#if that makes sense- like the being in pain etc that's all just. a continuation of that love; that you aren't loving them still in Spite of | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ilium-ilia · 19 days ago

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a fox cries; never howls

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | in limbo au | masterlist

Part (1/3): marco's girl

a/n: this is an alternate universe to my story, In Limbo. you do not need to read In Limbo to understand this au, but if you are reading In Limbo, i recommend not reading this story until you've read chapter 14 due to some spoilers. please take care to read the warnings on each chapter, this is a very heavy fic.

tw: rape/non-con, pedophilia, human/sex trafficking, forced prostitution, abduction, suicide, self harm, whump, hurt/comfort, reader has long hair for plot reasons (can be natural, braided, etc)

Each time it happens, you tell yourself it’ll be different, but it never is.

Broken promises lay in glistening shards around the heels strapped to your feet as you grit your teeth through the pain. No matter how much you beg and plead, it’s always the same. That visceral ache shooting through the core of your being still brings tears to your eyes the same it did the first time. It will continue to plague you. Haunting your cheeks in messy streaks as it drips onto the counter your hands so desperately palm at. Each tear that splatters by your fingers shimmer with black flakes. Running mascara. It stains everything it touches—especially you.

You’re prettier that way. Ruined. At least, that’s what you’ve been told.

Always pretty on your knees; bent over; looking up; crying; pleading; beg; beg for it; and keep crying; yeah, just like that.

Your skin is scarred, marked in the shape of greedy lips, and it stings like the wound is fresh. Words seep into the soft tissue where it continues to fester. Burrows its spindly roots until it can bear fruit. You can pull at the stem all you like, but you can’t escape the fact that it’s now a fundamental part of you. It’s the only thing keeping your bones from crumbling. This mantra. This throe.

“Not tryna hide, are you?”

Avaricious fingers dig into the firm cartilage of your throat as you’re yanked back and forced to look at yourself in the mirror. The ripples of your defilement echo throughout your body—and you’re forced to watch it. The bounce of your breasts and the smudged makeup dripping along your cheeks. In some odd way, you are a masterpiece. You’re sculpted of nothing but obloquy yet carved just like if you were made of stone. You would close your eyes if you thought you could get away with it.

But Marco likes when you watch. Savors the tremble of your lips as your eyes find him in the mirror. Pristine teeth glint in the pallid light. Perfectly white and straight. He always takes care of himself—of his appearance. It shows in the carefully carved muscles that flex in his abdomen as he pistons into you; in the well groomed locks of his dark hair. This is the sweetest liquor he could ever indulge in—enjoying not only destroying you, but of making a show of it.

He must always be the performer and the audience; having his cake and eating it too.

A fury of grunted whispers slice straight through your ear drums. It’s a hardly comprehensible slurring of English and Russian, and though your fuzzy brain can’t make sense of it, you know what it means. Marco teeters close to the edge, hands dragging your body back against him as he holds himself flush against the crux of your ass. Hot warmth spills into you, and despite the hand around your throat, you’re finally able to breathe. This impiety does not offer you comfort in your tainted skin, but it offers you the one commodity you rarely seem to come by: rest.

That incessant ache lurks deep in the pit of your stomach, even as Marco pulls out, but it’s quiet. Doesn’t demand your attention. You feel the dull throb that harasses the raw tissue of your cunt, and you try not to wince as you feel his seed spill out. Chuckling, he releases your throat in favor of wrapping his fingers around your hair, bunching as much as he can into the palm of his hand. It’s overgrown. Messy and dead. But he refuses to allow you to cut it.

Nothing about you gets to change without his permission—not even your appearance.

“Look at you, my sweet little girl,” he coos. Sharp teeth nip at the side of your jaw and you wince. You’re surprised his mouth doesn’t unhinge; that he doesn’t shove you into his maw and swallow you whole. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t get enough of this pussy. Christ.”

When Marco backs away, you swear your knees will give out. Without his puppeteering hands to hold you up and bend you to his desires, you’re nothing but mush. A disgusting mess of smeared eyeliner and dripping cum. You can hardly stomach the sight of your body in the mirror. Neck littered with faint teeth marks, body bare and on display—used and abused to his content. You’re abhorrent. A pathetic creature you can’t stand to behold.

Marco’s belt clinks just as a knock rattles the door. Your heart thuds loud enough in your ears that it nearly drowns out the sound of his heavy footsteps crossing the glorified dressing room. You attempt to steady yourself as you back away from the mirror, but the straps of your heels dig into your toes. They’re the only article of clothing you’re allowed. Marco says he likes the way they make your legs look longer. Likes the angle it gives him when he bends you over to fuck you.

When you turn to face him, he’s already sitting on the loveseat shoved into the corner of the room. A fresh bottle of mead sits on the tray next to him, and he pours himself a generous amount before knocking it back for a sip. The soft amber liquid overflows and dribbles past his lips, soaking his bare chest. His verdant eyes find you as he collets the drink on the tips of his fingers, then sucks them clean one by one.

“Didn’t you hear that knock? You have a guest,” he says, tilting his jaw toward the door.

With each step you take, you feel Marco’s seed dribble down your legs. It makes a sticky mess between your thighs, and you know he wouldn’t have it any other way. This is how he marks you. How he makes sure everyone knows who you belong to before he lets them take a piece of you home.

A stranger with a thick neck stands at the door when you open it. His eyes are an odd shade of grey that sends a shiver down your spine as he looks you over, greedily drinking in the sight of your bare body. The chill of his gaze gets worse as the door closes behind him. He begins to crowd you and the sharp stench of vodka fills your nose. There’s something familiar about him. Every man in this club is familiar to you, in some way. Always hazy. Too fuzzy to place a name to. You think it’s your brain’s way of protecting itself. Of purging the bad things done to you as best as it can, lest you crumble in the palm of Marco’s hands.

The sharp point of your heel catches on the plush rug that sprawls out in front of Marco’s feet, and you squeak as you nearly lose your footing. Both Marco and the stranger chuckle. The cacophonous tone grates against your eardrums, but you hide your discomfort as you stare at the ground. You wait. For the exchange. For the banter. They speak in Russian with one another through laughter as cash is passed to Marco. The air is still cold, and your thighs are still soiled, but the stranger looks at you like he would never dream of having any other meal than you.

“Well, go on then,” Marco prompts. You look up at him with dull eyes. He swirls the mead in his cup as he tilts his head. “On your knees, babe. Wants to use your mouth tonight. Be a good girl, now.”

Comply. Listen. It’s all you can do. So you sink to your knees like the well behaved girl you always are. Resting on your haunches, you look up at the man with a tight throat. He smiles, and your stomach drops. Roils and screams as he begins to unbuckle his belt. As he fishes himself from his trousers, you remind yourself all things are temporary. Especially pain.

Nothing lasts forever—though, it often feels like it will.

When it’s all said and done—when you’re thoroughly used—Marco walks you to the door like a gentleman. Hastily adorned clothes hang from your body as you pull your jumper tight around your core. Your cervix still aches from the virulent abuse it had taken earlier, but you attempt to ignore it as he opens the exit. Your only reprieve from this nightmare is that he didn’t parade you throughout the club like this; looking like a whore for hire, advertising you to anyone else with fingers itching in greed. Tonight, he allows you to take the back exit far away from prying eyes.

Cool night air cuts through your scanty clothes, and you stare out at the vast space of the car park before you. Weekdays bring little business and customers to Makarov’s club. Most of the strippers who work for him end up lazing around in back rooms and closets, getting drunk or high enough that they can forget all about their shitty night.

You wish you had that luxury.

“Hey,” Marco hums, grabbing your wrist. You turn to face him. Dim shadows from the flickering hallway lights cast his face in darkness, but the glint in his eyes is unmistakable. “See you tomorrow, babe.”

He sends you off with a kiss. Sloppy and wet—he likes messes. Savors making one out of you. Sweet mead and mint seeps into your mouth as you kiss him back with a tight jaw. When his hands caress your cheeks, pulling you closer, you wonder if he can taste the brine and bitter cum that lurks in the back of your throat. If he relishes in feeling every single way in which you’re destroyed.

“See you tomorrow,” you murmur.

Breathing only comes easy the moment you’re locked in your car. The movement is fluid—that gentle expanding of your chest—but it’s still agonizing. Diaphragm seizing with the sobs you fight back, it’s another reminder that you’re alive. As long as you draw breath, you don’t belong to yourself.

Hot tears sear down your cheeks as you turn the key in the ignition. A gentle rumble follows as the engine hums to life. It’s a smooth, quiet purr. A car that’s much more expensive than you deserve. A lovely gift from Marco. It’s not at all uncommon for him to give you things. Expensive things. A car; an apartment; clothes—you’ll pay it back eventually. The numbers just add up to the big debt that’s hung over your head since you were sixteen. It ebbs and flows but not enough to save you. Not enough for you to belong to yourself again.

As you bring the heels of your hands up to wipe your eyes, a gentle glow catches your attention. It moves. Dances and swirls in the numbra of the car park. Blinking, you focus on it. Golden yellow embers flicker and fade as life is breathed into them. It’s faint, but it reminds you of the well adored fireflies in America. Squinting, you can make out the outline of a car. It sits patiently and silent, but the windows are cracked. Faint smoke swirls through the openings where it climbs into the dull night sky and dissipates.

Someone sits inside of the car, puffing away in a nicotine haze, but when your eyes lock onto the fingers pinching a cigarette, they freeze. Glowing embers quickly smother and die somewhere inside of the vehicle, and you’re left with nothing. You stare into the darkness, and it stares back. You feel its gaze tingling along your spine. Sniffing, you look away from that void. Be it man, or be it monster, you know nothing ever happens to you without Marco’s permission.

That sentiment is equally as terrifying as it is comforting.

When you arrive home—to the apartment paid for with your own body—you shower. No amount of water and soap is enough. You can lather yourself in all of Marco’s favorite scents, but the mint on his tongue still follows you everywhere. It lingers like an old scar that refuses to fade. As you exit the bathroom, you leave feeling just as disgusting as when you entered. Nothing but some sordid creature that hardly knows how to take care of herself.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you feel sick. Golden glitter still stains your eyelids, and the teeth marks on the side of your throat have only grown more noticeable. Still, nothing is worse than the mark on the back of your neck. Though you can’t see it, you feel it. It makes your skin itch and crawl, and you find your fingernails tearing at it. As if you could rip it off like a bandaid. But it stays. Festers and embeds itself deep inside of you.

Swallowing, you try to forget it as you continue to dry off. This is your brief moment of comfort, where you’re too far out of reach and well out of sight to be gawked at and abused. Your only reprieve before you spend another night rotting as a trophy of glitter and bone.

Weekends are better, but only marginally so. Wide eyed men fill Makarov’s club to the brim with wads of cash and twitchy fingers. Lingering gazes and hands brush against the crux of your ass and the back of your neck as Marco parades you through the crowd by your wrist. With your strappy golden heels and matching exiguous outfit, you’re flashy merchandise. Something soft and sweet that he flaunts in an attempt to make a quick quid or two as a way to fund his means of pleasure and keeping control of you. While you’d normally spend most nights on your hands and knees, on busy nights, Marco allows you to earn your living in an honorable way—

—dancing.

Sharp heels tap on soft mahogany as your hips and arms sway, practiced and repetitive, atop a round table. Dull music thrums and shakes the dust off your bones as the men on the crescent sofa surrounding you chat and laugh the night away. Marco’s in the mix of them all, cold glass resting on his knee as his foot taps against the floor. A hazy film covers the spring green of his irises as the liquor settles deep into his marrow. Each time you rotate his way, you watch his pupils dilate. A vast forest covered by the smokey darkness of that void, he licks at the alcohol on his lips as he stares at your clothed cunt.

His fantasy fills your mind before his own can even make sense of it. Every spare glass and bottle that litters the table around your feet would be thrown on the floor in an instant just to put you on your back. To open your vulnerable stomach. To tear off the little clothing protecting your feeble dignity and truly put you to work. He’d spread your limbs and pin them like a specimen to a board, and he would cut and slice until you have nothing left to hide. Until there is nothing left of you at all.

“Babe!”

Marco’s voice cuts through the discordance of the crowd and pulls you out of a nightmare and back into the present. Your terrifying reality. Slowly, you turn to face him, and he looks up at you with a grin on his face and a card stuck between his fingers. That sly haze still obscures his vision as he offers you his hand. Numb to the feeling of his skin against your own, you take it and allow him to help you down from the table. He wastes no time in dipping his fingers into the strap of your lingerie where he secures the card beneath the band.

“Looks like you’ve got work to do,” he teases.

Warm hands settle on the curve of your hips as he guides you to turn around, faced away from him. Then, they wander up. Greedy fingers brush along the line of your spine before they find purchase in your hair, grabbing it as if he were trying to help you put it up. You hate how long it’s gotten. That he won’t let you cut it. He doesn’t care if it’s straight, curly, braided—anything. Marco wants it long. Uses it like a leash in which he keeps you bound to him with.

“I know you’re a good girl, so I’m sure you won’t forget, but a little reminder never hurts,” he coos into your ear. Intoxicated breath fans across the side of your face as he leans closer to breathe you in. A shiver prickles across your skin as he kisses the back of your neck, and your throat involuntarily contracts at the sensation. It’s as if he’s marking you again. Branding you. “If this… patron wants more, I get to watch.”

Swallowing, you nod as best as you can with his fist gripping your hair. “I know.”

Chuckling, he relinquishes his grip on you before stepping back. “Of course you do, smart thing you are. I’ll be waiting here for you.”

You wait until you’re well away from Marco and his friends before you fish out the card he stuck beneath the strap along your hip. A pitched ringing plagues your ears as you enter the VIP section of the club. Things are quieter. Less crowded and the speakers don’t blare as loud. But the silence allows something malevolent to burrow inside of you. It festers as incessant tinnitus and broiling nervosity in your stomach. A wordless, desperate prayer breathes past your lips as you approach the room in which your patron awaits you.

You pray he is kind. You pray that he wants nothing more than to hold you and vent his problems, like others have.

