam. The city, usually bustling with life, felt calm and distant at this hour.

As she lost herself in thoughts, she didn’t notice two teenage girls approaching nervously. They wore wide smiles that faltered a bit when Gianna lifted her eyes to them. The apprehension in their eyes betrayed a mix of excitement and hesitation.

"Excuse me, Gianna Cruz?" one of them stammered.

A gentle smile played on Gianna's lips as she nodded, "Guilty."

The girls exchanged glances, building the courage to make their request. "Could we take a photo with you?" one finally blurted out.

"Of course," Gianna replied, her smile widening. She stood up, setting her cup down, and posed for a selfie that would undoubtedly end up on social media. Fortunately, she positioned herself against a relatively nondescript wall, hoping her new favorite location wouldn’t be broadcast to the world.

The girls buzzed with energy as they bumped into each other while leaving. “Oh,” One of them turned back to Gianna. “I’m sorry about Bucky. We were rooting for you guys.”

Gianna gave a polite smile, ignoring the twist in her gut. “Thank you.”

As the girls thanked her again and walked away, their nervous energy palpable, Gianna returned to her seat. She checked her phone, a habit born out of the loneliness that had crept back into her life.

A text to Tom, her manager, sat unsent. She’d typed and deleted it over and over again in the past few weeks as she tried to establish a new normal. This time, she pressed send instead of delete.

I’m ready to perform again.

Bucky

The training room in the Avengers Compound echoed with the thuds of fists striking pads, boots scraping against the mat, and the grunts of exertion. Bucky, clad in his training gear, led a group of SHIELD agents through an intense combat training session. His movements were swift, precise, and laced with a barely-controlled aggression that seemed to cut through the air.

Something was off. It had been for weeks.

Steve and Natasha stood on the sidelines, watching their friend with furrowed brows. Bucky's formerly stoic composure was replaced by an intensity that bordered on ferocity. Each correction he made was sharper, each word a biting rebuke. The harshness of his training was a mirror of the turmoil within him. They’d hoped that it would improve with the more time that passed since Gianna’s departure, but it had only gotten worse.

An agent faltered in executing a particular maneuver, and Bucky's reaction was enough to silence the whole room.

"No, no, no!" he barked, his voice cutting through the room. "You're leaving yourself wide open. What if your life depended on this? You'd be dead!"

Steve exchanged a concerned glance with Natasha. This wasn't the Bucky they knew. He was always sharp, intense, but this was different — a raw anger fueled by something deeper.

Natasha whispered, "Steve, we can't let him continue like this. He's pushing them too hard. He's hurting, and it's bleeding into everything he does."

Steve nodded solemnly. "I'll talk to him."

As the training session ended and the agents filed out, looking more dejected than usual, Steve approached Bucky. The echoes of combat had faded, leaving a tense silence in their wake.

"Bucky, can we talk?" Steve's voice was calm, a stark contrast to his friend’s demeanor.

Bucky glanced at Steve as he began to wrap his hands for sparring. "Not really in the mood to talk right now."

Steve persisted, his concern unwavering. "You’re not okay, Buck. We've all noticed. You're snapping at everyone. Let me help."

Bucky's jaw clenched, and for a moment, the ghost of the Winter Soldier seemed to flash behind his eyes. "I said not now."

Steve frowned as he watched Bucky finish wrapping his hands and begin to strike the punching bag. Picking his battles, he turned and slowly left the room.

Gianna

The green room buzzed with activity as Gianna prepared for her appearance on The Tonight Show. Kate, her longtime makeup artist, applied the finishing touches like they were back in the old days of touring. The scent of hairspray and the hum of anticipation filled the room.

As Kate delicately worked on Gianna's makeup, the singer's mind drifted to a time when this routine was a familiar prelude to the bright lights and applause of a concert stage. She remembered another green room, far away from the studio here at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, where Bucky would wait with her, sharing a quiet moment before the chaos began.

The memories played in her mind like an old film reel. Bucky's calm presence, the shared candy, the laughs and the way his hands felt helping her in and out of her sequin bodysuits. There was a warmth in those memories that contrasted sharply with the chill of the present.

