#cw enmeshment

[bitchesgate3]

I'm pretty intrigued by the dynamic between Ketheric and Isobel because it reminds me so much of what I experienced being emotionally enmeshed with one of my parents for my entire childhood.

I think most people understand the weight of being parentified when a child must get a job to help contribute money to the family. But I don't think very many people understand what it's like growing up with a parent who over-relies on family members to be emotionally stable - and eventually having to take on the role as the go-to person to be that stability.

Of feeling suffocated by such an overly needy parent - who controls via their emotional needs and griefs - that makes you act in certain ways because surely you don't want to be the death of your parent.

I'm right at the end of Act 2, so the game may say otherwise, but I wonder how Isobel feels about everything happening.

"Your father loved you so much that he brought you back from the dead," sounds so kindly at first. But the sinister truth beyond the obsession is living knowing the fact that the only thing keeping the man alive is you. Once your mother's godforsaken task - now yours.

The game may play up that she resents this, but in my experience there is a love/hate growing up under this dynamic with a parent. You resent this parent for a reason you can't quite put your finger on as a kid, but its the resentment of being made to emotionally soothe them when they never soothe you: which was supposed to be their job. You, as the child, rely on them for survival. You have to look like everything is ok because your parent being upset is so catastrophic (that they will be too dysfunctional to meet your survival needs) that your own needs feel less important.

But on the flip side, you do become parentified in a role reversal. You can't help but love your parent and want the best for them. The emotional abuse is so subtle and imperceptible, that it just makes sense that you would never assert a boundary with your parent because of how much it would throw them into a depression. Being rejected by the one person who loves them.

I wonder how upset Isobel was when Ketheric began drifting from Selune to Shar. How, like a parent, she might have felt like he should have known better. How her own parent felt like a rotten, naive child in doing so. What if a hidden reason for Isobel holding firmly to Selune was to try to convince him. Not every action is tied to the enmeshed parent, but sometimes there are undermining doubts that maybe you're still not acting on your own behalf and still feel like you have to support a parent who should be living their own life - not sucking lifeforce from you.

I kind of feel for Isobel because she seems sweet, and even with the snark, there may be a genuine sensitivity within her that makes emotionally unstable people flock to her like an oasis in the desert (which is an experience I relate to). I even fear that with Aylin's PTSD, Isobel will just be put in that role again of emotional caretaker - being the only thing that grounds Aylin out of her rages. And that scares me.

From a note found in Isobel's room, I feel like she will fall into a depression now that she's been brought to life. Her father soon to be dead. And perhaps now, she will be stuck in a repeating cycle. Where she is always the beacon of hope for others out of necessity rather than living the life that should have always been hers and only hers.

If she dies, will the people around her desperately want to revive her as well? Because she shines so brightly they can't live without her light?

[ohwolfling]

.

Saw a random little post about the most dangerous places in the U.S., measured by violent crimes per 1000 residents. And lo and behold, my hometown, in the dark crimson of the chart's key that means "the worst."

And my cousin's murder remains unsolved. I do not know who is or isn't back in prison. I cannot know what violence strangles the idea of family for my family but I know it's something. It's always something. And it is probably someone. It's always someone's turn to hurt everybody else.

They chose my abuser. Over and over. Even in the sprinkles that someone might stand up for me, they still chose her. I proved that I could survive it and I kept thinking- hoping- the more they started to see how bad she was that maybe it might mean they'd let me be a little less tough, a little less strong, a little less adaptable, a little less alone...

And I probably never will know. Because I deleted all my Meta accounts & I made the choice to say nothing because I knew and I have always known that it doesn't really matter to them. How many people would have to die, who would have to die, for them to remember me, the first born of a generation of us that experiences a violent, avoidable death every few years?

I am alive though. The oldest. And I am alive. And it isn't right. All I can think is that it's supposed to be me.

But all I did was tell them, "no, use your enmeshment to protect everyone else. I'm fine to suffer. I'm so good at suffering."

I don't think anyone thinks this of me... I don't even think I think this of me... but I tried so hard to still be a part of my family.

The only thing I have to show I was part of it at all is violence. In my blood. In my nature. My ability to be a shield or a punching bag or a sacrificial lamb. It is the most useless and weakest way anyone has ever been strong. It is nothing.

[jinkieswouldyoulookatthis]

Rolling

Just a hunt fic with lots of weirdly close brother moments.

Words: 4395

Relationship:  Just the brothers being weirdly close, no wincest, no smut, but this definitely qualifies as weirdcest.

Warnings: Drug use, recreational drug use, illegal drugs are illegal... Mmmkay?

Read it on AO3 here

The door opened and Dean stepped into the motel room, tossing a small, brown paper bag onto the crappy table in front of Sam’s laptop. Whatever was in it  made a soft, rattling thunk. Sam looked at it and then up at Dean as he closed the door.

“What’s that?”

“I figured out how to find our killer.” Dean said as he pulled out the other chair and sat across from Sam.

“How?”

“What is the one thing that our witnesses who claim to have seen the shadow figure had that the other witnesses didn’t?”

Sam blinked at him for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know, what?”

Dean grabbed the bag, opened it, and pulled out an unlabeled orange plastic pill bottle with a few caplets in it, and tapped the bottle down onto the table. Sam picked it up and shook it while Dean crumpled up the bag and tossed it into the trash can. “Two points!”

“What are these?”

“MDMA.”

“Ecstasy?”

“Yup.” Dean watched the wheels turn in Sam’s head for a second before pulling out a folded paper from his jacket pocket. He held it up before tossing it down on the table. There was a phone number and the name Jeni written on it. “Open it.”

Sam gave a little huff of air out his nose with a shake of his head and looked at his brother who shot him a quick bragging sort of grin before shrugging. Dean never ceased to be Dean. Sam picked up the piece of paper and unfolded it.

“So our latest vic was rolling his ass off, right?” Dean said, matter of factly.

The contents of the toxicology report Sam was holding verified this to be true.

“So I thought back to our witnesses, the two who said they saw a ‘tall, thin, shadowy figure that flickered across the dance floor’ right before it attacked poor Dylan,” he tapped the newspaper clipping that was on top of the paperwork that Sam had stacked neatly next to his laptop. “Their pupils were dilated and were also really easy to get talking, like, they would not shut up. That one guy just kept going on about the song that was playing as if it was connected somehow, A club like that? With our victim’s system full of molly?” He flicked the report. “The official reports on all of these deaths have been that they were drug related, like that somehow explains how eleven people’s hearts just burst.”

“So you think they could only see it because they were high?” Sam asked dubiously.

“It’s not that far of a stretch. Drugs have been used since the beginning of time to alter states of consciousness as parts of religious and spiritual practices, vision quests and all that, right? Well, Ecstasy alters perceptions, for sure.”

“Huh. That’s actually… that’s not a bad theory.”

“Don’t sound too surprised there, Sammy.”

“No it’s just…” Sam laughed, “leave it to you to pick up on the recreational drug use angle.”

Dean smiled broadly at that. “I told you, man, that was all research. And I believe I said that it would come in handy someday too, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. You did.” Sam shook the bottle again and his brow furrowed. “So you bought these so that we could…” He trailed off, not entirely comfortable with where he saw this going.

“If the pattern holds, then there will be another attack tonight and you and I will be there, ready for it. Because if we aren’t, if we don’t stop it, someone else is gonna die and we’ll have to wait until next year to try again.” 

“Ok, yeah.” Sam still sounded unsure and Dean looked at him, really looked at him for a second.

“Wait, you never…?”

Sam swallowed, brow furrow deepening, spots of red blooming on his cheeks, “No.”

“Oh shit, Sammy! No wonder you’re so uptight. It’ll be good, great even. We’ll gank the baddie and then just feel good about everything for a while. Of course the come down is a bitch. But knowing you, you’ll love that part, have a reason to be all moody and broody.”

Sam huffed another puff of air out his nose and pressed his lips together in annoyance.

***

The intimidatingly beefy man working the door had given them a look and just paused, blocking the entrance. Dean flashed him a smile and nonchalantly held his hand out, a neatly folded $50 held against his palm. With the briefest of glances, the bouncer shook his hand and when he let go the $50 had miraculously vanished and they were waved in past him. 

As they walked into the club, the house music was loud and, well, it was loud and bassy, that’s about all Sam could say about it. Mostly dark, but with flashing, strobing lights and already a small sea of people milling about, some dancing, many drinking, forming little clusters and cliques around the space. Everyone looked like they belonged in the club, lots of skin and make-up, gelled hair and tanned muscles. All the bright colors glowed in the black lights that were scattered around. He followed Dean who had headed right towards the bar.

“Dean, we look like townies.”

“Yeah, we probably should have gone easy on the plaid. Oh well. I don’t think it’ll matter any way.” He bought two bottles of water from the bartender and handed one to Sam, followed by one of the caplets.

Before he could start to overthink the situation, Sam swallowed it with a gulp of water and saw Dean do the same.

“Alright. We’ve got twenty to thirty minutes, let’s scope the place out.” Dean indicated that he was going to go one way and wanted Sam to go the other. “Meet back here.”

Sam looked around, focusing on seeing through the flashing lights and movement. The music was an incessant pulsing on his eardrums and it was so loud it actually made his jeans vibrate as he passed speakers that were painted black to match and blend in with the walls. A lifetime of disciplined practice kicked in and the chaos toned down enough that he could really see the people around him and the layout of the place. He made note of doors and hallways, making educated guesses about where they’d lead. He found fire alarm pulls and where the emergency lighting boxes were. He kept a mental tally of faces and body language. He identified groups that had obviously come here together as well as individuals who were probably hoping to find someone to leave with later. 

It took him about 10 minutes, the place wasn’t complex and the night was still young enough that it wasn’t completely packed yet, but he didn’t want to rush. Many well thought out plans had gone sour because of careless errors. So he took his time and made sure he did the job right. Dean was already back, leaning against the bar when Sam joined him.

They discussed the layout of the place and that they hadn’t seen anyone or anything suspicious looking. Although some of the usual paranormal tells were of no use here. EMF would be going off regardless of any supernatural activity, thanks to all the wiring for the lights and sound system. And of course spotting a flickering light would be next to impossible. But they’ve been doing this long enough that sometimes they can just tell. 

“Ooh, hello.” Dean said with a smile.

Sam followed his gaze. A sun-kissed blonde was dancing and laughing with another girl. Toned, tan skin barely concealed by a top that was just a sparkly draped scrap of fabric that looked like it was being held on by magic, and a short, short leather skirt slung low across her hips. She should have been a model, and if she wasn’t then something wasn’t right with the universe. Sam raised his eyebrows, actually impressed. His brother’s appreciation for the female form was typically generous and undemanding, but, “Wow, yeah.”

Dean leaned a little towards Sam, “Sarah Adams in Galveston.”

“What?” Sam’s mind scrolled back quickly to a memory already a decade old. “Why? She looks nothing like Sarah Adams, Dean.”

“I know, but Sarah was hot! In that bathing suit, sitting up in the lifeguard chair, blowing her whistle…” His eyes shut for a second. “Mmm.”

Sam laughed. “What made you think of her?”

“Tan skin always makes me think of her. That was one hell of a hot summer. Did I ever tell you about the time I gave her a ride home from the mall? Dad had let me use the car…”

“Meaning he was asleep and you took it without asking.” 

Dean continued as if he hadn’t heard the interjection, “...and she was walking. It was nine o’clock at night and it was still like 90 degrees. And she was wearing these little cutoff jean shorts and one of those stretchy shirts that just hug around the chest with no straps or anything.” 

“A tube top?” Sam supplied.

“Oh yeah! You know the best part about a tube top?” and he gave Sam one of his patented cheshire leers.

Sam couldn’t help but smile back, knowing this was going nowhere good. “What?”

“Easy access!”

Sam rolled his eyes and laughed. He’d heard all about Dean’s exploits with Sarah Adams. She was all he’d talked about for months. Anytime their dad wasn’t around, he’d start in, regalling Sam with ever more exaggerated tales. Each retelling bringing a new level of disturbing detail to make the twelve year old Sam blush. 

Sam wasn’t twelve anymore.

“Probably not as easy as that.” and he nodded at the blonde who was grinding back into a guy  with gelled up spiky hair wearing tight black jeans and a partially unbuttoned white shirt. He had one hand on her hip, holding himself against her, and the other up under the scrap of fabric passing as her top.

Dean’s eyes widened and his lips went from smiling to forming a perfect O before he blinked and closed his mouth to swallow thickly.

The music pulsed and the couple moved with it.

“Oh, her friend doesn’t look happy though.” Sam noted and leaned a little closer to Dean, nodding towards the curvy brunette in a skin-tight red dress who’d been dancing and laughing with the blonde a few minutes ago. She tried to say something to her friend but was ignored. She tried again and got a shake of blonde hair in response. The guy scowled and said something abrupt.

“Oh, she’s getting mad.” Dean said.

The brunette was fuming and pulling on her friend’s arm. The blonde shook her off with a smile and turned around, plastering herself to the guy. Even though they couldn’t hear over the music from where they were, they saw the brunette shout her friend’s name as she stomped her foot. 

“She’s kinda cute when she’s angry.”

“You get the feeling this isn’t the first time this has happened?”

Dean tugged on the front of his shirts, pulling the fabric away from his body a few times, “I bet Blondie does this all the time.”

“And she asked her friend to keep an eye on her, to stop her if she did it again?” Sam guessed.

“Nope.” Dean said with confidence. “Her friend is just tired of getting ditched when they go out but Blondie promised it wouldn’t happen this time. But now that she’s here, with the music, and a good looking guy, who okay, maybe he’s a douchebag, he looks like a douchebag, but he’s into her and she really needs the validation.”

Sam looked at his brother. That was surprisingly astute and not what he would’ve expected. Sometimes he forgets how intuitive Dean is, how he just seems to get how people work. 

“Here she comes.”

Sam looked back into the crowd just as the brunette stormed over to the bar just past Dean. She got the bartender’s attention and ordered a drink. Dean had turned around as the bartender set the drink in front of her. He slid some money across the bar and leaned down towards her just a bit. “It’s on me.”

She looked up, annoyance blinked away quickly as she took in his face and easy smile.

Sam couldn’t see Dean’s face, but he could see hers and he already knew what she was facing. Dean might’ve never been able to get folks to trust him when he was being sincere, they always seemed to suspect him of something, but in settings like this, when he smiled at you, you felt it all the way down and it made your breath catch and your heart beat a little harder. Yeah, he might not earn trust easily, not like Sam always could, but Dean could seduce a snowman without hardly trying. 

“Thanks.” she said and took a sip of her drink.

“You ok?”

She glanced back at her friend who was one step away from having sex with the guy on the dancefloor. “Yeah. She does this. I don’t know why I keep coming out with her.”

“Well, you are way too pretty to be someone’s chaperone, especially if they don’t really want one.”

Her cheeks burned red as she took a sip of her drink, but then she smiled as she swallowed. “You know what? I am. I look good tonight!” Confidence flared in her eyes, “Do you want to dance?”

Dean leaned in close to her and Sam couldn’t catch what he said. Dean gently ran a finger across the back of her hand as she wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to him. “Call me when you get done with that,” she said.

“You bet.” he said as she took her drink and sauntered off. Turning back to Sam he whistled, tucking the napkin into his pocket. “She’s a little firecracker!”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“She went from fuming to prowling in like, five seconds!”

Dean laughed, “Oh that? That’s easy. Anger and horniness are like this.” and he held up two fingers pressed together. “She just wanted to be seen too, wanted to feel desirable.” He shrugged. “Man, I bet she is fun in the sack.”

Sam laughed. It was an honest laugh, lacking any of the lingering resentment or jealousy he usually felt when his brother picked up women. 

Dean leaned back against the bar next to Sam, close enough that their shoulders were touching. “Picking up women isn’t hard if you keep that in mind. They want to be seen and made to feel like they’re wanted, appreciated. Some of them will shoot you down, but it’s nothing personal, just the wrong time and place.” He took a sip of his water and looked around the club. His laid back casanova vibe slipped for a moment as he scanned for anything hinky.

There were more people now, easily twice as many as when they’d come in. Sam realized that he’d started to sweat and wished that he could take off his jacket, but considering the sawed off shotgun the jacket was concealing, he kept it on. Sam knew that Dean would have never tipped a bouncer fifty bucks to get into a club, at least, not without trying a twenty first. But in all likelihood, the guy was going to lose his job tonight, thanks to them, so he’d just gone high. To hell with it.

A woman squeezed up to the bar to Sam’s right. Normally, the close contact would make him feel uncomfortable, self conscious, like he was taking up too much space, but she smelled really good and her voice, when she ordered her drink, had surprising depth to it, like Kathleen Turner in Romancing the Stone. She paid for her drink and brushed against his hand as she walked away, the fabric of her shirt was soft.

“It’s getting to be about that time. You see anything yet?” Dean said, his breath ghosting over Sam’s ear as he leaned in. They looked around.

“Nothing unusual yet.” Sam said, looking past Dean and down the bar towards the entrance before noticing that Dean was looking at him. Dean licked his bottom lip, curling it in and then slowly letting it roll back out. His eyes were dilated so much that just a thin ring of green showed.

“How’re you doing?” He asked.

Sam thought about it for a second before saying, “Good. I’m doing good.” And he meant it. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt all the weight lift off of his shoulders. He felt like he could breathe freely, like he could feel the air going out of his lungs carrying away the constant fear. Dean smiled at him and he felt all the hundreds of thousands of smiles from their past sweep over him. All the times that Dean made him laugh, and he realized that was almost never an accident. Dean had always seemed to know when the tension was too much, when Sam had been scared, when he was angry, and had also known just how to lighten the mood. Sam smiled now, thinking back on it all, and Dean’s face just lit up.

“Ugh! Get a room!” someone shouted and Sam looked up and around. Blondie and Douchebag were still grinding away out there, oblivious to the mixed reactions of the people around them. There were some, mostly guys, who were watching like they were hoping the two really would start having sex right there. But there were also a lot of negative looks, head shakes, and people pointedly avoiding the area. And then he saw it. 

“Dean.” he said as he straightened up.

“Yeah I see it.”

A thin, shadowy figure had just flickered past the couple, moving off to one side of the room with a sense of purpose.

“Go.” Dean ordered and Sam took off towards the fire alarm pull that was on the wall near the restrooms. Dean followed the shadow, trying to spot its target before it got to whoever it was, pulling his sawed-off free from its bindings under his coat, but keeping it out of sight.

Just as he spotted a group of what seemed like high school kids that were right in the path of the creature as it flit through the crowd between strobes of the multicolored lights, the music suddenly cut out and the piercingly loud scream of the fire alarm went off. Dean had the shotgun out and trained on the shadow just as the pulsing, strobing lights stopped and were replaced by brilliant pools of emergency lighting around the edges of the space.

People stopped in stunned confusion.

“Fire! Everyone out!” Dean boomed and the crowd around him flinched.

“He’s got a gun!” a woman shouted and the people around him pushed back and started running towards the exits.

Dean stayed focused on the shadow. It turned on him and flickered closer. As soon as he had a clear shot, no one between him and it and no one immediately behind it either, he squeezed the trigger and the shotgun let loose an explosion of blindingly bright light.