When you open the door and step into the threshold that always makes your palms sweat, you think for a single fleeting moment that you are lucky. The room is abandoned. Dim lights illuminate the dull leather of the couch in front of you and yet there is no man sitting there for you to serve. Gentle music drones over the wireless speakers, giving the impression that there should be someone here with you. The attendants even set out the ice and whiskey for his drink. It now thaws on the tray, water nearly overspilling in its decay.

Brows furrowing together, you look down at the card to ensure you haven’t misread it in your haze. The attendant’s handwriting is chicken scratch. He always manages to make a nine look like a zero, but you’re certain this is a six. The door clicks shut behind you as you sigh, too defeated and confused to make sense of this confusion. A pit forms in your stomach at the thought of slinking back to Marco with some saturnine cloud hanging over your head.

If you can’t find work tonight, he’ll make some for you.

That pit quickly becomes a gaping hole the moment a fat palmed hand clasps over your mouth. Cardstock flutters out of your fingers like dainty butterfly wings, and hits the ground just as your back collides with an immovable chest. You don’t scream, but your heart nearly stops when you feel the cold press of metal against your throat. You are stuck in a vicious cycle. One of fear and sharp blades you’ll never wield yourself.

“Not a fuckin’ word.” The voice that growls in your ear rattles your spine as the words erupt in his chest. Faint tobacco stains his fingers. Its earthy aroma seeps into your nose as your hands tremble against his tattooed forearm. “Don’t wanna hurt ya, so make this easy and listen to me, yeah?”

Marco has taught you plenty well enough that the word no should be expunged from your vocabulary, so you nod.

“Good.”

You’re as stiff as a board when this stranger releases you. No amount of curiosity can get you to turn around and face the violent truth, not even as a thick jacket is tossed over your shoulders. The fabric is warm. Freshly removed off of the man behind you and placed on you as if it were a blanket. He presses his hand on your lower back and despite his caution, you still jump.

“We’re going for a quick drive. Easy now. You’ll be home before sun up. C’mon,” he mutters.

There is no such thing as saying no. There is no such thing as fighting.

The knife vanishes from your sight but it’s all you can think about as this stranger leads you through the haze of the club. Everything blurs around you as you’re escorted to the nearest exit through quiet hallways that reek of cheap perfume. The only thing you can focus on is your feet. The glittery heels that match perfectly with your pedicure. You want to trip. To fall forward and hit the ground. Cry out and demand attention. The hand on the small of your back is all too grounding for you to make any mistakes.

You approach and exit through an emergency fire door and the alarm doesn’t trip. Night air hits your skin like razor blades as you’re escorted across the car park. He shoves you into the back of a black car, and you only squeal a little when he slams the door behind you. When he situates himself in the driver's seat, the car hums to life and quiet lights flicker on just enough to scarcely illuminate his face in the rearview mirror. His eyes are dark. The darkest you’ve ever seen.

“There’s a blindfold in the seat next to you. Put it on,” he orders. Stuck on autopilot, you do as he says. It’s a thick scrap of cloth, something you hastily tie around your eyes and knot at the back of your head with trembling fingers. It only touches your skin for a fleeting moment before it’s soaked in briney tears. “Don’t even think ‘bout takin’ it off.”

Not even your morbid curiosity can convince you to peek from between the threads. The word no is not in your vocabulary. Neither is disobeyment.

Each turn the man takes as he brings you to some unknown destination has you swaying in your seat. Every pule that leaves your lips is smothered behind the palm of your hand as you wipe snot along the ridges of your knuckles. You do well to keep the aftermath of your fear to yourself. Even though this man has abducted you—something that was all too easy for him to do as you fawned, and you’ll surely pay for this when Marco finds you again—you do not want to ruin the coat around your shoulders with spit.

Of course you think of escape. You always do. It’s a self soothing daydream that florescences in the neurons of your brain. Unlock the door. Open the handle. Jump out. It’ll hurt. It always does. And it’ll hurt when you’re caught, but it always does.

You don’t move. Freedom is just a dream.

Despite the knife he greeted you with, this man is surprisingly gentle. His touch is soft when he eventually parks the car, and his fingers do not dig too terribly into your skin as he helps free you from the back seat of his car. You do not trust his softness as he leads you into a room that smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Nicotine burns your nose as you’re settled into a plush seat, and for a fleeting moment you think you were only driven around the block before being thrown right back into Marco’s maw.

That theory is proven terribly wrong when your blindfold is ripped from your eyes.

A man with impressive tepidity sits across from you at an antique wooden desk. Rich red walls close in on you. Crushing. Looming. Smoke blurs the space between the two of you as he puffs away at a thick cigar, blue eyes scanning a single piece of paper. He’s dressed nicer than you anticipated. A dark button up shirt, neatly combed hair and groomed beard—he hums to himself as his eyes scan the page in front of him before they land on you. You look away as if his gaze has burnt you. Instead, you focus on your nails and the manicure Marco made you get last week. Baby pink gel; his favorite color on you.

“It’ll take more than crocodile tears to tug on my heartstrings, love,” he hums.

The climate in your mouth suddenly becomes sere. All the snot and saliva that had built up before seems to vanish at his words. He’s nonchalant; terrifyingly so.

“I don’t… uhm,” you attempt.

“No need to explain yourself,” he interjects. “I understand. We all need to make a living.” Pausing, his eyes flicker back to the paper in his hands. “You’re Marco’s girl, aren’t you?”

Thick obloquy heats the pit of your stomach as your fingers twitch. That term—that title. It fills you with more shame than you can name. You attempt to swallow down the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as your hand paws at the back of your neck. Expertly manicured nails scratch at the skin, and you wish nothing more than to peel back the layers of your epidermis and toss them aside to rot.

Stiff, you nod.

“John Price,” he introduces.

He drops the name like it bears weight. As if it should crush you with each heavy letter that it carries, yet it doesn’t add on to the anxiety raging in your stomach. Your hand falls back into your lap as you dare to look at him once more. His eyes are sharp, as if he’s using his gaze alone to cut back your layers, but there is nothing to show for it. No secret except for a sour ignominy that you’ve carried for so long it imprints in your very skin.

“Has Marco not told you about me?” he asks. He’s not upset; or if he is, he hides it well behind curious eyes.

“No,” you answer truthfully.

John chuckles. “Thought the man would’ve at least told his benefactor about me.”

You blink. “...Benefactor?”

“No need to play dumb. Like I said, it takes a lot more than faux tears to get me to feel sorry for you.”

Your fear and confusion grips you so relentlessly that you don’t even feel it anymore. It’s wound so tightly around you, restricting blood flow to your body, that everything tingles if it is not numb. This man—John Price—gives you no chance to rest or fix your muddled thoughts. He tosses the paper in his hands across the wooden top of the desk, and your eyes nearly cross at the numbers printed on the pristine sheet and the amount of commas between them. There’s math. Addition and subtraction. Transactions of a bank account with a name at the top:

Marco Anatolijus Kanas

Funny. You’ve never seen his full name before. He’s only ever been Marco.

You’ve only ever been his girl.

While you stare at the numbers, John throws question after question at you, none of which you know how to answer. He asks about transactions. He asks about what they’re for. Each and every time he’s met with the same answer. You are just as clueless as him. Marco does not concern you with his real work. The work that gets him enough money to have a bank account as padded as the one you’re looking at currently.

His finances make the sparse contents of your stomach curdle. The amount of money you owe him for your unfortunate existence is trivial compared to what he already has. So miniscule it would hardly budge his savings. Marco has been making you work half your life away for something akin to a mere couple quid to him, and it stings just as bad as it always does. Seeing it at face value just how trapped you are—how Marco owns you and always will.

“Don’t get coy with me.” John’s getting frustrated. Each question he presents you with is met with the same carking response of I don’t know. It’s nothing but the truth, but he seems to be informed otherwise. You’re significantly less important than he believes you to be, but the man looming behind you doesn’t help in settling your nerves enough to explain your situation properly. “Word on the street is Marco’s girl supplies him with his spending money. You’re tellin’ me I heard wrong? Or are you too daft to ask him what he’s using his finances on?”

You swallow. What a polite way to put it—the things Marco does to you.

“He… He makes money off of me but I… I don’t know how much or what he uses it for,” you choke out. “Well, I… I know a little bit but it’s not, it’s not like, whatever you’re asking, it’s just… it’s stupid things, it’s like, my housing or… it’s not… important.”

There’s a quiet beat that settles between you and John, and you feel whatever vexation he harbored for you previously quickly evaporate in the air. He’s silent for so long that you force yourself to look up at him. You’re expecting curiosity, even the most morbid of iterations. John Price is not curious. You can tell by the way his jaw unclenches and eyes soften that he finally understands what you’ve been too inept to say.

“How long have you been workin’ for him?” he questions, softer this time.

“Since… I was sixteen,” you reply.

“Sixteen?” He’s appalled. Repeats the word like it’s the worst taste he’s ever had on his tongue. “What’s he making you do for work? Dance?”

Shame sears the back of your neck, leaving nothing but wounded, marked skin in its wake. You palm at the burn. Try to will it away with desperate fingers, and the movement causes the coat resting limply around your body to slip off your shoulder. This is the first time you’ve considered lying to John. Omitting the truth just to save the small shred of dignity you still have left, no matter how imaginary it might be.

“Yeah. I… dance on stage but he… has me do private sessions too but he… sometimes he-”

A hand brushes against the side of your arm and you flinch so hard your teeth nearly pierce through your tongue. Weathered wood squeaks beneath your weight as you freeze after nearly jumping out of your skin. This well meaning hand that startled you so terribly is well meaning. It pauses in its endeavor to cover your body once again with this stranger's coat, and instead lets it fall. You had almost forgotten all about him—the strange man who stole away Marco’s favorite toy from right under his nose.

John and the stranger share a look as you retreat back into yourself. Hands folded over your bare lap, you didn’t feel naked until they finally understood who you are—what you are. Pristine nails dig into your palms as you swallow back the bilious vomit that threatens to spew free.

“If we take you home, will you be safe there?” His eyes land back on you, but you can’t bring yourself to give him the same courtesy.

You shake your head. “He’s going to be so mad. He… he pays for my apartment. I don’t have any money of my own. I don’t have a phone. I… There’s nothing. I have nothing. Marco’s provided everything for me and I never… he never gave me the chance to…”

“I understand,” John interjects, carefully quelling your rambling. He waits for a moment before leaning back in his chair, retracting every bit of malice he exuded while interrogating you. “I’m sorry, love. Should’ve done our research better.”

“It’s okay… Marco didn’t leave much of me to find.”

John’s eyes darken in a way that would leave most men with their tail tucked between their legs. You’re too busy making yourself small to notice. “We’ll fix that.”

In the next few hours, your life changes drastically. It’s sudden and feels just as violent as everything always does, yet it is intimidatingly soft. The gazes that are cast your way scream pity instead of lust, and you are handled with so much care you’re convinced you’ve become nothing more than a tchotchke. At least these men treat you with fragility rather than flippancy.

You learn the man who took you from Makarov’s club is named Riley. You’re able to get a better look at him without the blindfold and terror willing your vision elsewhere. He’s intimidating. Arms drenched in ink, it’s almost enough to smother the scars that map the story around his body. It can’t shroud the ones on his face. The thin line that dissects his eyebrow, or the one on his nose which only makes the curve of the bridge more dramatic. His eyes are darker than anything you’ve ever seen before—so empty and yet full at the same time; nothing but a contradiction as he watches you pull his coat tighter around your shoulders.

It is decided that��for your safety—you are to live with Riley until it is determined you are out of Marco’s reach.

Despite your apprehension, you can’t say no.

Riley’s house feels like a den. Well guarded but comfortable, the plush cushions that cradle you on the couch feel false. Fake. Everything does, but it’s mostly you. Your hair. Your clothes. Your skin. Nothing about you is tangible, not even to yourself.

You’re still swaddled in Riley’s coat by the time he tells you that your room is ready. Really, it’s his room. You want to tell him you’d rather sleep on the couch than in some stranger’s bed, but you can hardly bring yourself to speak a single word to him. He scares you, but not in the way people usually do. It’s not the fear of pain that he riles within you, but rather something light. Something that flickers and sputters, waiting to grow. You smother it as he hands you proper clothes to change into. You don’t know where he got them from or why they fit so well, and you don’t care to ask.

His room is… what you expected of a man like him. Plain walls, sturdy wardrobe and bed. A wristwatch ticks on the nightstand. It laments quietly, so much so that you only notice it when you sink into the mattress. He’s changed the sheets and pillowcases for you, but it’s not enough to snuff out the faint scent of tobacco. You like it, you decide. Or rather, you don’t mind it. Grounding earthy notes are much better than the synthetic chemicals Marco soaks himself in.

Sleep comes about as easy as you expect it to. A TV drones on quietly in the living room as you toss and turn among unfamiliar sheets. Dull anxiety claws within the cage of your chest, but it holds itself at bay better than you anticipated. Or rather, you are just too numb to fully appreciate the pain. You should be afraid. You know it, and it’s lurking there even if you can’t fully feel it yet.

It manifests suddenly as you feel the ghost of Marco’s hands on you. His teeth digging into your skin, demanding flesh. He wets his maw with your blood just as he wets his cock with your cunt. It sears. Rips through you in the brutal way it always does. Raw. Sinew on bone. And you don’t cry because it’s what he wants. He wants that brine and that sapor and he’ll claim it with claws and a smile.

His mantra pants. It sweats and drips. It’s wet on your ear.

There’s no escaping him.

You wake just after the sun does, and it is only then that you cry.

Grief is the quintessence of escape. You’ve crossed the threshold—you were dragged beyond it—and now there’s no way back to the way things were. Your life wasn’t good, and it was far from comfortable, but it was familiar. You only know how to navigate things when bound. Chained to an unforgiving master. How are you supposed to live with free hands?

What happens when Marco yanks your leash and finds no tension?

What becomes of his favorite toy—Marco’s girl—then?

By the time you finally gather the courage to leave the room, you find Riley in the kitchen. It’s what drew you out of your hiding spot originally; that scent of freshly cooked food. Sizzling meat and steaming eggs. He works at the stove with his back turned to you, arms dancing above the heat as he fries up a breakfast that should make your mouth water, yet it fails to do so.