"Gianna, you're up in five," a stage manager peeked in, bringing her back to the present.

She took a deep breath, suppressing the twinge of nostalgia. "Thanks," she said, steeling herself to put her public persona back on. After a few final touch ups, she slid into her heels and was ready to go face the world for the first time since her press conference all those months ago.

The stage manager ushered her through the backstage area of the iconic Tonight Show set. The familiar sight stirred a mix of nerves and anticipation. The last time she was on a stage like this, Bucky stood in the wings. Now she was alone. She shook her head to clear it of the one thing she couldn’t afford to think about and plastered a fake, but dazzling smile on her face just as she stepped into the stage lights.

The interview with Jimmy Fallon began with casual banter, what she loved his show for in the first place. He asked all the pre-approved questions about her outfit, her new label, rumors that she was making a cameo in an upcoming film. Ever the charismatic host, he teased about the mysteries of her time away and what happened at the famed Avengers’ Compound. Practiced in the art of deflecting, she steered clear of specifics, smiling and evading with the skill of a seasoned celebrity.

"So, Gianna, what's next for you?" Jimmy asked, sipping his coffee.

Gianna grinned, a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Well, Jimmy, let's just say, the stage missed me as much as I missed it. Stay tuned, because the tour might be making a comeback very soon."

The audience erupted into applause, only calming down when prompted by the monitors off camera.

"And what about the time off? Any inspiration for new music?" Jimmy prodded.

Gianna's expression remained composed. "It's been a journey, and I'm excited about what's to come. As for new music, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

Jimmy nodded, accepting the enigmatic response. "Well, Gianna, we can't wait for your performance later. Stick around, folks. We'll be right back after this break!"

The stage lights dimmed as the show cut to commercial, leaving Gianna with a moment of respite before the live performance. She stood as foreign hands removed her wired microphone and gave her a handheld. For a moment, she felt like she traveled straight back into the past. The weight of the microphone in her hand, the heat of the stage lights. She swore if she looked to her right, she’d see Bucky’s grinning face shielded from the crowd by the thick black curtain.

Bucky

The spacious living room of the Avengers Compound was bathed in the flickering glow of the television. Sam sprawled, Wanda perched on the armrest, Peter lounging on the floor with a bag of snacks, and Natasha in her customary spot in the corner of the massive sectional. The atmosphere, usually vibrant with banter and camaraderie, felt subdued.

As the team waited for Bucky and Steve to return from their mission, the silence of the room was disrupted by the familiar sound of studio applause as the commercial break ended. The Tonight Show played on the large screen, Jimmy Fallon engaging the audience with his infectious energy as he introduced the first guest, none other than Gianna Cruz.

The atmosphere shifted slightly as Gianna's smiling face appeared on the screen. An involuntary hush swept through the room, replacing the calm with a more somber air as they watched her walk across the set to take her seat by Jimmy. Wanda broke the silence.

"I miss her," she said, her eyes fixed on the television.

The sentiment hung in the room, acknowledged by shared glances but unsaid for a while.

Natasha added, "It's been quieter since she left."

"Yeah, things aren't the same without her." Peter toyed with the hem of the blanket on his lap

Wanda sighed, "She looks happy, though."

Natasha shared a small smile. "She deserves to be."

The team had purposefully avoided discussing Gianna in Bucky's presence, out of respect for his feelings. Yet, the absence of her laughter and vivacity had left a void that echoed through the Compound. Wanda had tried to keep the team dinners alive, but without Gianna to help cook, it was a tall task. Not to mention that Bucky preferred solitude these days anyway.

As the interview progressed, they admired Gianna's poise and the way she navigated the questions. Her makeup was flawless, her smile bright and cheeks rosy, but her eyes were smokier than usual. The dark liner was different, bringing a new intensity to her face. Hearing her voice in the common room felt familiar and foreign now that several weeks had passed and changed so much. With the chaos of the night she left, no one had really gotten to say goodbye to Gianna. Nat, being the one who flew her back to New York, came the closest. All they really exchanged was a sad hug and courtesy of Nat allowing her to cry in silence the whole flight back to the city. Wanda took it the hardest, second only to Bucky. She’d grown accustomed to having her friend around, and now her absence left a glaring hole.