“Fuck!” he shouted, his eyes stinging and shutting too late. Blinking furiously, he tried to look around but it was no use, his vision was blown out by the flash and he couldn’t see anything but the after image of the blast. 

A coldness spiked through his chest, right into his heart. He gasped with the pain and fell to his knees. It was like an icicle stabbing him through, cold then burning, then searing pain. He couldn’t breathe.

“DEAN!”

A sun exploded right over his head and everything went black.

Sam fired his second shot point blank into the dissipating shadow, his eyes shutting just before and reopening as soon as the glare from the phosphorus started to fade. He had no way of knowing if he’d killed the thing or not, was still not convinced that a shadow could be killed, but it appeared to be gone, at least for now. At his feet, Dean gasped like he’d just surfaced from a long dive underwater.

“Dean! Are you okay?” He asked as he grabbed his brother by the front of his shirts.

Dean coughed. “I’m getting really tired of things squeezing my heart! Shit that hurts!”

“Come on.” and Sam hauled his brother to his feet, scooping up the second shotgun and pulling Dean towards the back exit. If the bitchy quality of Dean’s voice was anything to go by, and a lifetime spent together told him it was, Sam knew that Dean was going to be fine. God knows they’d both learned how to take hits. Sure enough, by the time they got out into the alley, Dean was walking unassisted. By the time they got to where the Impala was parked, he was laughing.

“I told you it was a shadow person!”

Sam shook his head but found he couldn’t wipe the relieved smile off his face. “Yep, you were right.”

“Of course I was right.” the driver’s side door creaked loudly as he opened it and slid in behind the wheel, as easy as breathing.

The passenger side door gave an answering creak. Sam tossed the guns down onto the floor behind the front seat and took off his jacket, dropping it over them before folding himself into the passenger seat.

Both doors squeak/banged shut at the same time. The car roared to life.

“And how about those phosphorus rounds, eh?”

“They really seemed to do the trick.”

“Yeah they did! I’m still see streaks though, hope that fades fast.” and he gunned the car down the alley and away from the sound of approaching sirens.

Sam sat back and stared out the window, enthralled with everything they passed, the streetlights, signs, buildings, cars, people, houses, sidewalks, the bits of broken glass that glittered at the edges of every intersection, weeds growing in the cracks and crevices, the obligatory lone shoe laying forgotten on the shoulder of an on ramp. And all the while, Dean sang along with his well-worn Led Zeppelin Physical Graffiti cassette. His exuberant renditions pulling Sam’s attention away from the passing scenery and making him smile. 

Although when he sang, “In my time of dying, want nobody to moan, all I want for you to do is take my body home, so I can die easy,” a wave of sadness rolled through Sam. Sometimes music hit too close, you know? But then the beat dropped and Dean was grinning and drumming on the steering wheel and the passing headlights were lighting up his face in time with the song and Sam let himself be buoyed back up. There’d be plenty of time for worries and regrets later, he felt too good. He knew it was just the drug in his system, stripping away the burden of his life, he didn’t care.

The night was cool, bordering on chilly, but the air was crisp and the sky was clear and they had driven with their windows down. It took about an hour for Dean to get out of the city and find a secluded place to pull off the road. 

He killed the lights and shut off the engine, the radio going silent with it. Out here, far enough away from lights and traffic, the stars cast a soft glow on the trees and tall grasses and everything was hushed and still.

“Come on.” he said, slapping the back of his fingers into Sam’s knee with a flick of his hand before opening his door and climbing out of the car.  

As Sam grabbed his door handle, Dean popped the trunk and then shut it almost immediately. Then he opened the back driver’s side door and dug around in the cooler that was sitting on the backseat. Sam got out and stood up, amazed at how good it felt to stretch his legs out. 

“Hey.” Dean said. “Catch.”

Sam caught the beer can as it sailed over the car.

Dean rolled down the back window and closed the door. There was a loud crack and hiss when he opened his beer and took a long drink as he walked towards the front of the car.

Sam knew this routine. It was a star gazing night. 

“Hold this.” Dean held his beer out for Sam to take. Once his hands were free he shook out the old, green, Army blanket that he’d gotten out of the trunk and spread it out over the hood to, “Protect the paint.”

Once they were stretched out on the car, heads resting up against the windshield, legs stretched out the length of the hood, Sam cracked open his beer and took a sip. Realizing how dry his mouth was, he took a longer drink. The cool liquid was downright glorious. For the first time he looked at the can, it was a Margiekugel, nothing unusual, but he didn’t remember it ever tasting this satisfying before.

After several long minutes of silence, Dean pointed at the sky, his beer still in his hand, “Orion.”

“You always start with the easiest one.”

“He’s the hunter, that’s where it starts.”

“Okay. Canis Minor.” Sam pointed.

“The Big Dipper.”

“The Little Dipper.”

“Mars.”

“Mars is a planet.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s not the game, Dean.”

“Fine. Cassiopeia.”

“Jupiter,” he felt Dean side-eye him,  “in the constellation of Virgo.”

“Show off.”

“I don’t know that one, where is it?” Sam said, deadpanning it.

“Uranus.”

They both laughed and drank their beers, just the two of them, laying in the dark under the stars. 

The wool blanket was warm and scratchy against Sam’s fingers when he laid his left hand down on it. But the feeling was fascinating and he absentmindedly brushed his fingers back and forth. When Dean relaxed and rested his beer down, his right hand curled loosely around it, Sam’s fingers brushed his knuckles. Neither of them seemed to care. Everything felt so completely right that it lulled them into a contented silence. 

After a while, the last drops of beer warming on his tongue, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the car. “Another?”

“You know it.”

Next Chapter>>>

[ezroyler]

Bioluminescence

I love you The love I gave Was freely offered The purest affection I had in my soul But the love you gave Was self-centered And from a place Of endless need I hate you Because your love Was never about me I hate you Because your love Was born from Your self-hatred I hate you Because I don’t Know how to love Anyone, much less me I love you You’re the only one I remember loving So freely Every memory of affection Is tied into the feel Of hours spent In your presence Of the way you smiled When you looked my way A ray of sunshine Illuminating my soul But the sun has set And the light of the moon Is bitter and cold I have nothing for me The dawn of my youth Was given to you And now you, a black hole And me, forgotten and alone Another’s love Could never heal The self-loathing you feel My love would have Been enough for me But never for you And now you are a vortex And I am forsaken How can I coax The dead in me Back to life? How can I bring back The dawn that has Slipped into shadow? Does anything grow In darkness? Can I plant lights To grow again? Can I walk on Steps of starlight? I will make the darkness The home you could not And I will not Steal another’s light You may implode And you may shatter Into the cosmos But I will make this Night a home of light Mourning and honoring My once-gifted affection My forsaken life

[forsworned]

cw: sexual content, pnv sex, cunninglingus

“This is wrong.”

“So wrong.”

You moan out as Johnny’s calloused fingers slip under the waistband of your underwear, peeling off the fabric to feel the wetness pooling between your thighs as he lifts your pajama shirt to reveal your braless chest. His lips immediately find your nipple and they harden at his tender touch. A stark contrast between the rough pads of his fingers that caress your naked skin. And soon he's between those sweet thighs, supping up your drooling folds, immediately clenching at his touch as you squeeze his head between your thighs. The feeling of his scruff and shaven head scratches at your inner thighs, but it's a pleasant feeling. His hair is soft, silk-ladden-like as you trace over his scalp, scratching at the follicles with your nails which causes him to moan against your pussy.

And before you know it, you're being turned onto your stomach, ass being pushed back against his pelvis as he aligns with your core. He slowly pushes into you and you arch like a cat, stretching your arms as you claw into the sheets. It's not even moaning at this point, just straight whimpering enmeshed with incoherent words. Fuck, it feels sooooo good, especially knowing that you two weren't supposed to be doing it. Or at least you think so. Was it entirely inappropriate? Definitely.

But the Captain has always made it clear that what you do outside of missions is entirely your business. So a little fun here and there isn't gonna kill you. At least that's what you told yourselves, after having euphoric orgasms, tucked under damp sheets as you cuddled against one another. You suppose everyone has a vice...this one you just so happen to share with Johnny.

[pricegouge]

assassin anon again! There's a sword 🗡️ emoji. If it's not taken I will have it!

Still obsessed with papochka. Poor daughter!reader who's been raised isolated from pretty much anyone else. Only a nanny/tutor who aren't even around since she's an adult now. She can count on one hand how many times she's seen Nik. She's so sheltered she's afraid to leave home.

She has an accident. Something like falling off her horse or falling down the stairs. Either way she breaks a leg and maybe a wrist or something else.

Nik comes to check on her and she's just instantly attached to him. Super clingy and weepy because she's in pain and her Papochka is finally around taking care of her. And oh man will Nik take care of her. Why not just sleep in his bed with him? That way he can be close by if she needs something. Don't mind if she wakes up to him grinding against her.

*emerges from the google doc like i'm rising from the fucking dead* it's the fact that you have no idea what you did to me when you hit send that keeps killing me lmao.

this screamed princess locked away in a tower vibes to me so i hope you don't mind i made it into an extremely poorly defined medieval/fantasy au and then proceeded to completely out myself as a complete slut for fantasy and spend seven thousand words just having fun with it 🙄

anyway, i imagine nik as some lesser lord. maybe just a landed knight even, granted some run down keep out in the middle of nowhere, plenty of land, as a thank you from his liege lord after an act of valor.

cw: f!reader. incest, skirting awful close with grooming. power imbalance/reader is very sheltered. period appropriate terms for pussy (sorry. i tried to make it as sexy as possible but sometimes it really makes or breaks the scene), virginity kink, multiple orgasms. touch starvation. minor character death, one of which is hinted at foul play but it's only mentioned in one line. please lmk if i missed anything. MDNI

it's easy to get himself a wife once he has a keep, harder to hold her. i can see her fading away after years spent in such isolation, growing more and more melancholy and distant until one day she just. well. the wounds on her wrists, it's hard to imagine such a gentile lady doing something like that, but it must have been what happened? surely?

she never gave him a son, but he's left with the daughter. you're a sweet little gurgling thing he doesn't know what to do with, especially not when duty calls and he's needed elsewhere again. so he gets a handmaid - of sorts. in truth he doesn't quite know what she is, her language one he's not overly familiar with, but she was hard at work in his lord's scullery when he found her and it was a simple matter to ask for another favor, really, even if she wails the whole time. 

war's war, a hard thing to pull away from when you've proven yourself as well as nikolai. harder still when your liege is a greedy man. he's rarely home, misses much of your growth. but his travels take him far and wide and he learns to speak the language of the handmaid, a good thing considering it's what you come to speak, his own daughter's tongue foreign to him. so far removed. like your mama, really, but where his wife had faded in isolation, you appear to thrive.

hard to miss something you never had, he supposes, but if that were true, he shouldn't miss you, not when he hardly even knows you, not when you don't even call him papa in the proper language. but he misses you like he misses his hearth - warm embrace and scent of home. he's ashamed to admit it, but it heats his blood some nights, when the loneliness of the road weighs on him. he's only a man and you've grown quick, as far as he can tell. one minute clutching the maid's skirts and the next helping her in the kitchen, grain enmeshed in the coarse weave of your sleeves. you're a lady, of some fashion - at least when compared to how he grew up - but you're content with this simple life, happy with the dirt under your fingernails. and what man could want for more? a simple woman at home to welcome him with soft arms and the scent of bread?

though he does want more for you, wants to spoil you like the proper little lady you are, his printsessa, so graceful, but ladies come with courts, whole teams of servants at your beck and call to feed you properly, brush your hair and bathe you. 

stable hands to teach you riding, shoe your horses for you.

more cocks in the roost.

you're the light of his life, his sweet dochka, so he can't be blamed for growing covetous. illiberal. it's unwise, will make you an undesirable match later in life when you can't do the things most ladies are supposed to, but there's nothing for it except to keep you squirreled away at home, no one to talk to besides your sweet maid who keeps you unlearned and simple, helpless even to speak with the rabble when you are permitted to walk to town on your maid's arm. 

helpless even to know you need help, until your maid grows too old to take you, too frail to feed herself. nikolai's away for that bit, returns some months later to find you beside yourself, hysterical. stir crazy. he's just grateful the old baba was clever enough to tell you how to dispose of her body - though you didn't do a very good job, the shallow grave you'd dug empty when he finds it under a tree in the east pasture. wolves, likely. he'll have to take care of them before he leaves again. 

it ends up being his longest stay at home in nearly twenty years. a good thing, too, because you need the time almost as much as he does, nerves unwinding under his care after so many months alone. you care for him too, when he lets you, singing to him by the fire until he nods off, thoughts too sluggish to keep up with the translation, your strange foreign tales washing over him until it's just sounds, just the lovely lilt of your voice. you're like a little bird. his little bird, so sweet.

he wants to keep you, clip your feathers, but he can't maintain them from half across the kingdom and there's no one at home to do it for him, so he has to trust you - for now.

the horse frightens you, and he tells you it well should, though it's no destrier, the gentle palfrey shirking from his own mount with flared nostrils and agitated huffs. she's a docile little thing usually, barely even knows how to canter. he teaches you how to take care of her and you pout about the added chores, but there's no denying the excitement he sees in your eyes when you realize the autonomy he's given you. he dampens it with a word of caution.

"remember, radnaja, town holds no friends for you. without your maid, no one will understand you, and an unchaperoned lady will draw many an unwanted glance. you must only travel in the event of an emergency."

there's more peeping, some half-hearted arguments. he doesn't know how the commoners have received you in the past, but you give in easily enough so it can't be a great loss. at least, not enough to outweigh your eagerness to please him, thinking it will make him stay.

you've only just settled when the next call to arms comes and he has to listen to you weep all night, keeping him awake when he really needs the rest. there's no soothing you, no matter how many times he reiterates that you'll be okay, that he's fixed everything, set you up with a year's worth of grains and root veggies in the cellar, and deliveries of cured meats. you know how to milk the goats, how to slit their kids' throats come winter. he doesn't understand why you're so upset, but then, he didn't understand your mother either.

he starts to, though, in the long months that follow; the loneliness that eats at him. at night he hears the trill of your voice in his ear, feels your plush hips in his palms, your weight familiar after too many times helping you onto your horse. he's not a good man, nor a proud one. after long days of trudging and battle, he doesn't fight it - succumbs to the quickest, easiest fantasy; more fleshed out now than ever before. the little woman he's got at home. it's like fuel within him, a flame that only gets hotter the longer it burns. he stokes it daily and it feeds him in turn, makes him bloodthirsty, efficient. there's talk of granting him a larger keep by the end of it.

lace, silks. he pictures you in dresses that tie in the back, maids swarming around you like gnats to keep you primped and pretty. he'd swat them away and lace you up himself if he had his way, grunting with how tightly he pulls your stays. in his thoughts you're already a proper lady, one of those simpering little helpless things who gather around to welcome the lords home. he dreams of seeing you waiting for him at the field gate as he rides home, hair all plated and pretty. like church bells, calling him home, hastening his trip. sometimes he even sleeps in the saddle, the leagues flying underfoot. he's never been this eager to be home, but the years add up; and he aches, just wants to hear you sing to him, too see if you'll be good to your papa and rub his sore knee.

perhaps that's why he doesn't notice the horse at first.

he'd crossed the border onto his own land some miles back, driving his heel hard into the flank of his mount. pines whip past in an endless sea, but he knows the path well, a game trail he himself has carved. his horse notices the other before he does, slowing to a trot and trumpeting. odd. a hardened beast, the destrier did not often feint, but nikolai spots the issue after a quick glance around.

poor creature, eager at the first sight of tail. must be as hard up as him.

dismounting, nikolai tuts to see your reins untethered and calls for you, voice stern as he begins his lecture about the importance of hobbling your mount.

but you never come. not so much as a twig snaps in answer, his own echo all that greets him.

he doesn't panic. not yet. he ties your horse to his own and sets off again, pace much slower for the benefit of your fat little palfrey, keeping his ears strained as he continues to call for you.

your horse's trail is easy to follow, the soft old girl having eaten her way across the fields. the worry sets in the more the path winds, long miles looping over his acreage. aimless. where were you while your sweet little beast was roaming?

he finds you as the sun sets, weather beaten and weary. you can't put weight on your leg and you yelp when he tries to pull you up with a steady grip on your upper arm, but your voice is too creaky to explain why, face twisting in pain with tears that don't fall - the streaks down your pretty face long dried. you shriek when he throws you over your horse's back, though, screams raw and jagged as he rides hard for home.

the first night is the hardest, long hours spent fighting his own exhaustion as he tries to ply you with much needed food and water. you can't move from the bed, can't help yourself even enough to hold the spoon of broth, and he can see why in the mottling on your chest when your smock falls loose enough to show where the delicate bone there should arch. you scream when he hitches your skirts up, his hands too heavy against the deep bruising which runs high on your thigh, perfect ring of a hoofmark dotting dangerously close to your hip.

he's seen men die of complications from such wounds, knows how close you came to the death sentence that is a broken hip.

you try to follow him in the morning, too delirious to understand that he needs to fetch a physician. he ends up having to tie you to the bed, a poor attempt to keep you from injuring yourself further. he leaves you with water and soup, one hand left untied so you could reach it, while the other was bound to your chest, keeping your arm in place. in theory, you could untie yourself, though the knots are so tightly bound he doesn't have to worry. still, when he returns he finds your nails frayed and bloody, the jute rope on its last thread.

they cannot tell if your leg is broken, keep prodding at it with bony old gnarled fingers which he thinks about snapping, if only to remind them what they're looking for. the process makes you sob and shake and cling, your one good arm reaching back to hold him close as the other remains bound to your chest. he sits flush behind you the whole while, cradling you between his thighs. holding the wood they place between your teeth in place, he rocks you whenever able. a pathetic attempt to soothe. and he blames the tears that stain his cheeks on you. transfer from how tightly he holds you, surely.

you sleep after they leave, the tincture they'd given leaving you pliant and soft. even still you cling to him when he settles beside you, careful of the sling that holds you together. he should give you space, let you sleep, but the thought leaves his limbs leaded, too heavy to abide when he tries to pull away. he squired as a boy. they said it was an honor for one so base-born, but he knows now it was only a testament to his size, his strength. even then there was no hiding it, plucked from the village by a passing lord who knew a weapon when he saw one, dressed it up as an honor. he'd play at knighthood when his master was otherwise occupied, stealing away with bits of armor and swords. the first time he'd donned mail, it had nearly made him buckle under the burden, his body unused to the weight. he feels like that now. untried.

you gurgle when he peppers kisses along your hairline. he'd left you completely alone, unwatched. unguarded. he's lucky to have found you alive at all. if he'd been longer in coming, if he'd died in the cause -.

you cuddle closer, snuffling after more kisses. it eases something in his chest, some tightly wound spring he's unaccustomed to feeling, here in the safety of his own home. his next kiss lands lower, the bridge of your nose, then another high on your cheek. your lips part, a soft sound calling to him and he melts into you as much as he can without causing further harm, lips soft against your own.

his sweet, little bird. clipped wing, still singing.