“Morning.” He hears you before he sees you, but he pauses with a spatula in hand to look at you from over his shoulder. He gestures to the island in front of you—something you suspect was only built to compensate for the lack of counter space on either side of the stove—then hums to himself as he turns his attention back to his work. “Breakfast’ll be finished soon, if ya wanna grab a seat.”

There’s a stiffness that plagues your limbs as you sit on the high top chair Riley pointed to. It rolls off you in waves. Taints the air; souring it with your presence. You are not comfortable in this place—with this man. His palm haunts the chapped skin of your lips the same way his chest haunts your back and you can’t help but wonder what he and John would have done to you had they deemed you guilty. If they had looked at Marco’s girl and saw an opportunity rather than a pitiful creature, would you be sitting here now?

Breakfast is a quiet affair of scraping plates and muffled chewing. Riley doesn’t sit next to you. Rather, he stands on the other side of the counter with a bowed head as he shovels egg and bacon into his mouth as if he’ll starve if not. He tries to rest his elbows on the counter, but it’s too low. It curves his spine uncomfortably, and he shifts as if standing on hot coals.

Hunger does not pull at your stomach. Nervosity fills you to the brim—too full to consume something other than the ache.

“I’m sorry ‘bout last night.” Riley’s nearly finished with his food by the time he speaks, prompting you to look up at him for the first time since you sat down. All you’ve managed to do for the last few minutes is drag the tip of your fork around your scrambled eggs. “Boys really thought you were dangerous. That you were workin’ with Makarov and Marco. Shouldn’t have grabbed you like that.”

Dull teeth dig into the wet flesh inside your cheeks. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Riley argues adamantly. “But I am sorry.”

It’s difficult to discern the purpose of his apology. Is it to make himself feel better for what he did? For dragging you out of that club and into John Price’s office? To interrogate you until your innocence was proven? Does he say sorry to comfort himself, or you? To prove he’s not as monstrous as he looks with dark eyes and tight lips. He is, after all, awfully kind for a monster. You have yet to meet a beast that knows how to apologize without digging their teeth into you afterwards.

Perhaps his apology is truly for you. To settle fried nerves. To make you feel safe.

You know better than that.

You were safer in the clutches of Marco’s jaw than you are now.

“Riley, can… can I ask something?”

A cheeky remark bubbles along his tongue. You just did. He takes one look at you and decides to bite it back. “Course.”

A noisome lurch pulls at your stomach, embittering the sparse bites of food you were able to force down your throat. Thunder roars in your chest as your heart attempts to break free—leave your body behind to rot while it escapes.

“Would I… Could I get the pill?” you ask.

“The pill?” he repeats.

“Yeah, like… the… the morning after pill?”

His silence doesn’t surprise you, but it stretches long enough to be concerning. Looking up from your cold food, you’re met with soft eyes. They’re the softest ones that have looked at you for what feels like ages. Gentle. They don’t greedily rake over your body to soak in every twitch of your skin—rather, he reads you. Between the lines and and in the margins, he devours every word.

For the first time in your life he makes you feel more like a victim than a toy, and you’re not sure if that feels any better.

“Will you be alright by yourself if I go buy it for you?” he asks. There’s no judgment; only pity.

You nod.

Riley mulls it over as his tongue swipes along the back of his teeth. When he straightens, he brings his plate with him as he steps back and hums. Your attention is quickly brought back to your hands as he sets the dish in the sink to be cleaned later.

“Alright.” You try not to choke as he motions to your plate. “Should eat. I’ll be back soon, yeah?”

Once again, you nod. “Okay.”

Not a single morsel has been consumed off of your plate by the time Riley returns home, and you are not in your seat. Disappointment buzzes at the base of his skull, but he’s not surprised. He knows what it’s like to be too full to eat—to be plagued with something not even hunger can triumph. He sets aside the pill box to clean up after you. Food in the bin. Plate in the sink to be washed later.

It’s quiet. It’s never this quiet. Not even when he’s home by himself, which he usually is. Riley stands in the kitchen with furrowed brows as he looks around the room like he’s misplaced something. His keys. His lighter.

God, he could use a smoke.

Heavy feet cause old wood to creak as he pokes his head into the bedroom. An imprint of your body still dips into the mattress from this morning, but it’s gone cold. He was going to stay politely stationed in the doorway until the thought flickers across his mind that you’ve left. Got too scared of the brute whose home you’re trapped in and ran off. Away. Hiding from the world—from Marco.

There’s little reprieve to be found when he notices the light shining through the crack of the bathroom door, but it’s smothered the moment he hears you crying. They’re pathetic, stifled pules. Ones you attempt to desperately hide, yet they bleed out of you anyway. He wants to leave you alone, to let your emotions wash over you, but he can’t.

Even with your crying, the house is too quiet.

“Everythin’ alright?”

Both his voice and knock startle you, and your sobbing swells. Breathing out of control, he can hear you choke on the snot flowing through your sinuses. You’re panicked, and he realizes that this is more than grief. More than anxiety. More than fear.

You’re terrified.

You’re standing in the bathtub like a scared cat when Riley opens the door. Tears stream down your face. Relentless. They nearly glisten as bright as the kitchen knife in your hand.

You told yourself it would be easier for him to clean up the mess of your corpse if you killed yourself in the bathtub. Blood festers and rots in the smallest of crevices, but there’s none of that to be found in the ceramic that surrounds you. However, you’re having trouble getting any blood to flow at all. You’re not sure if it’s you or the knife, but you’re hardly able to break the skin on your wrists. The crimson blood that flows through your minor cuts feels trivial. There needs to be more.

It’s not enough. You’re scared that you might have to stab yourself. Spill your guts in the tub. Witness your offals for yourself before you fade away. Something. You want to die, but you don’t want it to hurt.

You don’t want it to hurt, but you need to leave.

“Hey. Hey, easy now.” Riley feels as if he’s talking to an animal. Some feral cat poised to bite and scratch if he’s not cautious. He approaches you with his palms faced out in surrender, and the walls around you seem to close in. “You don’t wanna do this sweetheart. Give me the knife.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t. I can’t do this. You-You don’t know what he’ll do to me. Marco he... It’s- I- fuck, I can’t. I can’t do this, please just let me do this.”

Each word is muffled. So far from your ears that it hardly reaches you. Still, they spew along with your cries. It doesn’t deter Riley from closing in on you. Swallowing the spit building on your tongue, you hold the knife with both hands. A simple kitchen blade, now brandished like a weapon. It’s nearly laughable. You couldn’t even kill yourself. How can you expect to hurt him?

“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but it’s gonna be okay. We’ll make it okay, but I can’t do that if you’re not here.” His words feel stupid in his mouth, but he knows he has to try something. “Please. Give me the knife. I don’t wanna hurt you. Hey, give- fuck!”

There’s a lunge. Grabbing. Blade on skin. Blood on tile.

Riley meant it when he said he didn’t want to hurt you, but you still cry out as he yanks you out of the tub. Once again, your back is against his chest. You are enveloped by him as the two of you sink onto the bathroom floor, held down by his weight, and it is then that you truly can no longer hold yourself together. Vision darkening, chest ceasing; you panic. It rips through you with shaking hands and writhing legs, causing your feet to kick at the dull kitchen knife at your feet.

For a moment, you are lost. Consumed by overwhelming grief and fear, and still Riley holds you through it all. You feel his heart beating against your spine, feel the exhale of his lungs dance on the top of your head. It’s a flicker in the darkness. In the primal fear of knowing you are still somehow chained to the man who has abused you for countless years.

Dread transcends physical space. Marco planted it inside of you the first time his lips found the quiver in your throat.

“Breathe, sweetheart. I’ve got ya.”

Riley’s voice fades in like radio static. Disconnected and muffled, yet growing evermore clear. Then, it hits all at once. The slight sting of your wrists and the ache in your leg. Did you trip? You feel the growing bruise pulse and throb on your shin, and another one in your hip. It’s hardly bearable, but neither of them are as uncomfortable as the warm, sticky mess seeping into your shirt.

It takes several seconds for you to realize it’s blood.

“There, good. It’s alright,” Riley whispers. His voice is thick—heavy enough to make your stomach sink.

“Am- Am I bleeding?” you stutter.

“No, you’re alright. Don’t worry ‘bout the blood.”

But you do. You worry about it because you don’t want it to hurt, you don’t even think you want to die anymore—you just want it gone. For it to dissolve around you, or for you to waste away into dust. Your chin rests against your chest as you look for the source, scouring your own body for the wound. Your wrists, your arms your legs—

—the wound is on Riley.

Blood gushes through a gash on the top of his forearm, obscuring your view of the damage. It’s just as steady as every stream you ever used to jump over as a child. It slices through the meticulously crafted ink that graces his skin, and you feel as if you’ve cut through the canvas of a painting. Ruined something good. Something more useful than yourself. More than that, you hurt him.

“Oh my god, your arm,” you gasp.

“It’s nothing,” Riley attempts to assure.

“There’s so much blood, I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s nothing,” he reiterates. “Just a cat scratch, sweetheart.”

His cat scratch takes twenty minutes to patch up. You count the time on the ticking of his wristwatch as you lay in his bed. Body too weak and afflicted with malaise to make something of yourself, you stare at the ceiling as you listen to him hiss and grunt. It’s the blood, you’re sure. Despite the flow, he manages to smother it to nothing more than a scab beneath pristine dressings.

It takes him another ten minutes to clean you up. He assesses the wounds you left on yourself—shallow horizontal cuts along the delicate skin of your wrists. You stare at them as he cleans and bandages them, and you tell yourself the sting from the antiseptic is what makes your eyes water.

You’ve created a mess for nothing, and Riley is the one paying for it.

“There.” He secures the last piece of tape on the gauze. It feels unnecessary. Band-aids would have sufficed, and you tried to tell him as much only for him to mutter something about infections. “Not too tight?”

You shake your head. “It’s fine.”

Content, he hums as he steps away from the bed, gathering up items off of the nightstand. You watch as his fingers swallow rolls of tape, forearm flexing beneath his own dressings. Teeth digging into your bottom lip, your heart lurches, as the guilt pierces through you like a blade. You’re not sure why it lurks. Is it because you hurt him? Because you tried to leave a corpse for him to come home to?

“I’ll get you some water. Ought to take that pill sooner rather than later,” Riley says, turning to leave the room.

He only makes it a few steps before you stop him. “I lied.”

Pausing, his eyes find you with more confusion than you expected. “Yeah?”

“I lied about… needing the pill. I just said it so you would leave,” you admit. You push yourself up from the bed, legs swinging over the side of the mattress to sit and properly look at him. “When… I first… Marco used to make me take birth control. Like, the actual pills. I got pregnant anyway. Made me get the IUD after that. It’s more effective, so I don’t think I’ll really need it. I mean, I’ve never needed it before, so…”

Listening, Riley nods as you bare the raw parts of yourself. It’s impossible to share without that warble in your tone—that pain that always leaks into your voice—but in some strange way, it feels good. Refreshing. You’re airing out an old, festering wound that hasn’t ever seen the light of day.

“You got a kid to take care of? If they’re with Marco-”

“No,” you interrupt. Riley’s words die on his tongue. “No, he… he made me get an abortion, too. It’s for the best, really. Kids shouldn’t be around that monster anyway.”

Again, he nods. The house feels loud. Every inch of the four walls around you seems to buzz with an energy you’re not privy to.

“Well, some water wouldn’t hurt. Food wouldn’t either, since you never finished breakfast,” he continues as he turns. “Want anything specific?”

He’s so… casual. Nonchalant despite the trauma you subjected him to. He should be angry with you. Furious at having made a mess; at having hurt him. His entire life was turned upside down the very same moment yours was—he should hate you for it, but he doesn’t.

“Whatever’s easiest.” The floorboards are loose by the door. They squeak as he crosses the threshold, and you feel your stomach lurch. “Riley?”

Pausing, he turns on his heel as his head pokes back into the room. “Yeah?”

So calm. So patient.

“Thank you. For everything. I just… Thank you, Riley,” you choke.

For the first time since he caught you in that club, he smiles; small and kind.

“Just Simon to you, yeah?”

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#ilium writing #sr ilia #fc;nh #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 months ago

Text

Three's a Crowd 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Abnesti, Steve Rogers, Steve Kemp

Summary: You're offered a deal without all the details.

Note: I'm stupid okay and fixed the description, etc.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You mop your face with the crumpled tissues. You swear, you cry more about people you never met than your own grandmother. You just can’t help it. No one should ever feel this pain, yet here’s a whole room of people struggling. Just like you.

Martin stares at the floor as the room sinks into the silent aftermath of his words. He lost his daughter in a crash ten years ago and he’s still here. You can see in his posture, in his eyes, that he still feels it as if it were yesterday.

You pinch your nose with the kleenex and gulp. You flutter your lashes and your gaze snags on another figure. Steve sits with one foot up on the bar of the stool, the other extended to the floor. A man his size makes the tall stools look small. His eyes crinkle before you look away.

Rita sighs, “thank you everyone for being here. It’s always nice to have you. As usual, there are refreshments. Please have some before you go. I’ll be here for a bit if anyone needs to chat.” She clasps her hands together and gives a forlorn smile. “Don’t forget to do your journalling.”

Martin gets up first. He doesn’t stay. He goes to get his coat from the rack of hangers. You slide off your seat as a few others trickle over to the table of cups next to an insulated urn and tray of cookies.

You check the time. You have the time to get a few before your shift. You wait your turn and sense another behind you. You grab a napkin and take one of the cookies from the array of chocolate, macadamia, and oatmeal. You glance over, and up, at Steve.

“You off to work?” He asks as he notes your uniform.

“Yeah, again,” you stop and fill a cup of coffee.

“Mm, I couldn’t imagine working after all this,” he says.

“Gotta pay the bills,” you shrug. “I... I hope it’s not overstepping but I liked what you said about your wife today. About how missing her is a reminder of how lucky you were to meet her.” You chew your lip and your eyes tinge. You sniffle. “I’m sorry you lost her.”

“Yes, well,” he takes a cup of his own.

