#i thought the prompt was insomnia and not sleep deprivation | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flowercrowngods · 2 years

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*checks time* a prompt for you. eddie's insomnia versus steve the human weighted blanket. 🥺

in which Eddie hasn’t slept in days and feels like he’s losing his mind. fairy lights, music, and Steve lying down on top of him with promises whispered into his skin are what saves him | cw: gets pretty heavy on the insomnia | 2.8k

Eddie doesn’t sleep. Hasn’t slept in a while. He knows it must have been two days. Maybe three. And before that it’s always just been one lucky hour, maybe two, his body collapsing into blissful darkness before black turns red and he’s back in the Upside down, before silence turns into Chrissy screaming at him, for him, because of him.

Eddie doesn’t sleep. And it’s starting to show. His movements are slow, thinking and speaking takes way longer than it used to, than it should, and everything is dulled. Sometimes he hears voices where there are none, sometimes he misses words directed at him before one of the shrimps call for his attention again, annoyed and only a little worried. Only a little, because Eddie is quirky, Eddie is dramatic, Eddie is like that, right? Right?

Wrong. Eddie is just tired. His hands won’t stop shaking, his mouth won’t stop talking, his thoughts won’t stop running. It doesn’t even feel like he’s in control of himself anymore, and it’s beginning to be real scary.

But even when he thinks, screw the nightmares, I just want some sleep, rest won’t find him. The constant thrum of anxiety keeps it all away and he’s starting to get frustrated, angry, desperate.

He just wants to sleep. Please. The laundry already starts talking to him, and he doesn’t remember hanging it up, and almost panics when it’s gone.

This is fine. It’s all fine. His joints ache, his scars itch, sometimes smiling hurts, but it’s all fine. He just needs sleep.

It all comes to a head when he’s hosting Hellfire for the kids two weeks since his last full night of sleep — and a full night is being generous, because his standards have gone so low as to that meaning he got five hours of almost uninterrupted sleep. Magically, the kids don’t really suspect anything, don’t even notice the bags under Eddie’s eyes or find their own completely misguided whiz kid explanations for it without so much as asking how he’s been doing. Part of him is glad, because they shouldn’t know, shouldn’t worry, shouldn’t see.

It also helps that even complete and utter sleep deprivation can’t ruin Eddie’s Dungeon Master headspace — and so what if the traitorous elf that asked the kids for help sounds a bit like the angry cabinet door he left open all day yesterday because he always forgot to close it? That’s between Eddie and his mind that he’s absolutely been losing.

Everything goes by without a hitch, the kids busy discussing each other’s moves and yelling and hollering, than watching Eddie massage his temples one, two, three times.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. Except his skin has started tingling three hours ago and he knows he shouldn’t drive the kids home, knows he shouldn’t even be hosting them in this state, but he can’t… He can’t let the Upside Down win.

They didn’t get him with red lightning and murderous bats, and now they won’t get him with nightmares or the lack of sleep.

Maybe he’s been cursed. What if he’s cursed? Fuck, what if he’s actually been cursed to die the slow, agonising death that Dustin gave Mike’s character in the one shot he hosted last week, his brain rotting inside his skull and the cure just out of reach, so close but so far? Is that possible? Is that a thing? It sure feels like it, and—

“Eddie?”

Wait.

Steve? Why’s Steve asking for him, calling his name, where is he?

Eddie blinks. And blinks again. Only to find himself in the living room, a shaking hand pressing the telephone to his ear.

He’s been calling Steve. He does not remember. Panic is building inside him and he swallows it down.

I’m not going crazy. I’m not going crazy. I just need to sleep.

“Eds? You there?”

“Yeah, man,” he says, his voice too shaky, not at all sounding like him, and he wonders if someone’s taking over his body. If Vecna is back. If he’s been possessed. Fuck, he might really he possessed, and he shouldn’t be calling Steve, he should keep them all safe, he should—

“What’s up?” Steve asks then, and Eddie sort of never wants him to stop talking, because his head is quiet when he does. Keep talking, Stevie. Please tell me I’m not going crazy. Tell me I’m not cursed. “You okay? Are the kids still there?”

After a moment Eddie finds his breath and his voice, hoping it sounds more like him now. “Yeah, actually, I was wondering if you could come pick them up around nine-ish? I’m not…” okay, he wants to say, but doesn’t. “I can’t really drive. Today.”

There’s a bit of rustling on the other end of the line and Eddie listens, because listening to Steve, to his voice and his movements, is easier than listening to all the things inside his house that suddenly have a voice now.

“Sure,” Steve says. “Yeah, I can come pick them up, no problem. You okay, though? Do you need anything? I can come over sooner if you want, grab them and end Hellfire early. Just say the word, okay?”

Despite himself, Eddie scoffs. “End Hellfire early? Peasant. Heathen! Heretic!”

And Steve just laughs that soft little laugh of his and Eddie listens like his life depends on it.

“Alright, Munson, you little shit, I’ll be there at nine. I’ll just do two rounds, grab you, Dustin and Will on the second one, yeah?”

“Sure, whatever,” Eddie says. Then Steve’s words process and he asks, “Wait, me?”

“Yes, you. I’m not leaving you alone when you sound like… Like you could really use a hug but don’t wanna ask for it, alright? Trust me, I know all about how that sounds. And you don’t gotta be alone, okay? We can just hang out here, don’t even have to talk, just listen to some music or whatever.”

And Eddie doesn’t know what to say. It’s not the sleep deprivation this time, though, it’s Steve Harrington and the way he always seems to know when something’s up. Maybe Eddie’s voice really didn’t sound like him just now, or maybe Steve is just really fucking perceptive and sweet like that.

“The things you listen to are hardly music, Stevie.” That’s all he says. All he can say without breaking into tears, because hanging out with Steve outside of these walls that mock him, laugh at him, talk with him, sounds exactly like what he needs right now.

Well, what he needs is sleep, but Steve feels like second best. And isn’t that something he never expected to feel.

“Shut up, Munson,” Steve laughs, and it’s soft, soft, soft. “But that’s not a no. So I guess I’ll see you then.”

Just as promised, Steve is there at exactly 9:00pm. Not one minute early, not one second late. Eddie scoffs and shakes his head as he jogs to the front door.

And maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but Steve looks really fucking pretty with that smug half smile and another stupid polo shirt under his grey jacket. Eddie swallows. It’s probably the sleep deprivation. It definitely is. Because suddenly he wants nothing more than for Steve to come and hug him.

Sleep, hug, hang out. That’s his list now. It’s growing.

He obsesses over that while Steve brings Lucas, Erica and Mike home. Dustin and Will are talking strategies and Eddie busies himself cleaning up, sorting his notes and carefully storing his Hellfire stuff in the little cabinet unter his desk.

When he’s done, because maybe this took longer than it should have after he forgot what he was about to do a grand total of three times, Steve’s just pulling up to come get them for the second round.

Eddie grabs a bag with a change of clothes, a notebook because he doesn’t expect to find any sleep anyway and he wants to keep himself busy with something, even though writing takes precious brain power he’s going to be lacking for basic things such as making himself breakfast or remembering to get into the house when he’s standing by the front door.

Not like that has happened before. More than once, that is.

With his bag packed, he goes to grab Will and Dustin and together they head out to where Steve’s waiting outside his car, just leaning against it like he’s the goddamn protagonist of some shitty movie. Maybe he’s seen too many of those. Maybe Steve should stop working at Family Video, the movies are a bad influence apparently.

The car ride is blessedly silent, the only noise being the quiet music coming from the radio, and Eddie closes his eyes as he lets street lights wash over him. In the back, Will and Dustin do the same. Everyone’s tired after Hellfire, Eddie knows. Sometimes he catches Steve smiling when he comments on how he hates driving the kids home after their sessions because they always manage to fall asleep on the short ride home and he gets to be the asshole that wakes them up.

Eyes closed, the vision of Steve’s fond smile and faux exasperation in his mind’s eye, Eddie smiles. It’s only when the constant, pleasant rumble of the engine stops and the world is cast in absolute silence, that he opens his eyes. Steve’s watching him, but instead of that smile Eddie’s been dreaming of, there’s a worried expression waiting for him.

“You look like shit,” Steve says so, so quietly, and Eddie sags into the seat, twisting around to face Steve completely as he loses every ounce of fight left in him.

“Can’t sleep,” he says, rasps, whispers.

Steve just looks at him. He’s always looking, always seeing. “Nightmares?”

Eddie shakes his head, plays with one of the loose threads where his jeans are ripped at the knees. “Not even nightmares, just… Insomnia, Nancy called it. I love how she has a fancy word for everything.”

“Shit, man. I’m sorry.” Steve sounds like he means it, and Eddie wants to wrap himself up in that. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Tell me I’m not going crazy?” The words leave his mouth before he can hold them back and Eddie hates how small he sounds, how scared, how tired.

But Steve, oh, Steve, he’s not small or scared or tired. He’s none of that. He’s not weak like Eddie, because after looking for five, six, seven seconds, Steve turns to open his door and gets out of the car. Eddie’s heart sinks and he rubs at his eyes — his dry, aching, burning eyes, protesting at never getting to close anymore.

Then the front passenger door opens and Steve is there, kneeling beside him, taking Eddie’s hands from his eyes and holding them in his own.

“You’re not going crazy, Eddie. I promise you, you’re not going crazy.”

Eddie doesn’t look at Steve, can’t possibly meet the eyes that belong to this incredibly sincere and kind voice. He keeps his eyes on the dashboard instead, watching as the unmoving shadow of a tree morphs into different shapes right before his eyes, his mind playing tricks on him without hiding it anymore.

“Sure feels like it, though,” he whispers. Or he thinks he does. He’s not so sure anymore, watching the one shadow become two, then three. He closes his eyes, clenches them shut like it would make all his problems disappear.

Maybe it does, because like this, there’s only Steve’s voice as he’s talking so gently, so quietly, so unlike anything and everything Eddie has ever known.

The words don’t really register, but one moment Eddie is sitting in the car, the next he’s standing, and it’s warm and it smells like Steve and— oh. They’re hugging. Steve is hugging him. Holding him. Talking still like he knows Eddie needs it, like he knows the world will fade and shift and morph if he doesn’t, like he wants nothing more than to talk Eddie down from this brink of madness.

Then there’s a hand in his and the air is cold again, but it’s fine because there’s a hand and its guiding, holding, soothing.

A door falls closed, a lock clicks, and the hand is still there.

They’re in Steve’s house. Then in Steve’s room. And then there’s music. The hand is gone, and Eddie blinks, his eyes aching, so dry and tired and angry him.

Steve gently, so very gently pushes him to sit down on his bed, but Eddie doesn’t have the strength to sit, so he falls backward until he’s lying on Steve’s bed. It’s soft, comfortable. There’s a string of lights on the wall behind his headboard casting the room in warm light, and Eddie wonders if it’s Christmas soon.

It’s not. It’s August.

It doesn’t make sense.

But they’re pretty.

Eddie is only staring for a while while Steve is off doing something or other, and then he’s back in Eddie’s line of sight.

“Can I try something?”

Eddie just stares.

“It’s absolutely cool if you don’t want to, man, but I do this with Robbie sometimes when she can’t sleep. It doesnt work on me this way around, I always have to be on top, I hate having something on my chest, but—“

“Stevie, I have very limited brain capacity right now.”

“Right, sorry,” he laughs sheepishly and then rests one knee on the mattress. That’s when it hits Eddie that he’s lying in Steve Haddington’s bed, and that aforementioned Steve Harrington has nothing better to do about it than to fucking smile at him.

“Tell me if it’s bad. Seriously, tell me. Uncomfortable, bad, panic-inducing or just plain wrong, yeah? Tell me.”

And Eddie doesn’t understand what on Earth he’s supposed to tell Steve, when…

Steve’s lying down on top of him. They’re touching from knee to shoulder, Steve’s head landing on his collarbone. He’s warm. He’s heavy, and for a second Eddie can’t breathe and it’s too much, his lungs can’t fill, he can’t—

“Breathe, Eddie.”

And he does. And it’s the easiest breath he took all day. He takes another. And another. And all of them smell of Steve, all of them are warm, all of them a promise that he’s not losing his mind or his sanity. His heart, possibly, but that’s a problem for a different day.

“Better?” Steve asks, his breath leaving goosebumps on Eddie’s skin.

He nods. His hands coming up to wrap around Steve because part of him is still scared that this is a dream, a hallucination, or that Steve will decide it’s enough, he can leave Eddie to his business of losing his mind again.

But Steve’s not going anywhere. He shifts, getting comfortable on top of Eddie and promises into the skin of his throat, “I’m not going anywhere, Eddie. I’ve got you and you’re safe. Close your eyes for me, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

And, miraculously, Eddie believes him. The weight of Steve on top of him, his promise now eternalised in Eddie’s skin, and the quiet tunes coming from the record player take him where he hasn’t been in far too long.

He doesn’t even have the time to think about the way his past self would scoff at him for letting Steve Harrington lie down on him like this. For holding him close.

There’s only Steve who keeps him safe from the brink of insanity and guides him to a much gentler, warmer, kinder place. It’s a bit like insanity, actually, but at least here there’s someone to take his hand and hold it.

The last thought that crosses his mind is the list he made earlier. Sleep, hug, hang out.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

This quickly turns into the only way Eddie can fall asleep, and he’s embarrassed about it at first. Feels like a burden and doesn’t ask for it, spends most nights alone and with the resolution that he just won’t sleep. But Steve finds out and makes him come over again or just kidnaps him in broad daylight.

Every night they spend like this, Steve promises the same thing. “I’m not going anywhere, Eddie. I’ve got you and you’re safe. Close your eyes for me, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Every night they spend like this, Eddie believes him as he winds his arms around Steve in turn and holds him.

And then, over time, words whispered into skin turn into the tentative press of lips there. They turn into kisses, into more promises, declarations, pleas.

Some nights turn into most nights, into every night, and Eddie doesn’t lose his sleep again, not like that. Sometimes it’s Steve who wakes up from a nightmare but Eddie is there to soothe him, to make promises of his own and to hold him until he’s asleep again.

They make it work. And somewhere along the way, somewhere between sleep and promises, underneath the fairy lights Steve never takes down, they fall in love.

It’s a different kind of insanity, and one that Eddie never wants to run from.

#steddie fic #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steve x eddie #the irony of me writing this because i can’t sleep and posting this at 3am is not lost to me #okay actually im posting this way past 3am because sleep deprived ol me forgot what he was doing lmao #THE IRONY #dio words #sorry for taking this wonderful opportunity for mild hurt and big comfort and just. writing insomniac eddie whump #i am a whumper at heart what’s a dio supposed to do #eddie munson whump #steddie hurt/comfort

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mononijikayu · 4 months

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family line.

Sukuna’s betrayal of the Ryomen—and by extension, the descendants of Hiromi—had left a deep, festering wound that never truly healed. The eradication of Ryomen Sukuna was not just a mission; it was a sacred vow that bound the family, a duty that had been passed down through a millennium. People had died for it, people had lived for it. Every generation felt the echo of this vow, this duty a resonant call to action that Itadori Yuuji’s existence as Sukuna’s vessel now urgently beckoned. The family line exists for that very purpose, after all.

GENRE: pre - hidden inventory arc to shibuya arc (1990s to 2010s);

WARNING/S: domesticity, fluff, angst, trauma, implied death, violence, romance, hurt/comfort, character death depiction of death, depictions of loss and depression, depiction of anxiety, mention of death, mention of grief, profanity, family drama;

LISTEN: family line by conan gray

NOTE: genmei and hiromi both having family issues is so insane. i keep wondering when i write about them, how do they survive? in any case, i think we'd have something we can drink about, if they're real!!! anyway, please enjoy this new chapter!!! :]

masterlist

u s and t h e m

GENMEI WOKE UP BEFORE THE CLAN BELLS COULD RING. A small yawn escaped Genmei's lips, tinged with the faintest trace of annoyance. As her lilac eyes narrowed against the thin slit of the window, the intrusive morning light already spilled into her chamber, disrupting what little rest she had managed to capture. Her body, always prompt in waking, continued to betray her desire for sleep—a constant irritant that had plagued her long before the nightmares of her past had begun to haunt her nights.

Even in her earlier years, sleep had been a fleeting companion. Often, the murmurs of voices in her head would parade through her thoughts relentlessly, echoes of past conversations, or the menacing whispers of the Zenin clan, reminding her of darker times. There were nights when the fear of being thrown back into the pit by one of her own—a punishment all too familiar during her time at the Zenin estate—kept her alert, her senses wired in anticipation of danger.

Sleep had never been her friend. This shared struggle with insomnia was one of the subtle threads that connected her with Satoru. They both bore the scars of their burdens, their responsibilities, and their pasts—factors that mingled and mingled well into the realm of their private sufferings. Yet, despite this kinship in sleeplessness, Genmei often wondered if she would ever experience the simple solace of a good night's rest. But as she slowly rose from her futon, skepticism clouded her thoughts; she highly doubted such peace would ever be hers.

The Mikoto family ethos, deeply ingrained in her since childhood, demanded punctuality and discipline in all aspects of life. If one was deprived of rest, then one would simply have to find time later to recover. Duty came first, always. This principle had steered her through countless difficult days, propelling her out of bed even when her body cried for just a few more moments of reprieve.

Today was no different. There was much to be done—duties that required her attention, decisions that needed her clear-headedness, and younger sorcerers who looked to her for guidance. Letting out another sigh, a soft resignation to the start of yet another long day, Genmei prepared herself mentally for the tasks ahead.

She moved through her morning rituals with practiced ease, each step a reaffirmation of her commitment to her roles, both as a leader within the Jujutsu community and as a mentor. Yet, as she tied her hair back, preparing to face the world, a part of her mind still clung to the hope that maybe, just maybe, tonight might be different. Perhaps the night would be kinder, the voices quieter, and sleep would not be such a fleeting stranger. Duty does come first. A Mikoto must not abandon duty.

"Are you awake already, Genmei-sama?" A reverberating voice questioned against the wooden doors in a soft manner. Genmei wonders how Akihiko was able to get rest at all. He always wakes up too early. "Genmei-sama?"

"I'm awake." Genmei responds groggily, blankly staring at the wooden doors. "You can enter."

As the shoji door slid aside with a soft whisper, the space between servant and master diminished, bridging their respective worlds with practiced grace. Mikoto Akihiko stood in the threshold, his presence subtly commanding yet deferential. His attire, an elegant ensemble of white and red robes accented by a dark scarlet haori, spoke of his high rank within the household. His hair, meticulously groomed and gathered into a ponytail with a simple hair string, added to his dignified appearance. As his eyes met Genmei's, he offered her a respectful bow, his head dipping towards the gleaming mahogany floors that reflected the morning light filtering through the rice paper windows.

Hiromi, observing from the side, pursed her lips in a quiet contemplation of the scene unfolding before her. She noted the ease with which Akihiko carried himself, a testament to his years of service and understanding of the household's dynamics. As he straightened, meeting Genmei’s gaze with a serene confidence, Hiromi nodded slightly, a silent acknowledgment of his flawless conduct.

Akihiko then carefully slid a tray across the tatami floor towards Genmei. On the tray was a bowl of cold water, its surface gently perfumed with floating flowers, and beside it lay a washcloth made from the finest silk. The simplicity of the offering belied the thoughtfulness behind its preparation—each element chosen to provide a subtle refreshment and start the day with a sense of serenity.

With a graceful gesture, Genmei raised her hand slightly, silently bidding Akihiko to enter. He moved with quiet efficiency, stepping into the room to place the tray within easy reach of Genmei. His movements were fluid and precise, each step and action measured and full of purpose.

As he settled the tray beside her, Genmei allowed herself a small moment to appreciate the meticulous care with which Akihiko attended to his duties. It was not just in the grand gestures or significant events that his loyalty and value were manifested, but in these small, everyday attentions that he continually proved his dedication to her well-being.

"Good morning, Genmei-sama." Akihiko greeted, slowly entering with the tray in hand. "I was told to bid you awake for the day."

"Everyone's about to wake then?"

Akihiko nodded. "Yes, Genmei-sama. The morning prayers at the shrine would come first, and then breakfast."

"Hm," Genmei says as she starts to wash her hands, her face, her neck and arms with the water. Soon, she takes the wash cloth and starts drying herself. "I wouldn't have expected everyone to be so vigorous."