—

thoughts come wispy, barely connected. spiderweb threads which weave in and out of consciousness. there's pain still, but it's lesser somehow. dulled around the edges. you vaguely remember being fed some sticky solution, the bite of it as it slipped down your throat. it had reminded you of the grain alcohol your father sometimes brought home, the stuff you would sneak sips of after he'd started snoring in his chair. it left you loose the same way. easy, passive.

but this didn't help the ache in that same way, the hollow chasm in your chest you've lived with ever since nana passed. it yawns now, needy and desperate. you whimper as you roll, searching, expecting nothing -

and find the warm musculature of another body.

despite your wishes, it's hard to resist the urge to spring up, shrieking, but you manage. instead you turn slowly, fearfully, and nearly sob in relief at the sight of your father's sleeping moue. it's strange, how quickly the lingering effects of your medicine seem to clear. physically, you remain languid, but you've not felt more alert since his last visit, the first time you sat astride your pretty pony and felt for the first time, some modicum of control. this is different, but the effect is the same, leaves your very veins singing with excitement, the tallest tree in the forest, recently struck from the heavens and burning from the inside. you want to consume him with yourself, divine retribution for leaving you alone. more so, you want him to already be with you - an owl at home in the hollowed knot of your chest when you were engulfed.

but he sleeps too peacefully, strong brow obscured by the strands of hair which have escaped his severe style. thick arms encase you, heavy in rest. comforting. you enjoy it as long as he lets you, fingers growing bolder as the morning stretches on, tracing up over his furry forearm, smoothing the folds of his shirt where it rides up to his elbow. he doesn't stink like you'd expect, melt water crisp. he must have washed the filth of the road off while you'd slept, and you can't help but luxuriate in it, craning your neck up to nudge against his throat until he grumbles and snuggles deeper, returning the favor. you play with the thick, gold chain he wears and lay it flat as you can manage against his broad chest, intimate your knuckles with the coarse stubble of his jaw. he wakes when you push his hair back into place, catching your wrist in his big paw so quickly that it makes you jump, crying out when the sharp pain cuts through your hunger.

his grip turns soothing instantly, "shh, shh, malýshka, settle."

"you scared me," you pout, and then pout some more when he levels you with a warning look, rather unearned.

"and you scared me," he counters, kissing the inside of your wrist. his lips are hot against your skin, a relief from the chill of the early spring air. you tuck it back under the blanket when he releases you, the heat built under the cover more than enough to keep you warm; although you realize as your palm settles over the rough spun linen that you've been stripped to your chemise and briefly marvel at that possibility. he emits heat like the hearth, fresh fed. mornings are usually a frigid affair, the coals having guttered, leaving you shivering. but in your father's arms you are content. lazy. happy to sink your fingers into the fur of his belly where his shirt rides up and stave off the frost.

until he tries to squirm away.

"father, please," you whine, grasping for him.

slumping back beside you, he groans, hand over his eyes as if he can't even look at you. "i'll not go far, radnaja."

"just another moment, please? you're so warm."

he grunts when you try to wriggle closer, heavy hand falling on your belly. "and you're needy."

unfair, all things considered, but you don't think it's worth mentioning as much, so you settle for reminding him you're hurt.

"and last time i was home, hm? were you hurt then as well?"

teasing, but you don't find it so funny. "can a heart not hurt?"

he doesn't seem to know what to say to that, instead huffs once more, breath warm against your face, and rolls away, slipping your grasp easily. his tunic is loose, untied at the collar. you've never noticed how hairy he is, pelt a deep contrast to the chain. it's good work, you think - not that you're overly familiar with the intricacies of fine metalcraft, but you've never seen anything like it, thick links so packed and tight it more closely resembled his mail than a proper piece of jewelry. you wondered where he'd acquired it, knew full well the smithy in town could never manage such finery. it was hard not to be a bit jealous, though the nature of it surprised you.