He wears a blazer over a dark red shirt. The cut looks expensive; too expensive for here. And the gold frame of his glasses are a bit dated but the Prada on the arm suggests not. You always catch yourself judging and feel bad. You just can’t help but think he could probably afford better than the free community grief counseling.

“We’ve all lost someone,” he continues. “Your grandmother, right?”

“Uh, yes,” you frown. “She raised me.”

“Sounds like a very noble woman,” he remarks. “Oh, don’t let me keep you,” he checks his watch. The bend of his arm causes his muscles to bulge in his sleeve. “I hope it is a quick night for you.”

“Thanks, Steve. I’ll see you next week.”

“Next week,” he assures you and blows over his cup.

You stop to grab your fleece-lined hoodie before you head out. It’s bitterly cold out but your old wool coat went missing in the work breakroom. At your second job. The first one, you at least get a locker. You tried to factor a replacement from your next check but most of that will go to rent.

You sigh as you approach the stop, nursing the hot coffee and nibbling on the cookie. There’s no shelter there. The winds swirl around you and seep through your thrifted sweater. Can’t complain for a four dollar bargain.

A car slows as it passes and the tinted window rolls down. It’s nice. Sleek. Fancy. Well above what someone working a drive-thru window can afford. Steve shoves his large hand out and waves. You wave back, biting down on your embarrassment.

You turn your attention up the street and watch for the bus. When it comes, the last of your coffee is cold and your fingers are tingling but numb. You sit and rub your palms together as you watch through the window.

You get to the burger place right before you’re set to start. You clock in and put on the mandated visor and start your vigil in the window. You’re not allowed to wear any coat except the company-issued one but you can’t afford to order one. So you shiver in your long-sleeved tee and keep the window closed between customers.

A deep voice greets you from the speaker, “hello, um, might I ask what the wacky sauce is?”

You give it some thought. No one’s ever really asked. They just order extra and throw a fit if you forget it. You turn and grab a packet and hurriedly examine the ingredients, droning out an ‘ummmmmmm’ into the microphone. You do your best to explain.

“Mm, can I get the double without that?”

You agree. It sounds gross once you look at the label. You key in their order as they make it a combo with your prompting. You tell them to drive around and get the machine ready for payment.

You slide the window open and hold back a brrr. You nearly cough as you’re greeted by a familiar face. It’s Steve.

“Huh, what are the odds? I thought you sound familiar.” He smirks.

“Oh, hi,” you offer the screen for him to tap his card. You didn’t take him for the fastfood sort.

“Bust night,” he muses.

“A little,” you agree. “Do you need your receipt.

“No, thanks, sweetie,” he winks. “Nice to see a friendly face.”

He slowly rolls away and you slide the window shut. Ugh, you’re freezing. Not to mention a bit ashamed. It’s not hard to guess where you work since you wear your uniform all too often to the meetings, but it’s another to be seen out in the wild.

Does it really matter? The group is not about judging. It’s about listening. If anything, a guy like him will forget this all in the shadow of the exciting things going on in his life.

#steve abnesti #steve kemp #steve rogers #dark steve abnesti #dark steve rogers #dark steve kemp #dark!steve rogers #dark!steve kemp #dark!steve abnesti #steve abnesti x reader #steve kemp x reader #steve rogers x reader #captain america #marvel #mcu #avengers #spiderhead #fresh

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victoryverse · 1 year ago

Note

simon with a gf who gets terrible pms and periods like moody af, horrible cramps etc.😫😭

it'd be nice if u add a bit of nsfw👀 but if u're not comfy w that it's ok

PMS Hell*

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You and Simon had been dating for a few months now, and things were going great. He was sweet, and caring, and always knew how to make you feel loved and special. But there was one time of the month that tested the strength of your relationship: your PMS and periods.

You lie in bed, clutching your stomach as another wave of cramps washes over you. Your boyfriend, Simon, stands by your side, rubbing your back and whispering soothing words. But even his comforting touch can't ease the pain you're feeling.

'Ugh, I hate this,' you groan, feeling the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. 'Why do I have to go through this every month?'

Simon sighs and wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer. 'I wish I could take your pain away,' he says softly, nuzzling his face into your neck.

'I know, but you can't,' you sniffle, feeling a wave of anger wash over you as you remember the reason for your pain - your period. 'Why did you have to give me such horrible PMS and periods?' you ask, looking up at Simon with accusing eyes.

Simon chuckles and kisses the top of your head. 'I didn't give it to you, love. It's just a natural part of being a woman.'

You let out a frustrated growl and push yourself away from him, sitting up on the bed. 'I hate feeling like this,' you mutter, feeling the anger bubbling up inside you. 'I'm so moody and emotional and I can't control it.'

'I know, baby,' Simon says, sitting next to you and gently taking your hand in his. 'But I love you, no matter what mood you're in.'

You let out a sigh and lean your head on his shoulder, feeling a sense of calm wash over you. Simon always knows just what to say to make you feel better, even when you're at your worst.

But as your period gets heavier and the cramps become more intense, your mood swings become even more extreme. One minute, you're yelling and snapping at Simon, and the next, you're telling him how much you love him and how lucky you are to have him.

Simon takes it all in stride, knowing that it's not really you, but the hormones messing with your mind. He just holds you close and lets you ride out the storm, patiently waiting for you to calm down.

But tonight, as you're lying in bed, cradled in Simon's arms, you feel a different kind of mood coming over you. You nodded, trying to hide how much pain you were in. But Simon could see right through your façade. He knew exactly what you needed.

Without saying a word, he stood up and lifted you onto his lap, positioning you so that you were straddling him. You could feel his hardening bulge against your core, and a wave of arousal washed over you. This was exactly what you needed to distract you from your cramps.

Simon's hands trailed up your thighs, pushing your skirt up to your waist. He leaned in to kiss you, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth. Your hands tangled in his hair as you deepened the kiss, your hips grinding against his.

Simon lets out a low groan, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he starts to move with you.

You smirk and lean down to capture his lips in a passionate kiss, your hands roaming over his toned chest as you grind against him.

'Please, Simon,' you moan, feeling the heat pooling between your legs. 'I need you.'

With a smirk, he moves his hand down to your heat, his fingers finding your most sensitive spot and rubbing it in slow, circular motions. Your back bows off the bed as you let out a long, loud moan, your eyes rolling back into your head.

He continues to pleasure you with his fingers, adding a second one and thrusting them in and out of you as he sucks on your nipples. The pleasure is almost too much to handle, and you feel yourself reaching your climax.

'Simon, please,' you begged, grinding your hips against his hand.

He chuckled, his breath hot against your ear. 'Patience, love. I want to make you feel good.'

And he did just that. His fingers worked their magic, bringing you to the edge over and over again. You could feel your whole body trembling, your eyes rolling into the back of your head, and toes curling as you reached your peak.

But he wasn't done with you yet. He pulled his hard cock out, and positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with his tip. He looked into your eyes, asking for permission. And with a nod, he slowly pushed himself inside you, filling you up completely.

You cried out in pleasure, your hips moving in sync with his. He gripped onto your hips, guiding you as he thrusted into you at a steady pace. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the room, filling you with pure ecstasy.

'God, you feel so good,' he groaned, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you rode out your high. He followed soon after, his release filling you up.

The two of you sat there, panting and trying to catch your breaths. Simon lifted you off his lap and onto the bed, pulling you into his embrace.

'I love you, even when you're a moody mess,' he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You laughed, your earlier mood swings long forgotten. 'I love you too. Now, can we order some pizza? I'm craving it like crazy.'

From that day on, whenever you were feeling extra moody during your time of the month, Simon knew exactly what to do to put a smile on your face – and a very satisfied ache between your thighs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

tags: @ilovehobi101

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eevees-hobbies · 9 months ago

Text

This One's for the Dads!

Authors Note: This was originally going to be a spicy one-shot with Satoru Gojo, but then it turned into something else.

Synopsis: Father’s Day is among us and it impacts Gojo, Geto, Toji and Sukuna (yes, even him) differently.

Content Warning: There is some smut below. None in Toji’s and it’s kind of angsty. Female ReaderXCharacter, Mentioning of fathers day, breeding kink, implied child abandonment, reference to spitting in someones mouth, playing with nipples, almost getting caught, making out fingering, sex, etc. Minors DO NOT Interact.

Likes, comments and reblogs always appreciated!

The Dads Who Stepped Up

Satoru Gojo

“Happy Father's Day, Satoru!” You shout while simultaneously setting off a loud party popper. The red party string erupts from the boisterous instrument and floats to the floor onto the accented rug. The love of your life and least funniest person in the world, Satoru Gojo—who had just walked into the door of your shared home—looks at you in surprise.

Truth be told, it was the end of a particularly long and stressful workday, and he was looking forward to coming home and collapsing into his king-sized bed without further thought of carrying the world's weight on his shoulders. But here he was, being accosted at his own front door—by you.

“Happy Fathers D-?” His voice trails off as his eyes wander down your frame and settle on your midsection. Your face grows hot as you follow his eyes; instinctively, your hand shoots down to cover your stomach. You scold yourself quietly for not thinking of the implications behind your gesture.

“Yeah, I should have thought this through. Don’t worry, I’m not pregnant.”

“Oh”

You make a mental note of his change of tone. He sounded disappointed, but you can’t imagine why since pregnancy scares have always stressed you both out in the past.

“Then, why are you wishing me a Happy Father's Day? I’m not exactly a dad.” Gojo closes the door behind him and opens his arms, allowing you to approach him and melt into his embrace. His familiarity calms you, as does the scent of his cologne and the way he rests his chin on your head. For all the things that Gojo is for you—and he is a lot of positive things—he also is a sense of security, comfort, and unconditional love.

“But you are, Satoru. I know I joke about you having an army of secret kids out there-“

“I meaaaaaaan-”

You pinch his bicep playfully, earning a pained chuckle from him.

“You’re a father figure to Megumi, Yuta, and Yuji, to only name a few. Think about how much you’ve stepped up and mentored them in their darkest moments. I want you to consider where those kids would be without you, Satoru.”

While you’re talking, Gojo lifts his blindfold from his eyes and rests it on his forehead. His usual playful gaze is gone, replaced with something more reflective as he considers your words. It’s almost enough to unnerve you, but you continue in an attempt to convince your partner that today is a day for him, too.

“I know you’re always bragging about being the strongest, to the point where you’re downright annoying, but please accept that you serve in this capacity, too. Look,” you break free from his embrace, walk over to your dining room table, and pick up several envelopes.

Gojo follows behind you, peering over your shoulder. “What are those?”

“Signed Father's Day cards from the boys.” You hand them over to Gojo, who then opens the one on the top of the pile, which just so happens to be Megumi’s

Gojo can’t help but smile as he reads it aloud: “Thanks for everything. If I had to choose between being sold off to the Zenin clan and you, I would choose you every time.”

He looks up at you, his voice soft and devoid of his usual arrogant tone. "That’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me.”

You smile as he reads through the other cards. Yuta’s is the sweetest and tugs at your heartstrings as he describes a point in which meeting Gojo meant not having to live in fear anymore.

Yuji’s card makes Satoru chuckle with the use of an inside joke that doesn’t sound too appropriate for a student-teacher relationship, but you don’t press it.

You watch Gojo, enjoying this moment in which he feels valued, something his thankless job often fails to offer him.

After Gojo places the cards on the refrigerator via the picture magnets of you two, he turns to you. “Baaaaaabe!”

There he is, you think as he throws his arms around you and nuzzles his face into your hair, “I’m not gonna’ lie. I kind of wish you were pregnant, though.”

Suddenly, the arrogance is back, his voice absolutely inundated with it, “I like the idea of a little Gojo running around, and you make me sound like a perfect dad.”

You recall your conversation from minutes ago in which he sounded disappointed when you said you weren’t pregnant, “Gojo, we’ve talked about this. When you get horny, you start talking about making a family.”

He whines, “Come ON! It’s Father’s Day! MY day! Humor me.”

You laugh and nod, not entirely sure what you’re consenting to, but he’s right. It is Father's Day, and it was your intention to make him feel like this was a day for him, so what was the harm in playing along?

Gojo picks you up and places you on the counter, his fingers gripping the edge of your skirt and hiking it up. He’s on you in an instant, attaching himself to you as if you’re his lifeline.

You loop a finger around the hem of his blindfold, removing and flinging it across the room. His white hair falls into his face, adding a breathtaking contrast to his sky-blue eyes.

“Would it be so bad, Y/N?”

“W-would what be so bad?” Gojo’s warm mouth is on your neck, leaving a trail of kisses but still somehow managing to speak against your skin.

“Making me a dad,” he pauses. “Letting me make you a mama.” Gojo leans closer to you, allowing you to wrap your arms around his shoulders. You’re situated on the counter, but his proposition makes you feel like you’re falling. And what he says next shakes you to your very being.

“Let me put a baby in you, Y/N.”

You open your mouth, ready to list why you both shouldn’t even be entertaining this conversation—but, to your surprise, you can’t find the words to say no. And perhaps it’s because it’s something you actually want, or maybe it’s because Gojo is now positioning his cock at your entrance, and when that man pulls his dick out, you get a little dumb. Honestly, your only flaw.

You have follow-up questions. You’re unsure if he’s being serious; he often talks like this during sex, a consequence of a man with a breeding kink, but this sounds different. Feels different. So, is he serious? Your second question is, how did he pull his dick out so quickly?

You don’t get much time to ask as he smacks the fat tip of his dick against your sensitive clit; the sound of his meat hitting your already moist cunt echoes through the kitchen. The action sends shockwaves through your body, and you arch your back, pressing yourself further against his body, which almost doesn’t feel humanly possible.

Gojo smirks, “Mmm, so receptive for me, baby. What if I juuuuust put the tip in, like this?”

He’s a man of his word as he presses the head against the entrance of your tight cunt, watching as it does what it does best and welcomes Gojo’s dick. But he doesn’t push in any further, only allowing you to feel moderately stretched and not as full as you’d like.

“Don’t tease me, Gojo.” You attempt to make your demand sound menacing through gritted teeth, but it comes out more like a whine. Pathetic.

He wraps a hand around your chin and pulls your face within mere inches of his. “I will if you ask nicely.”