In a fleeting moment of vulnerability, Wanda whispered, "I really hope she's doing well."

Gianna

In the studio, the set was simply a microphone stand and the musicians cloaked in shadow behind her, a stark contrast to Gianna's usual vibrant and glittering performances. Tonight, she stood resplendent in a sleek black dress, a departure from her signature pastels and sequins. She’d told her stylist she wanted a change. She wouldn’t admit it, but the dark colors were her way of mourning the love she lost and the life she dreamt of with it.

“I know everyone’s waiting for new music, but tonight I thought I’d pay tribute to one of my favorite bands, Fleetwood Mac. This song has always been beautiful, but it’s been especially resonating with me lately.” She gave a small smile. “I hope you enjoy.”

As the haunting chords of Fleetwood Mac's "Silver Springs" began, Gianna closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the stage lights enveloping her. She wrapped her hands around the microphone and began to sing.

Bucky

Heavy footsteps sounded in the kitchen and grew louder toward the living room. Steve and Bucky rounded the corner, still fully dressed in their uniforms. Steve’s helmet sat on his head, the chinstrap unbuttoned. Bucky’s hair was tousled, his eyebrow cut. Dirt and exhaustion covered both of their faces after being gone for two days. Steve paused, Bucky nearly running into him. His blue eyes locked onto the screen and the woman standing there.

The room's energy shifted, an unspoken tension taking hold. Natasha moved to change the channel, but Bucky's restrained voice stopped her.

"Don't."

Gianna

And can you tell me was it worth it?

Baby, I don't want to know

Her voice was guttural, haunting. She sang with her eyes closed, brows knit together.

Steve shot Bucky a worried look, his own concern mirroring that of the rest of the team. Bucky didn’t move, every muscle tense.

Time cast a spell on you, but you won't forget me

I know I could have loved you

But you would not let me

Gianna's voice soared, a raw and soulful rendition of the song. The song, clearly chosen with purpose, echoed throughout the common room. The team carefully observed Bucky's reaction, realizing that the song's poignant lyrics struck a chord deep within him. He stayed rooted in place, but his jaw was clenched, eyes wide.

I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you

Give me just a chance

She clutched the microphone, barely moving as her voice and soul took over. All the words she wanted to say to Bucky, all the emotions she wanted to let overflow. She wanted to scream at him, throw things at him, fall at his feet and weep. She hated him for being the reason she wasn’t able to love him.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t, reach out to him. Her pride made her block his phone number as soon as she landed in New York. She had pages and pages of notes and half-written songs, all things she wanted to say to him. None of them felt ready to share with the world. This song captured all of her heartache, her anger. She hoped somehow, wherever he was, he was watching. She hoped the words hit him like a knife in the chest like his words that night had hit her. She hoped this song, her face, would haunt him like that last night still haunted her.

Opening her eyes, she let her voice turn raw and angry as she launched into the next line.

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you

Bucky

As Gianna poured her heart into the song, the realization hit Bucky like a tidal wave. The haunting melody intertwined with his thoughts, and for a moment, the past seemed to converge with the present. He heard her voice now, but saw her then. City after city, night after night. Singing her heart out, seeking him out backstage. Running into his arms after a show. Smiling, chest heaving, glistening in sweat…she’d made him fall back in love with being alive. She was light, color, music. She was a sunny day, a rainbow. She was everything good about the world. Until…him.

Bucky's inner turmoil unfolded on his face, visible to the team.

The woman on the screen before him was a shell of the one he knew. She wasn’t smiling as she sang. She didn’t dance or spin onstage. Her outfit was as devoid of color as his life felt. Even through the screen, he could see the anguish on her face, in the way her brows knit together.

Her kohl-lined eyes flew open as her voice reached a new intensity, a near growl, and she seemed to stare directly at him.

You'll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you

As the final notes lingered in the air, the team watched in silence. The performance had laid bare all of her emotions, and Bucky stared at the screen with a mix of pain and recognition. Steve, torn between the desire to comfort his friend and the need to let him process, stood quietly by his side. The applause of the show, the commercials that resumed after she took a bow, all of it sounded muffled to Bucky as he stood frozen in place.