in all your nana's stories, such gifts were only given by loved ones.

~~~

he cooks potatoes and rashers of ham for breakfast. fresh ham, must've brought it with him when he returned. you lay on the bed and salivate, fingers itching. restless and impatient by turns. your nana would have taken a switch to your knuckles if she found you abed while your father cooked, but he seems unbothered by the work, if unpracticed. he lingers when he brings your plate, torn. you try to scoot up the cot to give him space, imply invitation, but he turns away when he sees you wince with the movement, settling at the table where the cold spring light is transmuted, glowing golden as it filters through the horn slats which pane the windows.

your nana's stories have never mentioned beautiful men, at least none like him - burly, old; more bear than man. you've no way with words, but you think you could write new stories, better, paint his hard, weathered body in a kinder light. if only he'd sit still.

"if you leave again, i'll die."

chewing, he eyes you over, the bulky shape of your awkward arm visible through the woolen blanket. that is not what to what you refer. "da. appears you are stuck with me for a while."

there's no hiding the excitement in your voice, not that you're socialized enough to know you should try. "you'll stay?"

another bite, fatty slice. he tears at it like a stray dog, tendons of his neck flexing as he works the piece between sharp teeth. "no choice."

it's not quite what you want to hear, but it soothes you nonetheless, a soft counterpoint to the ache that's slowly rebuilding in your leg. "what will you do if you're summoned again?"

he just shrugs, imparts some saying in his language, no doubt wise. "tell them to 'piss off,' i suppose."

"and after? when i'm healed?" if you heal.

blunt fingers drum on the table. he eyes you like a problem to be solved. "after, i leave."

he's unexpectedly sympathetic when you cry, cooing as he crawls onto the bed beside you. he speaks words that sound reassuring, but they aren't all in your shared tongue and you can only sniffle, holding onto him for all you're worth. you tell him you don't want him to leave, but he just nods, curling around you as best he can. you don't tell him that he jostles you too much, keep your grimace under tight control, the ache of the movement worth the comfort of his care.

despite the pain, you gather you can't have broken your leg when he lifts them gingerly, folds his own up under yours until the tops of his thighs rest under your rump. he's still gentle when he lowers you legs overtop his own, palm heavy and warm he slides it up your tender leg to palm at your hip, drag you closer into the wall of his chest. he's on your good side, knows it; pulls you so close your shoulder gets wedged into your side, pushing your breasts together. you brace his chest instinctively with the fingers of your uselessly bound arm when he leans over you, lips chapped and hot against your hairline as he keeps murmuring, language a tangled knot you can't unwind.

it's not what you're focused on, regardless.

your father is a large man, large enough that he'd single handedly skewed your perception of how a man should look. it wasn't until you were grown, standing next to the blacksmith while he fashioned some lock for nana that you'd realized it. the largest man in town, and you still came up to his chin - though he was admittedly slightly broader than your father. you'd come to appreciate your father's stature on his last visit, the ease with which he'd help lift you into your saddle, the way his height loomed over you making you feel safe, secure. here, now, his broad chest blocking out the room as he leans over you, heavy weight braced on an arm which flexes deliciously as he ducks to peck kisses across your face, you feel a little faint, the ghost of his hands on your hips making you ache to your core - that hollow pit, low in your belly, an emptiness that surpassed hunger, rivaled even that loneliness that's made a home in your chest.

it would eat you soon, if not fed.

"father, please. it hurts," you warble like a baby bird, maw agape. expectant.

he doesn't feed you, eats from you, instead. takes more, mouth hot and open against your own. you wonder if he's just as hollow. "i know, devochka, but you'll be better soon, hm? just need to let your papa take care of you, yes? need -."

"no." you whine when he pulls away, chase his lips as he sits back above you, out of reach. you forget to elaborate until he arches a brow at you, waiting. "not that… not there. here."

desideration has weight, caves your tummy when his eyes follow the path of your good hand low into the cradle of where he's got your legs hitched. he leans back further, bears his weight full on his side so his big paw can climb over the hills of your body, slip south like so many raids. when he presses, applies force, the sharpness of your hunger shocks you, breath going ragged. it draws his attention, dark eyes snapping up to your face so he can track how your lips part when he does it again, the way your eyes go slightly unfocused. it's strange, how he can stoke the fire within you while somehow also making you feel as close to quenched as you ever have.

it scares you. "should you get the doctor again?" something perilously close to anger curls his lip, sets you floundering beneath him, afraid to have disappointed. "sorry, it's only -."

"i have you, malýshka. papa will make it better."

this time when he lowers himself over you, he lets you take his weight, hand staying put on your belly. his other arm curls under your neck, props you up so he can return to his biting kisses, the ones that let him drink soft noises from your lips and feed you with his heavy huffs. you've never kissed like this before, his quick pecks normally placed on the corner of your mouth, or the divot above your lips. nana only ever kissed your cheeks, sweet things which had unfortunately grown sloppy with her age, often left you amused, if mildly disgusted. these are sloppy kisses too, his tongue hot and wet as it slips over your teeth. you imagine biting into it, an undercooked slice of meat, the hot flow of his lifesblood over your jowls. when your stomach flips, it is not with disgust.

you don't realize he's worked your skirt up over your hips with slow, clutching fingers until you feel them on your skin, calloused and warm above the thatch of hair that covers your woman's place. "father?" you whine and he tsks at you, tongue very nearly clicking on your own teeth with how close he stays.

"call me papa, radnaja. about time you learned to speak proper."

it feels good on your tongue, the soft pops as your lips brush against his. must sound good to him as well, for he doesn't wait to hear your question once you've spoken it, mouth returning to yours with a renewed hunger.

"papa, please, what are you -?"

his fingers are too rough when he hikes your good leg further over his hip, baring your flower. you yelp but he just eats that, too, breath turning ragged as it fans across your lips when his palm returns to cup your woman's place. even grabbing his wrist does no good, your fingers like brittle little branches which he shakes off with ease.

"told you, malýshka. papa's gonna make it better, hm? know what you need."

"but nana said not to touch there, not when i'm hungry."

you worry you've misspoken when he leans away from you, brow knitted. "hungry?"

"when i'm empty -," you start, try again more confidently when you wrangle his hand back up to that achy spot, low in your tummy. "when it hurts."

embarrassment blooms as he releases a shaky laugh, palm splayed wide over your belly. you try to wriggle from under him, but the arm tucked beneath your neck pulls you back, bicep bulging as he keeps you in place with a quiet shh. "your nana was right, dochka, and what a good girl you've been to have listened. but do you know why she said not to touch?" he shakes his head when you do, vaguely patronizing. "of course not, milaya, tak khorosho. she was protecting your maidenhead. do you know what that is?" this time when you shake your head, you're rewarded with a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth, his hand pressing against your belly until you squirm again. "that's your gift, sweet girl. for your husband. but until you give it to him, do you know who it belongs to?"

you've never noticed how dark his eyes are, almost black. his grin is vicious when you shake your head again.

"to your papa, glupaya devchonka, so i'll touch you there if i please."

this time it's your head that follows after his, bobbing along absently as he nods encouragingly. your hand covers his as best it can, pushes it down toward the apex of your thighs - your gift. he said he knew what to do and you're eager, the ache worse than ever.

"that's right, little one. i've got you. papa will make it better, hm? fill you up." that last is a growl against your lips. a threat. he hikes your leg impossibly higher and tells you to hold it there, hip aching slightly. it's like he knows, thumb digging cruelly into the taut tendon that stems from your core as he palms one of your cheeks and spreads you for his inspection, fingers slotting embarrassingly along your seam. but he seems unbothered, and you suppress the whine that builds in your chest, heat flushing up your neck.

"ty by posmotrel na eto…" feather light, calloused pads trail up and over your flower. "such a pretty little thing."

your stomach leaps, his compliments far too rare. "th- thank you, papa."

dipping further, he sighs when he finds your dew hidden amongst your petals. "ought to thank you," he mutters, then steals your breath with another kiss, swallowing your gasp as his fingers pull up, brush over something which makes you jolt so hard your chest aches.

"wha - what -?"

he just coos. "shshsh. have to be still, malýshka. don't want you getting hurt again."

it seems inevitable. the whole process - too big, too much.

he's going to leave again.

"papa, please…"

"i know, i'll help." and maybe he does, in a way, but he's only ever made things worse, too; so when he works you over, panting heavily against your cheek as his fingers stroke that hard pearl he's found until you're a writhing mess he has to lean on to keep still, you aren't surprised when the tears fall, overwhelmed and scared. he kisses them away, touch still wringing slow, lazy shudders from you until your breath comes ragged, stomach heaving with toomuchsomuchnotenoughstillnotfull.

he waits until you're hiccupping to fold your knee up to your chest, hips hitching impossibly closer under yours. his breeches are roughspun, the suede placket soaked and sticky when it slots up under your cunt. embarrassment cuts through the haze of your pleasure when you realize it's your own juices, tips you over that edge of panic you'd been riding.

must be, he doesn't care. he calls you 'milaya,' asks if you can take more. you shake your head and he just huffs in amusement, hand already reaching past your cunt to unfasten his stays.

"father, no!" you shriek, pushing at his chest as much as you're able. he ignores you until you slip your bad leg off his own, trying to pull away despite the pain.

"ostorozhnyy!" he barks, settling you back into place. "where do you think you're going?"

nonsensically, you sob, "nowhere!"

"certainly seemed like -."

"i don't want you to go!"

you know little of battle, experience limited to the tales your nana would tell, and those more focused on the outcome than the practice. still, you're reminded of a bow when he stalls, tension in his poise, drawn tight. he looms over you, impossibly big. blocks out everything else, no getting past him. "radnaja," he hedges and your neck creaks with how quickly you turn away from him, try to hide your face in your broken shoulder. of course, he follows, elbow cracking when it catches his weight so he can lean over you, press his nose hard into your cheek. "milaya, look at me. look." his fingers are soft against your jaw, turning you back towards him with the utmost care. "i'll not leave you again. where i go, you follow, hm?"

unable to meet his eyes, your voice aches as it rips through your raw throat. "you promise?"

he doesn't, not until you look at him properly and he's rewarded you with a kiss between the eyes. but he repeats it when his manhood strokes your petals, uses it to settle you like one would a horse, voice low and soft, a constant murmur used to ground you as he carves a place for himself, kissing away the tears that come when the tight pinch finally gives.

it's a litany, his own hymn to counter the prayer he pulls from you. he's gentle, despite the way his chest heaves. you're reminded of how he trains sometimes, alone and shirtless in the yard. he laughs when you yank at his tunic, and nods, sitting up enough to pull it over his head in one fluid motion. when he settles, he's lower, face level with your chest. it allows him to sit deeper within you, fill you properly, as he said. his promises finally peter out when he draws your first breathy gasp, different now from the pained noises you'd been letting slip. his hand follows yours when it flutters from his hip, falls to that achy spot.

"still hurt, malýshka?" he looks just as hungry as you, just as consumed. when words fail you, he drags his hand up your chest and splits the panels of your chemise, exposing your chest as best he can despite your sling and groans when he finds your nipples pebbled.

first one, then the other, he inspects each breast with roughened hands, wide palms molding over them, fingers pinching until you whine. he soothes the ache with his rough tongue, lowering his head until he can pull the closest breast into his mouth, jaw hinged wide as if he wished to swallow you whole. his mouth is hot, wet. he suckles, drawing tenderness to the surface which he extorts with teeth and tongue, an alternating attack with no rhythm and no way to prepare yourself. you'd never known your chest could feel like this. you'd never known you could feel like this, hot all over yet shivering as if spring had receded, ebbed until the frozen tundra of winter battered the keep walls. chasing the feeling, you try to mimic his movement, rocking your hips down against his own and snaking your good hand up your chest, managing to worm your fingers under your sling before he snags your wrist and scolds you.

"can't have you hurting yourself more, radnaja. have to be careful."

"but i -?"

"i know. feels good, hm? but it will feel better here," he assures, dragging your hand back down, low - lower, until your fingers frame that pearl of flesh he'd found before. "remember how papa did it? show me what you've learned."

not much, it seems. you're uncoordinated, sloppy, too overwhelmed to find a proper rhythm. it's more intense with him inside you, causes you to flinch away from your own touch. you get distracted, too, reach past your pearl to spread your petals and frame where he's speared you. your fingers come away sticky and slick and you seize around him when you find blood.

you're not sure where it comes from. some long dead instinct, unearthed by fear and the novelty of his comforting presence. you call him papochka in a quavering voice and he makes a sound like he's wounded, reaching blindly for your hand to lick off the blood between broken fragments of sentences, odd threads of your combined languages twining into some semblance of a blanket he uses to soothe you. you think you hear something about your gift, that it just means you've been good for him. you don't catch much beyond that, thoughts whiting out as his own fingers return to your core. there's no flinching away from him.

he's not as cruel this time, lets you wind down without any interruption beyond the way he hikes back up your frame, cock slipping free so he can press open mouth kisses to your cheek. he's still talking, grasp of english steadier now. just needed papa to do it. can't even do it yourself, can you? papochka's got you, don't worry.

but he moves despite his words, letting your leg slip from the cradle of his elbow as he gets his knees under himself and straddles your sore leg. he's careful not to put any weight on it, instead leaning on the back of your other thigh until it folds back up toward your side, same as before.

"is this good, milaya? does it hurt?"

you shake your head adamantly. "no, papa. i'm fine."

he calls you a good girl, but you whine anyway when he tells you you're going to give him one more. he hushes you even as he pushes back in, his head falling back with a groan as this new position finally allows him to sink all the way to the root, and you know instantly why this last turn was necessary, that tight knot in your belly winding impossibly tighter.

as if he knows too, his palm splays over your belly again, fingers digging into your soft flesh. "gonna fill you up, printsessa. just like you wanted. ready?"

the term leaves you breathless, not having heard it since you were little, perched on his knee. technically, you don't know what it means, but it's similar enough to your own language that you don't need his translation, and it leaves you feeling just as spoiled and loved as it always has. you nod, and nearly get shuttled up the bed with how hard he thrusts into you. he murmurs something you don't catch, hand wrapping around your leg to keep you in place. when he begins to move again, it's much slower, a deep grind that has your jaw working uselessly.

papa groans. "not even going to fucking need it, am i? feels that good?"

you don't really know what he's asking, just bob your head along as his thrusts rock you minutely.

"use your words, malýshka."

and you would, if you were capable of them, but he's not fighting fair, making you desperate with shallow little grinds, keeping that word locked back up behind his sharp teeth. hair has fallen into his face, loose strands which cling to his temples and hang over his eyes. it does not obscure the hunger there.

"yes, papochka."

it's not clear how he manages to keep himself restrained. not when he growls like an animal, grips your thigh with bruising force. but his thrusts are languid, deep, and his other hand is gentle when it cradles the base of your skull, thumb keeping your jaw tilted high so he can see how your throat works hard for each breath. he complicates the process further by leaning over you, slotting his lips with yours so he can swallow each noise he pulls, licking along your teeth with enough force you're worried you taste blood.

or maybe it's just the remnants of your gift.

no man would want you now, not even if your father managed to pull together a decent dowry. you'd be stuck with him forever, stuck in this dilapidated keep while he -.

he must feel the panic in your pulse. "promise, printsessa."

this time it works, the knot wrapping so tight it snaps, a taut chain that lets you fall when it gives, leaves you to clatter to the ground, stiff and fragile, until your father scoops up the pieces, collects you in strong arms as he finishes, fills you up just like he promised, buried so deep inside that you know you'll always feel it.

it's then you find he burns, too, his seed so hot within you that you imagine it would sear if not for how tempered you are to your own fire. you gutter out together, the bellows of his breaths too strong to keep you kindling. it's sweltering beneath him, the sweat of his back steaming in the crisp morning air. he kisses you when he's caught his breath, heedless of the fact you hadn't yet. your protests get swallowed up, same as the unadlylike grunt you emit when he slips out. he pulls away at that, seemingly just to laugh at the displeased look on your face when, for one mortifying moment, you think you've started your moonblood and you scramble to see.

a wide palm on your good shoulder stops you, keeps you in place. "you're okay, printsessa. i've got it. stay put."

his joints creak when he climbs from the bed and you're distracted from the shock of cold air by the vision he makes, all heavy muscles and dark, wiry hair. he'd brought home a bear skin once, many years ago. it still warmed your bed upstairs, though you liked this bear better. this bed.

when he returns, papa wipes a cold, wet cloth over your woman's place, coos when you jolt in discomfort. he places a kiss there when he's done and scolds you for trying to squirm away. as if you're the improper one.

you get tucked up next to him again once he's decided you're clean enough and you luxuriate in his embrace for as long as he allows, too afraid to ask any of the questions running through your head lest he get annoyed, change his mind, decide he needs to leave right then, actually, or -.

he kisses the crown of your head. heavy, lingering. you feel his lips move against your scalp when he speaks. "i'm expecting to be rewarded with a better keep soon. further south."

worry sinks like a stone to the pit of your stomach, tears a hole through the bottom, creates an endless chasm in your bowels you will never fill, not even if you lived to the end of time. papa does his best to soothe the worry by tilting your chin up, kissing you softly on the lips. he retreats to peer at you when he finds you lifeless and stiff in his arms and sighs heavily, almost fondly.

"you'll be coming with me, radnaja."

"really!?" you're not sure you've ever heard your voice so elated, a childishness to your tone that leaves you embarrassed, cheeks heated.

papa only laughs. "promised, didn't i?"

"well, yes, but -."

"you'll be my little printsessa, my proper lady. moya zhena, my wife. would you like that?"

there's no helping the way your eyes widen in wonder. "your wife? how?"

"it's not unusual for a man to take a wife while off fighting. a matter of honor, if she's got a little malýshka of her own." his hand finds your belly again, rubs proprietarily heavy circles there. "no one need know where i found you, only that it did. and it would be an easy ruse, what with your broken russian."

ordinarily, the thought of having disappointed him with your foreign language would make you flinch, but you're too caught up in the picture he paints, the pair of you dressed in modest finery as he leads you around some pretty new home, you dangling from his arm. "but what of me? your daughter? surly people will wonder?"

he just tuts, faux serious. "well you can imagine my heartache, returning to an empty home. that shallow grave out in the east pasture. no wonder the baba fled, probably thought i'd blame her for my daughter's death. a widower, no children. who could blame me for finding a pretty little thing to take south with me?"

divider by @/adornedwithlight

[lalunanymph]

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋, 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄 — g. satoru

; 𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 a strange man whisks you away to safety only to disappear when you least expected it

cw sugar daddy!gojo, smut (lots of it), minors shoo, 18+, barely proofread, 5.8k+ words, based on this post

; today i offer you the sugar daddy!gojo au no one asked for tomorrow who knows

You met Gojo Satoru on the last day of November. 

The streets were echoing with the sound of boots and winter shoes, a light layer of frost covering the sidewalks and naked branches above.

It had been a slow day at your izakaya, the patrons still enmeshed in their daily workload that you were forced to tick your eyes towards the old clock behind you to count down the minutes to happy hour. 

At least with some people around, you could dull the lonely throb in the middle of your chest; the one which hoped that someone would at least make some time to tell you about their day today.

As you muddled with your mundane task of wiping down some silverware, your eyes caught the faintest movement from the doorway. 

Tall, impossibly handsome and with a presence that would draw every eye on him, it wasn’t hard to figure out that he lavished in attention. You had deciphered his motive the second he swaggered to you, a cheeky smile on his pouting lips.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

You scoffed, wiping down the counter. Fate had thrown you a curveball where instead of a sweet patron you could chat with, you were faced with yet another customer who couldn't keep it in his pants. Strangely enough, it was way too early in the day for them to be this bold and the man before you didn’t look the slightest bit drunk. Maybe he was a special case. 

“Is that the best you can come up with?”

“Cut me some slack, sweetheart. It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Very astute. And yet here you are, trying to disturb a woman working an honest job.” 

His eyes behind those stupid sunglasses raked up and down your figure. "Honest job? Yes. Honest woman? Not much."

You stopped your motions, fixing him with an icy glare. "And what's that supposed to mean?" 

"It means I know you're messing with someone you shouldn't, little girl."

Your blood froze over, though you didn't let him get the upper hand with your perfected poker face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

His annoying cheery smile never faltered. "Let me walk you back home."

“No thanks.”

The smile he wore was edged with a glint of something darker, a smug uptick of his jaw. “It wasn’t a request. Unless you want to wake up in another life, then be my guest!” 

He turned around, one hand in his pocket, another raised in a mockery of a wave. 

The ice in your veins solidified and you didn’t know what compelled you to falter in your resolution to trust another man when you said: “Wait.”

A soft thud of his footfall on the sticky lacquered floor seemed to echo through your blaring mind. He turned his head back slightly, and through the peek of his glasses and sharp cheekbone, you noticed how bright and blue his eyes were.

Something about the brilliant hue and the look on his face melted through the defences you held fast for the better part of your life. 

“I am… I think I am in danger. What do you know?” 

The man tilted his head to the side. It was ridiculous to trust a stranger. But, for the sake of your curiosity, you had to try. 

“Satoru,” he gave you his name with a childish wink. “Gojo Satoru. Now, about that offer to walk you home…”

Gojo’s palm was warm on your lower back, melting through the layers of your work dress and trench coat. Every hair on your body was standing on end from his touch, your throat swallowing the dryness gathering like a eulogy waiting to be expelled into the frosty thin air. 

Silently, you snuck a glance at him, bowed down by his blatant good looks. Keeping your eyes latched onto the ground, you missed the twitch in the corner of his lip, his eyelids fluttering shut, as if he could walk with his eyes closed.

“You said I was in danger?”

Even the words were hard to solidify into the real world. You cleared your throat, forcing the hoarseness through the tight pinprick of fear which clamped around your soundless despair.