You huff. God, for all the reasons you love this man, he can be fucking exhausting. But your body deceives you; your cunt grasps at the head of his cock, part of you enjoying his little games.

“Please, Saturo, make me a mommy.”

As the last syllable leaves your lips, he pushes forward until his dick is flush against your pussy. The momentum of the push bounces you back, and some of the appliances on the counter tip over. Gojo’s hand shoots over your head to get leverage, resting on the cabinet while the other wraps around your waist.

“Fuck,” he groans as he slides in and out of you. “I swear to GOD I’m getting you pregnant tonight. You want that? To carry my babies?”

Fantasy or not, you’re into it. You tighten your grip around his neck and moan into his ear, your honeyed voice only making him thrust more aggressively.

“You’re going to be a great Daddy, baby!”

The arm that was around your waste is now in between you both, his long fingers rubbing your clit, the friction making your inner thighs clench—a telltale sign that you’re getting close.

“You’re going to look so fuckin’ beautiful pregnant. How many are you going to give me? Cuz once we start, I won’t be able to stay off ya.”

You moan in approval; Satoru is a pervert, a menace, but never a liar. You know that if he promises to keep you barefoot and pregnant, he fucking means it.

“Stick out your tongue for me, baby.”

You happily oblige as his mouth absorbs your tongue, sucking harshly on it. Kissing while fucking is something you both often do, but you and Satoru are just so comically bad at it—taking intermittent pauses, too caught up in the pleasure you’re both feeling to move your lips. But he never allows your tongue to retreat back into your mouth, sucking on it while he continues to pound your core.

You dig your nails into his shoulders, realizing that he never removed his shirt—he was so horny that he only had time to drop his pants down to his ankles and fuck you right there on your kitchen counter. And the thought alone has you grabbing his hair and gushing on his dick.

Gojo lets out a whimper as your cunt spasms, sending him over the edge, and shooting ropes upon ropes into your sex.

You’re both left panting, forehead to forehead.

“Happy Father's Day, Satoru.”

Suguru Geto

“That’s the last of it,” you say as you dump an endless supply of glitter into a trash bag. The living room was a mess.

For this Father's Day, Mimiko and Nanako begged to be in charge of the activities. You were touched. The girls were obviously happy to hold this responsibility, so you willingly passed the baton to them.

And you had to admit, you were impressed by the itinerary. They planned a trip to some of Seguro’s favorite places, including a Soba restaurant that typically had an extensive waitlist. Tonight was no exception, but the girls had made reservations months in advance.

You all concluded the day at home with home movies, cake, and a poster board with bright red glitter proclaiming that Geto was the “World's Best Dad.”

Hence, the mess.

The girls were now tucked away and asleep in their respective bedrooms. You and Suguru were taking the time to clean up the living room, but a quiet lull had settled between you both. You looked back at him as you tied the trash bag closed.

Geto is sitting on the couch, a smile on his face that you can’t help but return. He looks perfect like this, you think to yourself. He is wearing black jeans and a loose grey sweatshirt, and his signature hair, which is often tied up, flows freely past his shoulders.

“Y//N, this is the happiest I’ve ever been, and I owe a lot of this to you. This wouldn’t be a home without you.” He gestures to the room around you both, and you take it all in—it’s not the most luxurious of homes, but it belongs to your family of 4, and it’s brimming with character.

You can clearly see what he’s referencing—the pencil marks on the walls indicating the measured inventory of the girls over the years, the pile of shoes near the door (the girls have far TOO many, you often say to no one in particular) and the framed family photos of you all on every wall.

Suguru interrupts your thoughts as he pats the vacant seat on the sofa beside him. You accept his invitation, sitting down and draping your legs into his lap. He gently pushes you back so you’re lying underneath him, his dark eyes penetrating your soul.

His voice is soft, and his touch is even softer as he slides a hand up your shirt, your bra removed hours ago, “I couldn’t do this without you. I wouldn’t want to do this without you.”

His deft fingers circle your nipples, making them unbelievably hard and earning a moan from your lips, “Suguru, the girls could hear us!”

“Sounds like you better be quiet then” His head disappears under your shirt, and while you can’t see what he’s doing, you can feel his hot mouth on your nipples, rolling them around his tongue, sucking and teasing the flesh, making the heat between your legs grow exponentially stronger.

You begin to grind against him, trying to rub against any part of him to feel some semblance of relief. He chuckles, slipping a hand into your waistband and past your underwear. He lets out a murmur of approval as his hands dip into your needy sex, immediately stroking the soft-spongy spot deep in your core that drives you crazy.

Geto’s fingers are a godsend as they curve, stroke, and scissor you, adjusting to different motions depending on the sounds you make. His mouth still hasn't left your nipple, his suckles getting more aggressive as you feel his teeth nibbling.

Suddenly, you both hear a door open from within the hallway and freeze. You hear someone—one of the girls, but you aren’t sure which—pad their way to the bathroom.

You both stay as still as humanly possible, knowing that if you duck down enough, whoever crosses in the hallway won’t be able to see you on the couch.

Suguru pulls his hands out of your pants, which you assume means that your sexual escapade has concluded until those same fingers, which are covered in your essence, are now pressing against your lips.

He doesn’t give you much of an option as he pushes them into your mouth, forcing you to taste yourself on your tongue, swirling his fingers around to mix with your saliva.

The bathroom door opens, and you hear the footsteps back into their room.

“Good job,” Suguru coos, pressing his lips against your stomach and pulling his fingers from your mouth.

“And thank you for an excellent Father's Day, my love.”

The Dad Who Stepped Out

Toji Fushiguro

“Here’s what you asked for.” Toji enters the kitchen and drops a grocery bag on the table. You glance over your shoulder at your stay-at-home boyfriend, who seems grumpier than usual today.

“Thanks. Hoping to try this Carbonara recipe out.” You rifle through the bag and pull out the ingredients.

Toji lingers in the kitchen—-unusual for him as he never offers to help cook, but you don’t press it, not wanting to catch the strays from whatever has him pissed off.

“I forgot…I forgot what day it is,” he mumbles softly.

Oh, you look over at the calendar on the refrigerator and nod. The date is circled in bright red marker. There’s a note to yourself that reads, “Father's Day!”

“There were so many brats at the store today with their moms pickin’ out dinners. Barely could find anywhere to park.”

He’s rubbing the back of his neck as his eyes look anywhere but at yours. You can tell that this is bothering him as Toji wears his stress on his shoulders, which are now hunched in a way that looks far from comfortable.

You learned early in your relationship not to bring up Father’s Day; it’s a sore spot for him. Much of what you know about Toji and his relationship with his son was shared reluctantly as a result of an ultimatum by you: open up or get the fuck out.

You choose your following words carefully. “Do you want to talk about it, or is this you venting?”

Toji sighs and shrugs, “Let’s hear it.”

“I think you should call your kid, Toji. He’s probably thinking about you, too.”

He holds his hand up, signaling that he doesn’t want to hear anything else about the topic, and exits to the bedroom. You glance sadly at your ingredients and conclude that dinner is going to have to wait as you follow Toji.

He’s lying on your bed almost as if asleep, but the scowl on his face and the way he’s biting his bottom lip gives him away.

You sit on the edge of the bed, “what do you need right now?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, but within reason, Toji. Because it seems like you don’t want to do what makes the most sense which is to pick up the fucking phone and call your son, so yeah, what do you need that I can give you right now?”

Toji’s face goes slack, and he opens one of his eyes. “Just sit here with me, yeah?”

You nod and crawl beside him, laying your head on his bicep as he wraps his arm around you.

Dishonorable Mention

Ryomen Sukuna

“Woman! Isn’t there something that you’re forgetting?”

Sukuna taps his foot as he sits at your dining room table. You would think that a modest two-bedroom apartment would humble the king of curses, but it doesn’t.

“What is it now, Sukuna?”

“I was watching the news, and every segment specified that it’s Father's Day?”

You nod, not entirely sure where he’s going with this.

“Well? Where’s my gift? My words of adoration? Your mouth on one of my cocks?”

You blink slowly, “Sukuna, Father's Day is for those with children. Are you telling me that you have-?”

‘He waves his dismissively at you, “Don’t be absurd, woman. You know how I feel about those disgusting creatures.”

“Then?”

Suluna’s patience with you is running thin. You sometimes like to play games with him to get a rise out of him. He’ll remember to spit in your mouth when he beds you tonight.

He speaks through gritted teeth, “you call me daddy every chance I have you split open on my dicks. Now wish me a happy fathers day.”

You consider your options here; on the one hand, pissing off Sukuna could be fun; on the other hand, he is right, you do call him daddy in the bedroom, so you relent, “happy fathers day, Sukuna.”

His chest swells in triumph. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

#jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #toji x reader #suguru geto x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #geto suguru #toji fushiguro #smut #angst

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torturedtypewritersdept · 5 months ago

Text

proclivity - part three - true blue

✯ pairing:

ex!bff!rafe cameron x diabetic!kook!fem!reader

✯ summary:

at one point in time rafe was your best friend. can summer romance erase all the damage he's done?

✯ [4.1k] warnings:

mature themes, mentions of anxiety, nostalgia, heartbreak, diabetes lingo, injury, ghosting, fluff and fear, domestic violence (not rafe), mean!ex!jj etc.

✯ a/n:

nothing!! please don't engage if you have a hard time with any of these topics <3 this was origianlly posted on my old blog @/illicitfixations, @/lovelornanonymity and i have rewritten + reshared it here :) trying out a new format with this post, hope you like it!

You didn’t want to – really you didn’t. The idea of you and Rafe being alone at a spot – your spot – a place, the place, that you hadn’t shared in close to two years was suffocating to say the least. You have continuously pressed replay on all the world’s worst scenarios; all the things that could go horribly wrong, that would surely break your heart into a million pieces all over again. Your feet feel clucky as they trudge through the sand and like the water that meets the land on the other side, you feel rushed into you; like the waves of a tsunami are crashing against the wall you’ve placed around your heart, the barriers are so close to breaking and they do as soon as you see him. He’s sitting, just past a sand dune, his shirt has been discarded and his hair is wet.

“Hey, hot shot – you've been swimming without me?”

You ask with a forced cheek. He only responds with his signature smirk. It was quiet, awkward for a moment. You couldn’t help but feel like you were being punked as you sat down beside him, his feet digging holes in the sand. You couldn’t remember the last time the notion of him being this close had crossed your mind or even seemed within reach. Which probed your next question to the boy sitting next to you.

“Rafe.”

“Yeah?”

He questioned, with a smile on his face.

“Can you tell me now?”

You asked anxiously, ready for the blow of what you knew was coming – he was going to tell you why he left and you were sure that it was because of you after all. That’s the only thing that made sense in your brain. You watch him anxiously, intently as he shuffles, bringing his hand up to his hair to swoop his long locks out of his face and behind his ears.

“Yeah, I guess I owe you that don’t I, pretty girl?”

You’re on edge as you hear your old namesake leave his lips. He moves his hands behind him, leaning back into the sand. His skin feels hot against it, he notes. He swallows thickly and opens his mouth to speak.

“You know I was different after my mom died, right?”

You’re taken aback by his question – of course you know. She was the fucking sun and he’s just fucking like her; his cheeks and eyes – they belong to her. He belonged to her and it physically pains you to see him lose it after she’s passed away. You remember it all but mostly the way the bright left the blue hue of his eyes in the same moment the breath left her body. It makes your bones hurt to think about it still.

“Yeah – how could I forget? I was too, we all were.”

You said quickly.

“I kept it well hidden then – until I couldn’t anymore, until I didn’t have a choice.”

He’d replayed how he was going to tell you in his head over and over, over the last two years and finally came to the conclusion that he never ever would. But, now – at the prospect of having you within his reach again, he’s sure he’s going to spill his guts any moment.

“Can you spit it out, drama queen?”

You said with annoyance. So he blurted it out – rather frantically.

“I was on drugs, okay!”

He shouted. There was silence for a moment, you – too shell shocked to reply.

“Look – I know you’re perfect and you’ve never done anything wrong in your life, okay? I’m sorry.”

His eyes go dull as he braces himself for your judgemental glare.

“What?”

You ask in a too small voice. He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet for a moment.

“I was on drugs. Nobody knew. Then, I owed Barry a massive amount of money and he knew I loved you more than anyone, alright? So I had to cut ties.”

He said very matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry.”

You whispered and the ocean breeze made him suddenly cold, or maybe your tone of voice sent a chill up his spine. He’s truly not sure which.

“What do you have to be sorry about, y/n?”

He asked confusedly.

“Not being enough – not being good enough for you to come to me and tell me the truth, that you didn’t feel like you could come to me.”

The crack in your voice as you finished talking cut him straight to his core.

“Pretty girl, it’s not like that, okay? I was trying to protect you.”

Again, there was silence for a little while before either of you spoke. Rafe was trying to find the words; the ones to make you understand that you weren’t to blame.

“You’re not messing with me, right?”

You asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

He questioned, confusedly.

“I mean, you actually want to be near me again? You’re not messing with me?”

You asked innocently, feeling far too insecure for his answer to be anything other than yes.

“Of course, I want to be near you. I never wanted to stop being near you. It was just easier to cut everyone out than to explain my pain to someone else. I didn’t want to face all the disappointment either.”

You swallowed thickly and he noticed.

“I’m sorry. I always just assumed it was me, that I had done something.”

You whispered, almost inaudibly. But, he heard you, loud and clear.

“What? What could you possibly have done?”

He asked incredulously.

“I-I don’t know.”

You looked down at your feet, afraid of what he was going to say next, not wanting this intimacy with him to become foreign and far off again. He gently lifted your chin so your eyes could meet his.

“You never did anything wrong and this is not a game. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.”

He reassured you gently.

“I appreciate you reassuring me, but it’s going to take a lot more than words for me to trust you again and I think you know that.”

You replied, giving him the kindest smile you could muster up. It wasn’t your intention to be rude or mean to him, you just needed him to know where you stood.

“I know. I’m sorry that I broke your trust, but I hope you know I’m going to spend every day trying to make things right between us.”

“Okay, Cameron.”