"How so, Genmei-sama?"

"I kept everyone up for days straight, the elders especially." Hiromi responds, putting away the wash cloth. "I would have thought the elders would finally take the time to sleep."

"Duty does not stop, Genmei-sama. I doubt the elders would want to also miss the opportunity in doing their part."

Genmei laughs as Akihiko slowly reaches for the tray. "I suppose not. They may have lost their voice trying to make their point towards their disagreements. But they're still servants of the clan one way or another."

The council session had been grueling and exceedingly long, but Genmei couldn’t help but find humor in the enduring nature of such discussions, especially given the gravity of the topic at hand.

The matter concerned Itadori Yuuji, the unfortunate boy who now served as the vessel for Ryomen Sukuna, a curse whose name was written in the darkest annals of their clan's history. Given the weight of the issue, it was no surprise that the session had dragged on for hours and hours — to no end.

In the Ryomen clan, discussions held by the elders were typically open to all members, a tradition that had been maintained since the clan's inception. This openness was meant to foster transparency and collective decision-making. However, when it came to matters involving Sukuna, the protocols shifted dramatically.

These discussions were strictly confidential, held behind closed doors, a testament to the sensitive and perilous nature of the subject. No information was allowed to leak, a precaution to prevent any manipulation or interference from external forces.

People had died for it, people had lived for it. Every generation felt the echo of this vow, this duty a resonant call to action that Itadori Yuuji’s existence as Sukuna’s vessel now urgently beckoned. The family line exists for that very purpose, after all.

During the session, the division among the clan’s elders was palpable. Half of the prominent members were staunchly against overriding the order of execution. This faction saw no alternative but to eliminate the threat Itadori represented, unwilling to risk the potential resurgence of Sukuna’s full powers.

Their refusal to support Satoru, who had shown a rare leniency towards Itadori, underscored the deep-seated fears and traditionalist views still prevalent among the clan's leadership.

Genmei, ever the strategist, had spent long exhaustive days navigating through the sea of concerns, countering objections with well-reasoned arguments and logical deductions. Her efforts were bolstered by the support of other, more progressive elders and crucially by her aunt Arisu’s authority as the clan leader. Together, they had managed to forge a compromise, albeit a tenuous one, that temporarily aligned the clan’s diverse viewpoints.

Yet, Genmei was no stranger to the undercurrents of clan politics. She was acutely aware that her opposition might be harboring resentments or plotting quietly behind her back. The complexity of clan dynamics, coupled with the stakes involved in dealing with a matter as volatile as Sukuna, meant that alliances were fragile and could shift with little warning.

As she stepped out of the council chamber, the weight of the responsibility felt heavier than ever. Despite the temporary resolution, she knew that the issue was far from settled. The discussions might have ended, but the real work of ensuring the clan’s safety and navigating the precarious situation with Itadori Yuuji was just beginning.

With a slight shake of her head, Genmei allowed herself a brief moment of levity amidst the tension. ‘If politics within the clan were as straightforward as fighting curses, perhaps we’d have less need for such long discussions’, she mused wryly. ‘We’d get all of this done sooner. Less headaches.’

"Has the letter been sent to the office of Gakuganji? About the support to suspend the execution order indefinitely?"

"From what I heard, the decision had been sent to everyone." Akihiko says, taking a small sigh. "But I would not be surprised if he and Zenin are a thorn in your side. They would contest this. Much more so, Gojo dominance."

"The clan leader would most of all scoff at the thought, mayhaps even my foolish uncle." Genmei snickers, her tone nonchalant. "I would not be surprised if I am summoned to Zenin manor today."

Akihiko frowned at her. "It would not be good upon you if you come and see Naobito-sama at all conditions, Genmei-sama."

Genmei’s gaze lingered on Akihiko, noting the unmistakable concern etched across his features. Akihiko had been a steadfast presence in her life, joining her mother’s household many years ago when she had left her maiden home to marry into the formidable Zenin clan.

His loyalty had been unwavering, his service impeccable, and over the years, he had become much more than a mere attendant; he was a confidant, a silent witness to the trials she had endured.

The Zenin clan, known for its ruthless vanity, was a place where familial bonds were often overshadowed by the relentless pursuit of strength. Within the clan's walls, your value was measured strictly by your power, and weaknesses were exploited, not shielded.

Gojo Genmei knew this all too well, having navigated the treacherous waters of Zenin politics. Despite her formidable abilities, she had often found herself appalled by the brutality her family members could exact, even on one of their own.

As a subtle chill traced her spine, Genmei unconsciously clutched her wrists, the memory of past cruelties momentarily resurfacing. Akihiko, ever observant, noticed the small, telling gesture and his frown deepened. He knew much of her pain, having been there through many of her darkest moments, yet he maintained a respectful silence on such matters.

Despite the complications, Genmei understood the necessity of maintaining connections with the Zenin, however fraught they might be. Her lineage was an integral part of her identity, one that she could not simply cast aside, even with the relative freedom her marriage to a Gojo provided. Akihiko, while concerned for her well-being amidst such a toxic environment, also understood this duty, though it never stopped him from worrying.

To speak of them would not only breach his position but could also jeopardize Genmei’s standing within both her natal and marital families. His discretion was as much a shield as it was a sign of his respect for her.

The weight of her responsibilities weighed heavily on Genmei's shoulders as she pondered her next steps. Her expression revealed a mix of determination and slight exasperation, a reflection of the myriad duties pulling her in multiple directions.

She knew all too well the delicate balancing act required between her roles as a clan leader, a sorcerer, and a wife. Each role demanded her attention, yet there were only so many hours in the day, and Genmei felt the strain acutely.

"It's the only way," she reiterated, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she let out a weary sigh. "It would not last long, I should say. I had delayed being home already." Genmei’s voice carried frustration. "I'd rather not seek more headaches in Tokyo. Besides, my husband's quite upset that he didn't get to spend some time with me. Soon enough he'll be busy. Best to settle it now."

"That should be all for now," Genmei said, cutting off any further discussion with a polite yet firm tone. She offered him a soft smile and a nod, signaling that she appreciated his concern but had already made up her mind.

Her attendant, a seasoned elder who had served her faithfully for years, listened with a somber expression.

"Genmei-sama....." he began, perhaps hoping to offer some word of caution or to suggest an alternative, but he was promptly interrupted. “Perhaps—”

The decisions were hers to make, and while she valued the counsel of her trusted servants and advisors, ultimately, the path she chose was one she had to walk herself.

"Now call for the female servants to come and bring me my clothing. I’d like to have something comfortable now," she instructed, her voice gentle yet imbued with an authority that brooked no argument. "Thank you, Akihiko."

The elder gentleman paused for a moment, his face reflecting his deep respect and understanding of his lady's wishes. With a resigned sigh, he bowed his head deeply. "As you say, Genmei-sama," he replied, his voice a mixture of deference and a touch of concern.

As he turned to carry out her orders, Genmei's mind raced ahead to the tasks that awaited her. She needed to return to her family’s estate, to manage the brewing issues within the Zenin clan, and to support her husband in whatever small ways she could from afar. Each responsibility was critical, each demanded her best effort, and Genmei was not one to shirk her duties, no matter how heavy the burden.

Left alone for a moment, she allowed herself a brief pause, a few seconds of quiet respite before she would change into her comfortable clothing and prepare for the journey ahead. In these fleeting moments of solitude, Genmei gathered her strength, fortified her resolve, and readied herself to face the myriad challenges that awaited her.

When he left the room, Genmei could only sigh and look at the window slit.

Genmei slowly stood from her position and started to look out into space.

It was then and only then that the clan bells rang with a loud vigorous echo.

The Mikoto Clan was now awake to the sound of bells in the morning light.

GENMEI THINKS THAT SHE'S TOO SENTIMENTAL THESE DAYS. As Genmei stood alone, her thoughts meandered through the corridors of her past, each memory shaded by the hues of longing. She had come to understand that with each passing year, the weight of grief did not lessen but settled deeper into her bones, a constant reminder of those she had lost along the way. Each loss carved a hollow in her heart, a space that no amount of time could ever fully heal.

She knew that death was as natural as breathing, an inevitable conclusion to the lives of those she cared for. Yet, knowing this did not ease the burden of grief. If anything, it was a stark reminder of the relentless march of time and the finite nature of existence. Over three decades of her life, Genmei had stood by too many gravesites, had murmured too many final goodbyes. The faces of those she longed for often visited her in the quiet moments, their smiles as vivid in her mind as if they were still beside her.

There were indeed times, too many to count, when Genmei yearned to meet her lost loved ones again. To hear their voices, to share just one more moment together. Yet, she recognized that such desires were beyond her control. The tapestry of fate was woven by forces greater than herself, by the gods and the immutable laws of the universe. She could no more alter these threads than she could stop the sun from setting.

And while she might wish to join those she had lost, to find solace in their ethereal presence, Genmei knew that her place was still among the living. There were people who depended on her, who needed her strength and guidance. Her duties anchored her to this world. To abandon those responsibilities for her own grief would not only be unfair but a betrayal of the trust placed in her.

Genmei accepted her grief as a companion, one that reminded her of her humanity, of the deep connections that had enriched her life, even if those connections eventually led to pain. She allowed herself to feel the sadness, to embrace it fully, for she knew that it was through experiencing this pain that she honored the memory of those she loved.

As the chill of the morning dew caressed her skin, Genmei kneeled solemnly in front of the ancestral shrine, a sacred space where time seemed to fold in upon itself, linking past and present in an eternal embrace. Each bow she performed was a gesture of deep respect, her movements deliberate and full of reverence. As she rose and entered the hall, her flowing robes caught the gentle morning breeze, trailing behind her like whispers of the past.

This hall, with its rows of colorful columns and ornate marble niches, was where Genmei felt most vulnerable—stripped of her worldly titles and roles, laid bare as merely one in a long line of ancestors. Here, under the watchful gaze of those who had come before, she felt the weight of her heritage most acutely. The lilac eyes scanned the figures that lined the hall, each ancestor's ashes resting within their marble confines, their features forever immortalized in stone.

The faces carved into the marble seemed familiar to Genmei, as if she had seen them not just in the flesh but in dreams that bridged the gap between life and death. Walking slowly along the hall, she whispered each name with a soft reverence, a ritual of remembrance. To know one's ancestry was to hold a map of one’s soul’s journey; it was the Mikoto way—a deep-seated belief that understanding where one came from provided the guidance needed to navigate life and, eventually, find one’s way in the afterlife.

Unlike the Zenin, who often eschewed such traditions in favor of strength and power, the Mikoto cherished these rites of heritage and memory. The Zenin might believe strength was the sole measure of worth, but to Genmei and the Mikoto, these moments of quiet communion with the past were a source of inner identity. They believed that the blessings and wisdom of ancestors fortified them, offering not just guidance but also a reminder of the responsibilities they carried as their living descendants.

Genmei paused before a particularly intricate carving, the face of a long-departed matriarch whose stories were legend within the family. Ryomen Hiromi stridently glared back at her in stony tenderness. She placed her hands together, bowed her head, and took a moment to praise her, to thank her, to worship her, to ask for guidance. Every Mikoto needs to. If there was no Ryomen Hiromi, none of them would exist.

As she continued her solemn procession through the hall, each step was a reaffirmation of her commitment to uphold these traditions, to honor the legacy of her ancestors, and to carry forward their teachings not just in memory but in action. In this sacred space, surrounded by the watchful eyes of her ancestors, Genmei renewed her vow to lead with integrity to her duty.

In the subdued light of the ancestral shrine, the air hung heavy with the scent of incense and the quiet whispers of the past. Genmei's steps were measured and reverent as she approached a particularly modest memorial, distinctly less ornate than the others that lined the sacred hall. This was her father's resting place, a reflection of the man he had been in life—unassuming, grounded, and wise in his simplicity.

"Father, your loving daughter comes to pay respect to you," Genmei whispered softly, her voice barely audible above the gentle flicker of the candles that cast a warm, dancing light on the stone surface. She knelt gracefully before the memorial, her movements fluid yet full of the profound respect she held for the man who had shaped so much of her life. Her bow was swift, deep. Only for her father. “I came to see you, and nii-sama.”

"How have you both been, father?" she murmured, settling back on her heels as she gazed at the inscription bearing his name. Though she spoke to the silence, the question was laden with genuine curiosity and the hope that, wherever he might be, he was at peace.

Genmei paused, allowing the silence to envelop her, half-expecting a whisper of wind or some subtle sign that would serve as her father's reply. In these moments, she felt closer to him than ever, bridging the gap between the physical and spiritual with the strength of her memories and the sincerity of her words.

The shrine around her felt alive with the echoes of her ancestors, but it was her father's teachings that resonated most profoundly in her heart. He had taught her the value of humility, the importance of staying true to one’s principles and the strength that lay in simplicity. These lessons had become the cornerstones of her own philosophy, guiding her actions and decisions throughout her life.

“I haven’t seen both of you and nii-sama in a long time, I’m sorry.” The lilac eyed woman whispered. “I hope you are both reassured that I am well. Satoru takes care of me, he takes good care of Megumi too, nii–sama. Don’t worry about him.”

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath, feeling the weight of her responsibilities momentarily lift as she imagined her father's hand on her shoulder, steady and reassuring. It was a moment of solace, a brief respite in which she could lay down her burdens and just be a daughter again. It had been nearly twenty years since her father had died and still, she longs for him. She longs to have a father again.

As Genmei stood before her father Naoki's statue in the shrine, she couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and a profound sense of loss. The statue captured more than just his likeness; it seemed to embody his essence. Even carved in cold stone, Naoki’s eyes radiated a warmth and tenderness that was rare among the Zenin clan, known for their ruthless and often cold demeanor. His smile, gentle and inviting, seemed almost out of place in the hall filled with stern, imposing figures of his ancestors.

Naoki had always been an anomaly within the Zenin family. His kindness and empathy set him apart in a lineage celebrated for its stoicism and strength. Growing up, Genmei remembered how the servants and lower-ranking members of the Zenin manor would often speak of her father with a fondness and reverence that was seldom afforded to other members of the clan. They were relieved that Naoki, unlike many of his relatives, carried his power with grace and used his influence to shield rather than to demand.

This difference in character, Genmei knew, was largely attributed to Naoki's mother, who had been known for her compassionate nature. It was often said that Naoki was more his mother’s son, which, while a badge of honor in any other context, was seen as a weakness by the more traditional and harsher members of the Zenin family. Perhaps it was this gentleness that had fueled the animosity between Naoki and his father, Naobito.

Genmei reflected on the tragic narrative that had clouded clan leader Naobito's life. His heart, once perhaps capable of warmth, had turned to stone after the death of his beloved wife during childbirth. The loss had been too great, and instead of seeking solace in his son, Naobito saw only the cause of his greatest pain. His grief had manifested in bitterness and an increasing dependence on alcohol, which only further estranged him from his son.

Naoki, for his part, carried the heavy burden of misplaced guilt throughout his life. He believed, as his father had so cruelly insinuated, that his birth had been the cause of his mother's death. Yet, despite this, Naoki never harbored resentment toward Naobito. He understood his father’s grief, even if he fell victim to its sharper edges.

Standing there, Genmei felt a deep connection to her father's enduring empathy and strength. Naoki had managed to transform his pain into compassion, reaching out to those around him with kindness rather than succumbing to bitterness. It was a legacy of love over resentment, of understanding over judgment.

Genmei touched the cold stone of her father's statue, tracing the lines of that all-too-familiar smile. She whispered softly, "You taught me the strength of kindness, Father. In a world that prizes power, you showed me the power of heart. I hope to carry that forward, as you did, and make you proud."

“You speak so highly of a man who’s long dead.” Naobito had said, his voice carrying a dismissive edge that immediately set Genmei on edge. “How interesting, little girl.”

The air in the shrine thickened with tension as Genmei faced the Zenin clan leader, Naobito, his presence an unwanted shadow on what had been a moment of private reflection. For a moment, Genmei’s eyes turned bright purple. Naobito snickers. It was obvious. He could see that she was upset to know he was there. The aura around him, as always, was charged with the abrasive charm that had marked his leadership—effective, yet isolating. She hated it.

“What are you doing here?” she asked quickly, more sharply than she had intended. Her lilac eyes, usually a soft echo of tranquility, hardened into icy shards as she faced the intruder. The sight of him, dressed in the dull colors of autumn, his haori reminiscent of dead leaves, was distinctly unwelcome.

“You are not welcomed here,” she stated flatly, her lips pressed into a thin line of displeasure.

Naobito’s response was a snicker, dismissive and irritatingly calm as he began to close the distance between them. “Am I not welcome to visit my own son’s grave? Of my kin?”

“You hate your family, I doubt you’d be welcomed here for loving them enough.” Genmei shot back, matching his nonchalance with her own icy detachment. Her eyes narrowed slightly, a clear indicator of her disdain. “I thought you would rather I go to pay my respects to you in Zenin manor myself.”

“It would be too much to deal with Naoya and his temper,” Naobito retorted, referencing another member of their troubled clan. “Too much trouble for me to handle, little girl.”

Genmei couldn't help but snicker at the mention of Naoya, her disdain for the man barely concealed. “And I would have killed him,” she said flatly, her tone half-joking yet edged with seriousness. “That you know, clan leader.”

“Are you a kinslayer?” Naobito’s question was pointed, intrigued. “You seem so true to your word, little girl. Tsk, to desire to kill your uncle.”

“I am a Zenin, after all,” Genmei replied, her voice laced with bitter irony. This response was layered, acknowledging the ruthless reputation of their clan while also critiquing its brutal legacy.

Gojo Genmei's thoughts lingered on the clan leader as she processed their recent confrontation and the complex dynamics of their relationship. Naobito's visits, rare as they were, invariably left a bitter taste. Over the years since she had decisively stepped away from the core activities of the Zenin clan to forge her own path with the Gojo and the Mikoto, Naobito's sporadic appearances had been laden with contention and thinly veiled disapproval.

Each visit seemed to underscore a broader struggle between the old guard represented by Naobito and the progressive forces within the jujutsu society championed by Satoru and herself. His challenges weren't just personal; they symbolized the tension between tradition and innovation—a clash of ideologies where Naobito often appeared as an unyielding bastion of the past.

And yet, his behavior was unpredictable. Sometimes, he was overtly antagonistic, pushing against the changes Gojo Satoru advocated with a stubbornness that bordered on cruelty. Other times, he was merely a silent, brooding presence, an enigma that left more questions than answers. There were moments when his laughter rang out, harsh and mocking, as if he found some dark amusement in the shifts occurring within their world or perhaps in Genmei's defiance of Zenin expectations.

Despite these challenging interactions, there was a part of Gojo Genmei that acknowledged the complex role the clan leader played in maintaining a certain level of peace—or at least a balance of power—within their clan's politics. His distance, while often a source of personal pain, ironically kept the family discord from escalating further. It was an uneasy peace, fragile and fraught with undercurrents of unresolved conflicts, but it was stability of a sort nonetheless. Genmei sighed deeply, crossing her arms as she reflected on this paradox.

Naobito's words hung in the air, thick with emotion and a complexity that Genmei found both unexpected and suspect. His expression softened slightly, an uncommon vulnerability that seemed out of place on the hardened features of the Zenin clan leader. Yet, Genmei remained wary, her experience with the clan leader teaching her to tread carefully around his often ambiguous intentions.

"I have to ask again, clan leader, what are you doing here?" Genmei whispered, her voice low and steady as she held his gaze. "If there was business, you ought not to desecrate my father's grave."

Naobito sighed deeply, his arms crossed defensively, a gesture that seemed to shield him as much as it signified his own internal conflict. "A father also longs for his son, too. I would not desecrate my son's grave by hurting his only child," he responded, his voice carrying a trace of sincerity that was rare and disarming.

Genmei's initial reaction was skepticism, her mind racing as she assessed his statement. Her features softened involuntarily, reflecting a momentary lapse in her guarded demeanor as she contemplated his words. The thought, 'How much of a liar are you?' echoed in her mind, a silent question that stemmed from years of navigating the tumultuous and often deceptive waters of clan politics.

Yet, despite her doubts, there was a part of Genmei that wanted to believe there was truth in his words—that perhaps, in this moment, Naobito was reaching out not as the stoic and manipulative clan leader, but as a grieving father longing for connection with his late son through her, the granddaughter he so rarely acknowledged in any affectionate capacity.