“I would say it’s more than that. You’re just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Kiyosaki Kyouta. That name ring a bell?”

In the hazy recesses of your mind, you distinctly remembered a gust of hot breath on your neck, the press of a pinstripe tie against a strip of tattooed skin. 

“Vaguely,” you hummed. “What about him?” 

“Well… you really don’t know how to pick your clients, I’ll give you that,” his attempt at humour was amusing only to himself. “But, I do understand the streets of Kyoto must be dry of bastards, and you had rent to pay… wait, where was I going with this?” 

“Kiyosaki Kyouta,” you muttered impatiently. “You said that bastard’s bad news?” 

“Ah, yes!” he snapped his long fingers, and you were drawn to the clean nail beds and neat edges. 

A man who cared about his outward appearance a little too much. “Evil man. Horrible. I have a bone to pick with him, and it kinda leads to you. Might have tipped off some important people on your location. I would apologise but this is actually good news for you!

"Anyway, what do you think about moving in with me for a week?” 

Unpacking your bags as Tokyo’s skyline greeted you was not how you expected to spend your Wednesday morning. 

After your little confusing chat with Gojo, you reckoned it was safer to put your life in the hands of a man who knew the ins and outs of your client’s mysterious life than to risk it all in your cramped, unguarded apartment. 

Gojo had left you with a salute and a shit-eating grin to adjust yourself in one of his many penthouses. Emphasis on ‘many’. 

You had no idea he was this loaded, and truth be told, the idea of many yen signs attached to his name sounded intriguing. You wanted to know more about this mysterious Gojo Satoru. 

A quick Google image search gave nothing away, and even Facebook was no help in understanding the enigma who had invited you into his home to protect your life. 

One night he came back, after leaving you for two days to your own vices, and you had had enough.

“Well?” you asked with an arch of your brow, hands crossed over your chest. “Can I go home now?” 

Gojo’s lanky figure was a source of frustration for you when you had to crane your neck to look up at him. His effervescent grin at your expense was back. “Why? Missed your bed? Not as comfy as mine?” 

You knew he was taunting you—could feel it in your bones—but what you did next was irrational as anything that came before that. 

Your hand flew towards his chest, about to hit it when it stopped. Completely. In mid-air. No matter how hard you tried to push towards the broad expanse of muscle, it wouldn’t budge. 

“What the hell—?”

“It’s my cursed technique—sorry. Superpower. Do you believe in sorcerers?” 

Your mouth fell open in a disbelieving ‘O’. 

For the next hour or so, Gojo sat you down to explain about a world hidden from yours. A world of curses, secrets and jujutsu. Energy and manifestations. Fears and delusions. 

It all created what he called Curses and he was one of the strongest ones tasked to exorcise them. 

After he finished, you sat back, in a complete daze from what you had just heard.

“H-how does this link back to Kiyosaki Kyouta?” 

Your voice was hoarse, like you were on the verge of tears. Gojo offered no sympathy when he shrugged and snickered. “Kyouta is one of the bad sorcerers. I was sent to hunt him but somehow, his traces landed on you. Some whore or another who latches onto men for their money. Naturally, his co-workers want to find out where he disappeared to and the last place he ever visited was your shitty izakaya.” 

You blinked, and your chest caved in. 

“So, that’s why it’s dangerous for me to be in public?” 

“Technically speaking, you’re not even supposed to be alive. People like you—non sorcerers—aren’t allowed to know about our world. But, it’s fine. I won’t kill you and neither will the higher ups in my community. You’re just a would-be casualty that I have to keep out of harm’s way until the dust clears.”

Gojo grinned. “In the meantime, how about we get to know a little bit about each other? I know you take off clothes for a living—”

“Shut up,” you glowered hotly. “You have no idea what choices pushed me to be here.” 

“Ah, but it must be a horrible life you lived to push you into these ideals—”

“My family were religious nutjobs.” 

For the first time since you met him, Gojo Satoru was rendered speechless. The truth you held back for a good few years spilled from your lax lips, unburdened to this relative stranger who you knew nothing about. 

After you were done remembering a past tainted by a psychopathic mother, repentant father and a small town you were forced to escape from, Gojo slumped back onto the sofa, a telltale purse of concentration puckering his lips. 

“Shit,” he punctuated his succinct observation with a low whistle. You thought he would offer you sympathy, or at least a sneer of disbelief. Not— “You wanna have a drink?” 

Drinking with Gojo was an unexpected occurrence, but you figured that when it came to a man like Satoru, it was best to go with the flow rather than resist it. He could barely handle his liquor, and you were no better. Years in this seedy industry hadn’t hardened your resilience to alcohol as much as you wanted to believe, and when you slumped against his broad shoulder, he didn’t fight you off.

Gojo smelled good. Your hazy mind detected notes of citrus and the sea from his frosty white locks. 

“If I kissed you right now, would you fight me off?” 

His voice, low and a hum, pierced through your mind like a ringing gunshot. You sat up, trying to focus your glassy eyes on him.

Emboldened by the liquor, you mumbled, “Depends on how you kiss me.” 

His soft lips were on yours in a heartbeat. 

Kissing Gojo was a sensation you could not describe. Imagine riding a rollercoaster, but instead of freefalling, you were shooting straight up to the atmosphere. You kept on climbing higher and higher, until your lungs ached and your heartbeat stuttered behind your eyelids. 

Even his lanky, large frame pressing you onto the carpeted floor could not bring you down from hurtling head first into his devouring kisses. Gojo mouthed hungrily at your lower lip, the slip of his warm tongue gliding along the seam of your mouth, parting it easily like water does to sugar paper. 

Nothing could keep him from coaxing you to intertwine deeper with him, but the slide of that damning tongue against yours, and the messy clash of teeth was close enough to convince you. The hot press of those large palms on the small sliver of skin exposed from your shirt riding up drove you dizzy with lust, the ache between your thighs thrumming hotly. 

Gojo was steadily leading you down a path you could not come back from. There was more at stake than your safety; your future was figuratively held in those nimble, knobbly fingers that were pale like snow and long like a talented pianist. 

He could decide when you were safe. Only he was the one you would trust with your life. 

After all, he hadn’t given you reason to doubt him.

Spreading your thighs wider to accommodate him in between them, you let him grasp your hips, tugging the elastic waistband of your shorts down. Once you were fully exposed, your cheeks warmed, and a sliver of sobriety started to encroach your consciousness. 

Those icy blue eyes were alight with a fire you had never seen before. The smooth pads of his fingers glided up your ribcage, skimming the hardness of your bra cup, implicitly asking for permission. 

Despite not knowing anything about him but his name and his terrible secret, you lifted yourself up, perching on your elbows. Gojo’s dark shades slipped down the bridge of his shapely nose, and you ignored the voice in your head to be careful when you gently pinched the wireframe of the expensive Ray Bans, carefully removing it and placing it on his coffee table. 

Finally unveiled to you with no barriers, his brilliant eyes render you speechless. You had stolen glances of them behind the dark glass, but nothing could prepare you for the brilliance of looking at them without them. 

You felt like you could drown in those baby blue depths, those thick white lashes framing his beautiful eyes tickling your bare neck. His soft kisses followed next, full of a strange restricted passion you could feel thrumming from his fingertips over your ribs as they slowly ascended up the column of your neck and towards your jaw. 

Gojo hummed, the tip of his tongue tracing your jawline with precise teasing. 

Splotches of red adorned his cheeks, giving him a certain humanness you had never noticed from this sculpture of a strange man. Something about that little blip gave way to his vulnerability, and it made your heart sing. 

Strong fingers snapped your bra off, and then your panties, and finally, you had nothing to hide yourself from his piercing blue eyes. They shone with an effervescent emotion you could not name, and your heartbeat doubled when you peered down the length of your body, noticing his cheek pressed to your pelvis. 

Gojo was a large man, though you hadn’t noticed it in the beginning. Hidden by his button down shirt, you feasted on the visual carnival of muscles rippled across his nimble body, biceps pulsing and abs undulating when he scooted down to your pelvis level. A smug grin adorned his peachy lips, and you flushed with want at the sight of him kissing your hip bone softly. 

“Cat got your tongue,” he teased. 

You pursed your lips, darting your eyes to land on a painting beside you rather than the man poised in between your thighs to pleasure you. 

“Shut up.” 

“Feisty,” Gojo drawled. “But, no matter. They’re always stubborn until they’re begging for more.”

You were about to snap that you weren’t going to stoop low enough to plead for him when you felt his mouth brushing your honeyed folds. 

There was something electrifying about Gojo Satoru. 

His movements burned through you, seared your protests off your kiss-bruised lips. You could do nothing but let him have his way with you. 

Gojo sampled you like you were a foreign dessert, taking his time to memorise your taste. 

Your fingers twisted in his silky, white locks, and he moaned deeply in appreciation when you started to tug on them. The vibrations edged your core towards a release you felt welling inside of you like a violent wave. 

No man had ever taken his time to eat you out this thoroughly—like you were worth the decadent lust you were denied from a life of selfish lovers.

Gojo Satoru was anything but selfish with you. 

Every curl of his tongue and soft moan got you higher towards that sacred spot. He was leading you straight into heaven, sparks flying off behind your tightly squeezed eyes. 

You felt his hand on your hip, massaging it lightly. 

“Don’t keep me waiting… cum for me, princess.” 

That nickname and his sultry command set off a series of fireworks down your spine. You arched your back, a scream of his name released into this echoing hall of his penthouse. 

“Gojo!” 

He laced his fingers with yours, prolonging your high by sucking hard on your clit, hard enough to leave a mark behind. 

Strong arms wrapped you to his side, and Gojo laid next to you, the stretch of his toned body melting with yours. 

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes crossing from the pleasure holding you in its thrumming hostage. “That was…” 

He hummed, lifting you to straddle his lap. The thick nudge of his cock brought you back to the ground, the pleasure singing in your veins rising to a crescendo. 

“So tight,” he whispered, more to himself. “I’m going to ruin you.” 

You hoped he did. You hoped he would keep that promise—forever. 

The expanse of his chest was the terrain which your hands ran over, memorising every dip and sharp jut from his defined collarbone to his washboard abs. You couldn’t keep your touch from roaming down the fine smattering of white hair leading straight to the throbbing length currently nudging past your tight opening. 

Once he settled in, a wince of pleasure overtook both your features. Gojo lolled his head to the side, cursing softly, his hair bleeding across the floor like the first fall of snow. 

In this position, he left the control entirely up to you—a first you would never expect from such a self-possessed man.

You moved in tandem to his controlled grinding. One thing led to another, and you were somehow pressed to the wall, legs wrapped around his slim waist. 

This close, you had no idea how blind you had been to his sheer size. Towering over you and easily hooking your thighs around his body, Gojo bounced you up and down his cock like you were a rag doll, drawing out your sweet moans which were like music to his ears. 

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his hoarse voice drawing you to the edge like a wave to the shore. “I feel you squeezing down on me.” 

Those prettiest blue eyes pinned your full attention onto him, and you couldn’t resist leaning forward, smushing your mouth with his in a messy attempt at a kiss. Gojo kissed you back with equal fervour, and the fever pitch lust he incited and you reacted to was reaching its peak. 

Both your bodies trembled from the onslaught of a release that shook your cores. 

Gojo slid to his knees with a low groan bringing you along with him—the strongest sorcerer in the world weakened by your perfect pussy squeezing down on him. 

You nuzzled his cheek, panting his name softly. “Gojo…”

“Satoru,” he mumbled, almost inaudibly. 

You felt his fingers twist the hair at the nape of your neck, feathering soft caresses on the sensitive strip of skin with the pad of his thumb. 

“Call me Satoru.” 

Your relationship with Gojo Satoru was strange, to say the least.

After rocking your entire world that night, he disappeared the morning after. No calls, no notes.

All he left behind was his black card, and later during the afternoon, an unknown number texted you: ‘Go crazy <3’ 

So, you did. 

You bought yourself clothes, makeup, and skincare which you couldn’t previously afford with your salary as a waitress. You reasoned that if you were going to live with this unknown man for an extended period of time, you were going to make your stay as comfortable as possible.

The other sugar daddies who had treated you to a taste of luxury were faint shadows in your mind. Your entire world was consumed fully by Satoru. He was easily richer than any man who had tried to woo you. It was as if his bank account was bottomless. 

Though he had never explicitly asked you to be his sugar baby, his true intention was seen when he returned three days later, bending you over the couch until you squirted all over his picture-perfect abs. 

Later, he left yet another credit card on his flawless mahogany dining table, and this time, you had no qualms in getting yourself sets of lingerie, which you sent to that unknown number in hopes that he would see it. 

You never expected him to turn up at the door an hour later, an easy grin on his plush lips even as the veins were bulging in his forearm from his tightly clenched fists.

“Wrong number, sweetheart,” he chortled, removing the strange purple uniform he wore to reveal the white button down underneath. The material fell to the floor with a heavy thud. “That was Ijichi you were trying to seduce, but I’ll forgive you.” 

“Ijich—” 

You barely had time to utter another man’s name, not when your words were swallowed completely by his smothering kiss. 

Gojo guided you towards the table, and you realised a second too late what he was doing until your head was hanging from the edge, your mouth wide open and waiting. He removed his pants, and palmed your heavy tit with one hand. 

“Are you wearing it underneath this stupid shirt?” 

His voice was edged with something dark and demanding. You nodded, glassy eyes catching his blown-wide ones. 

Satoru didn’t waste time in removing the bothersome t-shirt you wore, revealing the silky white set you bought which matched his hair. 

“Like an angel,” he whispered, and gave you no time to reply, not when his cock was slowly easing down your throat.

You would’ve thought that sucking Satoru off like this would be demeaning, but Gojo never once made you feel like a whore for falling into your deeper instincts. You wanted to please him, and he wanted you to please him. 

It was an equal give and take that left you both shaking and slick with sweat. 

Satoru eyed your writhing body and thought that the world’s best art instalments would never do justice to the piece of poetry unfurling before him. He had seen Monet, DaVinci and Van Gogh in real life, but none of them could quite capture the euphoria of your flushed cheeks and swollen lips wrapping around his cock like a love offering. 

Without warning, he withdrew his length from your mouth, and you were straddling his lap in a blink of an eye. Satoru’s superpowers—as you liked to call them—made him faster and more nimble than any man you had ever slept with. 

Sinking you down on his cock, Gojo set a pace that rattled your teeth, leaving you like putty to his ministrations. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, muffled whines of “fuck… feel so good” bruising your skin like the marks he left on the same spot. 

You were growing delirious from the high, every sensory overload screaming out his name like a siren. 

Gojo had this uncanny ability to know your body better than you did, and you almost hated how easily it was for him to get you crumbling. As if your walls never existed in the first place, you fell for his lopsided grin and the tender way he cupped your face as he kissed you senseless. 

Your heart was a puddle right under your spread thighs, obvious for the world to see. 

Gojo Satoru had wormed himself under your skin, and he was never going to leave. 

You had to make sure of it.

“Stay tonight,” you whispered against his lips while he continued to piston his slick cock in and out of you. 

Gojo hoped you didn’t feel the tremble of his lower lip against yours. Prayed that the hitch in his breath would be taken as his orgasm quickly approaching and not as a nameless, terrifying feeling he was fighting hard to not succumb to. 

Your eyes were closed, like you were praying, though realistically, Gojo knew it was because of your impending orgasm about to drag you under. 

“Hmm,” he murmured in what he hoped was a noncommittal hum. 

Leaving you without an answer, Satoru chose to play with your clit as a means to distract you from his torn thoughts. He thumbed the greasy bud until you gasped and your back bowed, a look of painful reprieve overtaking your entire expression. 

“Satoru…” 

A sharp inhale and one quick tremble. Gojo felt you cum all over his cock. 

Your eyes drooped close, the hormones and oxytocin leaving you floating on a cloud of satisfaction that you didn’t feel him carrying you into his bedroom. 

The sensation of a warm blanket engulfing you filled your woozy mind with more cotton, and you briefly registered the feeling of someone sliding under the covers together with you. 

More warmth wrapped around you, and in a simple instant, you were fast asleep, completely unaware of Gojo’s tightening embrace as he held you close to his heart—like you would disappear the second he opened his eyes. 

You never thought Satoru would leave you, but he did. 

Where you both would frequently text and exchange memes throughout the day, everything went radio silent on an unexpected note. 

The messages you sent him wouldn’t go through, green bubbles of confusion on the screen leaving you laced with nausea for his safety. On the second day of no contact, you decided to venture out on your own. 

Satoru had never explicitly kept you under lock and key, but when he was around, you found that you didn’t want to escape his clutches. 

The outside world seemed different without him. The sun was bleached of its colour, and the trees felt fake. It was like a rendered movie your eyes were not used to. 

Everywhere you went, you hoped you would stumble into him. Down a corner of the street, past a restaurant he once told you about which served the best ramen. Your heart hummed with Gojo’s name, and yet, this empty world could not answer your wishes.

Two days turned into four, and by the fifth, a man from your past reached back to you. 

You had lived long enough in this sinful life to know when someone was done with you. Gojo Satoru had probably chewed on you long enough till your presence was tasteless to him, and had left to cleanse his palette with someone else. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has done this. 

I thought he was different. 

But, he was like every other man you had been with. They all eventually got tired of you.

A dull thrum took up space where your heart once pulsed with life. You went through the motions—fucking your ex-fling, Mori, taking his money, spending it on little niceties that brightened your day for a nanosecond before it went back to grey. 

You would never have expected the call that came exactly nineteen days after you had left Gojo’s penthouse. 

It was seven in the morning, too early for you to be awake unless you had work. The weekend was today, and you were hoping to get in your much needed eight hours of sleep, but the shrill tone of your phone would not leave you alone.

You answered it in your half-grogginess. 

“Hello?” 

“Sweetheart?” 

Just like that, the colours of the world came back to life. 

Your eyes shot wide open, a thrill of excitement and disbelief forcing you from the bed.

With your heart in your throat, you uttered the shades of a name you missed the most on your tongue. 

“S-Satoru?” 

“It’s me, gorgeous. Where are you? Why’re you not home?” 

Home. The word throbbed like a tender wound in your soul. Gojo thought you belonged in his home. 

“I’m—”

Before you could speak, the man next to you yawned loudly and pawed your ass. Ignoring your tiny yelp, he rubbed his spiky cheek against your shoulder. “Who’s that, baby?” 

Loud enough for Satoru to hear from his end. 

You held your breath the moment Gojo expelled his noisily. 

“Baby?” His voice was saccharine sweet. Deceptive. “Are you with another man?” 

“I—” 

“No, no. I understand,” you could picture his glossy lips stuck in a pout and ached to kiss him thoroughly. “I left without an explanation. I’m on my way.” 

The second his call ended, you heard a loud crack coming from the foot of your bed. Mori jerked back like a dog scalded with hot water at the sight of your previous lover’s mischievous grin. 

“Aha. Knew I would find you here,” he crowed triumphantly to you. As for the man who had warmed your bed while he was gone, Satoru faked a pout. “Aw. I think you stayed way past your welcome. You should skedaddle, don’t you think?” 

“Wait,” Mori gruffly got up from the bed, his bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Who the fuck are you—”

One second, he was right next to you, and the next, he was gone.

Your scream was cut short when Gojo materialised next to you, palm over your mouth to muffle your sobs. 

“Relax,” he crooned. “I just sent him to the train station… in his underwear.” You hiccuped, fixing your wide, glossy onto his smiling face, suddenly afraid. You had no idea of the extent of Satoru’s powers and you were too scared to find out. But, he never gave you any more reason to be alarmed, his genial smile never faltering. 

“I think it’s time we both went home, don’t you?” 

He lifted you into his arms like you weighed next to nothing. You blinked and your room seemed to shimmer, a creeping heat crawling all over your body. 

“Satoru—”

You barely had time to yell out his name in warning when you opened your eyes and found yourself in his living room. 

Dumbfounded, your mind pinged around like a lost signal, unable to wrap around the fact that you had basically teleported halfway across from Tokyo. Satoru set you down on your wobbly feet, and you lurched forward, palms pressed to his sturdy chest.

“Careful, pumpkin.” 

The black tee he wore stretched gloriously over his muscles, and for a split second, you took a minute to rake your eyes up and down his broader frame. 

Did Satoru start to workout while he was gone?

His biceps were thicker, and the widened frame of his body left you tethering in shock. 

There was no way a person could get this buff in such a short time. 

The Satoru before had a good amount of muscle, but the Satoru now was practically god-like. It struck a note of fear in you, one which he noticed.

“Sweetheart?” he gently coaxed, using two fingers to tip your face up to look at him. His blue eyes—shifting like the ocean—welcomed you into his waves. “It’s still me. Don’t be scared.”

Your words lodged in the back of your throat like a cough which you could never release. They itched and ached to tell him how much you missed him, but you were so very scared he would never reciprocate those feelings.

“Where did you go?” you bleated pathetically instead. “You were gone for so long.”

“It’s quite a story,” he drawled, and those blue eyes sparkled with mischief though they were tempered by something else. A certain loss you could feel on the tips of your fingers when you caressed his cheeks. “I think I’ll tell you later—after I’m done fucking you.” 

He kept true to his word. 

Gojo spent the entire morning in between your legs, eating you out while you shook and moaned his name over and over again. The walls were starting to spin, the drool had long dried on your chin and he was still tonguing your folds with the precision of a master. 

Hazy-eyed and weak, you mewed his name, and Gojo allowed your fingers to tug on the roots of his hair. 

“Feeling good, baby?” 

You were too fucked out to speak, nodding instead. 

Gojo chuckled quietly to himself and removed the last article of his clothing—his black pants—to reveal his pale, beautiful cock already throbbing with anticipation. Your breath hitched when he circled the blushing tip against your needy clit, and your whine was pleasure personified the second he slid into your tight heat.

The man you so desperately wanted to belong to held you close to his chest while his large palms grasped your fleshy thighs, using them to guide you up and down his length. 

All the while your mouth was latched onto his, your whispers of his name melting into a deluge of more, more, more. Those whines would be the death of him—if Satoru had not perished in the Prison Realm, he was sure he would’ve lost his soul right in the lock-up of your arms. 

You were kissing him like your life depended on it, and maybe, just maybe, Satoru was deluded enough to believe you loved him.

It was worth a shot when he asked: “Are you mine?” 

Your answer was a teary little nod and a hiccup of his name. “Y-yours.” 

That was all the confirmation he needed. 

Satoru doubled down on his thrusts, trying to get you to that sacred place in between pleasure and overstimulation. Your legs trembled around him, and your whimpers fueled him to catch his breath, his eyes fluttering shut.