His eyes remained fixed on the screen for what felt like an eternity. The room held its breath, the team's collective gaze shifting between the screen and Bucky's unreadable expression.

In that charged silence, it became evident that the lyrics had struck him right where she intended. The raw emotion in Gianna's voice had reached somewhere deep within Bucky, stirring something he’d been trying to repress for weeks.

Without uttering a word, Bucky turned abruptly and left the room. His footsteps echoed against the high ceilings as he walked away. The team exchanged uneasy glances, unsure of what to do, or what he’d do, for that matter.

Natasha sighed softly. "Give him some space," she suggested, tugging at the sleeve of Steve’s uniform. Clearly torn between following his friend and taking a much needed shower, he finally nodded.

Bucky, still clad in the dirt-streaked and blood-coated armor, moved with an urgency that mirrored the chaos in his mind. He needed to run, to escape the haunting words of the song, to process the emotions that had been stirred by Gianna's performance. He had to get her voice, her angry eyes out of his head. For weeks, he’d told himself that he did the right thing. He set her free, he wasn’t holding her back anymore. But tonight…seeing her made him question everything. He had something, someone so incredible. After him, she was a shadow.

Was he really that dangerous, that he could utterly destroy the woman he loved in his attempt to spare her?

Outside, the cool night air hit him as he sprinted through the compound's trails. The sound of his boots on the pavement echoed his racing thoughts. Each step seemed to distance him from the echoes of the past that had resurfaced, and yet, the weight on his chest threatened to crush him.

Gianna

The night air was buzzing with excitement as Gianna stepped into the upscale lounge. The atmosphere was a blend of dimmed lights, smooth jazz, and the muted hum of conversation. She navigated the prestigious crowd, catching glimpses of familiar faces from the entertainment industry. It had been over a year since she’d been at this particular spot, a favorite of celebrities in New York. With her newfound loneliness, ahem, freedom -- she’d been doing her best to get out and socialize. Be seen again. She was never a huge fan of the performative nature of her industry, but she sure knew how to play the game. The more she was spotted out and about, the further away the headlines about her alleged breakup would get.

So here she was, in a meticulously styled outfit, attending an after party for an event she didn’t even remember the name of. Jimmy had invited her after the taping of the show earlier that afternoon. Her options were to say yes or to go back to her empty penthouse, and she was all out of the good gin anyways.

Gianna sidled up to the bar between overstuffed velvet stools and ordered a dirty martini. Another female artist and a friend of Gianna joined her at the bar, greeting her with a hug. They exchanged pleasantries amidst the loud chatter, discussing new albums and sharing touring stories.

Jimmy Fallon appeared, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Hey, Gianna, got a question for you," Jimmy said, interrupting their conversation as he held out his phone.

Curiosity etched on her face, Gianna glanced at the phone he offered. On the screen was a text conversation where her name jumped out. As she skimmed through the messages, Jimmy leaned in with a conspiratorial smile.

"Sebastian Stan wanted to say hi. Mind if I share your number?"

#bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes x oc #bucky fluff #winter soldier #sebastian stan #avengers #bucky fanfic #winter soldier fluff

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kwayarchive · 9 months ago

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My Long Socks

I’m smoking, and I just looked down at my feet, and I’m reminded of why I love my long socks

I had a lot of colorful and mismatched, and patterned, really short ankle socks growing up. And they were great, I loved them a lot, but something always felt off about them. And getting more different colors wasn’t the fix, or trying different fabrics

Then I’d see the boys and their long socks. They got to play, and run, and rough house, and be free with their bodies, and for some reason I believed that meant through clothes, it was the only way, I’d unlock that freedom

When my parents realized I wasn’t fucking with skirts or dresses and stockings, and any shiny thing in my ears would come up missing at the end of the day, they were obliged to pivot

Of course, these are straight people, so there’s limitations in the kinds of clothing they felt would be “boy” enough to suit my “non-girl-ish” behaviors, but was still “girl” enough so that I could be gendered as girl, and raised as girl, and conditioned as girl — seen as girl