"I want to believe you, clan leader," Genmei finally said, her voice a blend of cautious hope and lingering suspicion. "But you must understand why that's difficult for me. Your visits are seldom without motive. Can you blame me for questioning your reasons now?"

“I can’t.” the clan leader whispered at his grand-daughter, his fingers tracing against his whiskers. “I visited my son. And now my grand-daughter.”

She snorted. “To express concerns of my husband’s actions, ones which offend your clan.”

He laughs harshly. “You speak as though you were never a Zenin, girl.”

“I have always been more than that, clan leader.”

Naobito’s laughter dwindled into a wry smile, the harshness fading as he acknowledged the iron in Genmei’s voice. It was clear that while she bore the name and blood of the Zenin, she did not confine herself within the boundaries of their legacy—a point of both pride and contention for the old man.

“You have indeed,” Naobito conceded, his tone softening. “You’ve forged your path, integrating the Gojo and Mikoto influences into your being. It’s an amalgamation that some in the Zenin find... difficult to accept.”

Genmei’s expression hardened slightly, a clear indication that she was fully aware of the traditionalists' disdain within her clan. “And yet, it is this very amalgamation that has allowed me to see beyond the narrow confines of what our clan believes strength to be."

“You ought to be proud that I continue his work.”

Naobito nodded slowly, the trace of a smile lingering as if he appreciated her resolve, even if it ran counter to his own values. “Yes, your father would be proud,” he admitted, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect that surprised Genmei. “He too believed in the evolution of our ways, even if he could not enact it himself.”

Naobito's snicker, dismissive and tinged with a hint of the patronizing attitude that often characterized the older generations of the Zenin clan, was a stark reminder of the deep-seated beliefs that still governed many within their ranks. His perspective, focused inward on the power and preservation of the clan rather than the broader implications of their actions, was reflective of a mindset that Genmei had long found constraining and, at times, dangerously shortsighted.

"Not all should be about the wider world, silly girl," he said, his voice carrying a blend of amusement and rebuke.

"It is precisely because we are part of a larger world that we must consider the broader impact of our actions," she responded calmly, her voice steady and clear. "The isolationist views of the Zenin may have served us in past conflicts, but the world is changing. New threats and opportunities demand that we adapt."

“Traditions must also be kept in a changing world, should it not?”

She paused, her gaze steady on her grandfather, challenging him to consider the bigger picture. "Not if we wish for such tradition to continue. If we remain inward-looking, focused only on our own power and survival, we risk becoming obsolete—worse, we risk becoming oppressors or tyrants blind to the real needs of those we might otherwise lead or protect."

Naobito frowned, the lines on his face deepening as he considered her words. For a moment, the dismissive facade seemed to crack, revealing a flicker of the strategic thinker he had once been, a leader who had navigated the clan through turbulent times with a firm hand.

"You think the old ways are no longer sufficient?" he asked, his tone less combative and more reflective.

"I believe there is wisdom in many of our traditions," Genmei conceded, her approach diplomatic yet firm. "But wisdom also lies in recognizing when change is necessary. Satoru’s initiatives, while challenging, are not about discarding our tradition. It is stupid to think that way, clan leader.”

His eyes, which had wandered in contemplation, now met Genmei's with a clarity that conveyed both the depth of his entrenched beliefs and his acknowledgment of her steadfastness. “I see you and I will be just like your father. Never to agree.”

“Perhaps that is a curse to you, as it must be a blessing to me.” She paused, allowing the words to resonate within the sacred space, surrounded by the memories of those who had come before. “Disagreement does not have to lead to disconnection. It is only you who sees it that way.”

Naobito considered her words. He nodded slowly, an acknowledgment of her wisdom. “You have your father’s way with words and ideals,” he conceded, his voice softer than before. “And perhaps, if you had married your uncle, there would have been such charges to change for our clan. A level headed heir is better than a foolish one. A mad dog, even.”

Genmei laughs. “Perhaps not, clan leader. I would rather not wed a man who would have deprived me of my liberties.”

“You would have killed him first before he ever did anything.”

“Perhaps.” Genmei nodded at him. “But it shouldn't ever happen now. I have married a good man.”

“I’d like to learn how good he truly is, if he wasn’t such a—”

“I’d like to remind you that I would never tolerate such words said about Satoru like that.” She glares at the old man. “He has cared for me well. More than Naoya would have ever done.”

He did not say anything.

He knew Genmei to be right.

Naoya would have killed her.

And it would be shrugged off.

Jinichi killed his own wife too.

Naoya would find a way too.

As Naobito neared the threshold of the shrine, poised to leave, he paused, turning back to Genmei with a look that signaled unfinished business. “Before I go,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of authority he was accustomed to wielding, “What of the vessel of Sukuna? The elders council is in disarray over it. Surely, you must have an opinion.”

Genmei turned slowly to face him once more, her stance firm and resolute. “The council’s disarray does not concern me as much as the consensus of those who understand the broader implications,” she responded calmly, her gaze steady. “And as for the vessel, my position is clear and supported by Mikoto. We seek a path that is not bound by past fears alone.”

Naobito’s eyes narrowed, the mention of Mikoto bringing a flicker of annoyance—or perhaps apprehension—to his features. “Your vote, or Mikoto's stance, does not align with tradition. The Zenin have always—”

“My vote,” Genmei interjected firmly, “And the vote of the Mikoto no longer requires your validation, clan leader. The council respects our perspective for a reason. Times are changing, and so must our strategies. Sukuna is a threat, yes, but how we handle this vessel, Itadori Yuuji, could redefine our future."

The old man’s jaw set tightly, a clear sign of his frustration with her words. It was difficult for someone of his generation and convictions to accept such shifts in policy, especially from a younger family member, albeit one as formidable as Genmei.

“You tread dangerous waters, silly girl,” Naobito warned, his tone darkening. “To think that handling Sukuna’s vessel with anything less than absolute lethal intent could be anything but catastrophic is naive.”

Naobito scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. “And what of the danger he poses? What if Sukuna gains control?”

“Perhaps.” Genmei conceded, her voice still calm, “But the Mikoto believes in looking at bigger picture. Itadori Yuuji is not just a vessel; he is a potential asset. And moreover, he’s a child. We must be cautious, yes, but we must also be wise. We cannot afford to act in haste based on old fears.”

“That is a risk,” Genmei admitted, “But one that comes with potential gains. We monitor, we prepare, and we act swiftly if needed. But to eliminate a potential ally out of fear is to act no better than the curses we seek to eradicate. The Mikoto will not endorse such a path.”

There was a long pause as Naobito considered her words, his expression unreadable. Finally, he let out a long breath, as if releasing some of the weight of the argument. “Very well,” he said grudgingly. “I see that your mind's made up, and your influence on the council is not insignificant. But be cautious, silly girl. Not all are pleased with this... progressive stance.”

“I am always cautious, you know this best.” Genmei replied, her tone unwavering. “Thank you for your concern, clan leader.”

With a stiff nod, Naobito turned and left the shrine, his steps echoing slightly in the quiet morning air. Genmei watched him go, feeling the weight of the confrontation slowly lift from her shoulders.

Gojo Genmei sighed deeply.

She wished that duty would end.

At least for today, it has to end.

She needs to get some more sleep.

IT WAS A RELIEF TO FINALLY RETURN TO TOKYO. As Genmei sat by the window of the gently rocking train, her gaze occasionally drifted out to the blur of passing landscapes, but her mind was anchored firmly in the present — burdened by the weighty discussions with Zenin Naobito and the decisions that lay ahead. The rhythmic clack of the train on the tracks seemed to echo her repetitive thoughts, cycling through the implications of each word exchanged, each potential shift in clan dynamics.

Her sighs filled the quiet compartment, mingling with the soft hum of the train. The concerns with Naobito weren't just fleeting worries; they were deep-seated issues that threatened to resurface time and again. Each recollection of their conversation deepened her resolve but also underscored the complexities of her position.

Beside her, Nobuhiko's presence was both a comfort and a reminder of simpler times. He had always been a grounding force, his steadfast nature balancing her more strategic inclinations. As they traveled together, his occasional pouts and the childlike sulkiness he displayed when discussing his duties in Kyoto brought a rare smile to her face amidst the swirling anxieties.

Yet, as Genmei observed him, she couldn't help but feel a surge of nostalgia for the days when life was less complicated, when the boundaries of their world were defined merely by the adventures they concocted in their youthful play. Back then, Nobuhiko's pouts were about who got to lead their imaginary quests, not about the weighty responsibilities of a Jujutsu Tech instructor.

It was heartening, yet poignant, to see traces of the young boy she had known in the accomplished instructor he had become. Nobuhiko had grown into his role at Jujutsu Tech with commendable dedication, shaping the minds and abilities of his students with a passion that mirrored his own commitment to growth and learning. His reluctance to leave Kyoto, even temporarily, was a testament to the bonds he had formed there, the responsibilities he felt, and the identity he had carved out for himself independent of the family legacy.

“Do I really have to stay here?”

“Todo would be depressed if Nobu–sensei leaves.” She teases him, a wide grin on her face.

“Not you too, Genmei–sama. This is….” He started turning red. His lips form a sharp line. “It would be better, if I was by your side.”

Genmei raised a brow. “But aren’t you always by my side?”

Nobuhiko's face flushed deeper, the ruby hue of his pin almost mirrored in his cheeks. His discomfort was palpable, caught between his duties and his longing for a different path—one alongside Genmei, where he felt more directly impactful and perhaps more appreciated.

His frustration momentarily silenced him, the words catching in his throat as he grappled with his emotions and the stark reality of their discussion. The simple, teasing question from Genmei wasn’t just a casual remark; it was laden with deeper meanings about loyalty, presence, and the invisible ties that connected them despite their physical separations.

“You know what I mean, Genmei-sama,” Nobuhiko finally managed, his voice a mix of earnestness and exasperation. “Yes, in spirit, perhaps, but there’s a difference in being actively involved in the same causes, in fighting the same fights side by side.”

Genmei’s expression softened, understanding the depth of his feelings. She knew too well the complexities of their lives, pulled in multiple directions by responsibilities and roles that often left little room for personal desires. Yet, she also recognized the strength of their bond, one forged not just in shared childhoods but in continued mutual respect and support as adults.

“Nobuhiko, you are vital where you are,” Genmei responded gently, her tone conveying both sympathy and firmness. “Your work at Jujutsu Tech isn’t just about teaching techniques—it’s about shaping minds, guiding the next generation. That’s no small feat, and it’s every bit as crucial as the battles we fight in Tokyo. It’s what we need, if this is to work, this change.”

She paused, her gaze steady on him, ensuring her words sank in, not just as platitudes but as sincere recognition of his contributions. “And know this,” she continued, “Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, you are always by my side in the ways that truly matter. It’s only a three hour ride away. If you feel that tedious, use a warping spell. Come and see me, hm?”

Nobuhiko listened, the initial flush of frustration gradually fading as he absorbed her words. The tight line of his lips relaxed slightly, a sign that he was reconsidering his stance from a broader perspective.

“I understand, Genmei-sama,” he admitted, though his voice still held a hint of reluctance. “And I appreciate your faith in me. It’s just... sometimes the distance seems more significant than it is.”

Genmei nodded, acknowledging his feelings. “Distance can be bridged,” she reassured him, her voice imbued with a conviction born of years navigating similar challenges. “You know that better than I.”

Genmei stepped out of the car, the soft click of the door closing behind her muffled by the ambient sounds of the bustling train station. She turned to face Ichiji, her expression a mix of gratitude and exhaustion. The journey had been long, the rhythmic hum of the train wheels accompanying her weary thoughts as she traversed the miles between Kyoto and Tokyo.

"Thank you, Ichiji," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with genuine appreciation. Ichiji, her loyal attendant, nodded in response, his expression a blend of solemnity and understanding. He had been with her through countless journeys, his steadfast presence a reassuring constant in the ever-shifting landscape of her duties and responsibilities.

"It was my pleasure, Genmei-san," Ichiji replied softly, his tone respectful yet tinged with a hint of concern. He had sensed her weariness, her burdened spirit evident in the subtle lines etched upon her face. “Welcome back to Tokyo.”

Genmei offered him a faint smile, a fleeting expression of warmth amidst the weariness that weighed upon her. Despite the fatigue that tugged at her limbs, she knew that she must press on, her resolve unwavering in the face of the challenges that awaited her in Tokyo.

Turning away from Ichiji, Genmei gathered her belongings and took a moment to steady herself, drawing upon the inner reserves of strength that had carried her through countless trials before. With a deep breath, she straightened her posture, steeling herself for the tasks that lay ahead.

As she made her way through the bustling station, her footsteps echoing against the polished floors, Genmei's thoughts turned to the purpose of her journey. Tokyo awaited her, a city teeming with life and energy, yet also fraught with the weight of responsibility and expectation.

As Genmei walked through the gates of Jujutsu High, she was instantly enveloped by the dynamic atmosphere of the school. The campus buzzed with the vibrant energy of young sorcerers honing their craft, each one focused and determined. The sounds of rigorous training filled the air, a symphony of discipline and hard work. Instructors barked commands that were met with immediate responses; the thuds of bodies grappling on the mats punctuated the air, underscoring the physicality of their training.

Yet, it was the loud boisterous laughter, the spontaneous bursts of joy amidst the stern discipline, that truly characterized the spirit of Jujutsu High. It was a reminder that despite the grave responsibilities these students would eventually shoulder, they were still young, still capable of finding lightness amid the severity of their training. Genmei couldn’t help but be nostalgic about her own days there in Jujutsu High too.

Gojo Satoru had always looked happy at Jujutsu High. This was the environment where Satoru thrived, his formidable talents— but most of all, his youth. Genmei thinks about when she first met him, quite brash and self–centered. A true little prince. But in his three years here, Genmei could only remember him as he was now to be what he was in Jujutsu High. Genmei thinks she can only be glad for it. He’d ended up being someone she was proud to be married to.

Genmei's eyes were focused on the training grounds, watching her husband in the distance. He was fully engaged, demonstrating a complex maneuver to a group of attentive first-years, his movements fluid and precise. Watching him, Genmei felt a surge of pride. He was bringing the world he had always dreamed of to life. The one that Genmei had seen him dream of for all the years they’d been together. It feels so good to know his hard work was not wasted.

The lilac eyed woman drew closer, watching the intensity of the training session. But Genmei was certain that they seemed to have dialed down a notch as Satoru caught sight of her. Genmei thinks her husband was quite a dog, with how he seemed excited even from afar. His face lit up with a mischievous grin and waved at her. Genmei laughed, waving back half–heartedly.

Satoru called out to the students, "And that's how you ensure your technique is flawless!"

As Genmei stepped closer, the dynamics among the students shifted palpably. Megumi's sigh was not one of irritation but of familiarity, a testament to the countless times he had witnessed such warm exchanges between Satoru and Genmei.

He understood too much that Gojo Satoru was a man who truly, deeply, passionately, tenderly, does so loves his wife. He’d known that all his life, living with them and all.

Yuji Itadori, the energetic boy with striking pink hair, tilted his head, his eyes wide with curiosity. Next to him, Nobara Kugisaki, poised and observant, also turned to look at Genmei. Genmei waved at them, a tender smile on her lips.

Both were new enough to not fully grasp the personal life of their enigmatic teacher, and their faces mirrored their intrigue and slight bewilderment at the obvious affection displayed by Satoru. Gojo Genmei seemed so normal. So utterly normal. And compared to their teacher, this loud, boisterous, crazy enigma of a man —it leads to confusion, most definitely, how you both seem to be married.

As Genmei walked up, Satoru sauntered over with a playful swagger. "And here comes the only person who can outmatch me," he declared with a theatrical flourish, reaching out to pull her into an embrace. “My most beautiful, beloved, darling, extraordinary, one and only, wife!”

Genmei felt laughter echo against her belly and gently pushed him away, not missing a beat. "Behave yourself," she chided, through her eyes twinkled with amusement. Turning to the first years, who were watching the exchange with wide eyes, she extended a warm smile. "You must be the new first year. I'm Gojo Genmei, Gojo–sensei's wife."

“You’re just not my wife, darling! You’re my most beautiful, beloved—”

“You’re embarrassing yourself to your students, Satoru. Think of Megumi!”

“I don’t wanna be part of this conversation.” Megumi crosses his arms, looking down at his shoes. “Exclude me…please.”

Satoru’s lips turned into a pout, “My son turning on me like this, I never thought I’d see the day!”

“I’m not your son—”

“Now, now, calm down.”

The students' expressions shifted from amusement to shock, Nobara Kugisaki's eyes widening, "You're married to Gojo–sensei?" she blurted out, clearly trying to reconcile this new information with the enigmatic image of their teacher. “How? How are you married to Gojo–sensei?”

As the shock registered across Nobara’s face, Satoru’s trademark grin only widened, clearly enjoying the ripple of surprise his announcement had caused among his students.

“Because she loves me!” he declared, throwing his arms wide as if to emphasize the sheer inevitability of it all.

Megumi, who had been quietly observing the scene, couldn’t help but snicker at his teacher's theatrics. “That sounds like a lie,” he muttered, just loud enough for those nearby to hear, his deadpan delivery a stark contrast to Satoru’s flamboyance.

Satoru feigned a wounded look, clutching his heart dramatically. “My son, turning against me again, Genmei!” he exclaimed, looking over at Genmei with exaggerated betrayal. “How is fate ever so cruel?”

Genmei laughed, shaking her head but deciding to keep out of this particular fray. “I’m not gonna get involved,” she declared with a smile, her tone light and teasing. “You and your son need to talk this through.”

Megumi sighed, “I’m not his son.”

Yuuji, who had been watching the exchange with a growing smile, jumped into the conversation, his enthusiasm unchecked. “Wow, sensei never mentioned he was married! It’s great to meet you, Genmei–sensei!” His voice carried a mixture of excitement and a touch of awe, as if the revelation added yet another layer to the already complex puzzle that was Gojo Satoru.

Genmei grinned at Yuuji's exuberance, appreciating his straightforward and lively nature. “It’s lovely to meet you too, Yuuji–kun. But please call me Genmei.” But then Genmei turned to Nobara, who blinked at the sudden turn of the elder woman. “And you too, Nobara–chan.”

Satoru, not one to let a teaching moment slip by, even if highly embellished, wrapped an arm around Genmei’s shoulders. “You see, everyone, this is why you always keep them guessing. Keeps the mystery alive,” he said, winking ostentatiously. “Right, wifey?”

Gojo Satoru's grin broadened into a full-fledged smile, his cerulean eyes sparkling with amusement at Nobara's expressed candid astonishment. His posture relaxed as he leaned back slightly against his wife, clearly reveling in the students' reactions.

"How do I bag a woman like her?" Satoru echoed, gesturing towards Genmei with a dramatic flair. "It's simple really—I'm irresistible." His tone was teasing, laden with his usual cocky humor, designed to elicit more laughs than serious consideration. “I am quite a good gentleman. How could she not fall for me?”

Genmei shook her head, a gentle, indulgent smile playing on her lips. She decided to play along, stepping closer to Satoru with a mock-serious expression. "Actually, it took him a lot of effort. He had to prove he was more than just a pretty face and outrageous antics. Isn’t that right, dear?" she said, giving Satoru a playful nudge.

The students burst into laughter again, watching the banter between their sensei and his wife. Yuuji, still grappling with the novelty of the situation, added, "So there was a lot of persistence involved, huh? Gojo–sensei must have gone through a lot, an adventure!”

"Mmm, something like that," Satoru agreed, nodding sagely. "But let's just say it involved a lot of proving that I could be a responsible adult when needed."

The blue–green eyed Megumi sighed, “Gojo–sensei, you’re just saying anything and everything.”

Satoru’s eyes twinkled mischievously, embracing Megumi's skepticism with his typical flair for theatricality. “Ah, Megumi, you’ve uncovered my secret,” he declared with an exaggerated bow. “My entire life has been a carefully orchestrated performance designed to woo Genmei!”

Genmei laughed, stepping in with her own playful jab. “And he almost failed the audition, too.” she quipped, winking at the students who were now thoroughly enjoying this rare glimpse into their sensei’s personal life. “He was such a klutz, you know?”