The both of you exploded in complete ecstasy, your bodies writhing on the large couch as pleasure burned through the late morning light. 

His arms were leadened weights around you, and your breath was caught in your throat when you came about to find him smiling down at you.

“What?” you tried to scowl. 

Satoru smirked, using the pad of his index finger to smoothen out the crinkle in between your brow. 

“Nothing.”

“It’s something.” 

“I told you—it’s nothing.”

You thinned your lips together to avoid a silly grin from spreading. “You are such a horrible liar.”

“Me?” he pretended to gasp, putting a hand on his pale, sweaty chest. “Ugh. You’re soooo wrong, sweetie.”

“Am I?” you challenged. 

Satoru’s grin was infectious, and you found yourself smiling dopily in response. 

“You know what, you may be right,” he admitted.

“About what?” you hummed, drawing his hand close to your lips and kissing his knuckles.

“That you’re mine.” 

You paused, and the morning sunlight twinkled in his ocean-blue eyes, skittering across the surface of your shocked expression like a ripple over crystal water. 

Here goes nothing. “And I’m yours.”

Your silence was nerve-wrecking and Satoru wished your cheek wasn’t pressed onto his chest where you could hear the maddening beat of his heart.

His thoughts came to a futile halt when you laughed—a sweet, chiming melody that was delicious than any treat he ever had in his life. Your wide and honest expression made something deep in his soul cave, and the next words you whispered kindled in him a flame for life he thought had long extinguished.

“I never got the chance to say this… but, welcome home, Satoru.” 

— feedback and reblogs are very much appreciated <33

© all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

(cw: suggestive)

i want to write something about killer and color's soul thingy, but the kink talk has completely derailed me. now all i can think of is "haha, killer has a vore kink" OH MY LAWD 💀💀💀

and like, i'm mildly (MILDLY) entertaining this train of thought. because i remember reading somewhere that people with a vore kink fantasy don't actually want to do that irl, but the act of being enveloped/consumed by an entity feels very symbolically akin to being held in safety and intimacy. what's more intimate than being enveloped by a being you desire and trust? the idea of "becoming one" with someone is really, really intimate. imagine being whole, because you feel so fractured. you feel like you're missing something, parts of yourself, parts of other people, and now being fused with another being, a being bigger and more whole than you, makes you feel more complete than ever. i say it's very romantic, somewhat in-line with the ancient greek idea of soulmates.

and i think color may disagree with that idea lol. giving all of yourself up to someone is not equivalent to true happiness. you cannot sustain yourself on one type of love forever. you cannot fully heal until you learn to love yourself, to accept that your broken shards are you.

~ crowshipping anon

I had to stop and stare for a moment because huh? Killer? Vore kink? What.

Then i did a little research, like 19 minutes at most and will probably do more later, but now im actually thinking about it.

if killer ultimately craves safety and this is the one way that felt safe and familiar before, and color is powerful and not chara or nightmare and wont use this sense of enmeshment to hurt (which he wouldn’t and killer eventually learns to realize that even if he never fully manages to trust or get close with another to this extent), then i can see this being a particularly strong fantasy of his; especially when the means of making it reality is potentially right there.

i wonder if he’ll feel pleased if it were to actually happen, or if the knowledge that its just fantasy and color doesn’t agree and wouldn’t likely agree to a literal fusion or absorption—or a “vore” is a word—is what makes him feel safe and secure enough to think about it. i wonder what are ways color could indulge him a bit even if they don’t ever actually do it and work towards a more healthy view on relationships and love, even if killer still ultimately keeps his fantasy/kink.

ah nice going crow now you got me thinking about vore kink killer 😞. why do I actually wanna hear more about this

[hellomystraightlacedfriend]

The Osborns' 'Weird' Relationship: An Analysis

◇ Spectacular Spider-Man #146 - Gerry Conway/Sal Buscema ◇

Okay, so I know it was awhile ago that I said I might write an analysis of some of the emotional dysfunctional aspects of 616 Norman and Harry Osborn’s relationship, but I really struggled with the format and how I was going to present this.

One thing that I ended up having to do was throw out any speculation on the writers' intent. With comics, you have so many different writers - especially with a long ongoing, popular series like Spider-Man - that I decided to focus a lot more on the patterns I was picking up when I was reading.

But before I go any further:

CW: discussions of child abuse, mental illness, and suicidal ideation

Disclaimer: In this analysis, I am trying to provide an explanation for why Norman might behave the way he does. However, this explanation of Norman’s abuse is not meant to be a justification of his behaviour.

Also, before we start, you are absolutely allowed to disagree with this analysis! Every reader sees/interprets things a little differently, but I've seen other people pick up on the Osborns' relationship being well, strange, so I decided to examine that a little closer.

There were certain things I kept noticing in Norman and Harry's relationship that I found abnormal (you know, apart from Norman's extensive verbal abuse). Things like: Harry's really intense and misplaced loyalty to his father (that interfers with his other relationships.) The way in which Harry feels responsible for his father. The way Harry doesn’t have a strong identity outside of his father, and how his father doesn't allow (or think Harry needs) any emotional privacy. Also, just some of the ways Norman talks to his son don’t make it feel like a normal parent-child relationship.

In particular in this analysis, I did want to talk about emotional incest and enmeshment, which I am going to define now.

The psychological definition of emotional (or covert) incest is when a parent relies on their child for emotional support that they should be getting from another adult. They treat their child like a friend or partner, instead of well, a child.

And

An enmeshed family is one where there is a lack of boundaries, and often, the child isn't allowed to have an individual identity.

I think we see a lot of the after affects of this kind of emotional abuse in Harry as an adult, and while we don't see a whole lot of Harry and Norman's relationship dynamic when Harry is growing up, I do want to start from there, using what flash backs and other information we have.

Actually to give some background on why this kind of abuse occurred, I will go back a bit further than that and talk briefly about Norman’s childhood and his relationship with Harry’s mother.

Norman definitely didn't have a great childhood. His father was a bitter and abusive alcoholic who blamed all of his problems on other people, including his son. And while Norman's mother wasn't abusive towards him, she did fail to protect him. This betrayal from an early age from both his parents would have been a huge contributer to Norman's extensive trust issues (and his drive to be in control so he's not hurt again.)

Norman didn't get the emotional support and attention he needed while growing up, so that's really what he was seeking as a young adult, and he found it in Emily Lyman aka Harry's mother.

Now while I don’t think that Norman and Emily's relationship was perfect like he presents it to be, I do think from his point-of-view this was a great time in his life. He was finally out from under his father's thumb. This beautiful woman believed in him. They had their whole lives ahead of them. The possibilities were endless, and then - she died.

Or faked her death and left him because he was so controlling.

Either way, she was gone, and he still a young man was left to go on as a single father.

Interestingly, Norman both blames Harry for Emily's death and compares him to her. Much later in his life, when talking to Harry's grave, Norman says that he tried to be fair to Harry 'even though you were so much like your mother in so many ways.' In this scene, Norman is angry at Harry for dying and thus 'abandoning' him to be alone. And I think that's what Norman felt when Emily died too, this deep sense of abandonment.

◇ Spider-Man: Revenge of the Green Goblin #1 - Roger Stern/Ron Frenz | Peter Parker: Spider-Man #44 - Paul Jenkins/Humberto Ramos ◇

(Later, it's revealed that Harry is not dead. Or maybe he is. I am NOT getting into the whole post-OMD-Harry-is-a-clone mess. For the sake of this analysis, they are the same person. They would have the same memories anyway.)

Now I am going to be piecing some things together and doing a bit of speculating. One thing that always stuck with me is that Harry keeps saying that his and Norman's relationship used to be different, that they used to be 'pals,' and then something changed. While I know a lot of people dismiss this, become Harry is delusional about his father at other points, I do think when Norman became the Green Goblin, there was a shift in their relationship dynamic, and Norman stopped opening up as much to his son.

I still absolutely think Norman was a neglectful and preoccupied father, but I also think that Norman was an emotionally needy person, and once Emily died, Norman (who was most likely extremely depressed and lacking a support system) tried to have Harry meet some of those needs. I say tried to, because Harry was just a little kid, a baby, and he wouldn’t be capable of doing that.

I think a lot about a panel from Spectacular Spider-Man #178 where Harry is talking to his own son Normie Osborn. Normie is a very young child/toddler. While Harry is talking to Normie, and Normie is watching TV, Harry starts hallucinating that his father is in the room. (Both Harry and his father have had psychotic episodes.)

Norman tells Harry that Normie should be listening to Harry, and when Harry says that Normie is just 'a little guy' and 'doesn't really understand all this,' the Norman Sr. hallucination becomes angry and says that Harry was just the same. That Harry was lost in his own head when he was young, and couldn’t hear when Norman talked to him.

◇ Spectacular Spider-Man #178 - J.M. DeMatteis/Sal Buscema ◇

It's interesting the way Norman and Harry differ here. Harry wants his son Normie to be able to enjoy these early years and have this chance to be carefree. Whereas Norman doesn't seem to really understand the concept of childhood and childhood innocence.

I also find it interesting (because I'm obsessed with word choice) that both Norman and Harry use 'pals' to describe their relationship.

◇ Amazing Spider-Man #39 & #40 - Stan Lee/John Romita Sr. ◇

And just in general, Norman and Harry's relationship doesn't seem to fall into the typical parent-child relationship - where the parent takes care of the child and meets the child's emotional needs. Instead, it's more complicated and codependent.

Norman and Harry both view Norman as Harry’s provider and protector. Norman is abusive towards Harry, but he does show deep concern about Harry's safety and worries about what would happen if he (Norman) suddenly died - because he's afraid Harry wouldn't be able to fend for himself.

On the other hand, Norman really doesn't give Harry any tools to become independent or encourage a separate identity, and I think part of that is because subconsciously - as much as he keeps saying he wants Harry to be strong - Norman actually wants Harry to be dependent on him.

Like on one level Norman does want Harry to be strong and be able to think for himself, so that he can take over the company and continue the Osborn legacy (and he is angry at Harry and verbally punishes him for not living up to this). But on a more personal - and like I said before subconscious - level, I do think that Norman wants Harry to have to rely on him. Because Norman doesn't want Harry to be able to leave him. Because he doesn't want to be alone.

And that's the thing, I do think that Norman is also dependent on Harry.

Harry is the nurturer to his father's protector and provider. He cares for and worries about his father a lot, and as much as Norman does not like to be seen as weak, there are quite a few moments where we do see Norman be vulnerable around his son.

Why this happened is probably largely circumstantial. Norman is a very paranoid man, who constantly fears betrayal from those around him. Even with the other adults in Norman's life who he is 'close' to - like J Jonah Jameson and George Stacy, he is not open. He does not trust them. He thinks that people are conspiring against him. However, he doesn't see his young son as a threat, as someone who could turn against him and hurt him. And he pulls Harry into this emotional isolation with him by telling his son not to trust anyone but his family (anyone but Norman.)

◇Amazing Spider-Man #62 - Stan Lee/John Romita Sr. || Amazing Spider-Man #47 - Stan Lee/John Romita Sr. || Amazing Spider-Man #67 - Stan Lee/John Romita Sr. || Spectacular Spider-Man #200 - J.M. DeMatteis/Sal Buscema◇

That puts Harry in a very difficult position, because he has deal with these adult concerns at such a young age, and he also can't fully open up to anyone else. This strain, along with Norman's exacting standards and scathing criticism, puts a lot of pressure of Harry.

However, Harry is used to being his father's confidant, and he becomes extremely anxious if his father shuts him out - or worse if he doesn't know where his father is. In a way, as much as Harry says that his father is strong and great, I think (at some level) Harry must also see his father as (emotionally) fragile.

This is especially noticeable in Amazing Spider-Man #121, where Harry is supposed to be resting because he has just overdosed, but he can't because he's so worried about how his father will react to possible financial ruin. He goes to him, tells his father that he doesn't need to worry about him, that he can take care of himself, that he's just worried about his father. He then proceeds to collapse in Norman's arms because he is not well.

◇ Amazing Spider-Man #40 - Stan Lee/John Romita || Amazing Spider-Man #61 - Stan Lee/John Romita Sr., Don Heck || Amazing Spider-Man #63 - Stan Lee/Don Heck, John Romita || Amazing Spider-Man #121 - Gerry Conway/Gil Kane ◇

This collapse leads Norman to want to rid Peter Parker/Spider-Man from his life (by killing Peter), because he falsely blames Peter for Harry's drug overdose and also the collapse of Osborn Indistries.

Now Peter’s involvement in the Osborns' personal lives is interesting. Peter is the first person that Harry really opens up to outside of his father - when Harry breaks down and complains that his father had been very distant in the last few years. When Peter responds with the emotional support Harry had never gotten from Norman, Harry draws Peter further into his life by asking him to be his roommate. Harry’s demeanour toward Peter also becomes similar to his attitude towards his father, submissive and eager to please. (He even calls Peter 'sir' at one point when he's trying to get his attention - an address he uses towards his father.)

Peter, however, is so caught up in being Spider-Man that, like Norman, Peter often neglects his relationship with Harry. This leads Harry to be rather passive-aggressive. At one point, Harry offers to make Peter breakfast, but when he hears Peter locking his stuff up, he becomes insulted that Peter would think he would steal from him and storms off to see Norman instead.

This becomes an ongoing element, Harry being torn between Norman and Peter, and seeking love/support from both of them, but seemingly unable to get it.

Now I want to make it quite clear that Norman and Peter are not equally responsible here. Peter is Harry’s age and has troubles of his own. Norman should be acting as Harry’s father, but he really isn't, not emotionally anyway. He is meeting his son's material needs (to an excess), but he is emotionally neglecting his son while also emotionally burdening him with his own troubles. Plus Norman is constantly verbally berating Harry for failing to live up to his impossible expectations - leaving Harry feeling worthless and extremely depressed.

Harry takes drugs to cope with these negative feelings - first abusing prescription medication and then moving on to street drugs. There is even already a note of passive suicidal ideation here, as when Peter asks him how many pills he's taking, Harry's response is 'What’s the difference? Who counts?' (Amazing Spider-Man #97 - Stan Lee/Gil Kane.)

Now I refuse to believe that Harry doesn't understand that there's a possibility of overdose here: he's a chemistry (and business) major with a father who sells drugs for a living. He knows that it is a possibility. So, while he's not actively seeking to end his life, he also doesn't really seem to care if he lives or dies - as long as he can escape from his pain.

Harry does eventually overdose - and it's an overdose that leads Norman to go after Peter & also Peter’s girlfriend (and Harry's friend) Gwen. Norman blames all of Harry’s friends for his condition, but especially Peter. And Norman blames himself for failing to protect his son from them. He threatens to kill Gwen if Peter doesn't end his own life, and when Peter doesn't comply, Norman goes ahead with his threat - throwing Gwen Stacy off the George Washington Bridge. (Amazing Spider-Man #121 - Gerry Conway/Gil Kane.)

Peter (as Spider-Man) goes after Norman in revenge, and Norman ends up dying (albeit by his own glider and not Peter’s hand.) Harry eventually figures out that Peter is Spider-Man, and this leads him to think that his and Peter’s friendship wasn't real, that it was entirely a ruse on Peter’s part. That Peter was just getting close to Harry to close in on his father.

Harry ends up forgetting about Peter Parker’s secret identity after his first attack on Peter though, and so for years the threat of Harry's revenge remains dormant. However, even from 'beyond the grave' (Norman, um, kind of faked his death, but Harry didn’t know that) Norman still had a hold on Harry’s psyche.

One early warning sign of the return of Green Goblin might have been that Harry names his child both after his father and himself (Norman Harold Osborn), keeping their names (and identies) close together. Harry also tells young Normie how special a man his grandfather Norman Osborn was. Then Harry begins to hear his father's voice telling him to revenge his death, to kill Spider-Man/Peter Parker.

Harry goes back and forth on how he sees his father. At times, he is able to see his father as who he really was/is, a dangerous criminal who ruined his own life. However, at other points, he calls Norman 'wonderful' and 'the greatest man this world has ever known.' He claims that his father's spirit is in him fuelling all his efforts, and blames Peter for both Norman's and Gwen's deaths.

Of course, it would be hard for anyone to admit that their father killed one of their closest friends, however, I think with Harry it goes even beyond that. Because Harry doesn't have a solid identity outside of his father, he is unable to fully see himself and his father as two separate people. So, in his head, Harry can't admit that his father killed Gwen, because then he would also have to think that he killed Gwen - something I don't think that Harry can wrap his head around doing. It's easier then to blame someone else - Peter/Spider-Man.

When Harry does finally admit that Norman killed Gwen, he still absolutely thinks (pretty understandibly) that it was Peter who ended Norman's life. Because of this, Harry decides that both he and Peter would be better off dead - and that their deaths would protect their loved ones from further harm.

It is only an outpouring of unconditional love from Peter (something Harry had never really felt before) that sways Harry from ending Peter’s life. He carries Peter out of the building where he had set up a timed bomb, but then seemingly dies himself (from side effects of the serum he'd taken to make himself stronger.)

🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻

Break!

🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻🌷🪻

Okay, this is here because this is getting long, but I don’t want to make it a two-parter, but also sometimes people need to take a break and breathe, you know?

I will also be concentrating more on post One More Day Harry in this section, though referring back to earlier comics as well. I will also be talking more about sex and romantic relationships, and how Harry's focus on his father (and Norman seeing himself as the most important person in Harry’s life) complicates things.

The Dan Slott and Joe Kelly runs leading up to and during Dark Reign were the first Spider-Man comics I read, and these were the issues where I first got to see the Osborns' relationship on page. What really struck me then about the relationship was how Norman talks to Harry more like a separated spouse than his grown child: 'I need you,' 'the world could be ours,' 'come home,' 'your place is here, by my side.'

During this period, Harry is pulling away from his father and trying to be independent, and Norman does not like this at all. He mocks Harry’s business ventures, then bombs Harry’s place of business - almost killing Harry’s then girlfriend Lily Hollister in the process. When Harry goes to confront him, Norman says that girlfriends are replaceable and tries to win Harry back. This, however, does not work, and shortly following this, Harry goes no contact.

Norman will not accept this boundary, however, or any boundary really. He admitted earlier to recording and listening to all of Harry’s therapy sessions, and when Harry won't answer his calls or letters, Norman has people spy on his son and report to him on everything Harry is doing. He then gets himself invited to a wedding that Harry is attending.

This is when he tells Harry that he needs him, something that does visibly affect Harry. Peter steps in between Harry and Norman, and tells Norman 'and that's what therapy's for.'

This scene is interesting because Norman does not like admitting that he needs other people, but also because Peter doesn't consider this (entirely) as a ploy on Norman’s part. He does think that Norman is being honest about 'needing' Harry. He just thinks that the way Norman seeks support from his son is unhealthy.

There is also an 'us'-ness in the Norman-Harry relationship, that is more typical of couples. This along with how Harry is thrust into this nurturing role with Norman, makes him (at times) seem more like his father’s spouse than his son.

And when Harry and Norman do end up cutting ties, Harry even says: 'I was never your son.'

◇ Amazing Spider-Man #573 - Dan Slott /John Romita Jr. || Amazing Spider-Man #595 - Joe Kelly/Phil Jimenez || Amazing Spider-Man #598 || Writer: Joe Kelly/Artists: Paulo Siqueira & Marco Checchetto || Amazing Spider-Man #599 - Joe Kelly/Stephen Segovia, Marco Checchetto, Paulo Siqueira ◇

This relationship with his father - before the eventual break up - does also lead to problems in Harry’s romantic relationships.

Because Norman basically sees himself as the centre of the universe and because he is very possessive of the people around him, Harry grew up internalising this idea that he belongs to his father and that he should prioritise Norman above everything else.

And because of this, Harry does tend to elevate and choose his father over his other relationships. Like how when he was seeing Mary Jane Watson, that relationship ended because Harry wouldn’t unlock the door for her - choosing to be alone with his dead father's costume over being with her. His marriage with Liz also deteriorates as Harry obsesses over avenging his father's death and continuing the Osborn legacy.

Of note, in these moments Harry isn't exactly thinking clearly - there are definitely signs of psychic breaks, with Harry having delusions and hallucinations. Still, a huge part of Harry's psyche is consumed by his father - to the detriment of other aspects of his life.

Even after Harry sees Norman as a bad person (acknowledging that his father was Gwen's killer and knowing for sure that Norman has committed countless other heinous crime), Norman still has a hold over his son. Harry still holds out hope for winning his father's love and approval - and completely dismisses his then girlfriend Lily Hollister's encouragement and support. Instead focusing entirely on his father's criticisms.

◇Amazing Spider-Man #595 - Joe Kelly/Phil Jimenez || Amazing Spider-Man Family #4 - J.M. DeMatteis/Val Semeiks || Amazing Spider-Man #390 - J.M. DeMatteis/Mark Bagley◇

◇Amazing Spider-Man #126 - Gerry Conway/Ross Andru || Spectacular Spider-Man #189 - J.M. DeMatteis/Sal Buscema || Amazing Spider-Man #569 - Dan Slott /John Romita Jr.◇

Another thing involving Lily Hollister - a rather controversial decision - was to have her be in sexual relationships with both Harry and Norman Osborn (with the timing being so close together that the paternity of her child was called into question.)

I actually don't think it's so surprising that Norman would go after someone his son was seeing. He is very self-centred and delusion enough to think that he could somehow get away with it.

Also, back in Amazing Spider-Man #96, there was this whole thing about Harry bringing along Norman to watch the girl he was then seeing - Mary Jane Watson - dance. It kind of comes across like Harry is trying to impress his father with how hot his 'girlfriend' is, and Norman is quite publicly enchanted by her.

There is something similar in the Raimi adaption where Harry Osborn wants Mary Jane Watson to dress in black (like Harry’s mother/Norman’s wife used to do) because he wants Norman to be impressed by her/find her attractive. Which people have pointed out is kind of weird/creepy.

Also kind of weird is just how much empathy Harry has towards Lily Hollister after she ditches him for his dad. Like yes, I think it's a coercive relationship, and Norman is much more to blame, but I still think most people would be a little more angry in this situation. And what Harry does say to Lily at the start of her and Norman's relationship is very interesting to me:

'He's an amazing man, Lily...I know, and he takes very special care of his "nice things"...until he doesn't.

I hope you see him for what he is before that happens...

Because when Norman Osborn is through with you, no one gets to have you.'

One) because it's really quite strange to call the father you suspect is sleeping with your ex-girlfriend 'an amazing man'