My mother didn’t really care for “fashion”. Not at least in an aesthetic sense. She could appreciate a nice outfit, but it wasn’t one of her “necessities”, and was therefore redeemed redundant. The time that could be spent shopping she chose to use on more “meaningful” things

Alternatively, my dad’s solution, ironically enough, was to dress me life himself: beige kaki’s and an assortment of different colored and patterned polo shirts. But this sufficed. This was empowering for me. I was still “presentable”, “well-kept”, and “colorful” enough to be “girl”, but now I could play four square with the boys without feeling out of place. A wonderful compromise at the time

But this, as as I began to grow older, to perceive my own girl-ness, became too much of a contrast with an identity of myself that I held, but those around me did not

I recognized my “girl-ness”, even under the layers of clothing that many associated with “boy” or “man”. But I also believed that the kind of “gendering” I was experiencing, my “boy-ness”, was a liberation of my body — until I realized it was an imprisonment. These clothes became a container of hypermasculinization, mysoginoir, coded homophobia, adultification, and overwhelming anti-blackness. I know these may sound like “buzz words” to you, but this was my life, this is my life. These clothes, on my skin, on my body, rendered my “girl-ness” redundant. Revoked

So, I didn’t want to wear kaki and polo uniforms, I wanted to be wanted the same way other girls were. I wanted to be desirable. Maybe a dress would afford me the same appreciation the other girls were given? Maybe a skirt would give me back my femininity? But between my muscular physique, angular features, dark skin, 4c hair, and awkward overall being, dresses and skirts still felt out of place. I’d become conditioned to reject these pieces because of the prescribed, heteronormative masculinity I was forced into

A peril ensues: I did not know how to dress. I didn’t know what to put on that would make me feel better — to feel and exist as a mode of gender that wasn’t restricted to these harsh binaries

Trial after trial, and tribulation after tribulation, throughout the course of a little under a decade. Recognizing that this “out-of-place-ness” wasn’t only due to the clothes I was wearing, or how shy and awkward I was, or how outspoken I could be, the issue is that I am dark, a woman, and very obviously (to many but myself as a child) queer. Their issue was who I was, not what I wore

So I began to detach myself from their expectations of who I should be, and I began at a tabula rasa: A blank slate. What does it mean to be woman? What does it mean to be femme? What does it mean to be man? To be masculine? To be non-man or non-woman? I rebuke the heteronormative and patriarchal denigration of womanhood that was forced upon me. I rebuke the forced toxic masculinity I was made to carry

Now I get to tell that story, my gender, my way

Large clothing: baggy jeans, baggy shirts, large button ups, large sweaters, chunky shoes. Lots of accessories: gold, silver, green, red, yellow, black, ties, glasses upon glasses, hats, beanies, buckets, on my fingers, my head, my neck, my waist, everywhere, and I want it all. Other kinds of shoes too: flats, kittens, sandals, slides, sneakersssss. I’m a maximalist at its finest, because my clothing is my armor, and the more the better, the stronger

You’ll never get access to my figure unless I allow it. A peak of stomach or waist when I wear crops or low-waisteds. A hint of shoulder, a peak at my breast, a glimpse of my lower back. I control the narrative now. I control what you see of me, and who you see

My underwear: My bras — lace, wire, padded, thin, and thick, my pasties, silicon or tape — or my lack thereof, my thongs, Calvin’s, my boxers, loose and form fitting

These are the symbols of strength that I adorn my body with. I give new meaning to my clothing through how I choose to wear them (very pragmatist of me, James would be proud). My truth is defined by myself

However, to bring this full circle, I think the most interesting of the clothing pieces I love: my pile of long, white(-ish), mid-calf-length socks. Symbols once only given to elementary boys, to be mobile, rough and free, now I can wear them too. I don’t restrict myself to what the mainstream has defined as “girl”, I’m not that kind of woman. Not the one with all the rules and confines. My woman explodes this notion, outward, forward, even behind. It’s a redefining of time and history, because now I’m in charge of the narrative: I am the victor in charge of telling (t)history