Yuuji, unable to resist joining in, chimed in. His eyes were shining. “So what was the final move, Gojo-sensei? How did you clinch the role well?”

“Well, Yuuji,” Satoru said, adopting the tone of a wise sage sharing ancient secrets, “It involved a lot of strategic thinking, a grand romantic gesture involving perfectly timed sakura blossoms falling like snow, and… a cat.”

“A cat?” Nobara echoed, her eyebrows arching in disbelief. “This is too far-fetched, Gojo–sensei.”

“No no, I’m not. It was a cat,” Satoru nodded solemnly. “You see, wifey here has a soft spot for stray cats. I found the scruffiest, most endearing little stray and presented it to her, claiming it reminded me of myself.”

Genmei rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her amusement. “What he’s not telling you is that the cat immediately scratched him and ran off. It was the most honest review of his character I could have hoped for.”

The students burst into laughter, picturing the usually unflappable Gojo Satoru being bested by a stray cat. It was a laughable thing. But Satoru often does this every time someone asks how they met. Megumi narrows his eyes, almost as though he was having a flashback. Genmei was certain that Satoru had traumatized Megumi enough about it all. He was the one who always gossiped with the school moms, after all.

“See, it’s all about resilience,” Satoru grinned as he continued, totally unfazed. “The key to winning someone over is not giving up, especially if you love someone. Even when attacked by small animals.”

Yuuji shook her head, still laughing. “This feels less like romance and more like a battle strategy, Gojo-sensei.”

Nobara rolled her eyes. “It seems to me that he’s just being crazy.”

“You definitely are correct.” Megumi added, which caused Genmei to snicker.

“Ah, but love is the greatest battlefield of all!” Satoru exclaimed, spreading his arms wide as if embracing the whole world. “And I won the best of the best!”

Genmei gave him a gentle shove, chuckling. “Alright, that’s enough for you. These students came here to learn about Jujutsu, not your questionable courting techniques.”

“But wifey!” Satoru’s pout got even worse. “We’re just starting to have fun!”

“No buts, Satoru.”

Satoru’s exaggerated pout didn’t last long under Genmei’s amused but firm gaze. He knew well enough that his theatrical sulking wouldn’t sway her once she had made up her mind, yet he couldn’t resist playing up for his students. His arms remained crossed, and he huffed dramatically, managing to draw more laughter from the group.

“Oh, I forgot.”

Genmei turned her attention to Megumi, her smile warm and genuine. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small package, the familiar sight of moon cookies that she had thoughtfully brought with her. “Megumi, I remember how much you enjoyed these last time.” she said as she handed him the package. “Arisu oba–sama knew you liked them a lot too. So she gave you a lot.”

Megumi’s typically reserved demeanor softened noticeably at the gesture, and he accepted the cookies with a quiet, “Thank you, Genmei-san.”

Noticing the curious glances from Yuuji and Nobara, Genmei chuckled and handed each of them a cookie as well. “I asked the temple for quite a few of them. I thought it’d be nice to share some with all of you. Just let me know if you’d like more later, okay?”

Yuuji’s eyes lit up as he took a cookie, his usual enthusiasm bubbling over. “Wow, thanks, Genmei-san! These look amazing!” he exclaimed, eagerly taking a bite and nodding in approval.

Nobara, too, accepted the cookie with a smile, her earlier shock at Satoru’s marital status now giving way to appreciation for Genmei’s thoughtfulness. “Thank you, it’s really kind of you to think of us,” she said, tasting the cookie and giving Genmei an approving look.

The light and friendly mood was palpable as each of the students enjoyed the moon cookies, their earlier training session momentarily forgotten in favor of the sweet treat. Genmei started to tell them about moon cookies and how it’s made.

Yuuji was asking questions about the ingredients, but failing – as it was a Mikoto family secret. Nobara was fawning over the cute packaging and taking pictures. Megumi, as he always does with moon cookies, ate them as though he was savoring them. Satoru admits that watching his students and wife interact made his feigned pout slowly transform into a genuine smile. All he has now is his pride and joy.

“See, it’s not just Jujutsu techniques I’m good at sharing,” Satoru quipped back at her, finally uncrossing his arms and stepping closer to join the circle more fully. “I’m also excellent at sharing the best snacks, thanks to my better half here.”

Genmei gave a light laugh, shaking her head at Satoru’s attempt to regain some of the spotlight. “Well, we all have our strengths, dear,” she replied, giving him a playful nudge. “Mine just happens to include giving people the motivation to live.”

The students responded with a mix of laughter and nods, appreciating the familial and caring atmosphere that both Genmei and Satoru brought to what could have been just another grueling day of training. Yuuji, still not quite over the novelty of meeting Genmei, turned to Satoru with a mischievous grin.

“So, Gojo-sensei, does this mean we get snacks at every training session now? Is that part of the curriculum?” he asked, the hopeful tone in his voice eliciting more laughter from his peers.

Satoru raised an eyebrow, then looked at Genmei as if considering the idea. But he laughs soon after. “Well, if my most amazing loving wife is willing to keep supplying, who am I to deny you all such delicious motivation?”

Genmei laughed, amused by the turn of the conversation. “I think that might make the temple suspicious if I start clearing them out of moon cookies every week. But perhaps for special occasions…”

Megumi, who had been quietly enjoying his treat, looked up at her with a tender look in his eyes. Genmei thinks that he’s the most passionate about moon cookies. “It’s a good incentive to perform well, Genmei–san.” he noted, his voice low but clearly suggestive. “It’s good for morale.”

Nobara nodded in agreement, her expression one of mock-seriousness. “Absolutely, I think performance-based rewards could really enhance our training outcomes,” she chimed in, playing along with the theme, with a grin playing on her lips. “You know we’d come out the best in Jujutsu High with this!”

The group continued chatting and joking about potential “cookie rewards” for outstanding Jujutsu sorcery maneuvers. This continued on as the sun went and set, the end of the day just bursting with the conversation that was full of laughter. It was nice to take it easy, that was for sure.

Genmei thinks her years in Jujutsu High were rigid with Gakuganji creating hell for them. But Kaiko and Namie always made it fun. Genmei was glad that they were together, these three. These three were, after all, still kids living this cruel life. It’s the least she could do.

It wasn’t long after that when Satoru thought that the day should end on this high note for the kids. He had them start cleaning up the training materials, but Genmei is scolded him about ordering around the kids and soon enough, the strongest sorcerer of this life time, was carrying bamboo spears back into the storage huts as his wife enjoyed the remainder of the moon cookies he had on his own packet.

“Remember, you’re all welcome to come by anytime you need advice, training tips, or just a friendly chat,” Genmei called out as she and Satoru started to head back. “Just call me, okay? Megumi has my number!”

“I’m not giving it to them.”

Nobara frowned. “Yes, you will! Porcupine, get me your phone, now!”

“Don’t call me that.” Megumi responded back, mirroring her frown.

“Thank you, Genmei-san!” Yuuji called back, waving energetically. “And thanks for the cookies!”

As they walked away, Satoru slipped his arm around Genmei’s shoulders, squeezing gently. “You really made their day, you know,” he murmured softly.

Genmei smiled up at him. “And they just made mine. I’m very glad to see them together, finally.” she replied, her voice filled with warmth. “They reminded me of youth.”

“They really do, don’t they?” Satoru's tone was playful, infused with affection. He smiles down at her too. “But I make you day too, don’t I?”

His wife laughs tenderly at his words. “Yes, yes. You always do.”

“Ah, my wifey is such a beautiful romantic!”

Genmei laughed, the sound mingling with the fading echoes of the bustling campus around them. "Only for you, my love." she responded, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "But I still have to learn to keep up with your dramatic flair somehow."

Satoru grinned, clearly delighted by her comeback. "Ah, but who could resist such charm? And even then, who am I to resist your charm? You keep me grounded, wifey. You always have." His voice softened, the playfulness giving way to sincerity. He squeezed her shoulder a bit more tightly, reinforcing his words with the gentle pressure of his touch.

As the doors behind them closed, shutting off the sounds of the outside world. Satoru and Genmei entered a quieter world within the confines of Satoru's dorm room, a space that often doubled as a strategic meeting point for discussions far removed from the ears of even trusted allies.

The transition from light-hearted banter to serious tension was almost palpable, as if crossing the threshold into the room also required a shift in mindset to address the challenges that lay ahead.

The walls of the room, lined with books and various artifacts from past missions, served as a reminder of the many facets of their lives as sorcerers. Satoru walked over to a map pinned across one wall, dotted with notes and markers, each representing an event or a point of interest that required their attention.

Satoru’s face furrowed with concentration. Her husband somehow liked marking where he goes to missions often. Genmei thinks that she should suggest he get a new map. It was already too full to tell, she couldn’t tell anymore where he hadn’t been just yet. But he’d never replace it. He’s too attached to it. It’s been with him for ten years after all.

Genmei crossed her arms as she observed his focus and slowly approached and stood beside him, her lilac eyes scanning it all. "The stakes are getting higher, Satoru. With the postponement of Yuuji's execution, we've bought some time, but it's only a temporary reprieve," she said, her voice steady despite the weight of their discussion. “But we’ll have to be careful. I’m not sure how long before they’ll break it.”

Satoru nodded, leaning against his desk, his demeanor becoming more contemplative. “I know,” he replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. “We can’t let our guard down. I don’t trust them one bit. Not even those elders in Mikoto who said yes.”

Genmei purses her lips. “I know. This will also stir more tensions between us against the higher-ups and the clans. It’s already a controversial thing. They won’t sit quietly with this kind of disruption to the status quo.”

Satoru crossed his arms, his gaze drifting towards the window before returning to meet Genmei. “We need to be vigilant. Some of them might see this as an opportunity to undermine our plans or to push their own agendas more aggressively.”

Genmei nodded, her mind racing through potential scenarios and countermeasures. “We’ll need to keep a close eye on the movements of the clans, especially those who have always been less than supportive of us. And it’s not just the clans—we should be wary of any unusual activity among the higher-ups as well. The kids, we’ll have to have closer eyes on them.”

Satoru pushed off from the desk and started pacing slightly, a sign of his growing concern. He withdraws his blinds and lowers them. Her eyes meet his own. “I agree. We can’t afford any surprises. Yuuji’s case is sensitive, and any misstep could be catastrophic not just for him but for the fragile balance we’ve been trying to maintain at the school and within the wider jujutsu community.”

Genmei watched him pace, her mind equally busy with strategizing. “I’ll start by enhancing our intelligence network. I’ll have Nobuhiko and mother look into everything. I’ll see if I can get in touch with Todo. If there’s even a whisper of a plan against Yuuji or us, even the school, we need to know about it before it becomes a threat.”

Her husband stopped pacing and turned to face her, a determined look on his face. “Let’s also make sure to keep it as quiet as possible. The less, the better. I’ll talk to my mother. I’ll have her watch the higher ups.”

Genmei nodded at her husband as she stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “We’ll manage this, Satoru. We’ve faced tough challenges before. We just need to stay one step ahead, as always.”

Satoru’s expression softened slightly, and he placed his hand over hers. “Thank you, darling. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The way Satoru looks at her made her fall in love again.

She pulled him close and wrapped her arms around him.

Satoru felt the scent of vanilla scent, returning the embrace.

“I love you so much.” Genmei whispers to her husband. “I do.”

He grinned at her, kissing her temple. “I love you too, darling.”

He was the only family she truly had; she thinks of it now.

Gojo Genmei thinks that Gojo Satoru was her forever home.

facts about the chapter

ryomen hiromi in her will changed the family name to mikoto, consolidating her second husband's clan with her own. she did so to cut ties with sukuna.

the mikoto clan were always the biggest voice when it comes to the matter of ryomen sukuna. they consider it their duty to see sukuna eradicated from the world.

the mikoto, unlike the rest of the clans, kept their ancestral home in their ancestral province. its still under the ryomen name and all mikoto are expected to spend some time there to train their jujutsu.

ever since her marriage to satoru, it became more apparent that genmei has had conflicting views with the wider jujutsu society. being satoru's wife also means they can't do anything about it.

genmei was the one that adopted nobuhiko in the clan in 2003. she raised him from then on, giving him his name and his position in life.

nobuhiko teaches in kyoto jujutsu high and is in charge of the third years. todo is his student - who is very happy about his answer when asked about his type.

naoki zenin refused to be buried in zenin manor, so the mikoto buried him in their shrine. the zenin had been asking for his body back, but they have always refused.

genmei buried toji with her father after he passed. she thinks its only right that toji and her father are together.

genmei does not have a good relationship with any of her family, except megumi, mai and maki.

genmei has a particular hatred for naoya more than her other uncles. she considers him the most vile.

megumi doesn't like too much sweet things, but he fell in love with the moon cookies when he first visited mikoto manor as a child. he eats it often with black coffee.

genmei is very close to all of satoru's students and considers them as her own children. but genmei is closest to megumi, since she's raised him.

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wolfiemcwolferson · 1 year

Note

Hi Logan 👋🏼 for the latest prompt game, could I ask for Piarles + running into each other, late at night, at a supermarket? Thanks! <3

Well.

Insomnia is not contagious.

Insomnia is especially not contagious when you don't even live with the insomniac any longer.

Insomnia is especially not contagious when you don't even live with the insomniac any longer AND you haven't spoken to them in over four months.

And yet.

And yet, Charles is stood in the juice aisle at a grocery store that he had to drive across fucking town to stand in because he can't sleep.

He maybe hasn't slept in four months - since he moved into that white, sterile apartment across town. The one with the bed without someone else to take up the space in and the one with the kitchen that always has clean counters because there's no one to leave protein powder out. The one with the grocery store that isn't open 24/7 that Charles can't stand in when he can't sleep.

Which...he thought would be a thing of the past. Because historically, Charles has had no problem sleeping. No, that was always Pierre.

Pierre would be the one tossing and turning and trying to sleep until Charles was woken for the sixth time and he bundled them up in the car to walk down to the all night grocer's to buy snacks they wouldn't eat, but it worked.

Pierre would sleep and so would Charles.

And he thought he had put this all behind him. A new apartment and a new grocer's and a new job and a new - everything. A new everything because he couldn't have the same Chinese take-out place that he had with Pierre and he couldn't have the same cinema and he couldn't have...anything.

And at first, he had thought well, it's just like this. It's quite sad when you leave someone you've known more than half your life.

But then Charles stopped sleeping.

Because...because he had fucked up.

If he's contemplating his entire fucking life in a grocer's at 3 AM in the juice aisle.

He had fucked up.

Charles had lost touch with the things that he loved about Pierre. He got busy. He stopped looking at the things Pierre did that Charles loved.

He could only see the protein powder on the kitchen counters and he stopped looking at the boiled kettle that Pierre left for him.

He could only think about the hours of sleep he lost and he stopped remembering that some of his happiest, best memories were of the two of them - laughing about something at 3 AM together.

He only considered what it would be like to be in a bed alone - to not fight for covers - and he stopped considering that Pierre reached for him and reached for him and reached for him over and over every night they were under those covers.

Charles had gotten busy and he had stopped appreciating his life and he thought that the thing to do was to move on - to try and do it with someone else - but, god. He fucked it up.

"Cha -" A voice from behind startles him, and Charles jumps, turning to find Pierre at the end of the aisle, blinking at him.

He looks about how Charles thinks he looks which is terrible and like he hasn't slept in days and Charles wants to turn his face to god and shake his fist at him because Pierre is still fucking beautiful even when he isn't and Charles is a fool.

It's the sleep deprivation that leads Charles to laugh bitterly and press his fingertips into his eyes and mutter a holy fucking hell - a phrase he picked up from Alex.

He realizes too late that Pierre will take it the wrong way and he has to chase him halfway down the next aisle calling his name, only catching up to him because he starts to jog and Pierre looks worse up close.

Alex had told him that he wasn't doing well. But, that was about four weeks after Charles moved out and he hadn't really talked to Alex since then - considering Pierre was the one that got all the friends in the break-up. Which tracks. Because Charles is the one that fucked up.

"Pierre," Charles says, watching the way Pierre sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. "I -"

"What are you doing here?" Pierre asks, voice strained, staring at the place where Charles is touching his arm. "What are you -"

Charles - the fucking idiot - tells him everything in one breath.

"I can't sleep anymore because I have completely fucked up my entire life and I know I can't call you and ask you to take me back because I hurt you so terribly, but I hate my apartment and I hate the Chinese take-out and I hate the cinema and I stopped thinking about the way you make me tea every morning and I wish I could go back to six months ago and redo it all because I would do it differently."

Pierre yanks his arm free of Charles' grasp, anger on his face and in his eyes and Charles is ready for him to poke his finger into his chest, to tower over him in the way that only he manages to do and tell him that he isn't interested in anything Charles has to say, but what he isn't ready for is for Pierre to start crying - small, silent tears tumbling down his cheeks, getting lost in his beard.

"I am so incredibly angry at you," Pierre says.

"I know." Charles says.

"I have never," he scrubs his hands over his face, "I was steady. I was in. I was 100% with you and you just -" he waves his hands.

"I know." Charles says.

"I should tell you to fuck off and never come to my grocery store again." Pierre says, voice cracking.

"I know." Charles says.

Pierre breathes - deep and on an eight count like he's supposed to do during his sleep time meditation.

"I am so sorry," Charles whispers. "I know it's over, but I am so very sorry, Pierre. I am so sorry."

Charles knows it's over and maybe this was just a gift from the universe that let him have this - this few minutes where he got to tell Pierre that it was him, that Pierre was perfect, that Pierre was 100% just like he said and that maybe now Pierre can go on with his life and he can know that it was always Charles.

"I loved you and I liked you." Charles says, which is low and mean. "And it was never your fault, Pierre." And he drops his hand and then he stuffs his hands in his pockets and he turns - he's the one that practically runs from Pierre now.

He knows the layout of this place by heart - spent too many nights wandering the aisles - and he gets out quickly.

He had to drive because he lives all the way across the city and he's fumbling for his keys when Pierre catches up to him, catching him the same way Charles had in the canned goods aisle.

"You loved me? You loved me?"

Charles is officially done with this night. "Pierre -"

"You liked me?"

"You know that's not what I meant -"

Pierre cuts him off. "But that's what you said. You said I loved you and I liked you and that means you no longer -"

"You know I love you and you know I like you and -"

Pierre pokes him in the chest now - hard. Right in the center. "You'll bring me flowers - good ones. Tomorrow at work and then we will go out to that too expensive place you like and you'll pay. And after that, we are going to the park - two blocks from my place and you're going to talk. A lot. About what you did wrong and what you're going to do to fix it. And like, it might not work. I might never get over it, but I want to try because I like you and I love you even when I don't."

Charles' tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, but he nods, he nods because of course he will do those things for Pierre. Of course he -

"Goodnight, Charles. Do not be late." Pierre pokes him again and then he turns, walking towards his apartment building that Charles can see from here.

"Sunflowers!" Charles shouts after him and laughs when Pierre raises a middle finger in the air because it's so...it's so him.

Charles has no idea where he's going to find sunflowers in October, but he'll do it.

Insomnia isn't contagious, except maybe when it is. But it's okay when there's someone else in your bed. And even though they no longer live close enough to an all-night grocer's, they do lay in the grass in their tiny garden and stare at the sky and Charles never stops looking at the boiled kettle and the beautiful laughter they share and the way that their bodies pressed together is the best sleep meditation they have.

Insomnia isn't contagious, except maybe when it is. But it's okay when it's shared with someone you love.

#piarles #um getting back together #this is quite sad but hopeful at the end

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persephone11110 · 2 years

Text

Stay Still

parental Icemav x reader

Prompt; “Hey! Hey! Stay awake, okay? Stay awake.”-credit: @kitkatscabinet

Warnings:hidden injuries, mention of past child abuse, nose bleed, fainting/stumbling, insomnia

ofc: Beatrix“Bix”Kent

This time it wasn’t Bix’s fault. She gotten used to hiding injuries when she reached the age of five.

Wrist bruises from her parents grabbing her to hard, yanking her towards them.

Her father’s everyday belt left welts on her. A repaired nose from when her father decked her across the face.

In other words, it was a set of skills she learned early on.

If you had a childhood like hers, you learned how to stich yourself up. How to stop the bleeding, to fixing broken bones by yourself.