You smiled nudging his shoulder. You made your way back to the parking lot with Rafe, not long after the conversation fizzled out.

“Well, I think I’m gonna head home. This was fun.”

You said with a sweet smile.

“Let me drive you, I know you walked, you always walk here.”

Rafe spoke, excitement in his voice.

“Okay.”

You agreed to his idea, smiling kindly his way, following him to the truck you had made your home ever since he had gotten his license. He was the first of the two of you to be able to drive and you had taken full advantage of that, waiting for him after football practices and in the early morning so he could cart you everywhere you needed to go. That was the first thing you missed when he had left you - the intimate car rides, where you experienced a version of Rafe that no one else got to. He opened the door for you, ushering you into the passenger seat and closing it once he made sure you were inside and comfortable. Making his way around to the driver’s side, he took his keys out of his pocket and climbed in, starting the truck. The engine roared, sending vibrations through your spine. It felt euphoric to be here, alone with him. Which was something you had dreamed about for so long. He pulled out of the beach parking lot, hands steady on the wheel, and began the trek to his neighborhood. Tannyhill had become your second home over the years, whether it was play dates with Rafe when you were six or trying on clothes with Sarah when you were fifteen, the Camerons were your family and you were thankful that your favorite one was seated next to you, a backward baseball cap sitting on his head and strong arms fixed on the wheel. You’d never get over the view.

“Y/N?”

He spoke your name with a question in mind.

“Yeah?”

You smiled in his direction.

“Would you wanna come to dinner tomorrow at Tannyhill?”

He asked gently.

“Sure, you know I never pass up Rose’s cooking! What’s the occasion?”

You questioned with a giggle, it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

“Just having you back, I guess.”

He smiled sheepishly.

“That’s sweet, Rafe.”

You spoke softly, the blush coating your freckled cheeks.

“Your parents are going to be there, so I figured you could just join them and we can have a big family dinner.”

“Why are my parents going to be there?”

You questioned, confused at his comment.

“Uh, Ward said he and your dad are working on some big business project or something.”

He replied, not really knowing the answer to what you were asking. He had no idea what the two men were up to.

“Ah, okay. Sure, Rafe, I’d love to come. How fancy do I have to dress, 1-10 on the fancy scale?”

The laugh that escaped his lungs was boisterous. You and Rafe had created the fancy scale after you got bitched out by your dad’s for not dressing appropriately for Midsummer’s in the eighth grade and ever since you always warned each other of the fancy level parties or dinners would be.

“A solid 5.”

He retorted a laugh ever-present on his lips. He forgot how much you made him laugh and how good it felt. He was brought out of his thoughts as he pulled into the driveway, spotting your car sitting right next to your dad’s.

“This has been fun! I missed you.”

You spoke softly and a smile danced across Rafe’s features.

“I missed you too, Y/N.”

Your eyes studied his face, looking for any inkling of deception. There were none, at least not that you could see. His eyes met yours, locking in on your face and not looking away. You swallowed thickly, unsure of what to do. Having his full attention was not something you were used to anymore.

“Thank you, Rafe. I seriously had a really good time tonight. We will do a movie night soon.”

“Of course, you’re still my favorite girl.”

He smiled kindly, ushering you over to your front door, lingering for moments longer than he should have, but not wanting to let you out of your sight.

Your phone rang early the next morning and as you groaned loudly, willing whoever was making your phone ring at 7 am to die, you read the contact. It was Topper. Your sluggish fingers slowly but surely slid across the screen to see what in God’s name your best friend wanted this early.

“H-hello?”

You grumbled.

“Wake your ass up!”

Topper yelled into the phone.

“T-top. I’m about three seconds from killing you. Why are you screaming into my phone so early?”

You questioned with annoyance.

“Get up and get dressed. We’re outside your house.”

He said plainly.

“Who’s we? And for what? It’s fucking 7 am?!”

“Don’t be grumpy, princess. We just want to spend the day with your sexy little self.”

Kelce interjected.

“Kelce, please shut up. I’m not awake enough for your bullshit attempts at flirting with me.”

You grumbled with a sneer behind that phone that he couldn’t see.

“Damn, you’re a spitfire today!”

Topper exclaimed, laughing.

“I was up late, okay? Jesus Christ.”

You couldn’t believe he was being so mean to you this early in the day.

“Okay, well get up, get dressed and pack insulin and some snacks. We’re going to be gone all day.”

He replied.

“Top, I can’t. I have this dinner with Rafe tonight, I can’t be gone all day.”

You were nervous to be saying anything to Topper about it at all, he knew your history with Rafe better than anyone. But, you knew you had to tell him the truth.

“Listen, idiot, Rafe is with us. So, come on. We’ll have you both back at Tannyhill in time for your dinner, so either pack a dress or wear one. You’re not missing this.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart leapt at hearing you were going to spend the day with Rafe by your side whether it was in a group setting or not.

“Fine, I’m coming, Topper! Jesus.”

You said, feigning annoyance.

“Told you she’s not a morning person.”

Rafe interjected, giggling.

You grinned to yourself, realizing you were going to get to spend an entire day and night with Rafe. Scurrying out of bed, you searched through your closet in a hurry and settled on wearing a baby blue sundress with white polka dots that Rafe got you for your birthday the summer before you started high school. He always said that baby blue was your color. You slid it on quickly, pairing it with white platform sneakers and some dainty gold jewelry. You fluffed your hair and quickly packed your insulin after changing your insulin pump site and choosing a new area of your stomach to plunge the needle into. You ran through the kitchen, grabbing a few snacks and some juice to throw in your bag. Before walking out the door to Topper’s jeep, you stopped, took a breath, and smoothed your dress and hair before stepping out of the house and opening the back passenger door, hopping in, to be met with a very tired Rafe Cameron.

“Hey, sweet cheeks! Are you done being an asshole? I need my morning kiss.”

Kelce gave you a sly smirk and Rafe chuckled to himself, knowing pushing your buttons this early was not a good idea.

“Kelceo, Fuck off!”

You exclaimed with a growl, letting him know you weren’t in the mood.

“Fine, I’ll chill. Can you blame me? Look at that dress.”

He continued his train of putting his foot in his mouth.

“Kelce, cool it, man.”

Rafe spoke, his tone laced with warning. His protective nature made you smile.

“So, what’s so important that you drug me out of bed at 7 am on a Saturday?”

You questioned Topper.

“My mom set us up on a tour of UNC like months ago and I forgot to tell you until this morning.”

He replied nonchalantly, as if it wasn’t absolutely unhinged to let you know the morning of – in a way that only Topper knows how.

“Topper, I’m going to kill you.”

You muttered. You truly couldn’t think of a better way to spend a Saturday, your three favorite boys, and a four-hour-long road trip. Truthfully, what could go wrong?

You were brought out of your thoughts by Rafe’s hand touching your elbow.

“Y/N?”

He was saying your name in question again.

“Sorry, I was zoned out. What’s up?”

You asked.

“Have you eaten yet?”

He asked in a gentle, hushed tone not wanting to draw everyone's attention to the two of you.

“No.”

You replied just as quietly.

“Go ahead and eat, okay? I read that being up on your feet all day can be hard on your body.”

You were shell shocked for just a second – he cared enough to read about what your life is like?

“You’ve been reading about diabetes?”

You questioned.

“Of course I have, you’re my favorite girl.”

He said it again.

“Thanks, Rafe. That’s so sweet.”

He smiled in response and watched as you took the banana out of your bag and began to eat it. When you finished, Topper was pulling into a gas station and asked you to come in with him to pick out some snacks while Rafe and Kelce pumped gas. As you made your way inside, rummaging through the aisles of various snacks, Topper began the inevitable best friend questioning that you knew was bound to happen eventually.

“So, you and Cameron, huh?”

He teased, knowing your history of being in love with him since you were six.

“I don’t think he feels that way. I’m just happy to have him back.”

You gave Topper a kind smile.

“So, what happened? I mean was there a conversation? Did he at least apologize?”

“Yeah, Top. He did.”

You said, matter-of-factly.

“Y/N, if you don’t tell me everything right now, I’m going to fucking combust.”

He said with urgency as he giggled.

“Okay, okay. Jesus! So, we met up at our spot the day after the party and he told me the truth. I have a feeling that it’s not all of it, but he seemed genuine and i’m assuming it’ll all come out in layers over time.”

“Why do you say that?”

He questioned with curiosity.

“Because it seemed like there was more to the story, more to tell. I got a very shrunken down version.”

You replied.

“Well, if you need me to beat his ass I will. You just let me know.”

He spoke with a devilish smirk that you knew meant he was both serious and joking.

“Thanks, Top.”

You laughed.

“Of course, you know I always have your back.”

He replied, snaking an arm around your shoulders.

“Anyways, so we talked about the drugs and why he felt like he couldn’t talk to me, and then he told me he was sorry and he wanted to be friends again. He drove me home and asked me to come to dinner tonight at Tannyhill. I said, yes, so here we are. Oh, and I told him about me being sick at the party-”

“You did what?!”

You were cut off with an incredulous question and raised eyebrows from Topper.

“Yeah, I told him a little about getting sick when we ended things and he didn’t even run like I thought he would.”

You said with a soft, sweet smile. Topper couldn’t remember the last time he had seen you smile like that.

“I told you he wouldn’t. He loves you.”

He replied easily, the truth of the words flew out of his mouth so effortlessly.

“Yeah, we’ll see. I’m not 100% on board yet. I don’t want to get my hopes up and then he runs away again.”

Topper shrugged, he couldn’t disagree with your reservations after the last couple years you’d had. You’d been through so much. All he wanted was to see you happy and he knew if the timing was right Rafe would treat you so well. He’d truly changed.

“That’s understandable and valid. Just don’t write him off yet. He might surprise you.”

He said with an easy smile.

“Thanks, Top.”

The two of you shared a hug after exiting the convenience store, with snacks in hand. As you made your way back to the jeep, Rafe admired your form, watching the wind raking through the skirt of your dress.

“Welcome back, pretty girl. Are you ready for our morning kiss, yet?”

Kelce asked again, sweetly this time. He was starting to get on your nerves.

“Kelceo, cool it.”

Topper stated, climbing into the driver's seat. Kelce was annoying everyone today, kidding or not.

You climbed into the backseat again, plopping down next to Rafe. His sparkling blue eyes took in your smiling form as you tore into a bag of popcorn.

“How are you feeling, sweet girl?”

Rafe questioned, studying your form with his piercing blue eyes. Sweet girl. You hadn’t heard that in a long time and it felt warm against your ears.

“I’m feeling pretty good right now. But, my sugar is low.”

You smiled in his direction.

“How do you know it’s low?”

He asked with genuine curiosity.

“I have this app on my phone, see.”

You turned your phone screen around, which displayed your glucose monitor’s readings. Your blood sugar was low, reading 76 mg/dL. Which was not low enough to warrant panic, but also not high enough to be considered normal.

“So, if 76 is low, what’s considered normal?”

Rafe probed in a genuinely curious fashion.

“Generally, the goal is to keep the daytime blood sugar levels before meals between 80 and 130 mg. But, after-meal numbers are a little bit higher but shouldn’t be more than 180 mg.”

You explained simply.

“Oh, okay. That makes sense. Will you tell me if you start to feel bad?”

He questioned. It made you smile that you seemed to be falling back into your rhythm so easily.

“I won’t have to. You’ll know. But, I promise I will.”

You gave him a reassuring smile and grabbed his hand, squeezing it. The touch, though short-lived, was electric and you wondered if he felt it too. The music topper was playing lulled you to sleep all of thirty minutes into the road trip and you were beginning to stir as soon as he pulled into the UNC visitor’s parking lot.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Rafe ran his fingers through your hair, scratching it in a circular motion. Your favorite way to wake up. When you opened your eyes, you jolted up, embarrassed, realizing your head was on Rafe’s shoulder and drool was pooling at the corner of your mouth, dripping onto the gray t-shirt he was wearing. You turned your head towards him with apologetic eyes as you took in his face, the sweet disposition oozing out of him, as his eyes smiled at you before his mouth did.

“I’m sorry I drooled on you.”

You spoke sheepishly.

“Hey, it’s okay. Not the first time, definitely won’t be the last.”

He chuckled, giving you his classic Rafe Cameron smile before getting out of Topper’s jeep and making his way to the passenger side to open yours for you. As you began to climb out of the car, he picked up your bag, carrying it for you.

“Thanks, Rafe. You don’t have to carry it, though.”

You said, beaming up at him.

“You look so pretty today, I think I’d do anything you asked of me.”

He blurted out without thinking and your eyes went wide as your cheeks filled with a blush.

“You are so sweet, Rafe. Thank you.”

He nodded and smiled your way, yet again.

“I’ll carry it. It will make me feel better if you have a glucose emergency if I know where it is.”

He stated, matter-of-factly, as he placed the brown leather backpack on his shoulder. His words created a flutter in your stomach.

“Okay, losers! Come on, we gotta check-in at the visitor’s center.”

Topper remarked. You and Rafe began following him and Kelce to the front of the building. Topper quickly went inside and left the three of you waiting on the steps as he went to collect your program information, campus maps, and name tags. When he came back out of the door, he handed each of you your designated packets of information and began explaining what the game plan was.

“Okay, so in each of these packets is information specific to your major. Y/N and Rafe, you’re in a group and then me and Kelce are in a group because our majors and buildings are on the same sides of campus. Go through the packet, it’s got a scavenger hunt and then instructions for meeting the bigger tour group after lunch. We will see you guys then.”

He finished what he was saying and Rafe was already moving, ready to get away from Topper and Kelce and celebrate his alone time with you.

“Okay, sounds good.”

Rafe spoke, taking the packet of information from Topper’s hands, and turning to you with a smile.

“You ready?”

He questioned with a smile.

“As I'll ever be, lead the way, Cameron.”

You gestured to the sidewalk in front of you, beaming up at his tall form, opting to go the opposite direction of Kelce and Topper.

Topper and Kelce quickly scurried off, putting you and Rafe alone again, finally. You love the other two stooges with every fiber of your being, but you’d always loved Rafe more. If soulmates were a thing, he was yours in a platonic way of course, because there’s no way he felt about you the way you felt about him. You were okay with that. Rafe in any way, shape, or form was enough for you, as long as you had him in some way, you’d be okay. As Rafe began talking to you, you were brought out of your daydream.