Two) because the way Harry is saying this makes it seems like it applies to both her and him. The 'I know' in particular stands out, because what he seems to be saying is 'I know exactly what you are feeling/going through right now.'

Which given that she is in 'romantic' relationship with his father certainly raises questions.

◇Amazing Spider-Man: Extra! #3 - Joe Kelly/Dale Eaglesham || Amazing Spider-Man #96 - Stan Lee/Gil Kane◇

In any case, I could probably write more, but this post is already more than long enough. I just find the dynamic between Norman & Harry Osborn fascinating because I don’t think it's one we see as often in fiction, and I love reading about dysfunctional families/relationships.

I also find post-OMD Harry really interesting, because I think it's even rarer to see a person, who was in a relationship like this, have to move on, fully cut ties, and figure out how to build a life for themselves without this person (who they had such codendency with.)

[arealphrooblem]

A Good Roommate Is Hard To Find Part 2

I was blown away by the response to something I banged out without much thought.! I've received several asks about continuing this so here is part two! Thank you everyone!

Synopsis: Civilian has harbored a secret crush on his roommate for a long time, only to find out that said roommate is the newest villain on the scene during a robbery at his job.

Part one here

CW: named characters (juggling two unnamed male characters pronoun wise was just a huge headache)

“Salt?”

Ben stared at his roommate from across their tiny kitchen table. Two bowls of soup lay before each of them, accompanied by folded napkins and spoons and glasses of water. The formality instantly raised his hackles. Whatever happened to eating on the couch while they watched stupid youtube prank videos?

Fear and anger twisted and blended into each other until he didn’t know what was responsible for the maelstrom in his chest that the hot shower did nothing to calm down.

“How long?” he said instead.

It was the question that plagued him the most. Did this start before they met? Had Ben lived with a stranger in a mask this whole time? Or did it start later? Did something horrible happen to make Adam desperate enough to try villainy and could Ben have prevented it?

“How long has salt been around?” Adam asked blithely. “I don’t know. Probably at least a thousand years or more. Did the Romans use salt? You’re the history nerd, not me.”

“Don’t mock me,” Ben snapped. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do you really want to know?”

What fucking kind of question was that? But Adam tilted his head to the side, the look in his eyes deadly serious.

“Because if I tell you,” he continued, “that could implicate you. Once you know, you can’t un-know. And Heroes have ways of making you talk. There’s no way they’d believe you didn’t help me all this time.”

So consumed with the fear of Adam himself, Ben never thought to be concerned with anyone else. Now a new fear dug its roots into him.

“There’s no way they’d believe it now,” he said, heart thudding again.

“They would if you were genuinely clueless.”

Or if I turned you in Ben thought. That was the other thought that had plagued him the last few days.

Now that he knew, what was he supposed to do about it?

“But I don’t intend on you talking to anyone about this,” Adam added.

Again, Ben’s hackles raised at the certainty in Adam’s voice. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“How would you stop me?”

He didn’t mean it as a taunt. He knew Adam was dangerous, but not how. Did Adam have powers or weapons? What plans did he have for Ben?

“You don’t want the answer to that question either,” Adam replied softly. “But know that I would, if I had to. I’m capable of anything when I know it’s my best option.”

The lump was back in Ben’s throat, making it hard to swallow. He could stomach the lying, even understand it a little. How do you tell your roommate that you’re the one behind all the recent robberies and arson?

 And Ben could handle the crimes, for the most part. This city ate people alive and anyone not obscenely wealthy had one bad accident standing between themselves and homelessness.  So far Adam’s crew had only targeted places  with large payouts. They took hostages when necessary but had no casualties so far.

But the threats? The knife at his throat? The lack of hesitation before launching to dark promises of violence hurt Ben the most. Even without his stupid crush, they had become friends the last three years. Their lives had become enmeshed with each other’s in a domestic intimacy that went beyond two people who simply shared a space.

 Adam knew his allergies and what restaurants to avoid because of it. He knew Ben’s parents and siblings. He knew Ben’s failed dreams and useless history degree. They shared shampoo and lonely holiday dinners and a Netflix account.

Ben thought he knew Adam the same way. But now all that had unraveled, and though he never harbored the hope that Adam could return his affections, seeing how easily Adam could threaten his life as if Ben never meant anything to him . . .

The knife would hurt less.

“What . . .” Ben swallowed again, his voice coming out choked. “What do you want me to do? I can move out. Leave the city.”

Adam’s eyebrows shot up. “Leave? You can’t leave!”

 Hope rose ever so slightly without Ben’s permission. But when had it ever listened in the first place?

“I can’t afford this apartment without you.”

And there it went, dashed on the rocks.

“Haven’t you been . . .earning extra income,” Ben asked hesitantly.

“Not enough to cover your portion of everything for more than a month or two. Besides . . .I only get a small percentage of the cut. I need you.”

Boy, would Ben have loved to hear that in literally any other circumstance.

“But I’m a liability now,” he protested.

“Are you?”

Adam got a certain look in his eye anytime they played strategy games. It didn’t matter what kind — Among Us, Monopoly, chess, Street Fighter. His mind always worked five steps ahead, thinking of contingency plans for contingency plans, and Ben knew when that glint showed up in Adam’s eye, he was about to lose. That he had lost long before he even realized it.

“Here’s the way I see it.” Adam leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “You hate living with your parents and you don’t want to leave the city. I can’t leave because I’m . . .in the middle of things. If either of us were to move out, we’d both have to find another roommate and the odds of us finding people that work as well with us as we do with each other is impossible. We would both be miserable.”

“You think I would be more miserable with a person who didn’t threaten me with a knife?” Ben asked.

And the answer to that question was yes, but Adam didn’t have to know that.

“What if they never turn the light on when they piss at night and get it all over the toilet?” Adam countered. “What if they eat the last of all your snacks or move their obnoxious girlfriend in or never empty the dishwasher before sticking their dirty dishes in?”

Objectively speaking, Ben would rather have a knife to his throat one time than deal with any of those on a constant basis.

“We know how to live with each other. We’ve developed a routine that has worked for years. This doesn’t have to change anything. It’s not like I haven’t been doing this for months while you had no clue anyway.”

“You will never trust me not to snitch,” said Ben.

“If I’m in jail, then how are you going to still live here with any kind of sanity? Better yet — if I’m thrown in prison because you ran your mouth, how are you going to be safe from retaliation from my boss or crew members? How are you going to avoid your own prison sentence for being an accessory? Is it worth your life to put me away?”

That last question hit him hard. He knew it was cowardly and stupid beyond measure, but he couldn’t bear the thought of blowing up the little life he’d carved for himself here. It didn’t amount to much, especially to his parents, but he loved it all the same.

“No,” he told Adam softly. “It’s not worth it.”

He loved his life and he loved Adam and he loved his life because of Adam and it all fed into each other like one writhing ouroboros.

Adam leaned back again, looking devastatingly smug. “I didn’t think so.”

“So . . .what now?” Ben bit at his lower lip, the nervous tell that always gave him away in poker.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Eat your soup for starters.” Adam nodded at the bowl in front of Ben. “And then give me your phone.”

“My phone? What do you want with my phone?”

Adam leveled a flat look over the table. A look he shot at Ben frequently over the years when Ben made a particularly bad pun. He used to love making Adam give him that look. Now it felt tainted with an undercurrent of a threat.

“Eat your soup, Ben.”

Ben ate his soup. It came out great, almost as if they had just ordered it from the restaurant that inspired it. Adam didn’t cook often, but when it did it outshone Ben’s rudimentary skills. And when they both finished, Ben cleared the table, almost on autopilot, because the person who didn’t cook did the dishes. It was one of the first routines they established.

Usually Ben hated washing dishes which was why he volunteered to make dinner so often. Tonight however it offered a soothing distraction, much more effective than the shower Adam insisted he take. Right up until he felt Adam’s hands on his thighs, sliding up to the edge of his front pocket.

“What are you doing?” he yelped, dropping the spoon with a clatter.

“Looking for your phone.” Adam’s voice pressed right against the shell of Ben’s ear.

His fingers wriggled their way into the pocket, tight in old jeans Ben should have thrown out when he graduated. His breath stuttered in his chest at the intrusion, which lasted only a few seconds, and at the triumphant snort against his ear when Adam slipped the phone out.

He swallowed thickly, throat tight for a very different reason than before. Adam stepped back, the heat of him gone just as suddenly as it appeared. A glance over his shoulder showed Adam leaning against the stove, brow furrowed as he typed in Ben’s password. Because of course Ben had given it to him, thoughtlessly, for vague future emergencies.

“What are you doing to it?” he asked, nerves fluttering in the pit of  his stomach. What if he didn’t get it back?

“Precautionary measures,” Adam replied distractedly. “I’ll give it back in the morning.”

“The morning?”

He spun around, soap dripping from his hands. Adam leveled another flat look at him.

“Do you want this to work or should I get another knife?” he said.

The blood drained from Ben’s face. His eyes darted over to the knife block, sitting just inches away from Adam’s hip. There was no way he could reach it in time — not that it would matter if he could. Clumsy and inexperienced, he’d only hurt himself and save Adam the trouble.

“I just . . .want to know what’s happening,” he said, eyes prickling for the second time that night, goddamn it. “You don’t have to keep threatening me.”

The cognitive dissonance of having Adam so carelessly threaten him, pulling a knife on him — Adam, his best friend that he lived with for years — felt like it could split his head apart. Life was starting to not feel real anymore, like he was in a video game instead. Or a nightmare.

Adam’s expression flickered, looking almost stricken, before Ben turned away. He rinsed what was left of the suds from his hands and then turned the water off.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, even though it was barely dark. “Keep the phone.”

Then he walked straight down the back hall to his bedroom. Adam called his name, almost too softly to hear, but Ben ignored him and shut the door.

He locked it too, for good measure. Not that it mattered. Sleep did not accompany him much that night.

Part Three

[sarah-scara]

Shattered Relics

A new Overwatch grunt who isn't quite ready for the field finds themselves enmeshed with a sweet archaeologist who saves them from peril. Venture x reader, hurt/comfort, romantic by the end. CW for non-life threatening injuries. Word count: 3014

This is something I wrote primarily for myself as a result of my Venture obsession and as an experiment in first-person writing, but feel free to insert yourself into it too if you'd like. The reader is gender neutral, after all. Loosely based on Venture's animated intro.

---

As the sands near Petra came into view, the reality of joining Overwatch fully hit me for the first time. It was possible, albeit difficult, to repress the anxiety in the training simulations. Here, thousands of miles from home, it simply wasn’t tenable anymore. I approached the front lines, where Overwatch soldiers were in conflict with Talon operatives attempting to steal a cache of precious artifacts. I wasn’t high rank enough to know any details about the artifacts, but the higher-ups seemed confident that their security was a critical task for Overwatch.

I repeated what I had to do in my head. Steady grip. Careful aim. A bullet whizzes past my head. Shit. Shit. I’m going to die. I drop the gun, falling to my knees in the sand. I knew this was a bad idea. I could hear shouts, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. Another bullet impact, far above me this time, followed by a horrible crack. I’m only able to look up for a moment before a shard of rock hits me, and consciousness fades.

---

The first thing I noticed on waking up was the red sandstone ceiling above me, followed by my surroundings. I was lying on a sleeping bag in a small cavern, next to a tent and unlit fire pit. Definitely not where I was earlier. Well, I’m not dead. The next thing I noticed was the intense pain shooting through my body. 

“Ow. Fuck. Ow.” I couldn’t restrain myself from shouting aloud to no one in particular. To my surprise, there was a response.

“Oh!” An exclamation, far too chipper for the situation, came from nearby. “You’re awake! I was starting to worry you were gonna be history.” A mop of messy brown hair mixed with sand, dirt, and a pair of extremely scuffed goggles came first out of the tent, followed by the rest of the strange person.

I was dazed. “Who… are you… with Overwatch?” My speech unsteady, I tried to sit up. Sharper pain shot through my legs. I winced and fell back down.

“I, uh, wouldn’t do that.” The strange person frowned. “You got beat up pretty bad.” They reached out a hand for a shake before realizing my position couldn’t accommodate such an action, sheepishly retracting it. “Sloan Cameron. I’m with the Wayfinder Society.”

I managed to pull myself together at least enough to hold a conversation. “So what am I doing here, I guess is my question.” I asked flatly, still stunned.

“Oh! Well that’s easy to explain!” Sloan’s eyes lit up. “So. We’re here at Petra trying to find some cool artifacts. I’m here, drilling away-” They gestured to the incredibly large drill resting beside their tent. “And I hear a bunch of commotion outside. I try to ignore it, but some Talon goons break in looking for any of our finds, so Venture jumps into action!”

I smirk. “Venture?”

Sloan glances away, embarrassed. “It’s uh, my codename. I think it’s cool. Anyway, I drove them out of the digsite and decided to help out the Overwatch fighters get rid of the rest of those Talon jerks.” The word wasn’t harsh, but their glare and tone made their hatred clear. “Oh! And then I spotted someone trapped under a rock. That would be, uh. You. And I couldn’t bear to leave someone injured there, so I carried you back here!”

“Thank you. I-” My incoming apology is cut off by a cough.

“Here.” Sloan lay a gentle hand on the nape of my neck, propping up my head and pouring water into my mouth. I hadn’t realized how dry my throat was - I wasn’t used to the desert. Their hand was rough, calloused from the hard work of excavation, but it still gave a tender, caring touch. My eyes fixated on their other hand, clutching the flask of water, and I slowly moved my gaze along their arms. Nicely toned - can’t be easy lugging around a drill that size. They were able to carry me, too, so they must be pretty strong…

“Ay. Eyes up here.” Sloan said sternly. When I met their eyes with mine, they gave another wide smile. “Figured if you were staring you’d at least want to see my famous smile.” One of their front teeth was chipped, but it didn’t affect the infectiousness of their joy one iota.

Caught red-handed, I couldn’t help but feel a bit of shame, even if they didn’t seem to mind that much. I finished the last of the water and let my head hit the sleeping back again. “So… Venture? Uh… Sloan?” I said, ending off with a lilt of uncertainty.

“Either’s fine!” They cheerily replied.

“Good to know. So, what about those artifacts you’re protecting?”

“Aha! You didn’t doubt Venture, did you?” They rummaged through their pack, furrowing their brow for a moment before triumphantly retrieving a small golden object with the face of Anubis. “This little ushabti is something I’ve chased for a while. It used to be in Cairo, but now it’s here in Petra. Now, you might notice that it’s shaped like Anubis. I’m not sure why it was brought here of all places, but I have some theories-” They stopped suddenly. “Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“No! Go on, I like your enthusiasm.”

“Really? Most people outside of the Society get bored. Anyway, I think there must be some kind of group here worshiping Anubis. I don’t have any proof of it yet, but why else would they bring it here?” They put a hand on their chin. “I guess they could just be thieves, but that’s way less fun.”

“Well, if you’re able to fight against those Talon soldiers, I assume you’ve got the wherewithal to deal with whatever horrible curses you’ll dredge up by disturbing a ritual site.” I joked.

“Oh my gosh. Do you think it’d be cursed? That would be so cool.” Their eyes were wide, lit with excitement. “I shouldn’t keep you up, though. You should really get some more sleep. I’ve called some of my colleagues back at base camp. They’re gonna come by and get you later tonight and take you back to get some actual medical attention.”

“Are the other Wayfinders like you?”

Sloan laughed. “No, they’re much more serious. They let me do my own thing.”

My mood soured, and from Venture’s expression it was visible on my face. “That’s a shame. I was really enjoying listening to you…”

“Hmmm…” Their eyes wandered as they lost themselves in thought. “I mean, you’re totally free to stay in my room at the outpost if you can’t get enough of little ol’ me.” They shot a pair of finger guns along with a wink.

“I… I’d like that.” I said, eyes fluttering closed. “If it’s not too much of a burden.”

“Course not!” Even with eyes closed I could tell from their tone they were grinning. “It’s a date.”

---

The boundary between sleep and consciousness was thin. My body needed the rest, but my mind was sick of sleep. By the time I finally woke up fully, night had fallen. The air was cold, but a fire now crackled at the formerly ashen fire pit. I made an effort to sit up - a successful one, this time. Perhaps the injuries weren’t as severe as I’d thought?

“Howdy hey.” Venture gave a quick wave from beside the fire. They were now wearing a thick yellow jacket and seemed considerably more comfortable, though they had a fresh few markings of dirt on their face. “Glad to see you up. I made some tea; ya want some?”

I nodded, and they passed over a nondescript mug filled with an enchantingly warm tea. “I’m surprised you’re able to keep this from breaking. I mean you’ve got to move around so much in this line of work…”

“Oh, they break. That’s why it’s so boring and cheap.” They said. “Plus, it means that my bags always come back with pottery shards even if I don’t find anything!”

I laugh and take a sip. “Well, the tea inside is still nice. Thank you.”

“Of course! My culinary skills are second to none.” They laughed a bit before adding quietly, “They don’t let me cook back at base after the incidents.”

I paused for a moment, then continued to sip a bit slower. “You’ll have to tell me about that some time.”

“Aaaaaaanyway-” They said, cutting me off a bit. “Your, uh, low-tech medivac will be here soon, and I can show you around the Wayfinder Society Petra Forward Operating Base! Hope you can used to rooming with two other people though, it might get a bit cramped.”

“Two? I didn’t know you had a roommate. I hope it won’t be too much for them.”

“Ah, it’s really no worries. Rosetta loves people!”

---

The trip from Venture’s makeshift campsite to the Wayfinders’ larger outpost wasn’t too long, though the terrain meant it wasn’t exactly the smoothest ride. Still, it was worth it to avoid the whiplash of hot days and cold nights of the desert. The outpost was sterile and scientific, upsettingly similar to the Overwatch training simulations I’d grown to despise, but it was nice to be somewhere climate controlled for the first time in a few days. 

“Here we are! Not much, but it’s mine. And now yours!” Sloan excitedly said upon us reaching their tiny room. Despite its size, it managed to contain a bunk bed and plenty of the archaeologist’s trinkets.

“You mentioned a roommate? Are they here?”

“Oh, Rosetta? Yeah, she’s over there.” Sloan pointed toward a nearby table.

Puzzled, I followed their finger. The table had a small rock with googly eyes stuck on. “Venture.” I said flatly.

They were grinning. “Anyway, I gotta go talk about my findings to the higher-ups. Feel free to get to know each other. I’ll be back later byeee-” They trailed off as they half-jogged away from the room. They really were a strange one.

“Well. Just you and me, Rosetta. How are you doing?” I asked, still harboring some strange belief that she might respond. She did not. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that a rock did not respond, but Venture’s attitude toward it gave me some pause, even if it was… unlikely. In lieu of a conversation with an inanimate object, I chose instead to view the baubles Sloan had chosen to bring along. It was a surprising amount for someone so nomadic, a table covered in rocks given less reverence than Rosetta, along with a few pictures stuck to the wall. There were a lot of pictures of Venture at the pyramids, smiling that wide smile that I had already become so fond of, along with a varied collection of other rocks. These didn’t seem to be given personalities, however.

I was still sore from my injuries, so I sat down on the edge of the bed and checked my phone. No messages. Of course. The rest of Overwatch probably thought I was dead. Probably for the best, as this might have technically been deserting. At least the signal was good. I flicked through social media idly. Nothing particularly interesting, but at least it was a distraction.

I lost track of time, and a quick knock at the door jolted me back to reality. It had been longer than I realized if they were already back. They gently opened the door and I immediately realized something was wrong. They were holding two ice cream cones, but their face was sunken.

“Want one?” They offered one of the cones to me, eyes staring straight down. I took it carefully, suddenly deeply concerned for them.

“Am I… causing trouble, Sloan?”

They shook their head, their mop of hair shaking with it. “It’s not you, don’t worry. I am just frustrated.” They flopped onto their bed, one hand raised to carefully protect their own ice cream. “Mind if I complain? I know you’ve dealt with a lot, but…”

I took a lick of my ice cream. “Go ahead. I want to know what happened.”

They sighed deeply. “I told my higher-ups about that ushabti I showed you. I told them that there had to be a deeper reason for Talon bringing it here. They looked me right in the eye and said I was being unrealistic; that it was probably just that Talon was stealing it to fund their activities.” They took a big bite out of their ice cream, then continued, voice quavering. They were on the verge of tears. “They don’t believe in me, y’know? They think I’m a kid. I’m twenty-six! I’ve been with the Society for ten years!” They winced. “Ow. Brain freeze.”

“Are you worried they’re gonna like, fire you?”

“Nah. Nobody else can fend off Talon agents like me, so my job security is really high. I just wish they’d believe in me.”

I thought for a moment. “Best way to get them to listen is to find some more proof.”

They sat up, trying to maintain their composure. “That’s what I was thinking. I didn’t expect anyone else to think it was a good idea. Usually people don’t.”

“I mean, I can’t exactly help directly… but I’d be happy to stay with you and provide whatever I can.”

“You can accompany me back to the dig site if you want. I’d enjoy the company at the very least.” They smiled bashfully. “Oh! We should probably wait until you’re healed, though.”

I took stock of my body. “A few more days should do me. I’m really not hurt as bad as I thought. Anxiety got to me, maybe.” I finished off my cone. “Do you guys get ice cream a lot here?”

“Nah, this is a treat since I had a bad day. I’ve got connections at the cafeteria.” They finished theirs as well. “Ice cream always makes me feel better. Working at an ice cream parlor was the only other job I’ve had. I was so excited that I could eat as much free ice cream as I wanted while on the job…” They sighed dreamily. “Turned out I couldn’t. I had just assumed that I could.” They grinned. “I got fired.”

---

A few more days of rest had me together enough to go out in the field. While Venture told me not to push myself and that they were fine waiting for me, I could tell in their eyes that they missed the digsite. There were other things I noticed about them, of course. The way their laugh sounded, their chipper greetings in the morning, the way their body curved in just the right ways…

It was worth spending the day in the hot desert sun, watching Sloan as they sunk deeper and deeper into the earth below them. Their beautiful hair was smothered by dust and sand, sweat pouring in rivulets down their face, goggles making impressions around their eyes. They were still beautiful, despite it all.

“SLOAN!” I yelled, trying to be heard, over the din of their excavator. “DO YOU WANT TO BREAK FOR LUNCH?”

Their excavator shut off, the drill spinning to a halt. They panted for a moment, then pulled off their goggles. “I uh…” They struggled to catch their breath. “If you need to, go ahead. I wanna go just a little bit deeper. The ground feels like it’s getting softer? It makes no sense.” They grinned. “I’ve gotta be close to a big discovery.”

I watched from a distance as they spun their drill back up, and slowly sunk beneath the earth into their current borehole. Slowly their head sank, and then they vanished, along with a scream. Shocked, I ran over and found the hole they were digging had collapsed into a much larger cavern.