– –

Abruptly dropping a file on the table infront of her. A file Ice needed done for the meeting as it held a detailed report from a mission that took place a couple of days ago.

A painful stab gnawed at her stomach as she paused to draw a small breathe in.

Her hands twitched as her body lacked sleep.

“Sweetheart are you okay?" Maverick asked looking at the young pilot paled face with concern.”Whats wrong?”

“Nothing Mav, you know after ejection jitters”. They all went through it reset yes, yet that didn’t soothe Maverick’s concern at all.

“Don’t worry about me” she said confidently. Too confident.

Bix leaned over grabbing two empty mugs, she turned her back from the man she considered her father. Knowing the one emotion that was being expressed in was concern.

“Beatrice.”

I’m fine I keep telling you that, I’ll nap afterwards” she promised Maverick even though she had every intent to break it.

– –

“Commander Kent are you okay” Ice asked her as he sat at the head of the table.

Looking up Bix’s eyes slowly blinked.

”Yes sir”, the last thing she needed was to embarrass herself infront of higher ups.

Including Ice, and Maverick.

Yes they were her parents, but thats after hours and right now they’re Admiral Kazanksy, and Captain Mitchell.

As the meeting went on her brain had gotten fogger, her ribs hurt more than they did earlier. Bix thought the plethora cups of coffee she had would’ve woken her up little, yet it seems like caffeine is making it worse. Doing the exact opposite.

She heard Ice’s voice as he spoke lowly, due to his throat that still the had the effects of cancer, but he still held the cold, authoritative voice he always had.

She blinked sharply trying to understand what he was talking about.

Spending money on fighter jets, she thought to herself- no it can’t be. Because Ice already talked about that earlier didn’t he?

“More fighter jets mean, more missions being carried out-…Commander Kent are you okay?”, as he noticed her paled, pained stricken face.

“Sorry sir, please continue” She hoped no one asked for her two sense.

“Alright…”

Before continuing Maverick and Ice made eye contact, silently talking about their kid.

Fatigue seeped through her. As if she hadn’t had cups of coffee earlier and during the meeting. She felt as if someone was sucking every bit of energy out of her.

A swooshing sounds echoes in both of her ears.

This was too much. Maybe she could close her eyes for a brief second.

Maybe she could excuse herself to the bathroom.

Something was wrong but leaving the meeting while Ice was speaking felt disrespectful.

Something wet drips down her face.

Sweat, or is she so sleep deprived she’s hallucinating?

She brought her hand up to her face, and looked down surprised at the sight of blood on her fingers.

She stood up shakily, making a move towards the tissues. Before feeling the fatigue finally take over.

“Commander Kent!”

She tried steadying herself against the table, but a cloud of darkness took over.

“Catch her!”

“Call med bay!”

– –

Bix shows signs of consciousness when a quiet groan leaves her lips, probably because of loud monitor beeping.

Tired eyes open up just a bit. “Mav, Ice. what h?” her voice slurred as she spoke.

“You collasped during the meeting. you remember that Bix?” Maverick asked her gently.

“Mhm” she nodded her head.

The younger pilot swallows sharply,.“ribs hurt M’v” she whined.

“They were broken from the ejection you had two weeks ago.”Kid, why didn’t you mention your broken ribs?”

Because nobody cares about me.

“Come on kiddo talk to me, tell me what’s wrong”, he pleaded softly. finding a spot on her hospital bed and sitting down on it.

“Burden, M’v cause to much problems” she said quietly.

“Not a burden kiddo, I promise” he told her, rubbing his hand up and down her arm gently.

Maverick wanted to hunt down her parents and kill them.

She groaned tiredly rubbing her hand over her face“I can handle pain”, her southern accent more present.

“I know you can kiddo, that doesn’t mean you have to hide it” he told her sweetly.

“M’n fine I take care of myself”. she tilted her head in confusion“is dice mad at me?” her blue eyes suddenly sad.

“No he-”

“No Bix I’m not, just little upset” Ice’s voice was suddenly there.

Maverick turned his body. meeting his husband with a smile.

His body was suddenly there leaning over top of her kissing the crown of her face.

“Our love isn’t conditional, you know that” Ice reassured her. “Your loved honey”.

“Not mad at me?” she asked again double checking.

“Nope, not a chance a kiddo” Ice kissed her cheek, as she slowly fell into a much deserved slumber.

“Love you pops, dad”

#top gun #top gun maverick #tom kazansky #pete mitchell #icemav #tom kazansky x reader #pete mitchell x reader

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yanderes-galore · 2 years

Note

Hi! Can I request Freddy Krueger from the original Nightmare on elm street? Maybe like a chase scenario in the reader’s dreams? Id also like to request from your recent prompts vol 1 #44: “your tongue is so sharp…wouldn’t it be a shame if I had to silence it?” (But only if it’s doable for you! ^^’)

I hope your day is going well! Much love and good wishes to you! ❤️

Yeah! Let's be honest, this version of Kruegar is one of the best ^^ Probably OOC, I am so sorry if it is.

Yandere! Freddy Krueger Prompt 44

"Your tongue is so sharp... wouldn't it be a shame if I had to silence it?"

Pairing: Romantic (Barely)

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Torture, Blood, Graphic descriptions, Removal of tongue, Insomnia, Wishes for death, Sadism, Mostly just for horror, Implied drug use.

It kept getting worse, you were never able to get a good night's sleep. Your dreams recently kept contorting into twisted realities of blood and steam. You always woke up, hyped on adrenaline before being more tired than before.

You blamed it on the recent murder cases within Springwood. The fear caused by the news must be affecting your dreams. It didn't help you always hallucinated due to the lack of sleep-

It felt like people whispered in your ear when no one was there. You even see silhouettes of a man with a bladed hand. It's just... sleep deprivation, that's all!

You tried to ignore it when said hallucinations talk to you...

The therapist you go to now keeps trying to give you sleep medication...

Yet you don't think it's safe to sleep.

In fact, the last time you tried to sleep, you were traumatized. The last time you slept you were sent to the boiler room again, met face to face with a man covered in burn scars. A sinister grin is on his face, bladed hand caressing your skin.

"I've been waiting for when you'd take a nap. Now the fun begins...!"

By the time you managed to wake yourself up, momentarily escaping his grasp, the damage was done. Your body was clawed... blood seeping into your clothes. These were not ordinary nightmares...

This was something supernatural.

From that point on, you refused to consider sleeping. You did whatever you could to fight such an urge. You abused whatever substance you could get your hands on....

In the end it was a futile effort, due to the mind shutting down during micro naps.

You were doomed since the moment he had his eyes on you.

"Finally gave in, did you? Thought you'd miss me~"

You could only run for so long. Even in a dream, it felt real enough to make you heave for breath due to your stamina. The boiler room was like a maze, trapping you in with a monster.

The end was inevitable. Like a cornered rabbit, you would find a dead end. Forced to accept your fate at the sharp hands of a killer.

One that seemed too real to be conjured from your mind.

"Is my little rabbit tired from running?"

You glare at him, looking for some other way of escape. Upon touching the boiler room's pipes, you yelp. Your hands are burned... was this even a dream?

"I'm not your rabbit..." You snarl. "I'd never be yours."

"What makes you so sure, (Y/N)?"

He knows your name....

"I'd never allow myself to be near anyone like you..." You seethe, anger from your lack of sleep soaking your words. "You've tortured me for the past few months... why would I roll over and comply to whatever you wish after that!?"

"If your life's on the line, it's surprising what you'd do."

The man in front of you spits back, looking irritated at your sudden rebellion... yet interested.

"My dear (Y/N)..."

You blink and the demon's right in front of you. You gasp, senses heightened due to your lack of sleep. He takes this to his advantage, holding your mouth open by your chin.

"Your tongue is so sharp... wouldn't it be a shame if I had to silence it?"

You struggle against him, still trying to fight back. You nearly gag when he reaches his hand into your mouth... pulling your tongue painfully tight into his view. You shake your head with your eyes wide in fear.

"Good, your fear is delightful. You're more obedient than you think.... Too bad it won't save your tongue."

He slowly drags his blades against the twitching muscle in his hand. You try to pull back, fighting him. Tears prick your eyes... which only fuels his sadistic desires.

"Oh, want to leave so soon? Fine then, have it your way, baby."

There's a sickening wet snap before you feel yourself fall to the floor. His blades are coated in your blood, a laugh leaving his lips at your condition. You barely registered what happened until blood pooled out of your mouth.

Something then slaps onto the ground, your shaking gaze shifting towards it.

Your tongue.

The madman removed your tongue as promised.

"Anymore complaints, (Y/N)?"

The demon watches you spit continuous blood onto the floor before lifting your chin up to look him in the eyes.

What did you do to deserve this?

You gurgle softly, unable to speak.

"Speak up, won't you?"

He leans back and laughs at your suffering before dragging you up to your feet.

"It's upsetting to not hear your screams... but at least you can't refuse what I have in store for you, baby...."

As if to mock you, he licks his lips. You're in too much shock to respond to his sadism. You only silently wonder if your suffering will end soon.

If you're lucky, maybe you'll bleed out...

Then you won't have to suffer through anymore of his desires.

#yandere slashers #yandere slasher #yandere freddy krueger

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waffletheorist · 8 months

Text

Just finished.

So people liked my Linksona, the Hero of Simulation. And after some prompting from my little brother, I have decided to write something on him. I have never posted my own writing online before, so any advice or guidance will be appreciated. This is his first meeting with the Chain, content below the cut.

TW: Brief mentions of sleep deprivation, hallucinations, insomnia, mild violence.

Link's bad sleeping habits were beginning to have consequences. It was 2:00 a.m, on a rainy Monday afternoon in January. He was in his room, with it's green painted walls, hastily made bed, mildly cluttered desk, and abundance of Zelda posters and consoles, including the N64 passed down to him by his father. He had been doing homework up late, running on God knows how many cups of pure caffeine, (again) when he glanced outside his window and through the rain, saw a Lizalfos. He glanced back to his work, and out the window again, coming to the immediate conclusion that he's hallucinating as a result of sleep deprivation. The lizalfos was still there, alongside a mesmerizing triangular gateway, purple in colour, which immediately piqued his curiosity, he had always had an interest in the fantastical after all, how could he not when named after a videogame hero?

Suddenly, the Lizalfos turned towards him. Beady red eyes glared at him through the darkness and rain, and Link shrank back, before putting on a brave face. It is only a hallucination after all, it can't hurt him, right? He turns back to his maths work, staring longingly at his N64 before snapping himself back to reality. The logical part of his brain tells him it's probably best not to pay any mind to the bizarre hallucinations outside his window, while the impulsive part screams at him to pack his bags, grab his sword (from where?), and become the fictional Hero his parents named him after. He shot his homework one last guilty look, the pen still held in his Triforce-tattooed left hand, before deciding that it wouldn't be any harm if he just took a quick stroll outside, and the fresh air would probably be good for him anyway! Even though it's still dark, raining and around 2 in the morning.

He grabs his phone from it's resting place on his desk, and empties out his school bag. He thinks back to the Lizalfos. It's scales were shining, black as night, and it looked like the kind from Ocarina of Time. If a Lizalfos was there, then surely Hyrule was through the portal? In that case, it might be best to pack his Hyrule Historia. Not that he's wasting any thoughts on his hallucinations though, that would be ridiculous. He shoves some more items into his bag, including a lighter, solar powered phone charger, deodorant and some clothes. He takes note of the rain outside, and also decides to bring an umbrella. After some searching, he discovers it by the door. He puts on his trainers (or sneakers for the Americans reading) and his coat, which is an appealing shade of sage green with many pockets on both the inside and outside, and after taking one last look at himself in the mirror, he steps through the door, locks it behind him, opens up his umbrella, and sets off around the side of his house to face the portal and the Lizalfos, forgoing all self preservation instincts because:

A: It's just a hallucination, so it's probably not even going to be there when he turns the corner!

B: It's a portal, and a Zelda enemy in *real life*, there's no way he's missing this, even if he dies, he's taking a photo, and heading through that portal, this could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

C: He had no regard for his own life in the first place, he's a Link, and although the thought of leaving his dog does sadden him, she'll be in good hands with his brother.

He makes his way outside, pale (probably Vitamin D deficient) skin standing out as a stark contrast to the darkness around him, the rain beating down mercilessly on his umbrella as the puddles grow continually deeper on the path around him, wet grass glistening in the moonlight. His home is in the countryside, it's only neighbours being the fields owned by the farmers, which stank of slurry, the abandoned property that some land developers were looking to purchase a few years ago, and finally the other home across the road with the old, friendly St. Bernard dog who had been there for as long as Link could remember. It was an isolated place, and tended to smell, but it was home. He opened the gate to the back garden, but just as he was about to look around the corner, he felt a presence behind him.

Link let out a rather unheroic high pitched scream the moment he felt the choking grip fasten around his neck. Now he was sure. This wasn't some hallucination, this was reality, and he was in danger. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as his fight, flight or freeze response kicked in. The lizard hissed ominously in his ear. He could feel the spiked metal plates of armour rubbing uncomfortably against him. Why, oh why, did he let his curiosity get the better of him? He should've just kept doing his homework. His desperate shouts were quickly muffled by the creature's scaly arms covering his mouth. In that moment, Link knew he had to make a decision, and quickly, as the pressure around his throat increased. He was sure to black out if he didn't act now.

Link bit down. Hard. The Lizalfos yelped in pain and surprise, pulling its arm away. Link fell to the ground painfully, his neck still in pain from the force of the creature's choke. He stumbled backwards, and the creature turned to him, enraged by his audacity. It unsheathed a cruel, jagged blade from its side, teeth bared and snarling as it stalked towards Link. 'It's not real, it's only a nightmare', he repeated to himself like a mantra in his head. The monster raised it's sword, dark metal glinting in the light of the stars, as Link accepted his demise at the hands of this glorified lizard. Not quite how he wanted to go out, explosions would've been more fun, but alas. There's no way out now.

But then...

Link fell.

He was surrounded by an endless swirling abyss, a feeling of weightlessness as his stomach dropped. He felt sick. He shut his eyes, trying to block out the emptiness around him that seems to force it's way into his mind. He screamed again, but he couldn't hear anything, and the oppressive nothingness closed in around him, stifling and disorienting him.

Link woke up. At first, a feeling of relief coursed through his system. It was only a nightmare after all. But as the fogginess cleared from his mind, he saw that he was in unfamiliar surroundings. He heard voices around him.

"20 Rupees says they're dead."

"Vet, no."

"I think they're alive."

"That was a rather nasty fall, somebody get them a health potion."

"On it!"

"From a portal, maybe they're a spy of the shadow!"

"Their ears are strange."

"Most people have ears like that where I'm from."

"Really?"

"M'hm."

"I've seen ears like that in Hytopia. It'd explain their fashion sense if they're from there as well."

The voices all blended together. Link couldn't make sense of it all through his headache. Everything hurt. He jolted up with a start after remembering what happened, headbutting some unfortunate person who happened to be too close, as they fell back with an "ouch!" and forced his eyes open to come face to face with... his childhood heroes. Immediately, he's a deer in headlights. They're **real?** They're in front of him?

"Aw, looks like he's alive after all." A pink haired teen calls, wearing a familiar hat.

"Who would you be?" An older hero asks.

Link would recognise those markings anywhere. They're from the Fierce Deity. Then that must be the Hero of Time. He got *old*.

"I'm... Link. Same as all of you." Link replies.

"Another one? Isn't nine enough?" The pink haired one calls again. Must be the Hero of Legend from a Link to the Past with that hair.

The Hero of Time's expression hardens. Another hero. Another person forced to fight through so much suffering by his cruel destiny.

"A hero?" Asked the Hero of Wilds. With that blue Champion's Tunic, he's easily identifiable. Although Link doesn't recognise that scarring, that wasn't there in-game.

"Yes? Maybe?" Link replies.

"What does that mean?" The Hero of Wilds asks.

"Well, I donate to charity, and I saved a squirrel the other day when walking my dog."

"What about the kingdom? Have you saved the kingdom?" The Hero of the Wilds asks impatiently.

"The kingdom? I mean I guess? On a technicality I have?" Link replies.

All the heroes look dumbfounded.

"How can you save it on a *technicality*? You either save it or you don't, no technicalities there." The Hero of Legend asks, an underlying tone of snark to his voice.

"Well, it wasn't really real?" Link replies, just as confused.

A collective 'ohhhhhh' is shared among the heroes. A few have had adventures in worlds that weren't truly real. That must be the case with this one too, or so they thought.

"We can't call you Link, do you have any other nicknames?" The Hero of Winds asks, easily recognisable in his blue Island Lobster Shirt.

Link pauses, trying to think of a cool name. Most of his online names are things he made up at age 12, and he doesn't want to be called by his TLoZ speedrunning aliases or any of his school nicknames while here. Hero of Videogames or Games just makes him sound less serious. What's a fancier word for that?

"I'm... The Hero of Simulation."

#linksona #linkeduniverse #legend of zelda #linked universe

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kira-the-whump-enthusiast · 2 years

Note

“C’mon speak to me. Do something”

First one from these prompts!

Second from these prompts :D

28. Exhaustion/Insomnia 29. Electrocution/Shock

I decided to combine these two >:) So take a bit of Soren whump! Set in his captivity arc with Kastor. The guy is not having a fun time. He has not slept for like a week. Btw tysm to @whump-in-the-closet and @soheavyaburden for beta reading this!!! Mwah I adore you guys <2

Content: Forced sleep deprivation, some hallucinatory stuff, shock collar, torture, cuts with a razor, stress position, whumper turned whumpee, captivity whump

Tagging: @whump-queen @another-whump-sideblog

—

Soren had much more time recently. Namely, time to think about what his life had become. Not that he was doing much thinking, actually. Concentrating for more than a few seconds felt like an insurmountable feat. He was far, far too tired to think.

Actually, time didn't matter much now either. Every second was just pure agony, occasionally interrupted by a shock from the collar locked tightly around his throat, a violent jolt that left him on edge, trembling, and painfully awake. He’d forgotten what it was like to not spasm and twitch all the time. He missed the days when his neck didn’t ache and burn.

He hadn't slept in…

He hadn't…

…

What was he trying to remember, again?

Soren curled up in the corner of the cold, cramped basement cell, trying to find a little bit of comfort and safety in the refuge of a self-hug. His misfortune seemed to have no bounds, though. He heard the sharp click of the lock that signaled the door was about to open.

Quickly, Soren adjusted himself into a kneeling position, wincing at the way the rough stone floor scraped at his knees. And he waited for Kastor, the warden, to come in with something new, something sharp, something that would hurt. He shivered, not just from the chill of the prison cell.

But the door never opened. Confused, Soren could only blink and stare at the heavy door and imagine what was happening on the other side, while waiting for the inevitable.

After what felt like hours of apprehension, Soren considered that maybe he'd just been hallucinating. That had been happening so much recently.

He heard a soft, melodic song in the distance, one that came from nowhere at all. This was confirmation to Soren; he'd just been imagining things.

Soren recognized the song. It really was quite nice, but it was a song that used to irritate him. Because… because it came from his former prisoner.

Mailys had always sung that song when she’d thought he couldn't hear her. Maybe it was comforting to her. But for Soren, guilt and shame rose in his throat at the memories, the memories of her screams that sounded so much like his now.

He collapsed onto the ground, worn out from just kneeling too much without support. And he buried his face into his hands and broke down into exhausted sobs.

Soren could fall asleep like this. His eyes fluttered shut…

And a painful, unforgiving jolt tore at his throat and pulled him away from blessed rest.

He whimpered and stared at the low, dark ceiling, resigned.

This… this really was all he deserved.

—

Kastor came eventually. He always did, and Soren wished he wouldn't, but now every visit meant a chance of getting this horrid metal collar off.

Soren was already obediently kneeling when the warden entered the cell, temporarily spilling the bright light of the hallway into the dismal, dimly lit room. The swinging of the door knocked a metal tray to the side, spilling water and half-stale bread. It should have been Soren's meal, but he was too tired to even crawl to the door.

His stomach twisted and rumbled at the sight of the dropped food. But it twisted even more seeing Kastor's smile. Soren shifted, tremors wracking his body. His shaking was exhausting, but it was even more exhausting to try to stop it, so Soren didn't even try to hide it. Besides, he knew that Kastor liked it… and then maybe he wouldn't hurt him as much and then leave. Or unlock the collar. Maybe.