So as I look down at my long socks, socks that are just “boy” enough to give me gender euphoria. Just “boy” enough that I can still be playful, and live life on the edge. Just “boy” enough to subvert a heteronormative notion of “girl-ness”, of what a woman should be. I’m also reminded that I’m exploding this notion of what it means to be “boy”, of what masculinity can look like, and who can possess it. I am everything and all that I want to be. I choose what is masculine and feminine, I define these lines and how they blur

My long socks are a peculiar reminder of my growth, of my “coming out” to freedom; of my “coming in” to myself and queerness and identity and womanhood. Of the time I’ve reflected, and reconstructed, and destructured notions, and exploded into something entirely [k]new (oh how very Marx of me)

My gender is overwhelming, it constantly extends out from itself and is ever-changing and becoming — my being always coming into itself and out of itself

Anyways, I digress. All of this is to say,

I really loveeeeeeeeeeeeee my long socks

#philosophy #tfka #aesthetics #meditation

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aaltossea · 6 months ago

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Name: Aalto (pron: all-toh) Kelby Nickname: Al Birthday: June 20, 1998 (26) Birthplace: La Jolla, CA Signs: Gemini / Aries Rising Orientation: Bisexual Schooling: Junior in college studying Marine Biology Favorite Place: The Aqua-Marine Occupation: Waitress at Oyster Royale Pos +: Adventurous, Clever, Observant, Bold Neg –: Impatient, Rowdy, Stubborn, Unpolished

( mikey madison / 26 / she/her) wait, is that AALTO KELBY at/in the THE AQUA-MARINE again? i heard through a grapevine, that the merwoman has been in town for TWO YEARS, and currently works as a WAITRESS. some say she can be UNPOLISHED and STUBBORN, but i thought she was actually CLEVER and ADVENTUROUS..

Full Bio:

Aalto is what teachers liked to call: “the problem child.” Born to a witch, the leader of a dark coven, Aalto's life was far from stable. But her teachers did not see that. They did not know that the reason she so often fell asleep in class was that her mother would wake her up in the middle of the night to practice rituals of water; and they didn’t care. They assumed that she was lazy or that her parents did not care about her education. Whatever the reason, seldom tried to reach out to help and the few that did were met with a harsh rebuke from Dayanara, Aalto’s mother. Even Aalto’s name was an inside joke, meaning ‘wave’, one of things her mother used to kill humans she deemed inferior. Her mother’s elitist attitude continued to plague her life, opportunities to make friends ripped from her because they were not worthy of being within Aalto’s presence. The young witch herself did not believe that she was better than any human. Their heart’s beat just as hers did. They were capable of kindness and empathy, something her own mother sorely lacked. She did not feel they deserved to be punished or die for being “unworthy” and as she grew older Aalto began to refuse to help her mother with her antics any longer.

This difference of opinion led her to hanging out with “the wrong crowd” a result of Aalto’s attempt to forget what her mother had forced her to participate in. The kids who smoked weed in the bathrooms and got high on pills under the bleachers once classes were over. If they’d even bothered to show up that day. It earned her further disdain from her mother and in an effort to curb what she viewed as her daughter’s failings; she enrolled a teenaged Aalto into swimming, forcing her to keep on the necklace that his her tail even in the water. It was a suffocating feeling but her lithe frame allowed her to maneuver easily, and the ability to manipulate the water made her a force to be reckoned with. At least, that’s what she told her mother. In truth Aalto refused to use her mer-folk magic to get ahead, preferring instead to put in the long hours of practice. She didn’t mind; to be in the water was freeing, even in human form, as though if she tried hard enough she would be able to swim away from her life. Before long, she demolished previous school records, making her a bit of a celebrity at the school. It also had the added benefit of making her mother proud. For the first time in her life, the two actually began to form a bond reminiscent of how a mother and daughter should be. Aalto even began to be a lifeguard in her summers. It gave her the opportunity to use her gift to save those in the water, a repentance of sorts for the acts her mother had forced her to commit.