“I’m okay!” Venture’s yell echoed from the bottom of the cavern. “Can you throw a rope down? There should be one in my bag.”

Trying to manage my panic, I hurried over to Venture’s bag and found a length of rope. I tied it to a nearby pole for the tent and threw it down the hole. “Sloan? Did you get it?” I shouted down. No response. “Venture?” Still hearing no response, I checked the strength of the rope. It was secure enough. I carefully climbed down, fearing the worst.

At the bottom of the pit, I began desperately searching for Sloan. It didn’t take long. They were standing in a strange glow, totally entranced by something ahead. I put my hand on their shoulder and saw it too. The far side of the cavern was dominated by a huge artificial structure, or perhaps a titanic Omnic - and it had the face of Anubis. I stood stunned.

After a brief moment, Venture broke the silence. “I knew something had to be here… I wonder, is this based on the Egyptian god, or the AI Anubis…” They trailed off for a moment before noticing my hand on their shoulder. “Oh! You’re here! I can’t take this. This has the potential to define my work for decades. I need to get more people out here. Gosh, there’s so many emotions.” Their eyes met mine. “I, um. Can I?”

I nodded silently.

They leaned in, cupping my face in their calloused hands. I wrapped mine around their shoulders, fingers in their messy, matted hair. It was not the most delicate kiss, but as I fell into their grip and let their lips meet mine, I couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful one. They held on, squeezing me tight, backlit by the glow of their new find. 

When they finally pulled away, eyes wide with joy, I managed to summon enough bravery to ask Sloan a question. “So, does this mean I can stay with you and the Wayfinders?”

They grinned. “It’s an unusual situation, but with a find like this, I’m sure they’ll be happy to keep you on as my special research assistant. And I’m happy to keep you on as my partner too.” Sloan said with a wink.

[1moremilgram-enjoyer]

Currently obssessing over 0308 (as usual) and the way punishment/judgement is represented as fire in Fuuta's MVs and rain/water in Amane's. The parallels are driving me insane I swear.

Punishing someone else.

Being punished (I assume Fuuta is supposed to be burning here).

Like okay okay listen.

CW: Online harrassment, doxxing, child abuse, cults and indoctrination, burning and drowning.

What do these things represent in the MVs? Well, like I said, it's punishment or judgement. They're these suffocating, overpowering forces of nature which feel like they swallow you whole, right?

[Backdraft] Flames closing in, are both sides losers? Flames closing in, can’t douse this FIRE

Alight, enmeshed, their eyes closing in Dodging seems impossible Bust out, explode that counter uppercut Swallowing me whole, can’t douse this FIRE

Amane may not mention water in her lyrics, but the visuals are clear enough.

But obviously they're so so different. The fires in Bring it On and Backdraft always have human origin. It's Fuuta weilding the fire swords, it's Fuuta who uses the highly flammable spray paint. In fact, Fuuta uses the username Pazuzu, a wind demon, and wind very easily causes fires to spread and worsen (more on the Fuuta-Pazuzu connection in this post by milk-ly I highly recommend you read!). Fuuta for a long time had control of the punishment and judgement dealt out to others, he controlled the fire.

But humans don't control rain. It always comes from nature, and in Amane's eyes, from a God. It's an immutable fact of life, punishment shall come because it is ordained by a higher power.

Right? You get it?

And there's more. Because rain and water in general is a necessity. It's something humans can't live without. Even if it's unpleasant or annoying when it does rain, people should always be grateful that it does. Even if it's inescapable, it's a gift from God. It's love.

[Magic] But it’s not scary at all, because it’s love I can really think it’s great. See, isn’t it a great thing?

Please get my girl some therapy.

Okay so that's all well and good. But probably the most important difference is the aftermath.

Because for Fuuta, fire doesn't leave anything behind, but ash. It's a completely destructive force. Even if something new can take the burnt object's place (see: agricultural uses of fire), the old object is completely destroyed. It's unforgiving, nothing good can come from being burnt.

[Backdraft] An ever-victorious FIRE, burn so high 'till it becomes ash

With just one mistake and I’m out of chances Bless me, please, with one more chance

Fuuta's lives in a world where judgement is damning. Just one mistake, and you're already burning, and no one can douse the fire. That's how it's always been for him and the people he attacked. Nothing good comes from being punished, and there are no second chances.

But rain isn't like that. After the rain comes the rainbow, right? After punishment comes reform, after being judged, one can become a better version of themselves.

The thing that ties all the Purge March scenes with a rainbow is the theme of punishment, of rain. It first appears when Amane fumbles the Gozake flag, later when Amane heals the cat, then the last two images are after her victim killed the cat. It's the good following the judgement, the "improvement."

[Magic] I won’t say “I’ve had enough” Will you laugh with me and forgive me? I promise! I can only become a better girl!

I wonder why she won't say she's had enough punishment...

[The Purge March] The “It can’t be helped”, from the scum who can’t be helped That makes them doubtlessly, clearly, absolutely, unequivocally, beyond any doubt, GUILTY

Oh right! Because saying you won't be able to change after punishment is blasphemous and makes you "scum who can't be helped"! Right!

Please get my girl some therapy.

Okay, and why's all this paralleling important? Like sure it's neat, but this is all stuff that can be gathered individually from each MV, why do we gotta relate it to one another?

Well, because it makes it make so much more sense.

[Fuuta] Brat, you’re on the side who weren’t forgiven too, right? ……so why can you still stand? Don’t you can hear it too? The voices blaming us. ……I don’t have the energy to do anything like this. [Amane] It goes without saying. Because there’s something far more important than the voices of people we can’t even see. People are able to get back up again. As long as there’s something to guide them. Kajiyama Futa, by coincidence today happens to be your birthday, correct? Don’t you think it’s a good opportunity to be reborn?

Of course Fuuta wants to believe Amane! Because if her religion is right, then he does have a second chance!

Bless me, please, with one more chance

The use of "bless" here really became quite ironic huh. (Disclaimer, I don't have a good way of checking if there really is a religious implication in the original Japanese lyric and I actually think there isn't)

He's going through the punishment here, and he's reforming! He probably wouldn't dox anyone again after what happened with Killcheroy. Suddenly, his Guilty verdict isn't just an unforgiving fire which will consume him whole and leave nothing but ash. Instead, it's just a tiny bit of rain, and as long as he holds out, he can see the rainbow. If you feel like you're standing in an inferno, wouldn't you rather be in the rain instead?

I've always been worried about how Fuuta would react to a second Amane Guilty. I'm pretty sure Amane herself would only cling to her beliefs harder, because when the rain turns into a storm, the rainbow becomes even more necessary. If after all she's gone through she still believes in her faith, there is zero chance in my mind a second Guilty would help at all. The question is what the hell would Fuuta do if Amane suffers so much and the only thing she has left is her religion. The issue is that Amane's religion, given everything I talked about, seems like it would love martyrs, so if Fuuta is already starting to believe, he's only going to be... more impressed? Maybe? By Amane.

[Magic] I won’t say “I’ve had enough” Will you laugh with me and forgive me?

Yeah that line again.

And I don't know man, I really hope he doesn't end up attacking Shidou in Amane's stead, but I think it's not all that impossible. And it would also be very funny I think, a small part of me wants to see the reaction of people who voted Amane Guilty to protect Shidou if that happens.

Would Amane Innocent help? Not by itself, probably. But if Amane gets into a better mental state, it's possible Fuuta would be able to sorta start getting her to realize some of the bad parts of her cult and hopefully a Trial 3 inno on Amane would be enough to start a path to healing.

Listen, Shidou can survive a stab, and he can tell someone else how to heal the other injured prisoners. He and the others can probably come back from Shidou's injury. I don't think Amane can come back from a second Guilty if I'm honest. Given the Situation, I hope I'm wrong, but I am so so worried.

Come on Fuuta make a Timelines post asking us to inno Amane like Haruka did with Mu. Do it. I know it didn't go well last time but you know.

Anyways, Inno Amane please- take care!

[incesthemes]

i'd love to talk about the themes of fate vs family in cw's supernatural with you :')

YOU'RE SO AMAZING THANK YOU

it's just. THE THEMES. like okay when i started rewatching supernatural i was just kind of vibing. my original goal was to see if i could uncover all of the godawful incest subtext in the show of which there is an abundance. but once i reached scarecrow my eyes were OPENED. it's all an allegory. there are only two choices in their lives and they are to follow their destinies or to to become toxic enmeshed brothers who will incite ruin upon the world.

because like the thesis of SCARECROW is the collective vs the individual. burkittsville is a community which cares for itself by sacrificing outsiders. emily is ultimately deemed an outsider and is therefore available to become the sacrifice, and when she protests she's considered selfish for wanting to save her own life. and the message scarecrow posits is that the collective is a dangerous thing; ergo, if sam and dean go down the path of the collective, if they choose each other, then they will create something destructive.

you see this theme, that community and collective is dangerous and destructive, in a couple other episodes too: the benders and croatoan (kind of, not entirely the point but it still exists), and maybe another but i'm just glancing over my notes atm. at the same time, there are episodes companion to these that propose that the individual route is the correct path (heart, asylum) and episodes that show the consequences of choosing the collective (faith, shadow).

and AT THE SAME TIME, many episodes give us the exact opposite conclusion: bugs, nightmare, playthings, born under a bad sign—all of these episodes suggest that the collective is the correct path instead, that turning to each other is what will ultimately create the best outcome.

most of the episodes, especially in the first two seasons, are primarily concerned with pitting the pursuit of destiny against the pursuit of brotherhood—aka, fate vs family. the show makes it clear that sam and dean can't have both. dean, from the start, is unsure at best about pursuing john's (and later sam's) revenge quest to find and kill azazel; therefore, when sam is hellbent on hunting down yellow-eyes (synonymous with his destiny), he's shutting dean out of his life and focusing only on his own goals. john outright gives dean his quest in 2x01 by warning that he may have to kill sam; therefore, sam is the object of dean's fate, and killing him is the direct realization of that destiny. they're cosmically destined to kill each other—it's a cain and abel story, but there's a twist.

which is, of course, that they have another alternative: they can abandon their fates and choose each other, relentlessly and obsessively. every decision they make that pulls them apart brings them closer to fate, and every decision they make that brings them together pulls them farther from destiny. it makes complete sense, then, that sam and dean are soulmates: because of that, they are instead given two destinies, which makes it possible for them to defy the angels and demons that created them to be enemies.

BUT THE THING IS!!!!!!!! the thing is that neither of these destinies are good. it's impossible to strike a balance between these fates because the stakes are astronomical. they either must give in completely to their destinies as michael and lucifer's vessels, or they must give in completely to each other, eliminating their individuality and becoming a cohesive unit. the show is a constant push and pull between these two outcomes, and the show elaborates extensively on why neither of these options are good. the collective brings ruin; the individual brings the apocalypse. they can escape one destruction of the self but not the other.

and then if you pull back and look at kripke era as a whole, you see some trends that support this, too: seasons 1 and 2 are largely about sam and dean choosing each other, walking away from fate and toward family (see: devil's trap, where sam literally abandons his revenge quest, synonymous with his destiny, to save john and appease dean; see: croatoan, where dean finally decides to abandon the quest john gave him and to "save" sam at whatever cost, which leads him to his questionable and unwavering faith in sam for the rest of the season). season 1 is about sam abandoning fate and choosing dean; season 2 is about dean abandoning fate and choosing sam.

then, seasons 3 and 4 are largely about the exact opposite. with all hell breaks loose, dean (at azazel's meddling) has restarted his fateful quest by making the selfish (the individual!) choice to become the righteous man and sacrifice himself for sam's life. thus until lucifer rising, the show is a downward spiral of sam and dean's relationship unraveling at the seams. they pursue their destinies alone and at the expense of each other. sam confides in ruby despite dean's reserves (aka, he lets someone else be more important than dean; he chooses himself over his brother). dean reacts more and more violently. where their relationship had progressed in season 2 such that they were no longer keeping secrets from each other, now seasons 3 and 4 are rife with them, both of them having concerns and fears about each other that they're reluctant to open up about. they objectify each other and ignore each other as people because they are too consumed with their own paths. and it culminates in the start of the apocalypse, the very fate they wanted so badly to avoid!

therefore season 5 is the resolution of these conflicts. it's the ultimate decision between fate and family, where they confront their broken relationship and seek to make repairs of any kind that will fix the mess. because their only options are The Apocalypse or a toxic, codependent relationship with their brother, it is only through the ultimate decision to value Brother over everything else that allows them to stop the apocalypse. sam is able to regain control because of his connection to the impala, his home (see: the pilot, where sam's quest is to return home), which is synonymous with dean as of season 2. dean stays there and lets lucifer beat the shit out of him because he chooses sam above himself, and if sam is gone then so is he. and in the end dean returns to lisa because sam told him to; he lives for sam, on behalf of sam, because he is just half of a whole.

god there's lots of other things i can say about this (apparently i have 65,000 words of notes on just 2.5 seasons of this show). almost every single episode is ultimately about this conflict, so there's a lot to elaborate on. but this is the gist of it... the overview of my notes. the thesis statement, if you will.

[wishcamper]

All in the Family: ACOTAR and Bowenian family systems theory, PART I

CW: addiction, family trauma, dog death

Creds: licensed therapy person and member of a dysfunctional family

There’s a lot of parts to this and a lot I’m excited to explore, so we’ll start with an overview and introduction of some core concepts. I'm going to take a look at the IC as it's own family system, the subsystems within it, and what these dynamics tell us about the culture of the IC.

The Basics

Murray Bowen created Family Systems Theory to explain the interconnected dynamics and emotional patterns within families that can span generations.

All members play a part in how the system functions, through both action and inaction, and members influence each others’ behavior.

In dysfunctional systems, members project and displace their emotions onto others, feel responsible for the emotions of others, and/or cut off and suppress emotionally to avoid conflict and instability.

The same strategies tend to get used over and over.

Of note: there are many criticisms of this theory, including lack of depth regarding gender disparity, pathologizing of regular emotions, and a very Western (and ableist) goal of complete personal emotional independence. I have found Bowen’s techniques not very helpful in practice, but his ideas provide a great framework for conceptualizing how energy moves in a family and the interconnectedness of the system through generations. So, take all this with a grain of salt given those limitations and that these people are fictional and often contradictory in their words and actions.

Core Concept 1: Differentiation and Enmeshment

The main goal in Bowen’s theory is for all beings in the system to achieve differentiation, meaning they are able to hold onto their sense of self even when emotionally intimate with others. The opposite of differentiation is enmeshment, where members emotions are dependent on and influenced by one another in ways they are not aware of or have no control over. Some people also call this ‘codependent’, aka ‘we are both dependent on your stability to feel emotionally safe’.

Example: Partner A feels anxious taking off work for vacation, and tries to micromanage their family during the trip to attempt to relieve it. In a well-differentiated system, Partner B can recognize the behavior has nothing to do with them, and set a boundary about how Partner A engages with the family. “I appreciate that you’re stressed, A. I need you to figure out a way to handle it without being all over me and the kids.” The anxiety becomes Partner A’s to process instead of being displaced on the others.  

In an enmeshed system, Partner B might mirror Partner A by micromanaging the children too, or monitoring themselves very carefully, or trying to create conditions that will not upset A. Partner A avoids dealing with their anxiety because everyone else is doing it for them. In an enmeshed system, members take inappropriate responsibility for managing the feelings of others.

In the opposite system, where emotions are suppressed to keep the status quo, Partner B may act like everything is fine, leaving the children to bear the brunt of the anxiety. B might retreat emotionally from the family and appear aloof or cold. The balance is the important part, because whatever the status quo, families tend to repeat the same emotional processes over and over in different situations, like variations on a theme.

These cycles lead to feedback loops:

Enmeshed: Partner A abuses alcohol and Partner B helps them cover it up. A is shielded from natural consequences of their drinking, and B is relieved of the fear of having to confront it and create conflict in the relationship. Both partners use the other to regulate their uncomfortable emotions.

Suppressed: Partner B leaves the room every time conflict arises, and never addresses it later. A stops bring up problems because B will leave anyway. Tension is never resolved because everyone is invested in pretending they don’t exist.

Core Concept 2: Triangles and Displacement

One of the most important concepts in Bowen’s theory is the power of the triangle. I’m going to go into this more later when it comes to Cass/Az/Mor, but within the IC we see a number of compelling triangles.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel

Feyre, Nesta, and Elain

Cassian, Azriel, and Mor

Rhysand, Feyre, and everybody else lumped together

Bowen says triangles happen because they provide a way for dyads to relive unaddressed tension without direct conflict. We see this a lot in divorces with children, where parents will try to recruit the child to “their side”. Dyads can displace their conflict onto a third party, which provides emotional relief. Triangles are particularly compelling because the shifting of alliances is ongoing and can be used to access power and meet unmet needs. 

Think about the Archeron sisters. There’s a certain power in being the two sisters closer to each other and not the one left out. Up through ACOWAR, Feyre often remarks on Elain and Nesta being the closer sisters, which Nesta leverages to protect Elain. Nesta communicates her anger at Feyre and the world she believes Feyre brought to them by directing it through concern for Elain’s safety, which Feyre is unable to argue against. We see the same pattern in ACOSF when Feyre and Elain are getting along, and how they use it as a tool to pressure Nesta into conforming. We are able to be close, so if you can’t it’s probably because there’s something wrong with you, so we don’t have to feel badly about you falling apart. Nesta becomes the scapegoat for unresolved guilt about the effects of the war.

In the Rhys-Cass-Az triangle, the goal seems to be more about enforcing the rules of the family as the ‘safe place’ for all of them. Pre-ACOTAR, after the Cass/Mor incident, Az and Rhys punish Cassian emotionally for breaking the dicks before chicks code that threatens the stability of their relationships. Conversely in ACOFAS, Rhys and Az agree not to tell Cass about the scope of Illyrian unrest to *checks notes* not ruin his Christmas. They externally manage Cassian’s emotions for him, and by extension their own worry, by leaving him in the dark (a favorite strategy of Rhys) so they can all have a nice holiday together, like they always do. Rhys says over and over he needs this happy time, then extends that need to everyone else and recruits Az to make that happen.

I’m not commenting on whether these triangles are healthy or unhealthy, just pointing out that they exist to leverage power and get needs met.

Core Concept 3: Homeostasis and the Nuclear Family Emotional Process

Tiny storytime.

When I was in college, my mom called me one day and said they put my dog to sleep the week before. I was devastated, and furious given it had been planned beforehand. I felt robbed of the opportunity to say goodbye in any meaningful way. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized this is the status quo in my family - we don’t look hard things in the face. We use avoidance as a strategy to not deal with our own and each others emotions. We don’t talk about dad’s drinking, or why mom is blank and locked in her own head, or my sister’s compulsive perfectionism, or my one-woman mission to self-destruct in as many ways as possible. We are a family of avoiders. We don’t talk about it. We don’t talk about it.

Bowen call this dysfunction the 'nuclear family emotional process' , and explains that there are four major patterns that emerge in families:

Marital conflict

Dysfunction in a spouse

Impairment of one or more children

Emotional distance

These patterns can and do play out at the same time, to varying effects. The particular combination a family has dictates where and when problems tend to arise in the system, and how they're dealt with.

As an adult, I’ve tried really hard to break out of the pattern of my family. Through my own darkness and recovery, I’ve worked to honor my own needs and emotions as valid and worth spending time with. When I go home I still get sucked into that pattern, because resisting means being the one who makes everyone look at their problems, a thing they really don’t want to do.

Because, as Bowen asserts, system resists change. Systems are carefully balanced and want homeostasis. So when someone tries to change the system, the others compensate to bring them back in line and restore balance.

Think about Lingerie-gate from ACOFAS. Mor sees Cassian emotionally invested in Nesta, which draws away from the emotional investment he has in her and the rest of the IC. She makes a move to reassert her significance in his life as a woman, and scores a double hit by showing Nesta that Mor is higher status in the system and she should back off (so much more on this in another post).

When Azriel pursues Elain in ACOSF, Rhysand pulls rank hard with the rationale of political implications, but I think it’s because it could create conflict between his loyalty to Feyre and to the rest of his family. If Azriel and Elain get together and it goes badly, Rhys would be forced to choose between loyalty to Feyre’s sister or to Az. And I think he’s made it clear he’ll always choose Feyre. He would have to maintain the system by casting his brother out.

The Archeron sisters throw the system out of whack because loyalties are realigned and power hierarchies are being disrupted. I think a lot of the drama we seen on and off page comes from this upset and the way the IC tries to rebalance their dysfunctional system.

So that’s where I’ll leave it for now. I’m still puzzling through the power structure, because while it’s clear Rhys is at the top, the others are less clear to me. Mor is definitely above Cass and Az, but Elain jumps the queue at some point during ACOSF and idk what the hell to do with Amren.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed, class dismissed! You can find PART II here.

Source: Brown, J. (1999). Bowen family systems theory and practice: Illustration and critique. Australian and New Zealand Journal of Family Therapy, 20(2), 94-103.

[carnivorousyandeere]

Escaping the Pack?

CW: kidnapping, captivity

The members of the werewolf pack do like each other overall. Some love each other. Some have sexual relationships with each other too.

But you will always be the one they love the most, the one they want the most.

If you’re particularly devious and determined to get away, you could turn them against each other; no matter how close they are, how long they’ve known each other, they would choose you.

Especially Cyrus, the Nerd. They kidnapped him too, basically. Although it was a matter of pragmatism and not desperate devouring love, as their kidnapping of you was.

If you wanted to run away with him, he might be willing to try.

But imagine you try just a bit too late, when he’s already enmeshed in the group… he’ll definitely tell Mason about everything you’ve said.

[itstuesdayidontknow]

the cw had not one but 2 shows in the 2000s with jared padalecki and parent/child enmeshment...crazy to think about