No, that was too good for him. Soren was starting to doubt that it would ever come off.

Kastor circled Soren before walking close to the kneeling prisoner. He roughly grabbed Soren's jaw, pulling his head up to force eye contact. Soren winced and swallowed a whine. A sharp nail scratched the side of his cheek. It was more uncomfortable than painful, but Soren wanted Kastor to stop.

What he wanted didn’t matter, though.

Kastor's voice rang out through the cell, too cheerful and too loud. "Good morning, Espinosa~" He said, a laugh on the edge of his voice.

"Did you sleep well?" Kastor smiled, a sinister, genuine smile, and that made Soren tremble harder.

Why was he even asking this…? Of course he hadn't slept. But this was Kastor… and Kastor must like to see him like this.

That was good, right? Maybe he'd go easy on him today. Maybe Soren could have a little bit of hope. Or maybe Kastor was going to leave him in this miserable state of sleeplessness forever, for his own enjoyment.

It's the least Soren could provide, he guessed.

Kastor tightened his grip on Soren's face, breaking him out of his thoughts and making him cry out in surprise. The warden stared at him with an expectant look in his eyes and a thin frown on his face.

Soren was puzzled, trying to figure out what he had done wrong, what he needed to do, when it finally hit him. An answer. Kastor wanted an answer. What kind of answer did he want, though?

"I… I didn't re-really sleep, Sir…." He ventured, words slurring a little. Soren tensed up, nervously searching Kastor's face for any confirmation that this was the right answer.

Kastor started to smile again. That was better, not much better, but Soren would take what little mercy he could get. Kastor let go of him, and for that Soren was eternally grateful.

Kastor snapped his fingers, and Soren stared, a glazed look in his eyes. Kastor pursed his lips and snapped his fingers again, more curt this time. Kastor wanted him… wanted him to do something, right? What was it what was it what was it—

Soren's mind finally caught up, and he held out his wrists in front of him. Right. Right. This was what he needed to do. Kastor already looked annoyed, and Soren cringed. He would definitely be nursing a broken rib when Kastor left.

"Finally, you were taking forever." Kastor rolled his eyes. "Have you forgotten the rules, Espinosa? Do you need a reminder?"

Soren shook his head frantically. "No—no, no, I don't… I'm—I'm sorry… I'm really sorry—"

Kastor held up a hand, and Soren went silent. Kastor kept a straight face as he procured a pair of cold metal handcuffs from his pocket and secured them around Soren's scarred wrists.

He watched as the warden walked to the other end of the barren cell to let a chain down from the ceiling. Kastor strolled back over to Soren and roughly dragged him to the newly lowered chain by his cuffs. Soren could only barely keep up, the sudden quick movements too much for his weary state.

When Kastor let go, Soren slumped to the ground, trying to catch his breath. Kastor didn't give him a break, he only clipped the chain to Soren's cuffs and pulled on the other end.

A sudden jerk on his arms forced Soren to his knees and then onto the balls of his feet. He gasped and swayed, unsteady and unsure of how long he could keep himself standing. Hunger and fatigue had completely sapped what little energy he usually had.

Kastor sauntered towards Soren, and then out of his field of vision. The brush of fingers on his neck from behind told him where Kastor was standing now.

"This is going to be simple, okay?" The hand left Soren's cheek, and he might have heard the sound of a razor blade being unsheathed if the static in his head wasn't so loud.

"Just count." Kastor enunciated. The tip of something sharp traced a ghostly line down Soren's spine, making him tense up and shiver. "Each of the cuts. Only thirty, today." He said it like it was a mercy. Soren wanted to believe that it was.

"Though, if you mess up, I think we'll have to start from the beginning."

Soren winced. That… probably wasn't good. Thirty. Could he count to thirty? He had to be able to. It really was simple, so simple, if he couldn't do that, then he was just useless.

But he was so tired, drained of all his energy, to the point that he could fall asleep standing up—

Another horrible, horrible shock ripped a small scream from his throat. He would never learn.

Kastor chuckled and dragged the edge of the straight razor down Soren's back, making a short cut on his left shoulder. Soren flinched, but he made no noise.

A second cut, more sudden, more forceful, caused Soren's breath to hitch. He must have done something wrong. He felt like he was forgetting something.

Counting… counting, wasn't it? He let out a shaky breath and uttered, voice raspy, "O-one…"

The warden smirked and made another incision.

"Two…" The cuts didn't hurt that much, but they put Soren on edge, holding his breath, and waiting for the next one. But he'd been through worse. Though, everything felt extra horrible when he was lethargic like this.

"Three… f-four…" A pained cry escaped his lips and Soren shut his eyes tightly. He regretted that when the shock collar delivered a fresh jolt that made him shriek and twitch. Kastor laughed somewhere in the distance.

Soren kept counting, counting, counting the little bits of agony that Kastor inflicted. Warm blood dripped down his back, a depressingly familiar feeling.

"E-eleven," he whispered, waiting for the next cut. A fresh burst of pain bloomed on the small of his back, and he gasped.

Soren opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but…. he couldn't remember. A few moments of deafening silence passed. His head hurt, trying to remember, he needed to remember, what was he doing—

"Tch," Kastor chided. "Seems like we'll have to start back at the beginning." His fingers grazed Soren's neck, and Soren flinched away.

"Count each incision for me, Espinosa, and we'll stop at thirty. If you can reach it."

Soren whimpered, trembled, and pulled at the handcuffs despite how it hurt his wrists, but he couldn't fight back. He probably wouldn’t have the energy to, anyways.

Gods. Please help me. Help, please, Soren silently prayed in desperation, before chiding himself. No, no, it’s no use.

There aren’t any gods here, only a devil.

—

"Pl-please, please, please, stop, st-stop, stop…." The words tumbled out of Soren's mouth, disoriented and desperate. He was no longer sure if this begging was working, but it was all he could do.

Shallow lacerations littered his back, his stomach, and now his chest. They stung like hell, stained the pitiful rags he was wearing a fresh shade of red—but worse, they itched, burned, and it hurt and Soren just wanted it to end. It felt like he'd been standing for an eternity. Some time ago—he couldn't tell how long in the wave of agony—his legs gave out and he was left to hang from his wrists.

He couldn't feel his hands anymore. His arms felt like they were about to tear from their sockets.

Brightly colored lights danced in front of his eyes. He missed seeing colors that weren't red like blood or black like Kastor's suits, but the lights made him want to rest his eyes. And when he did that, the collar went off with a sharp bzzt and Soren was left with nothing but pain.

"I can't— I can't take this anymore, Sir, pl-please!" Soren croaked. He knew that Kastor was listening. What he didn't know was if Kastor would humor him or not.

A sharp pain near his collarbone. Fresh blood dripped from the wound, into the dozens of other cuts on his torso. What number was this? Soren couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything.

Soren let out a choked gasp. This… this was pointless. He'd be hanging here for as long as Kastor wanted him to because there was no way for Soren to win this game. Either Kastor would stop eventually, or… he would die like this.

Soren supposed that he'd welcome either outcome.

He lowered his head, as much as he could bear without cutting off his breathing, and stared at the floor in weary resignation. He just needed to wait this out. When it ended, then he could rest. Permanent or not.

Kastor kept making incisions, kept slicing him into ribbons, and Soren made no sound except some weak cries of pain. Soren didn't speak, even when Kastor dug the razor in harder, even when he delivered a punch to Soren's gut that left him breathless and swinging from the chains.

"C'mon. Speak to me. Do something." Kastor urged. He poked Soren in the ribcage, going right for the darkest bruise on his chest. Soren winced, but otherwise, he did nothing.

"Are you unconscious?" Kastor brought the razor blade underneath Soren's chin and tilted his head upwards. Soren stared at his tormentor with dead eyes through sweat-soaked brown locks.

Kastor cocked his head to the side. "Hmm…." He jabbed Soren's neck with the razor, and Soren flinched. "Are you going to be difficult, Espinosa~?" His words were tinged with poison.

Soren's eyes welled up with tears, and he broke down into more sobs. "No—no, I'm sorry…. I just—I can't, I can't… please…" His voice trailed off, just kill me on the edge of his lips.

He knew that if he asked Kastor for the release of death, that would be the one thing he'd never get.

Soren was trembling violently, sick with anticipation. He had no idea how this day could get worse. He knew that Kastor would always find a way to make it worse.

Kastor made another cut, inches away from Soren's throat, and he held his breath but kept silent.

"This game isn't fun if you're not going to play it," Kastor sighed. The warden pursed his lips, looking displeased. "Whatever. We'll stop for today," he declared with a wave of his hand.

Soren heard the sound of a chain unclipping, and suddenly nothing was holding him up. He fell to the floor, not even trying to catch himself. The impact was painful, and he'd have new bruises on his knees and chest, but his arms hurt so much less now and he didn't have to stand anymore.

"Have a break. But you're going to pay for this dearly, later," hissed Kastor. His words were dark and threatening.

Soren nodded, weakly. Every mercy had a price, he knew that well.

"Hmm… you know, I think I want you fully conscious for my next visit."

Fingers threaded through Soren's hair, roughly pulling him to his knees. His head was jerked back. Soren's vision was blurry and unfocused from tears, but he could make out Kastor's face and a flash of metal.

The click of an open lock rang through his ears, and the collar fell off.

Soren breathed a sigh of relief, cracked lips in the slightest of smiles. His neck felt so much lighter, and he could breathe so much easier. But most importantly, it meant that he could really, actually sleep. It felt unreal, like a distant dream coming true.

He stared at Kastor in faint reverence, and he saw the warden's lips curl into a smirk.

That was the last thing Soren saw before shutting his eyes and collapsing to the floor. He heard the sound of the heavy door opening and closing.

Soren curled up tightly on himself, and finally, finally, he fell into the black void of sleep.

—

AN: Hehehehe I love being mean to Soren :) this is very canon for him. btw. And this isn't even the worst shit he's gone through. God this was very awesome to write. Hope yall like it too <2

#whump #whump writing #sleep deprivation whump #shock collar #stress position #whumper turned whumpee #captivity whump #my writing #oc soren #oc kastor #not me actually doing some writing for once #this is actually inordinately long for my pieces lol #I'm happy about that

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lumiolivier · 11 months

Text

Soft and Sleepy

Day 28 of 31 of Kinktober

Prompt: Panties/lingerie

Word Count: 477

Bright and early in the task force headquarters...and it's someone's bedtime.

Bright and early in the morning, the sun shined down into task force headquarters as it did every other day. Everyone was starting to come into the office. Then again, one had been there all night. Insomnia was not a pleasant affliction, but it was one that kept L on top of the investigation. That didn’t make it healthy. And there was one who wasn’t going to put up with it. He could see L teetering in his chair and his dark circles get worse.

“Ryuzaki,” Light wondered, “How long has it been since you’ve gotten any sleep?”

“Does it matter?” L shook, his coffee in hand.

“Yes,” Light took his cup from him and put it on the desk. He knew things were bad when L didn’t immediately swat him away, “Come on. Let’s get you up to bed.”

“I’m fine, Light,” L rolled his eyes, “You’re worrying too much about me. Now, back to the investigation. What do we know?”

“That the brightest mind among us is fighting me like a toddler and needs to go take his nap,” Light put his foot down, causing a quiet gasp across the table.

“Light,” Soichiro stepped in, “Maybe L’s right. Maybe he’s fine.”

“But he’s not,” Light knew better. His father meant well. Anything to keep the investigation going. But what the task force seemed to misunderstand was that L was not a machine. No matter how badly he wanted to be one. Light grabbed L by his arm and started dragging him across the floor on his chair.

“Light…” L started to panic, “What are you doing?”

“Two hours,” Light insisted, “That’s all I’ll ask. Two hours.”

“Fine,” L got up from his chair and kicked it across the floor.

“Good night, Ryuzaki!” Matsuda chirped.

But Aizawa couldn’t help but wonder…It had to be his own mind playing tricks on him. Because he could’ve sworn he saw the prettiest scrap of rose lace above the back of L’s waistband. Nah…Maybe I should take a nap, too.

Light took L upstairs and into his bedroom, “You do know you’re getting more than just a couple hours of sleep, right?”

“I know, I know,” L started stripping his clothes off, including the pretty, lacy panties he had on.

“Good,” Light handed him a soft pink negligee that matched the new silk panties, “Go on. Get some sleep.”

“I will,” L got a little kiss out of Light, “Work for two.”

“Will do,” Light tucked L into bed, “I love you.”

“Clearly.”

Light sat at L’s bedside, dreading the thought of going back downstairs, “You’re so pretty…”

“No, you.”

“Now, I know you’re tired,” Light giggled, “You really are just a big, sleepy toddler when you’re a couple days sleep deprived, aren’t you?”

“Light…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Light pressed a kiss to L’s forehead, “Good night.”

“Good night.”

#dnkinktober #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #death note #death note fan fiction #lawlight

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callofdooty · 1 year

Text

If I Wake Up And Accidentally Crawl Into Your Arms

Also posted onto Ao3

Fandom: Call of Duty: Ghosts

Summary: Written for Whumpril 2023 Day 2's Prompts of Stress, Insomnia and "Get some rest."

"But in times like this (times like right now, where he's sat up in bed, chewing at his own nails, praying to whatever the fuck is out there that he doesn't wake up Kick, blissfully asleep beside him) the thoughts aren't just incomprehensible noise. No. They all swirl back around to the same thing, discordant shrieks and wails crackling inside his head, sending ripples of pure discomfort to stretch across his skin- his nerves - under one unified point of interest.

The eye of the storm, the source of it all, is his brother.

His brother, who's out there somewhere. Alone. At the mercy of a merciless enemy.

Hesh wonders if their heads are just as loud as each other."

OR. Hesh struggles to sleep as the Ghosts search for Logan. Kick provides a little comfort.

Rating: Gen

Relationships: David "Hesh" Walker/Kick

Warning/labels: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Stress, Insomnia, Self-Hatred, Sleep Deprivation

Night hours were always the most conflicting for Hesh. While the day often brought an avalanche's worth of distractions - duties, responsibilities and the like - the night was mostly void of them. A time where the world became quiet; settled, even just a little.

In the day, the distractions made it easy for thoughts to escape. No time for dwelling, or mulling things over. Sometimes, it proved stressful. But most of the time, it was welcome. Hesh always preferred the physical, he didn't like to get stuck on things that he couldn't solve. Especially if said things weren't worth solving in the first place.

At night, though, the thoughts themselves are the distraction. Trapped, clouding around until thunderstorms raged on in his skull, making any semblance of sleep nigh-on impossible. Seemed like as soon as the sun sank down below the horizon, all of buzzing and noise around him found sanctuary inside his head. A lot of the time, there's so much going on that even Hesh himself doesn't know what he's thinking. It's all too loud; a cacophony of nothing and everything all at once.

But in times like this (times like right now, where he's sat up in bed, chewing at his own nails, praying to whatever the fuck is out there that he doesn't wake up Kick, blissfully asleep beside him) the thoughts aren't just incomprehensible noise. No. They all swirl back around to the same thing, discordant shrieks and wails crackling inside his head, sending ripples of pure discomfort to stretch across his skin- his nerves - under one unified point of interest.

The eye of the storm, the source of it all, is his brother.

His brother, who's out there somewhere. Alone. At the mercy of a merciless enemy.

Hesh wonders if their heads are just as loud as each other.

Fuck.

Logan's out there, and he's suffering; dying from the inside out and Hesh isn't helping. He's just... fucking around, fumbling like an idiot. Wasting day after day after day, getting nowhere closer to finding him, to bringing him back home, to safety.

It's been haunting him for a while, though he dreads to think of a solid measurement for it. Weeks, months, fucking years? He doesn't know right now. And either way, any stretch of time would be too long. In efforts to derail that particular train of thought, he shakes his head, instead laying his eyes on Kick. He's fast asleep, breaths steady, a contrast to the chaos raging on inside Hesh's head.

Kick is always steady. And Hesh would be lying if he wasn't a little envious of it. He's been heralded as a leader before; fuck, even Merrick seemed to think as much. And maybe he was, at some point. But now, ever since... the beach... he's been out of sorts. Seems like Rorke kicked the leader qualities right out of his fucking head, because God knows he's nothing more than a mess, even if he's mostly able to keep it under wraps, only letting it show around the other Ghosts. Where he was once practical and collected, he's now a desperate, despairing mess. A failure that couldn't save his father or his brother from a single man.

Would Logan have been in this same state? Would he be just as destroyed if it was Hesh that had been taken? Part of him wants to say yes. Wants to imagine that both of them would crumble in the face of pressure and grief. But another part of him, a louder part, is repulsed by the idea alone. Logan's nowhere near as pathetic.

Fuck, he's so tired.

Sleep has been an issue for far too long at this point. He's pretty sure the last "good" sleep he got was when he passed out after being picked up that damned beach. And that was hardly, as they say, "restful" - at least not for his wandering mind. It's all this... noise. It's hard to ignore, impossible to dampen, even with his best attempts. Constant, persistent. And it doesn't matter if he stays awake the whole night ruminating, by the next sunset he'll once again be stuck listening to a beehive that only he can hear.

But he can at least try.

As quietly and carefully as he can, he lays back down, pressing against Kick, as if just by being close, he could absorb some of that steadiness for himself. It doesn't work, of course. And instead, he's just subject to more thoughts, making him sigh shakily into Kick's neck, tears springing to his eyes.

"Hesh?" He freezes. Kick's sleepy mumbling hit him like ice water, far from the comfort and warmth it'd usually bring. He doesn't answer. He can't. But in doing so, it only seems to make Kick more alert, as he shuffles and pulls back a little, and Hesh makes the smallest of whines that seems far too loud against the everything-and-nothing. "Hesh, what's wrong?"

Instead of answering, Hesh sits up again, knees coming up to his chest. He manages all but a second of eye contact before he breaks it, instead letting his gaze wander the room that's only lit by rogue moonlight. He traces the shapes and shadows in the darkness, as if any of it would hold answers, would magically fix everything and bring Logan right back to where he should be.

To noone's surprise, the revelation doesn't come. Instead, Kick sighs. It's small, would hardly be audible if not for the deafening silence, but it weighs heavy on Hesh's heart all the same.

There's been a lot of sighing lately. From Hesh, to Hesh, about Hesh.

A bitter, perhaps selfish, part of him wonders when Kick - when all of them - will finally have had enough of him.

If they've already reached that point, Kick makes no show of it. He speaks again; softly, quietly and in a gentle manner that Hesh doesn't feel worthy of.

"Thinking about Logan again?"

Hesh closes his eyes to block the tears that start spilling out, one by one. His throat constricts painfully around nothing.

"I just..." he chokes out, just barely. "Fuck, he's... He's waiting on me, Kick..." It's a fight to contain himself, to stop himself from turning into a sobbing mess right then and there.

"Waiting on us, Hesh." Kick reminds him, "And we'll find him. We're not going to give up until we do." A hand lands on his arm and tugs slightly, coaxing him to let go of where they're curled around his knees. "C'mere."

He lets himself be pulled back down into Kick's awaiting arms, and lets out another shaky sigh against Kick's chest.

"I feel useless." It's an undignified whimper, one that he'll probably beat himself up over later, but in the moment, it's all he can muster up as a response.

"I know, I know..." Kick soothes, "We're doing all we can. But right now, there's not a whole lot you can do. And I know it's hard, but you should try and get some rest, okay?" He pulls back again just to look Hesh in the eyes, a hand coming up to cup his cheek, wiping away stray tears with his thumb. "You've done enough, Hesh. You're doing enough. Just because we haven't got there doesn't mean we haven't got results. We'll find him soon. But you can't help him if you're running on empty."

The more Kick speaks, the more the noise in his head settles, leaving him exhausted, both mentally and physically. The thunder is still there, but now it's softer. Distant. Muffled. A lull, like ocean waves; though he doesn't like to think about that kind of thing anymore. For once, he is able to stop his mind from wandering, focusing on the warmth of his partner insteaad. He's certain that he would've stayed awake all night, had Kick not woken up. But now, while he can, he lets himself admit defeat. He lets the tiredness take hold.

"Yeah... You're right..." he mutters before turning more sheepish, "...Sorry for waking you."