“So, what do you want to hit first, the football field?”

He asked sarcasm present in his tone, though playful and innocent.

“Sure, if you’re gonna be playing here, we should check it out first.”

You gave him a small smile.

“Are you thinking about coming here in all seriousness?”

“Yeah, I was offered a full scholarship for cheer and academics pending my final grades next year.”

“What?! That’s amazing, Y/N!”

“Thanks, Rafe. I wish my brother thought so.”

“What do you mean? Hasn’t he wanted you to go to UNC like forever?”

He asked, confusion ever-present in his voice.

“I mean, yeah. He’s just been different ever since I got sick.”

“What do you mean?”

He questioned.

“It’s like most of the time, I’m a bug he’s trying to swat away.”

You replied with nonchalance, though Rafe could register the pain in your voice.

“Maybe he just worries about you?”

He asked, suggestively.

“Maybe. I don’t know. You’ll see tonight what I mean.”

You muttered.

“Well if it makes you feel any better, we’ll be here together. At UNC, I mean.”

He said with a sweet smile.

“Really?!”

The joy that riddled your face made Rafe smile.

“Yeah, I’ve got some scouts coming to see me play in the fall and I’m excited. UNC is my dream school, though. So even if I have to be a walk-on or not play at all, I’ll still be coming here. They’ve already given me a scholarship.”

“As they should, Mr. Valedictorian.”

You smiled brightly at him.

“Hey, how do you know I’m valedictorian?!”

He chuckled but was surprised. He had never talked to anyone about his class standing.

“Well, I did some digging after realizing I was second in our class, and to my surprise, my favorite Cameron was the one that beat me out.”

You gave him a sly smile.

“Since when am I your favorite Cameron?”

He asked jokingly, though the notion made his heart soar.

“Since always.”

“Oh, come on! You and Sarah have been thick as thieves for the last two years.”

“Maybe. Sarah’s always been a good friend to me. Topper and Kelce too. But, you’ve always been number one in my heart, I hope you know that.”

The kindness exuded from your eyes. You meant every word.

“You’re something else, you know that.”

He chuckled, but you suddenly felt like you had said the wrong thing, swallowing thickly. He observed your form, realizing where your mind had gone.

“No, no, I mean that in a good way. There’s just no one like you. You’ve always been just so perfect. It’s hard to measure up.”

“It’s a facade, trust me.”

You spoke, rolling your eyes at the notion that anything that had anything to do with you was in the same category as perfect. You were brought out of your thoughts as the two of you made your way to the entrance of the football field, following other students into the gates. Rafe looked on in awe at what would be his stomping grounds in just a few short years, his eyes sparkled as he daydreamed about the baby blue uniform he’d get to wear with his name and number sewn into the back. He’d get to matter here. He’d get to be somebody other than Ward Cameron’s son. He’d hope to make you his girl, here. But, quickly pushed that thought down as you began speaking to him.

“What? Are you imagining all of your fans screaming your name? All the girls throwing themselves at you?”

You chuckled.

“Nope. Just one.”

“Shutup! Who is it, Cameron? You have to tell me!”

“You’ll know soon enough, you know how bad I am with secrets.”

You giggled and its music to his ears.

“Boy do I! Remember that time in second grade when we brought that puppy to my house from the street and we were only able to hide it from my mom for three hours before you blabbered?!”

“Not my best secret-keeping moment.”

He chuckled, remembering that day with you. Your soft curls that too often fell on your face and the look of pure fear in your eyes when your mom found out about the puppy.

“That was a good day.”

You spoke softly.

“Yeah, it was.”

The two of you stood side by side, Rafe’s shoulders towering over you, as you both looked onto the field that would be your home for four years. Excitement stirred in your gut at the chance to get out of the Outer Banks, out of Kildare fucking county with your best friends in the entire world and you simply, couldn’t wait. You hoped the next two years would fly by so you could get out of your hometown, finally fall in love, and forget that Kooks and Pogues even existed.

“Okay, Cameron. Let’s go check out the buildings where our classes will be.”

“Sounds good, pretty girl.”

He smiled at you and placed his hand on the small of your back as he led you out of the stadium and back to the quad. Once you made it away from the large crowd inhabiting the stadium, you probed Rafe with another question.

“So, what are you majoring in, big guy?”

“I haven’t fully decided. Dad wants me to be a business and marketing major, but I am really into the idea of English lit. What about you?”

“I’m English Literature with a concentration in creative writing and a minor in entrepreneurship.”

“Nice! What do you want to do with that?”

He probed, curious about your career path.

“I’m not sure, yet. Maybe teach English or become a writer. All I know is that writing and reading makes me feel alive and I’d like to chase that high as long as I can.”

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for.”

You instantly recognized the words he was stringing together into a sentence.

“Rafe Cameron, are you quoting Dead Poets Society to me?”

You smiled so widely at him. This version of Rafe was different. It was one you had seen glimpses of over the years, but this one, he was your person. You were sure of it.

“Don’t all the guys you talk to do that?”

“What? Do you mean the ever-so-educated JJ Maybank who cares about feelings and reading? Yeah, no. I can’t say that they do.”

You scoffed into a laugh at Rafe’s joke slash question.

“Okay, that’s fair.”

He said, letting out a boisterous belly laugh.

“Let’s go look at the Business Administration building first.”

You suggested and Rafe agreed with your idea. Since you both would have classes in both buildings, it truly didn’t matter which you explored first. As you made your way to the building across the quad, your phone started dinging. Your stupid blood sugar, ruining things again.

“What’s that noise?”

Rafe questioned.

“It’s my glucose monitor on my phone. It’s low again.”

You looked on at him, defeated. He gently lifted your bag off of his shoulders and took your phone out and looked down at the readings. 76 mg, way too low for his comfort and probably for yours too.

“It’s 76 mg, Y/N. What do I need to do?”

“Look for anything in my bag with carbs and I'll check again in 15 minutes.”

You reply without the urgency that Rafe is feeling.

“Okay, let’s sit down for the time being. You don’t look like you feel great.”

He motioned to the bench, just off the sidewalk, close to the arboretum. He knew you wanted to see it before you left campus today, so this was the perfect spot.

“I’m okay, just sluggish. I thought I was just tired from last night.”

You let Rafe lead you to sit, his hand on the small of your back. You took his hand as he motioned you down onto the bench and he felt you shaking. Rafe looked through the bag, examining its contents, quickly.

“Okay, there’s bread and a banana. Which is better?”

“Give me the bread. It’s this banana nut bread I make every week.”

“You amaze me you know that?”

He gave you a soft smile and unwrapped the bread from the Ziploc bag it sat in, handing it to you.

“Thank you, Rafe, really, it means the world to have you here and to have your help.”

“Anything for you, I mean that. Are you thirsty?”

“Yeah, there’s water in there, too.”

He nodded, reaching back into the bag to retrieve the water bottle and handing it to you.

“After we get your levels back up, let’s go into the arboretum, and then we will grab some lunch.”

“Sure, thanks, Rafe. I love the Arboretum here, it’s so beautiful!”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve only been talking about visiting it since we were ten.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything you tell me.”

You blushed at his confession. You sat there, just chatting back and forth for the fifteen minutes it took for the food to settle before you checked your blood sugar again. Rafe pulled your phone back out of your bag and looked at the screen. 100 mg. We’re back in business baby!

“88 mg, back to normal, pretty girl.”

He spoke, blush coating your cheeks and you watched the corners of his mouth turn up in a smile.

“Thanks, Rafe. You’ve been so good about all of this. It scares most people.”

You thank him sheepishly.

“I’m not most people, you know that.”

He stood up from the bench, placing your backpack on his shoulders once more, and gently took your hand in his, lifting you to your feet. He led you to the sidewalk and you began your trek to the arboretum, his hand on the small of your back once again. You tried not to read too much into his hands constantly being close to you, you and Rafe had always had an intimate relationship that was very hands-on. As you made your way toward the greenhouse, you felt a raindrop hit your nose and before your brain could process what your orbs had just taken in, the bottom of the sky fell out and rain poured from the sky. The same way your eyes leaked when you and Rafe had stopped speaking. As the rain-drenched your clothes, you and Rafe shared a mischievous look, before he grabbed your hand and you both took off running toward your destination. It seemed like you had been running forever when you made it inside the doors of the greenhouse. Once you finally shook the water off of your bodies, reminiscent of a wet dog shaking his fur violently, you had a minute to take Rafe in. The light from the lightning lit up his drenched features. He took his baseball cap off, shaking it out and ringing out the water from his shirt. As he turned to look at you, you moved into him, eyes locking with his, his tall muscular form standing over you. You’re not sure what’s come over you, maybe it’s the care he’s shown you or how different he is now. But, you couldn’t take too much time to process what you were feeling or what you were thinking. The next few moments felt like a scene from a movie, as you placed your hands on his cheeks and kissed his lips, deeply, a moan escaping your lips. He was quick to pull away, bewilderment in his eyes.

“I-I’m sorry, Rafe. I read the signals wrong.”

“I’m not sorry because you didn’t misread anything.”

And just like that, Rafe Cameron was kissing you, gently, deeply, madly, clothes drenched in rainwater and with ecstasy-filled eyes. Rafe Goddamn Cameron was kissing you and you fucking loved it.

taglist:

@maybankslover @inthelibrarybtw @luvrcndy @silkylovey @yagirlwrites @obxbabygirl @rafeecameronsbitch @klutzy-kay24 @roseczbalt

#proclivity #proclivity rafe #rafe cameron x reader #rafecore #rafe cameron #rafe x reader

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kelocitta · 1 year ago

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In honor of the @rw-ship-showdown I wanted to write about Artihunter as someone who jokingly slapped them together pre-downpour and still thinks they are actually very compelling. Just not in the super soft love wins kinda way (Although I get why people like that more) And the only way I know how to do that is talking too much so heres a far too long slug essay-

Obviously the slugcats don't offer a ton of characterization but theres not nothing to work with. Their stories, whether by their roles in it or the overarching themes do provide a backbone to work with. Even gameplay itself can provide a bit. (for some more than others) Hunter, to me, is ultimately a story about selflessness. The goal is to revive Moon, which is very much an act of kindness from both Hunter and NSH. But the weight of that action is much more significant for Hunter- Hunter is deeply sick. They're on the clock, and for all their skill in combat none of that will ultimately help them to survive longer than their body can hold out. Moon is a close friend of NSH but that means little Hunter- Hunter really gets next to nothing out of helping them, and ultimately pays quiet a bit spending their limited time alive fighting to deliver that neuron so that someone else can live.

To spend ones limited days on helping another, in a game that very much stresses the unwavering cruelty of the world and nature- is pretty notable. (And you could even say that Hunter being the Hardmode of Rain World adds another layer to this)

And then we have Artificer. A storyline that very much stands out to people as more… villainous (so to speak) than the other slugcats. Artificer's story covers a lot of things. Trauma, violence, revenge, etc. Revenge is a bit of a selfish desire- That need to see someone hurt as they have hurt you. A punishment that ultimately does not fix whatever harm was done- but feels good to see because you were hurt and now those responsible share that pain.

Artificer's actions are founded in that need for revenge, their pups killed for overstepping boundaries they didn't know existed. Is it not fair for them to be angry at that, to punish the scavengers for their violence with their own? Why should the scavengers ever be forgiven when they and their pups were not? And that's how you get that loop- Harm for harm over and over.

The original action has been lost in a spiral of violence for violence. And here stands Artificer- their very spirit scarred. Not just because they sought revenge, but because they never ceased trying to scratch that itch for violence as an answer. Artificer only has two paths for their story- killing the scavenger king (Someone who, really, has little to do with the original 'crime' of the scavengers, but represents an important individual to them- as did the slugpups to Artificer), locking themselves as karma one for good and spending the rest of their life chasing creatures that no longer even fight back in a warped sense of closure- or to dissolve themselves in the acids of the void sea because they're too far gone to find any real peace.