That all changed her junior year at UCSD. Aalto had been accepted on a full ride scholarship thanks to her talent in swimming. She worked hard to prove that she was worthy of the position and her work ethic inspired a close friendship with one of the other girls on the swim team, Sabrina. The two quickly became thick as thieves. Aalto’s new friend was someone of importance, the daughter of a California representative who was well on his way to becoming one of the next Senators. These two were so close, in fact, that Aalto chose to share her secret with Sabrina. Rather than cringe in horror and grab a pitchfork as her mother had taught her would happen if she ever revealed what she was to a human, Aalto’s friend accepted her with open arms. She found it fascinating and asked Aalto questions without end. It was unfortunate that her mother happened to be the recipient of one such question at the girls’ first swim meet of the season. Sabrina had been unaware of her mother’s detestation of humans and Aalto, so wrapped up in psyching herself up for the first swim meet, hadn't thought to warn her.

The next day as Aalto and her friend lounged on the shore of Sabrina’s father’s private stretch of beach, their toes dipped into the water as they sunbathed, disaster struck. All of a sudden Sabrina was yanked into the waves and a scream came from her lips. It was easy to spot the culprit, an abnormal wave that had come crashing down upon the girls only to drag them ferociously back in with the tide. It was her mother. Without thinking Aalto tried to use her own abilities to save her friend. But dark magic rituals and years of steady practice had made her mother too powerful. In vain she still attempted to fight off her mother. She was useless against the strength her mother wielded. But she fought. Fought as hard as she could, allowing her own powers to batter against her mother from where she watched farther out in the ocean. It was futile. Within minutes it was all over, and Sabrina’s body floated up to the surface. Desperate Aalto drug her body back to shore and attempted to perform CPR after a quick call to 911, it was too late.

Chaos reigned for the next few weeks. Sabrina’s father was adamant that Aalto was involved in his daughter’s death somehow. He insisted that she had killed his daughter to become the best swimmer on the team. The young witch was questioned by police and even at one point arrested. She was released on her own recognizince as the coroner tried to find a cause of death beyond the drowning. Aalto, devastated, fled. She could no longer stay where she was and she refused to use her magic to erase the suspicion surrounding her.

Chaos reigned for the next few weeks. Sabrina’s father was adamant that Aalto was involved in his daughter’s death somehow. He insisted that she had killed his daughter to become the best swimmer on the team. The young selkie was questioned by police and even at one point arrested. She was quickly released when the coroner’s report came back. They had analyzed the marks on Sabrina’s leg and determined it to be the result of thrashing, not unsimilar to the injuries of those who had been attacked by an Orca. Though no one could explain just what it was doing so far from the arctic. Aalto, devastated, fled. She could no longer stay where she was.

For three years she drove from place to place. She never stayed long enough to make any genuine connections, just enough time to make money to continue on. Sometimes she became so desperate for food that she would use her abilities in ways her mother had taught. In areas where the population was thick she stuck to the woods. Her connection to water allowed for her to find clean water to drink and fish to eat. There was no destination in mind. Aalto did not know if she would ever be able to place down roots again. “The incident” as she dubbed it in her mind left her wary of seeking out the company of humans, lest she led someone else to their death unwittingly. Eventually she made it to the opposite coast and as she traveled out of New York State a rumor reached her ear about a town, one that was full of others like herself.

After two days in the car, she arrived at a town called Westray. It was here that she would make her new home. The trauma of the incident and loss of her best friend had left scars invisible to the eye. In spite of living so close to the water, Aalto is terrified of its presence to the point that she has not swam since the incident. It was too much. The first and only time she tried, she herself had nearly drowned as the terror made her water-ability dangerously unpradictable. Her love of swimming was over, and she mourned its loss like that of a close friend.

After about a year Aalto finally began to settle. Now twenty-six, she enrolled at the local university with a major in marine biology. She might be terrified of large bodies of water, really any water, but she still found its creatures most fascinating. Aalto was especially transfixed by the ocean. The creatures and myths it held, untold depths just waiting to be explored. It was a pull she felt deep within her gut. But with it was a feeling of dread. She had gotten a job down at the fishing docks, until a tragedy occurred. A passenger fell overboard and, too terrified of the water to intervene, Aalto allowed them to drown before assistance could arrive. With another death on her consciousness Aalto has sworn away the mer-folk part of her forever to the point that most now believe her to be human with an irrational fear of water.

#aalto.bio #wr.intro

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