"I'd rather you wake me up than suffer alone like that, sweetheart." A soft kiss is pressed to his forehead, and then he's free to bury himself into Kick's chest completely. The third sigh he lets out is once again shaky, but contented as they wrap themselves in each others arms, and quickly the exhaustion starts to settle in, already beginning to pull him under.

"L've you..." is the last thing he can think to say, practically (blissfully) half asleep.

"I love you, too, Hesh." Kick hums, and just as he drops off, he hears the added hush: "Always will."

#david hesh walker #hesh walker #kick cod #call of duty ghosts #hesh/kick #whumpril2023 #whumprilday2 #emotional hurt/comfort #angst #fluff

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splendidissimus · 11 months

Text

2004 - I haven't slept in days, but who's counting?

((Content warning: brief mentions of SA / nsfwhump / incest / sexual situations, imprisonment, emotional abuse, captivity, sleep deprivation, starvation (minor) ))

((Promptspiration: @whumptober 2023: day 12: I haven't slept in days, but who's counting? / Insomnia @whumpitlikeyoumeanit: "Whumpee tied up alone in a bare room... by Caretaker." (Hey, I'm allowed to use my own prompts, right?) ))

Description I feel is necessary: Draco is going insane from lack of sleep from a new potion, and his family have to confine him until it wears off, and Draco goes Full Malfoy in trying to get out. It's frankly hard to tell who is keeping whom hostage. He is brutal. This has Big Rough Draft Energy. It should probably break 10k words when done properly, but there is some yadda-yaddaing to hit the highlights.

Genre: whump

Romance level: some

Angst level: 4/5

Draco's headspace: vicious / irrational

((words: ~8500))

------------------------------------

Draco's previous record for going without sleep was five days. And then he had started hallucinating a little bit, which, yeah, obviously wasn't ideal. He had solved that, though. Now he was on day eighteen and he was fine — beyond fine. He had solved everything. Sleep was no longer a necessity, and it was glorious.

But they didn't understand. Or they were jealous. They were trying to make him sleep. They didn't know he'd already anticipated that, too. Theo had been watching him take his sleeping potions for three days now, and he obediently took it and made a show of being 'sleepy'. But what he didn't know was that Draco had developed — well, bought the formula for and then tweaked — the perfect antidote. He was now completely immune to sleeping potions, spells, hexes, curses, potions, poisons, and magical effects. Let them try.

Theo stood in front of Lucius' excruciatingly neat desk with his hands behind his back, weathering his silently judgmental gaze and the more oblique inspection of the Elizabethan portrait behind him. Time was, that would have made him feel like he was a naughty student pulled up in front of McGonagall again; now he couldn't be bothered. "I need help getting Draco to Saint Mungo's."

"Why?"

He sighed through his nose. "He hasn't slept in…" He shook his head. "I don't know how long, but I'm betting it's a lot longer than it should be. At least a week."

"It's your job to be keeping an eye on these things."

"Hey," he said firmly, rejecting the blame. "I'm doing the best I can. Do you forget how sneaky he is? I'm not the one who raised him to be a perfect liar who thinks he needs to hide stuff like this." Lucius raised one eyebrow, but Theo declined to be intimidated. "He's not just been avoiding sleep, he's been actively faking it. I knew something was up so I've sat there and watched him take his potions, watched him apparently fall asleep. I think he's developed or bought a new potion that nullifies sleep magic, so he just waits 'til I've gone. Hours, if he has to."

"I was under the impression you were the one managing his potions."

"It's not like he's not got the use of his arms!" He threw up his hands in exasperation. "If he wants to go brew potions whilst my back is turned, there's nothing going to stop him. Unless you're going to hire in two more nurses and a house elf to physically hold onto him every hour of the day, he's going to be doing some stuff on his own, and some of it's going to be wrong, with the ideas he gets in his head and chases. And frankly, two nurses, a house elf, and me wouldn't be enough to stop him doing something he really wanted to, because you know there's only one thing that can even mostly control him."

"And, unfortunately, he can control her in turn," Lucius distantly agreed, tapping a quill on the blotter and looking thoughtful.

The caught Theo a little off guard, because he was pretty sure he'd never heard Lucius agree with him so casually before, without couching it in insult or begrudging or some manner of sneer. Wait. Was the secret to getting Lucius Malfoy to interact with you like a human being just… standing up to him? Wow, that would have been nice to know years ago.

"How is he functioning?"

"Weirdly well." Theo sat down in one of the chairs this side of the desk. "I want to be clear that I'm pretty sure he's off his nut, but at a casual interaction, you don't notice it. He seems energetic and in a good mood. A little volatile, but that's not really unusual."

"Is it actually a problem, then?" Lucius pointed out. "If he's found a way to be able to function without sleep, he might benefit from it."

"I did say he was off his nut, didn't I?" he pointed out. "But that's the problem, it's so subtle it doesn't look like a problem. Doesn't even sound like a problem when I try to explain it. But it's like… Okay, you know how when he's drunk, you can have whole hours of conversation, and it seems fine because he's all confident and charismatic, but if you really pay attention you notice he's not actually really responding to what you said at all? It's like that. His confidence and charm are carrying him, but I think he's actually starting to make really questionable decisions. For the moment it's mild enough that it looks like brilliance or eccentricity, but it won't last. And I want to point out that he's interacting with the public, just, constantly. He's going in front of the Wizengamot next week. Do you want him to do that in this state?"

Lucius made an acknowledging noise without actual words, continuing his pensive look.

"Plus," Theo said, slowly, trying to choose his words to phrase this with both the proper respect for Draco but also acknowledgment of the problem, "right now, he's in a good mood. He's basically treating everything as a game. Even me trying to sedate him, it's just a competition to him. That's fine, it's a good look for him. But I'm… kind of concerned… about what happens when that changes. If someone pisses him off, you know, with his," accidental, "magic and no impulse control? Or if something scares him, how'll he react?"

"It's a concern," Lucius allowed.

Draco was naturally emotional; most of his moods were brief, but intense, turning like the weather. He was naturally cheerful and bright, and when he was up he was incandescent. But when he was down, he was brutal.

—

((yadda-yadda-ing over the cat-and-mouse of actually capturing him))

—

Lucius brought Narcissa to the drawing room. "Take us off the floo network."

"What?"

"I'll get it repermitted, we can live without it for a month."

"Tell me what is going on."

"Draco hasn't slept in weeks. We can't let him leave."

"That's absurd, if he truly hasn't slept he clearly should be in the hospital—"

"He just set fire to the house for a distraction, and Confounded you." That made her stop abruptly. "In the middle of a conversation, wandless and wordless. That is dangerous." It was impressive and could be beyond useful, but in this situation, uncontrolled… "And that's what he did to you. He can't be exposed to people he has no reason to care about."

"That's hardly our concern. It's the healers' jobs to handle situations like this."

While her focus on Draco's wellbeing at the expense of everyone else was admirable, she was perhaps overconfident in their social stability. She thought that any repercussions for what Draco did would be easy to brush off — that everyone else must give him as much leeway as she did and forgive him as easily.

"They can't hold him," he said flatly. "Putting him in the hospital will only give him more people to, at best, talk into releasing him — and more likely Confound or outright Imperius. Once he extracts himself from the hospital, he will be at large and increasingly more erratic. This may be our last chance to contain the situation."

"Draco does not need to be 'contained'. He has made it clear he has no intention of using the Imperius or of harming anyone."

"When he's in his right mind," he pointed out. "In his right mind he would not be Confounding you to control a conversation. He has proven that he is still perfectly capable of using the Imperius, wand or no." She looked flatly displeased with his analysis, but didn't argue with it. "The best case scenario, should he make it out of the house now, whether to the hospital or of his own accord, is that his madness becomes public knowledge and his reputation is irreversibly undermined. The more likely outcome is that he destroys everything he's built and is eventually locked away, first in Saint Mungo's and eventually in Azkaban when nothing else can hold him."

"They would not."

"What else is there to do with a wizard who can control anyone he talks to and has no hesitation using it? They've no compunction imprisoning lunatics alongside criminals."

Her lips pressed into a flat line.

"Disconnect us," he repeated, stepping away. "I have Nott and the elf watching the doors so he can't Disapparate. I'll find him."

She considered the fireplace thoughtfully as he left.

—

When she went to her parlour, she wasn't surprised to find Draco there; he knew his father was looking for him and knew Lucius wouldn't come here, at least not until he exhausted everywhere else. He looked up from the book in his lap, chin resting on his fingers, a little smirk playing about his lips.

She allowed that she could believe Lucius' assessment that he wasn't entirely in his right mind. Lucius only ever saw the worst possible outcomes, though.

"Is your father right, that you haven't been sleeping?"

Draco shrugged a little bit without changing expression. He seemed only mildly amused. "He might be."

"He considers this a problem worth solving." She studied him, the edge of smugness with which he was regarding her. "So do I," she added. "I need you to go to the hospital."

He looked at her for several seconds without changing expression, but turning his ring around his finger with his thumb, then shrugged a little and set his book aside to stand. "Very well."

Good — that would end this absurd situation with the least amount of drama possible. She nodded and led him out of her room, back to the floo fireplace in the drawing room.

She was reaching for the floo powder when she heard a scuffle behind her and, turning, found the house elf latched onto Draco, just before they disappeared.

—

Tolly Apparated with a struggling Draco down into a small room in the cellar where the wine had been moved out, leaving bare stone walls and ancient wooden cross-racks built into them. There was one solitary chair in the centre of the room.

The very moment they appeared, Nott cast Incarcerus and caught Draco in magical ropes that bound his limbs and wrapped around his chest. Draco threw a wandless curse at him that deflected off a shield that Lucius raised just in the nick of time, and in the same moment, the elf took his wand from his robes and vanished.

In the brief moment when Draco was disoriented by the loss of his wand, Lucius cast a different binding spell on him to replace the Incarcerus, because Draco would end that easily: the Living Rope curse, a Darker spell that needed the counter to be broken and would tighten as the subject struggled. It bound his wrists together and tied his arms behind him to the back of the chair, forcing him to sit. He also Silenced Draco, knowing that wouldn't hold long.

"I'll give you a moment to calm down," he said, pointed for Nott to leave behind him, and then stepped out of the room without turning his back, closed the heavy door firmly between them, and locked Draco in.

Nott let out a heavy breath. "We got him."

"Yes. Now you have to identify and counter whatever he's been taking that allowed this to happen."

Nott nodded. "I have a sample of it. I can take it to Saint Mungo's and work it out with them."

"Horace Slughorn," he corrected.

"Ugh."

"Invoke Draco's name, and pay him whatever he's looking for." Lucius trusted people he was paying far more than those whose loyalties were split up between institutions and ideals that were hopefully encouraging them to do what he wanted.

"I repeat: ugh. But fine. I'll work with Slughorn, for Draco."

"Master?" He looked down to see the elf at his feet, gingerly holding Draco's wand, and he immediately took it from her and set it on a high shelf that was now over-filled with disorganised wine bottles.

"You are not to free Draco," he told her, "tell anyone about this, or obey any of his orders until I tell you otherwise."

"Yes, Master…" She looked fearfully toward Draco's prison.

His eyes narrowed slightly at her expression. That could be a problem. She obeyed him out of fear, propriety, and magic — but she actually liked Draco. A willful house elf had options. She might find a way to twist his words to allow her to help Draco, or manage to disobey his orders long enough to do so and then take the punishment. He needed to head that off.

"This is for his good. He is unwell. He may sound reasonable, but he is not. Don't be fooled."

"Yes, Master." Her voice was more firm this time. "Mistress is coming," she added.

That wasn't surprising, but promised to be difficult.

Narcissa ran down to the cellar. "Lucius!" She was openly furious. The house elf cringed and disappeared, and Nott took one look at her and hurried up the stairs, managing to make his gangly frame scurry.

Lucius didn't move. "We have him," he said evenly.

"You lied to me!"

"He can read you too easily. If you'd known the plan it wouldn't have worked."

"You have no right to use me against my son!"

"Our son," he corrected patiently. "It isn't just you; he can read all of us. Whoever acted the bait would have been lied to. But you are the only one he would completely believe was trying to help him, so it had to be you leading him into the trap. I gambled that, it being for his sake, you would eventually forgive me."

If she would eventually, she hadn't yet. Her expression only grew colder. "Where is he?" she demanded.

He lifted his wand and drew a rectangle on the wall in front of him. The other side of the wall had been previously prepared, so his rectangle became semi-transparent, a greyish "window" into the room that was now Draco's cell. He was generally facing their direction, still bound to the chair, head hanging onto his chest. The light was coming from one torch beside the door, and there was a portrait on the side wall, the same Elizabethan Lucius Malfoy who hung in Lucius' study, currently looking fairly bored as he toyed with his walking stick and watched over Draco.

"What are you doing to him?" Her voice had risen, somewhere between fury and fear. Though she can't have thought he would actually harm him. It was likely just a shock to see him that way.

"Ideally, I am stopping him from hurting anyone."

"Lucius, this is mad!"

"Trust me."

Nott's heavy step came down the stairs again, and hesitated, so Lucius glanced back at him to get him to speak. "He's still got his potions," Nott said. "I just thought about that. That might not be a good idea."

He nodded toward the window again. "Relieve him of them."

"Right." He went around them and unlocked the door.

Draco lifted his head when he came in, and his eyes were wide. "Theo." His voice was breathy and relieved. "Thank Merlin, get me out of here…"

He knew better than to look him in the eyes, since that seemed to be helpful to Draco Confounding people, but it was hard. It was hard to see him like this at all. "I can't," he told him quietly, and came up to him, and started searching his pockets.

"What? What do you mean, 'you can't'?" Draco squirmed to try to stop his search, but tied as he was it was only a little inconvenient. "Please!"

"I'm sorry, Draco." He didn't find anything but Draco's potions bag and wallet in his pockets, and he cleaned them out quickly.

"Theo, Theo why are you doing this to me?" Draco pleaded, breath hitching. "Please look at me… please… Is it because I didn't want to suck your dick? I'm sorry, I just didn't feel good, but I will, I'll do whatever you want, just let me out. Please, I'll… you can fuck me, just please, please let me out," he sobbed.

Theo fled out of the room and slammed the door. He could still hear Draco sobbing with the occasional 'please' from the other side. Narcissa was staring at him coldly, while Lucius continued to look through the window at Draco.

"I didn't." His words tumbled over each other. "It's not— I wouldn't—"

"It's fine," Lucius observed clinically. "He's opening strong."

"This is not a game!" Narcissa snapped.

"We'll see. Nott, stay here a few minutes."

Theo hung around, trying not to look at Draco. Instead he unshrunk the potions bag and started setting them out on the wine shelf beside his wand, labels facing out, so they could be grabbed if they needed them.

Draco's sobbing eventually faded away to silence, and then, in a few minutes, he dropped his head across the back of the chair so that he was looking at the ceiling. A few minutes after that, he started pushing the chair up on its back legs, balancing there.

"Go back in," Lucius instructed.

Theo glanced at him, and at Draco, and then silently did as he was told.

Draco dropped his chair down when the door opened, and raised his eyebrows very slightly when Theo came in. "Oh, you're still here." Both face and voice were completely normal. "I actually thought that might work. They are watching, aren't they?"

"More like might get me killed! Why would you say something like that? You know I'd never hurt you."

"Technically, I never said you did. I suggested that you were leveraging your power over me for sex, which, let's be honest…"

"I never have done!"

Draco shrugged a little and leaned his chair back again, going back to looking at the ceiling. "If that's what you really think."

"Draco…"

"No hard feelings, right? I mean, you are keeping me prisoner."

"Draco, we're just trying to help you. You need to sleep."

"With friends and family like you, one hardly needs enemies."

"I'm sorry." Theo backed out of the room again, and this time he locked the door.

When he looked at Draco's parents, his mother was staring blankly through the window with her arms crossed, and his father had his hands clasped behind his back.

"If either of you doesn't have the stomach for this," Lucius said, "it would be best you leave now."

Neither of them answered, but neither of them left, either.

—

Near the top of the first hour, Draco began calling for his mother, and after a few minutes she gave in and went to him. He leaned forward as much as he could, bound to his chair, when she came in. "Mother, please…"

She felt his forehead with the back of her hand and summoned the elf to bring her a blanket.

"Mother." He was looking up at her with wide eyes, vulnerable in his drawn face. "Mother, look what he's doing." There was a quaver of fear in his voice. "This is insane."

"It is for your good." She put the blanket around his shoulders. "It won't be for long. Once you sleep, this will all be over."

"That's crazy, Mother. Look at this…" He twisted to try to show his bound wrists. "This isn't for sleep, it's for torture!"

"No one is here to torture you." She ran her hand down his hair. "You only need to sleep."

"I can't, not like this. Who could?"

She stood with him for a while, but it wasn't really sustainable. Eventually she made a minor adjustment to the blanket to make sure it was tucked around him to keep him warm. "I have to go, but you are not being abandoned," she promised. "I'll be right outside."

"You're going to leave me here?" His voice was getting shrill with fear.

"Only for now."

She was almost out the door when he called out to her again, voice cracking on the edge of tears. "Why are you letting him do this to me?"

She didn't allow herself to look back and quickly left, closing the door between them, only then clenching her hand into a quiet fist.

"He's trying to drive a wedge between us," Lucius said.

"I know." She still didn't want to look at him. She silently took herself back upstairs.

—

When Theo got back from meeting with Slughorn in Hogsmeade, he found Draco still tied to that same chair, in that same position. "We can't at least let him walk around, or lay down, or something…?"

"It isn't possible," Lucius said flatly. "We only barely caught him the first time. To give him back his hands is to give him back a dangerous amount of magic. He's dangerous enough as it is. Without being able to Stun him, this is what controlling him looks like."

Theo looked at Draco again with an uneasy feeling. He didn't really disagree… He'd seen, he'd been on the receiving end of, what Draco could do without a wand. But this didn't feel right…

"He's also willing to hurt himself to manipulate us," Lucius said distantly.

Theo glanced at him quickly, then looked back into the cell. There was a smudged back mark on the stone wall, that spread toward the ceiling, and he realised Draco's blanket was gone. He'd set another fire, he surmised. Trying to force them to send him to the hospital by breathing smoke? Trying to scare them?

"At least this way, his options are limited."

"I understand…"

—

"I'm bored of you," Draco commented to the portrait. "Go away,"

"Would that I could," the portrait sighed. "But you're such a scintillating conversationalist I find myself rapt."

"Of course," Draco said. "It's my conversation, not your orders to spy upon me that keep you here."

"Of course it is." He yawned delicately behind his sleeve.

Draco silently considered the painting for a minute or two, then narrowed his eyes to focus. "Diffindo," he snapped, and a great slice raked it way across the canvas. The portrait's inhabitant yelled and ran for safety in a different frame.

"And that's what I think about your spies, Lucius!" he called out to the empty room, and smirked toward the ceiling.

It was hours before anyone came to deal with that, and in that time Draco's smirk soured into a cold glare. He glowered and shoved the chair back, scraping over the floor, ramming it against the wall to try to break it, to no avail, although it did make his hands hurt. Then he started ripping out the shelves with his magic, littering the ground with broken shards of ancient wood, occasionally grabbing them and throwing them around the air with a yell. Those bastards! They just left him there to suffer…

When the door unlocked, he jerked his head up, and just as it opened he yanked his head to the side, and with that motion the ruined portrait frame flew off the wall and slammed into the floor right at his father's feet, spraying him with splinters and forcing him to cover his face.

"Oops," Draco said blandly. "I must be doing accidental magic. Seems someone's taken my wand."

His father gave him an unimpressed look and shook splinters out of his sleeve. "You know that was meant to keep you from being alone."

"You know what else keeps me from being alone? People. Like the kind that I can be around by not being locked in this room."

"That is true," his father said mildly. "You should have a nap and then go find some."

Draco raised his chin with a sniff and glared.

"Elf," Lucius said, looking over the room, and Tolly appeared at the doorway. "Clean up this mess before you bring Draco's breakfast." He looked back at Draco. "Next time you feel like throwing a tantrum and destroying your only company, perhaps wait until it isn't the middle of the night so someone will be there to deal with it."

"You know, that is the one thing you have over Rowle," Draco noted. "When he had me locked away, I could still see hints of daylight. Not with you, though. Your torture is much more effective. This deprivation really goes nicely with my warped sense of time. I can't tell if it's been an hour or a week I've been here. Bravo."

"Well, I would give you a clock," Lucius said, using his wand to draw up another chair by the door and taking a seat, legs crossed amidst the detritus of Draco's night, to look at him. "But clearly it wouldn't be long for this world."

"Well, at least the gears would be more interesting to throw around than this junk." Draco looked at a large chunk of wine shelf meaningfully and it flew across the room, making the house elf yelp.

His father didn't respond to that, just fastidiously cleaned under his fingernails, and Draco glared at him with mounting resentment. He was so smug…

"When Rowle had me prisoner," he abruptly snapped, "he made me suck his dick. You know, because that's what fairies do. Is that where we're going here?"

His father's eyes shot up. "Disgusting," he said icily.

But it gave him a reaction, that soothing balm that gave him back the feeling of control, and, satisfied, he leaned back in the chair. "I know," he agreed. "But I'm not the one who has me tied up in a cellar, just like the last guy. Forgive me if I can't help but notice some unflattering parallels."

"It doesn't have to be like this."

"Oh, no, of course not. Let me guess: I made you do this. Or Voldemort made you do this. Or your father made you do this. You didn't make any choices that led to this situation. Poor Lucius, just swept around on the currents of circumstance."

His father's eyes remained cold, but his voice turned steady and calm. Patient. "Stop this, Draco."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Very much," he sighed. "Your only enemy here is whatever demon inside your head is making you behave this way."

"Not from where I'm sitting."

His father didn't answer, and his resentment began mounting again. In a while, he rocked the chair back into the wall, then again, testing how hard it hit his head each time.

After the third, his father summoned the chair back, scraping, to the centre of the floor, and then cast a sticking charm to hold it in place, so Draco couldn't even rock it back on its legs now. Draco twisted around in the chair, feeling the ropes tighten, and couldn't keep from yelling out his frustration. "Just fuck off already and leave me alone!"

"I will not."

—

Because he'd destroyed the portrait, it now fell on the three of them and the house elf to keep watch over Draco at all times. It wasn't safe to leave him alone, and if he was alone they wouldn't know if he actually did start giving in to sleep.

But the real reason was that Draco simply couldn't handle being alone. Isolation was far crueller to him than to most people, as had been demonstrated repeatedly in the last several years, and the point genuinely wasn't to torture him. If there were any real way to simply hold Draco in a warm, comfortable bedroom where he could chat with his friends and play games until he fell asleep, that would have been far preferable.

But no. His wandless magic — wandless but mostly assuredly not accidental, every single attempted Confounding and thrown teacup and fire set was under his complete and calculated control — turned every every small luxury into a weapon or an instrument of self-harm, so that he could have nothing but bare stone walls even he couldn't hurt himself with. He turned every attempt at care into a new gauntlet of emotional sadism as he probed for a crack in their defences to exploit, so that his mother had to steel himself before she entered the room and whatever fresh hell of accusation or pathos he was going to heap on her, and Nott threw himself into the analysis of his potion so that he had something more productive to do than weather another storm of Draco's guilting and debasement.

It was hardest to handle because probably very little of what Draco said was an outright lie. That was what made him such an excellent manipulator — he had a real gift for weaponising the truth. It was quite possible the pitiable things he was saying were his real thoughts, or had a kernel of his real thoughts at the core of them, merely now laid bare in the way calculated to elicit the most sympathy, or, if that failed, to hurt them the most. Every cruel observation wasn't merely a cutting insult but a blow to the heart of genuine insecurities he had gleaned. All of his accusations had either crossed his mind, perhaps not what he believed, but things he had at some point felt, or were things he knew they were afraid of. And he knew exactly how to turn every one of those feelings into a deadly curse.

The house elf was largely immune to Draco's attacks because he knew it was pointless to manipulate her, knowing it was impossible to get her to do anything for him against her master's orders, but she couldn't watch him at all times; aside from the needs of the house itself, which were being neglected, when Draco grew too bored he would still attack her just for amusement.

Lucius took most of the time the house elf did not. It was as much his role to keep Narcissa and Nott from being bewitched by him and giving in to him as it was to keep him bound there, and the best way to do that was to minimise their time with him.

He was the most suited to bearing Draco's attacks… and the only one who managed to turn Draco's mind elsewhere for any length of time. He was able, temporarily, to distract Draco and keep him calm by challenging him to mental chess, or directing him into debate or diatribe where his vitriol could have free rein without turning personal.

But it wasn't safe. Draco was always looking for an opening. He once used chess, of all things, as a cover to Confound him, and the elf pulled him out of the room before he could free him; Draco's laughter after that episode was still haunting. His attention could turn in an instant, and the moment Lucius let his guard down the vitriol did turn personal and he found a way to turn the words against him.

Even he could not hold up under Draco's attention indefinitely. He didn't let Draco be alone for more than a half hour at a time, but he did have to retreat to the other side of the door for respite every few hours. He stood in the same spot whenever Narcissa or Nott took his place, on guard for Draco's influence, and left the room only when the house elf took over the duty.

This was not sustainable.

—

"Damn it, Draco!" Theo was this close to throwing the toast in his face. He probably hadn't been eating enough during all that time the potion was keeping him awake, and now he was refusing food entirely. He hadn't had more than water and a few cups of tea since he'd been imprisoned, and his body was showing it. He was quickly going from thin to skeletal, with his clothes hanging off of sharp shoulders and the ropes biting into the knobs of his wrists. It was like the potion keeping him awake was eating him alive from the inside to do it. "This isn't about control!"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I must have got confused by the ropes and the locked door."

"I'm trying to save your life!"

"Of course you are; if I weren't here you'd have to go out and find yourself an actual personality. Could you be any more pathetic?"

Theo let out a helpless groan and dropped onto his knees, with his arms on Draco's lap, holding his head. "Draco… Please, just fucking don't die…"

"If I do, Theo, it's not going to be my fault."

—

Draco was crying. Not sobbing, but almost silently, shoulders shaking like he was trying to suppress it, head bowed into his chest so no one could see.

"This has gone far enough," Narcissa said sharply, going for the door.

"Stop."

"You're the one who needs to stop! Look at what you're doing!"

"He's manipulating you."

"It's not fake," Theo said quietly, staring through the window at Draco. "I've seen him cry enough… that's real."

He flicked that away. "So it's not false. It's still intentional. He's been making and allowing himself to cry to manipulate you since he was two years old; this is not a new tactic. If you let it work this time you're dooming him."

She ignored him and pushed her way into the cell. Draco looked up, eyes wide and startled, then ducked his head, embarrassed, to wipe away his tears against his shoulders.

"Mother…"

She came and wiped tears off his cheeks. He resisted at first, then gave in and leaned into her hands with a sigh, eyes closing. Maybe this would relax him. Maybe that was what he actually needed to sleep.

"Why don't you ever protect me from him…?" he asked in a faint, flat voice.

She drew a sharp breath through her nose and gently lifted his chin to search his face. His eyes flinched away from hers in quiet shame and looked away to the corner of the floor.

"I know what you're trying to do," she said quietly, and ran her hand over his hair. "It isn't going to work."

He didn't look up, or give up the act.

She ran her hand over his hair again, and stepped back out of the room. Lucius started to move, but she made a sharp gesture at him with one finger and carried on up the stairs.

Because she knew that Lucius had harmed Draco. Maybe even hurt him. She had laid ultimata when Draco was young to keep Lucius' darkness and violence away from him. She had intervened when his discipline became too harsh. But they were both prone to operating in shadows, to hiding and secrets. What did she not know? Had she been too distant? Placed too much trust in him? Should she have stood between them more? Had she failed Draco?

She knew she had, on some level. But not this badly…

—

"I'm cold," Draco said quietly. His voice was submissive, almost broken. Tired of fighting.

"Then you shouldn't have set your blanket on fire."

"You're right. I was just… scared, I guess. I thought you'd have to let me go. I wasn't thinking clearly. May I have another?"

"No."

"…I understand," he said in a small voice, and let his chin hang onto his chest. He was quiet for a little bit before he spoke up again.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "For everything. I should have been better. You deserve better. I'm trying, I try so damn hard, I just keep… fucking everything up…"

He didn't respond. Maybe, if he'd thought Draco were actually saying something he meant, he would have, but as it was, it was better for it to just be noise.

Draco was quiet for almost long enough that he thought he meant to stay that way. When he did speak, his voice was low, but without a trace of submission or meekness. "You have to sleep eventually," he said in a quiet, nearly casual voice, and then lifted his head just enough to meet his eyes. His eyes were piercing and cold as any blade. "I don't."

Lucius was not intimidated — Draco interpreting the fact that he stood that way would be a mistake. But he was a realist, and he knew when wariness was appropriate; if there were any one of them Draco would actually try to harm, it would be him, and it would be best to change the situation before he started getting ideas. "You will, eventually," he promised, and left the room.

—

The quality of Draco's breathing changed.

Lucius looked up and studied him. He was leaning forward, gasping quietly, eyes on the floor. "Draco?" He stood warily.

"...heart..." Draco gasped out.

Damn it, he'd been afraid of this. He stepped behind him to look, but he saw exactly what he expected to: on his wrist, above the ropes biting into him, the wrist cuff that measured his heartbeat was flashing in rapid alarm. Between the fact that he couldn't take his daily heart regulating potion and the stress...

He stepped out of the room without a word, leaving the door ajar to listen to Draco and looking over the shelf of his potions. He had medications for all of this. There was an emergency sedative precisely for the times his heart ran out of control.

The problem was, they couldn't use them. Nott had brought up a good point: in Draco's mindset of subterfuge and paranoia, they had no way to know which of his medications he had laced with the problematic anti-sleep concoction, but every reason to believe he had done so.

They also had every reason to believe the specific heart medication for this situation would be completely ineffective, at best. It was a sedative. It slowed his heart, for sure, but it also put him to sleep. The chances that his anti-sleep potion would nullify the sleep effect but leave the heart effect intact were slim. It was a carefully balanced blend custom formulated for him, and mixing it with this effect would be reckless and dangerous, even if it weren't laced.

He touched the bottle of sedative, still considering it, for a moment. What was the alternative? Sit back and stonily watch him have a heart attack?

Inside the cell, Draco groaned weakly.

He supposed the real only option was to bring him to the hospital. Maybe he was weak enough or distracted enough they would be able to control him. The risks of what he might do were real, but it would keep him alive...

"Wait!" Nott's voice came from the stairs, and his tromping steps brought him into sight soon thereafter. "Hold on, Tolly got me..."

He narrowed his eyes slightly. Hadn't he been with Slughorn, presumably in Hogsmeade? Willful elf...

"You haven't given him anything, right?"

"No." He dropped his hand from the potions. "There's nothing safe to give him."

"I'll see if there's anything I can do." He hurried past into the cell.

Lucius watched from the doorway as Nott inspected Draco, crouching in front of him, taking his pulse, taking a reading with his wand... Draco weakly twisted to get away from him.

In a minute, Nott stood again, face stony. "Draco, you..." His wand hand clenched tight as he turned away. "He did it to himself," he said in a flat voice.

"What are you talking about?"

"He hyperventilated to speed up his heart to set off the alarm so we'd give him his tainted potions, or send him to the hospital where he could escape, or... fuck it, just to watch us panic, probably. Who knows. It's already slowing down because he can't keep that up."

"Then he was never in any danger," he realised coldly, staring at Draco.

"No, that's the fucking stupid part! It's so bloody dangerous! When that alarm goes off it means his heart's going a hundred and forty times a minute or more, and just because he did it on purpose doesn't magically make it all right! It's still damaging his heart, still wearing out the spells holding it together, he's still going to throw himself into shock or a heart attack, and fucking die, and he doesn't care!"

Draco could obviously hear them; they were still standing there in his cell and Nott's voice was raised nearly to a yell now. But he didn't seem to care. He took a deeper breath and leaned back in the chair.

"He's just..."

"If it's any consolation," Draco said behind him, "it feels rather unpleasant."

Nott whirled on him, wand clenched, then stormed out of the room. "You want these bloody things so badly?" He yanked a potion off the shelf on the other side of the door and threw it. It exploded like a bomb at Draco's feet, spraying shards of glass and muddy red liquid that looked like old blood. "Have them!" Another flew past his head -- Draco flinched away from it -- and exploded against the back wall. A third one hit the floor beside the leg of his chair and didn't break, but skittered away toward the corner. "Fucking choke on them."

Draco looked up without a word, and Nott stomped away. In a second he was back in the door, though. "I just really want you to know that I was aiming for you," he said. "I just fucking missed." Then he was gone. They could hear the door at the top of the stairs slam distantly.

"You don't have anything to say?" Draco shook his head, leaning forward, to make sure there was no glass in his hair.

Lucius summoned the stray potion to hand before it could be forgotten and give Draco the chance to get it. "I applaud his restraint."

—

"You're the reason I tried to kill myself," Draco said in a casual, intimate voice, too quiet for anyone outside the room to overhear even if they were watching. "The thought of living with you a moment more was unbearable. Of being beaten down by you, pushed around by you, of trying to be made to live like you. The only way I could see to get away from you was to take all my potions and never wake up." He leaned back, gaze seeming wistful. "Even afterward, I still wished it had worked. I wished that she'd been a few minutes later and hadn't saved me. Shall we tell her that?" He dropped unblinking eyes down to watch him. "I think she deserves to know that, don't you?"

Lucius watched him expressionlessly, unmoving.

"Or are you going to let me out?"

"You can say whatever you feel you need to," Lucius said evenly. "You are still not leaving this room."

"She will never forgive you."

"So be it."

—

"I've got it." Tolly was the one spending the hour with Draco, and so Theo managed to find his parents both in the room outside the cell. They could have been using this time to rest, but instead they were still using it to watch Draco, compulsively, just out of reach of his abuse.

"The antidote. Slughorn wanted credit for Draco's anti-sleep potion and I told him he was welcome to it, since it apparently drives people fucking crackers. But I've got it." He showed off a phial the size of a large finger. "Now we just need to get him to take it."

"Asking nicely seems to be out of the question," Lucius said dryly. "Will it be effective diluted in his food?" Well, tea, which was all Draco really ate.

"It would be, but I don't think he'd take it. He's so paranoid, so vigilant, he'd know something was up." Theo put the potion and his hand back into his pocket, watching Draco with them. "What about acting like it's a sleeping potion? Then he'd think he was immune to it and drink it out of arrogance, to rub it in."

"Maybe two days ago," Lucius said. "He's more likely to destroy it out of spite, now. It's useless to try to Bind him or similar, a wandless Protego is almost signature…"

"Imperius," Narcissa said.

They were both quiet.

"He wouldn't forgive you," Theo said after a long minute. "He already feels like we control him too much. The moment he got better, he'd leave and we'd never see him again. …If he got better at all, instead of having a breakdown and being locked up in Saint Mungo's."

Lucius nodded. "I would rather not, anyway," he admitted.

"…Do we have to just physically hold him down and pour it down his throat…?" Theo wondered.

"A better question is if we can."

"I have four doses. If he breaks a couple…"

Lucius glanced over at met his eyes, considering, then looked at Narcissa, and Theo followed his train of thought with a moment of realisation. It might work. He took out all four potions and held them out to Draco's parents, keeping one for himself and giving her two of them; she blinked at it and at him, then noticed they were looking at her. She looked back at Draco, and nodded as she took them.

—

On the fourth day, less than twelve hours after being fed the antidote, the quality of Draco's manipulations had changed. When Narcissa came to give him his breakfast, relieving the elf of its vigil, he jerked his head up to look. His eyes were red and sunken into dark circles. "Mother… I give in, all right? Just tell me what you want."

She studied his face as she finished up his tea. Whatever Lucius believed, she knew Draco, and she wasn't blind to his manipulations, even if she, perhaps, found them difficult to resist; she could see there was something else there now. An edge of desperation, a genuine franticness. Perhaps he was such a master manipulator he could have faked trying-and-barely-failing to cover up his desperation, but he wasn't, not now. "We don't want anything from you."

She helped him to drink his tea, but he turned his face away, and she touched his hair to urge him back toward it. "I only want you to sleep and get better," she said.

"There's got to be something else!" He whipped his head away from her, and the teacup ripped out of her hand and shattered against the wall. "Let me go!"

When he flipped the tea tray on her, she left the room and sent the elf to get Lucius. Theodore arrived swiftly as well, but Lucius kept anyone from going back into the room. It was cruel, but it was necessary; Draco was becoming more erratic in his desperation. For the first time, the flashes of his magic throwing things around the room did actually seem accidental. It was probably more dangerous than it ever had been; manipulative, he would be cruel, but erratic, he could truly hurt someone from fear or rage and regret it in the next instant, when it was too late.

They could watch the crumbling of his will as the treatment faded, quickly now that the first cracks had formed. His chin sank toward his chest and then jerked up seconds later, over and over. He lolled his head and squirmed in the chair, trying to keep himself alert. He muttered to himself, nothing really sensible, and then broke out into a scream. "Don't make me sleep! Please, I'm sorry, just don't make me!" He broke down into brittle sobs. "Please… please don't…"

He continued begging for some time, growing more incoherent, the words slurring into an exhausted mumble that faded into wordless sobs as he lost the energy even to voice his futile pleading, knowing it would do no good, no one was coming. His sobs trailed away into hitching wet breaths, and those evened out as he finally cried himself to sleep.

Narcissa closed her eyes in quiet relief once she realised he was actually, finally asleep, and Theodore actually sagged against the wall with his head in his arms. Her arms ached from gripping them so tightly. "Elf," she summoned. She heard an acknowledging squeak and, looking down, realised that it had been there watching from the corner as well.

"Wait," Lucius said grimly, staring into the other room. "It may be a ploy."

She nearly snapped at him, for caring so little about their son that he could watch even that and only see an enemy, but then she noticed his face. He looked tired. Maybe not physically, or not only physically, but from bearing most of the weight of keeping Draco imprisoned, of having to remain hard-hearted because someone must. Yet he still had to make sure that it was safe before he allowed himself to relax. While they gave in to relief, he didn't let himself feel it yet.

He was starting to move, but she touched his arm. "I'll check." She unlocked the door to Draco's cell. His wariness was contagious, and she wasn't entirely unguarded as she approached the lonely figure bound to the chair. She still didn't believe that Draco would hurt her, even now, but if he was making some last desperate effort for his freedom, he could lash out wildly…

"Draco?" She crouched in front of the chair, looking up into his face. He looked… if not peaceful, then at any rate unaware. He didn't move at her approach, and the quality of his breathing didn't change. After a moment, she reached up and lightly cupped his cheek, pulling her fingertips through his hair for a moment. Then she looked back to the window and nodded.

Theodore entered with the potion bag, taking out a Dreamless Sleep. "To keep him down," he said unnecessarily, and she held Draco's head to help him feed it to him. Draco stirred and tried to wake, alarming her, and she stroked his hair, settling him back into his sleep. She kept him until the potion had time to take effect.

He stood up, hesitating, watching Draco. "I do have some Draught of the Living Death left," he quietly, leaving the decision to them.

She glanced at him and at Lucius, looked into Draco's face, and in a moment nodded. The idea of him waking up again anytime soon was… unbearable. She held him while he fed him that, and Draco's breathing slowed to imperceptibility. Compared to the last few days, it was still a relief.

Lucius released Draco from his bindings and caught him as he collapsed. Blood dripped from Draco's fingertip, a thin line winding from the deep, raw circles that showed how he had struggled against the ropes over the last few days, and especially the last few hours.

"Put him to bed," she instructed the elf. "I'll be there shortly."

"I'll go," Theodore volunteered. "He needs healing… He might still need the hospital…"

"I'll be there regardless," she said firmly. The elf disappeared with Draco's limp body, and Theodore hurried after them.

She touched Lucius' back. "You did well."

"There is no guarantee he will be in his right mind even after sleeping," he warned, looking distantly at the now-empty chair.

"If not, we will handle it then. Rest."

#whumptober2023 #no.12 #I haven't slept in days but who's counting #insomnia #fic #harry potter #draco malfoy #draco malfoy fanfiction #narcissa malfoy #theo nott #lucius malfoy #draco is competent #draco is vicious #draco is manipulative #lucius is protective #splendidissimus writing #draco in his 20s #tolly the house elf #whumptober 2023

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