They can't meaningfully recover from that state, not alone, twisting in on themselves. Even if they halt their actions, they've been using violence as a feeble defense against their own pain- violence that no longer has any real direction or basis. Artificer gets no real closure from killing the scavenger king. All they can do is continue the cycle, or try to scrub it away. No real peace in a prison of their own making. So you have a creature, who even with a strict timer on their life- a body that will crumble to disease, spends its last bit of time on saving another. And another who was so caught up in the pain of loss that were eaten alive by their own anger, poisoned their own soul on such a deep level even self-proclaimed gods have no solution for them. What peace can they offer each other? For Hunter, its only a fleeting moment of happiness- of selfish love, before their own body fails them. A bit of indulgence in something for themself. For Artificer, its a single, comforting thread to ground them again, something tangible to protect and care about again. But thats a thread that will ultimately be snapped under the cruel indifference of the world. Hunters timer will tick down regardless of if it takes another with it. Its a tragedy- its doomed to end badly. Whatever good it offers to either of them to find each other will only provide the fleeting comfort of a band-aid that will be ripped away too early. But all that can be worth indulging in anyway, if only for the moment. It doesn't change the ending, but the ending was never going to be happy. Its can so yuri

#rain world #rw shipping #tagging that just cause this is explicitly about that even though I usually dont do shipping stuff #with that said i dont even think this particular interpretation of a possible dynamic needs to be romantic its just kinda #about companionship in general. companionship thats going to absolutely shred an already unstable slug emotionally but thats #the point. friendship and love in spite of the unavoidable ending #just noticed this is like 80% theme analysis and 20% 'these go together just trust me'#but also theyre both girls because i want them to and also because im channeling hornet from hollow knight #who made me so deeply ill that my rain world tags still havent outcompeted my Hk tags because i drew her so much. so so much.#hunter is hornet coded to me and artificer is like if angela and gebura from lc combined into a deeply fucked up ferret #also i did tag the poll because they kinda inspired this but also. i wasnt gonna put all this out here WITHOUT a readmore thats embarassing #but i guess this is propaganda for a ship already seen as popular but like... idk i think theres something to it even as someone #who did literally slap them together originally because they were both red slugcats i considered girls. predownpour so we didnt have anythi #anyway hi tag readers i have so much work to do im being bad by writing about gay slugs. i need to get myself together #its so late this might just be nonsense bwaaaaaaa

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a-d-nox · 1 year ago

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pac: what awaits you at the end of the rainbow and how can you follow the path to abundance?

take what resonates leave what doesn't - nothing is 100% for you because these aren't personalized so please no angry comments or dms about what i am saying not being a good fit for you or that you "don't claim" just keep scrolling if that is the case. be kind, self reflect, and have fun.

last pac/pap: how to promote self-love going forward

return to the masterlist of pap/pac posts

paid reading options: astrology menu & cartomancy menu

enjoy my work? help me continue creating by tipping on ko-fi or paypal. your support keeps the magic alive!

pile 1

it is not the time for you to receive your riches. don't wander in the direction of hope or "wishful thinking" - there is fool's gold waiting for you there. you are hesitant for a good reason - trust your gut. when things seem more certain, then take a chance. i also sense that you aren't ready to release old splendor to make room for new riches. change is scary but is well worth it - you just have to let go of what is no longer meant for you so you have the space for new things. trust the universe and yourself to bring you what you need. the universe is waiting for you to be more satisfied with your present situation before it offers you new abundance - you keep thinking about what you once had - stop doing that. stop waiting for your outer circumstances to change and change your inner ones.

put energy towards noticing signs from the universe so that you can release yourself from the old things that no longer serve you. accept your spiritual gifts, move on from past pains, and embrace new found awareness.

pile 2

the universe is delaying your security - feel like you have a big goal in mind and that you are faced with obstacle after obstacle. you are disconnected from the world around you. you have an opportunity upcoming in the form of riches to be found. be patient and listen to your heart throughout the process. this is a time to have hope and to be on your best behavior - release toxicity and unhealthy habits. know that sometimes the unpopular opinion is the best one to have. don't doubt yourself - you are about to reach your goal. the universe is just testing you before giving you what you desire most. patience is your friend - tune into you intuition to figure out what this is.

whatever you do, don't avoid anything at present. procrastination will only delay you in receiving your good fortune. try new things and face the inevitability of change. accept your feelings of being uncomfortable - trust that you are on the right path to receive your riches.

pile 3

you are about to be released from financial challenges and burdens. trust the universe and stop fearing the potential of slipping back into a situation in which you could face hardships. have faith that your situation is changing. fate is leading you towards something very important - you are moving from a painful cycle into a more harmonious one. trust that there is rebirth awaiting you with all new people and a brand new situation. the universe is just waiting for you to love yourself and for you to let others help and appreciate you. accept the gifts that are brought to you - stop trying to force situations to be what they are not. no one is trying to make you owe them unless they are outright saying that. the chance to reconnect with nature and to bloom is right at your finger tips; you just have to accept it.

your gratitude for what you have will keep you on the path of abundance. redecorate, renovate, reallocate, etc. spend time relaxing and appreciating what you have and the potential of what it could become. focus on what brings you peace and happiness, and the universe will be sure to bring you more of it.

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thr0wnawayy · 6 months ago

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Hi l, I absolutely love your takes and I want to ask smth...I never saw anyone ask before....what was the point of Izu?

Maybe you are confused with this question, after all, in the first chapter we see (the first signal of delulu) he wanted to be a hero and became one ...

And got suffering

Suffering

And oh yes sure, suffering.

Like ...what this helps in the narrative?

"he is there to cheer for abusers" something Izu haters say but ... honestly, that isn't correct as many people in this story cheer for Endy or Aizawa. Izu is not even needed for that.

I know we can't read Hori's mind to know what was the point....and we do know he doesn't hide his disdain for Izu....but like, in canon, he is just there to suffer and his suffering adds nothing.

"to show how corrupt the hero society is"

We have plenty of examples like that...Izu is really not needed.

So...again, why?

It's just tiring seeing him feeling worthless and people all validating this feeling. Why? No one knows nor cares.

The problem with Midoriya is it feels like he never actually works for anything.

Excluding for a moment the very real possibility of 'learned helplessnes'.

After Gran Torino, when do we see Midoriya work for anything? What does he accomplish?

Nothing, he gets nothing and he works for nothing.

Sure he worked for OFA but after that, he kind of stagnates. But admittedly it's not his fault entirely, The (very small) world of MHA seemed intent on screwing him over at every given opportunity.

Aizawa and the rest of UA is fucking useless as an institution. Throwing untrained child soldiers out on patrol and seeing what sticks. How nobody has died yet, idk.

One Ao3 commenter said it best:

"UA is a horrible learning environment where I wouldn't be able to trust anyone and would very quickly grow paranoid and grow/hold grudges against "stronger" students because every loses against them could mean my expulsion for being "too weak".

"Also, he uses his quirk all willy-nilly without caring about the potential lethality of such usage (you have a quirk like Denki's that stockpiled something like electricity, he uses his quirk on you, the stockpiled electricity goes haywire and kill you and several other people nearby or you risk losing years of accumulated energy.) OFA could have lost all it's accumulated energy.)"

Everything Midoriya does feels pointless because there's no reward. Midoriya receives zero acknowledgement or recognition and the viewers are given no payoff.

His classmates ignore him, or make some comment on his failings/pain but never act.

Aizawa seems to single him out constantly, while the rest of the staff, even All Might seem content to twiddling their thumbs as Aizawa continuously tramples over the rules of student-teacher conduct.

(no aggressive physical contact, no verbal abuse, etc)

Midoriya is the centerpiece and that's precisely why Hori tried to use him to prop up the abusive cash cows. It's narrative gaslighting 101.

"If the protagonist says it, then it must be correct"

I'm going to be honest, Midoriya was always a vessel for the plot but he at least had character. That's why so many people jumped ship when the Dark Deku are turned out to be a total bust.

Because there was no reason go engage in story that can't respect it's roots (original premise)

He was given power up after power up with no thought on what came before

By the logic of OFA being a stockpiler, Flight should be the strongest quirk out of all of them. Gearshift should be the weakest. It makes no sense until you account for Hori's "subtle" sexism *and I have no idea if it's intended or borne of ignorance.

It was supposed to be "This was how I became the greatest hero"

Not "How we repeated the sins of the father"

That's why Midoriya fails as a protagonist, as a character. Because MHA doesn't have a protagonist, it doesnt have a hero. Just a bunch of super-powered SWAT celebrities covering eachothers asses.

Mha was a story about focusing on the victims .

And ended as a story about the abusers.

#mha critical #bnha critical #hero society critical #anti endeavor #anti enji todoroki #anti mha ending #anti bakugou #anti bakugo katsuki #anti aizawa #ua critical

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gunnrblze · 7 months ago

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The sibling dynamic between Hesh and Logan has rotted the innards of my brain. Long ramble of me reading into this too much and probably making it personal below the cut, lol.

They’re extremely close, grow up practically codependent, at least from a certain point onward. Hesh brothers Logan in an almost fatherly way sometimes because their actual father places this responsibility on him (albeit largely unintentionally I imagine), for the literal sole fact that he’s two (2) years older than Logan. That’s it, just two. He got parentified like a lot of older siblings tend to be, purely due to circumstance of being the eldest. If Logan was older this dynamic would most likely have been the same thing. Hesh was pushed into this protector role regardless of how he feels about it.

And I wonder how it would’ve panned out had Elias tried to foster a more ‘behave as a unit’ approach rather than ‘Hesh protect Logan regardless’ type thing. Logan followed in Hesh’s footsteps (QUITE LITERALLY!) and strived to be just like him. During all their training, they “became men” together and learned how to communicate non verbally to the point where they’re near fucking telepathic.

Yes they fight together, yes Logan was there for Hesh always, “Logan has my back and I have his, we’re brothers” yes yes yes. But Hesh was damn near playing caretaker for him sometimes. From the beginning of the game we see Elias telling Hesh to look out for Logan constantly, and he continues to throughout the entire game. And at the end when Rorke drags Logan away you can hear the pain and the panic in Hesh’s voice (duh). Can see him trying to reach for him and crawl to him. From the beginning to the end, Hesh is Logan’s big brother in every sense of the word. From childhood to the moment Logan is drug off the beach, Hesh is right there with him like a guardian angel. Or more like a guard dog maybe lol. And I just wonder what difference it would’ve made if Elias didn’t force Hesh (whether he meant to or not doesn’t even matter) to shoulder the burden of not only growing up himself, but guiding Logan so heavily at the same time.

And what gets me the most about this is that Logan is just as experienced as Hesh, minus those two years that Hesh joined the army before Logan turned 18. They trained together, Rorke implied that Elias trained them a lot himself, and Logan is just as capable. Just as intelligent, prepared, skilled, etc. Yet in some parts of the game, it almost seems like his ‘baby of the family’ role follows him, despite being a skilled spec ops soldier fighting an active war, and it’s just so interesting to me. I just know this has gotta be a deep seated thing for Hesh, to have been his brothers guardian in a sense, despite only having two years on him. He was just as young and confused, just as in need of guidance, and yes Elias provided a lot of that for the both of them, but Hesh kinda had to wing it a lot I think. He didn’t have an older sibling to look up to because he IS the older sibling being looked up to.

And on the flip side, how is Logan meant to interpret that growing up, in any other way besides ‘Hesh knows more, does more, is better than me, knows better than me, etc’ type of thing? You’re being looked after by an older sibling half the time, of course you’re gonna idolize them more than a sibling might do so even in a regular/healthy circumstance. Like yea that’s his big brother and he’s gonna look up to him regardless, but you’re only two years younger being silently treated like you’re in need of this caretaking….c’mon. Elias created a dynamic in which the two of them are so codependent, that it had to have hurt Hesh on an even deeper level to lose Logan than it already would’ve. That would already be soul shattering in the first place, especially with the dogshit ass circumstances they were in, but to lose the little brother that you most definitely feel personally responsible for…? This is why I think Hesh would genuinely be tweaking the fuck out post beach.

And to add onto this ramble about Merrick becoming like a mentor to Hesh, I can see Hesh getting some actual older male guidance without the addendum of ‘also here’s this other guy you need to look out for’ being healing in a way. Dare I say Keegan/Kick would even become like an older brother figure to Hesh and kinda fill that hole, the older brother he didn’t get.

Anyways idk I’m insane about them always. You unintentionally made your sons codependent on one another, and then you die, and then one son is taken, blah blah we know what happened. I mean damn lol.

#helpppp the angst #call of duty ghosts #cod ghosts #david hesh walker #hesh walker #hesh hivemind🍯#logan walker #logan cod ghosts #cod logan #elias walker #thomas merrick #keegan p russ #kick cod ghosts #and then there's kick #call of duty #gabriel rorke #call of duty headcanons #cod #gunnrblze rambles

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13rurururi · 2 years ago

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♥︎ "he can never be mine" (gojo satoru x reader)

A heartbroken Gojo uses you as a rebound after he loses his one and only best friend. It's supposed to be a meaningless night for him, but it means the world to you — even if it hurts like hell.

pairing/s: Gojo Satoru x Female!Reader, implied Gojo Satoru x Geto Suguru (SatoSugu)

cw/s: 18+, rebound relationships, one-sided love, friends with benefits (but you're developing feelings), sexual themes, fingering, penatrative sex, angst, etc.

You let Gojo use you as a rebound.

You heard about what happened with his best friend — his proclaimed one and only — and how Geto Suguru is now a Curse User sentenced to death.

You heard about Gojo confronting the fallen sorcerer in the busy streets of Shinjuku, yelling in unrestrained rage and desperation at a man who has already chosen his resolve.

And, just an hour ago, you heard Gojo's defeated voice — raspy, exhausted, and cracking — through the speaker of your phone. He called you so suddenly, yet you picked up a little too quickly. Satoru only spat out one sentence before static took over your brain,

"I need you."

He doesn't need you — at least, not in the way you want him to. However, you couldn't resist the lump of hurt encapsulated in his voice, and you relent with a resurfacing weakness that only the strongest man can elicit from you.

"...Okay, I'm home right now."

Now, you're letting Gojo use you.

You barely register the rigidness of his tall build in the doorway, for he already hastily crashes his soft lips onto yours. He's quivering, but you don't say anything, and you simply let him corner you on the wall of your apartment, pinning your body with the strength expected from him.

You try not to let your mind wander. You try to shut down any bubbling insecurity, hurt, and any emotion resembling the horrible curse of love. It's futile, and you let your body be carried to your living room couch while your head spins in simmering confusion and potent pleasure.

You love Satoru. You have loved him for quite some time now. However, you're certain he doesn't feel the same.

After all, it's Geto that he loves.

Unfortunately, Geto isn't here right now, and Satoru turns to you the moment he can no longer reach his beloved Suguru.

Gojo unlatches the buttons of your pants, pulling them down your ankles with his swift, deft hands. Despite the thin barrier of your undergarments, he messily runs his long digits on the apex of your legs, making you jolt and subconsciously whine for more.

His tinted glasses are askew on his flawless, symmetrical face, and he uses his free hand to fully get rid of the protective accessory, revealing blue eyes swimming with depravity and depths of untampered heartbreak.

He presses his weight against your body, pushing you into the mountain of pillows on your soft couch. Your mouth is intruded by his tongue, and your senses are entirely numbed by his overwhelmingly masculine scent. With that, your living room slowly starts to fill with quickened huffs of breath and short whines.

You're well aware that he's using you for your body and that you are only an appreciated distraction who should be grateful that the oh-so-powerful and handsome Gojo chose to bed you. After all, he has an entire entourage flocking him at every corner. Everyone wants a taste of the tall, well-built, and unbelievably gorgeous man. He can have anyone he wants.

Even as he runs his wide palms across your stomach while he discards all your clothing until you're left vulnerable and bare, the hurricane of doubt continues to wreck havoc in your mind; it tells you again and again:

'Satoru doesn't want you the way you want him. You're not Geto — you will never be his Suguru.'

You feel tiny clumps of tears begin to form in the corners of your eyes, but you quickly blink them away in fear of being detected by the ever-so-perceptive sorcerer. To distract yourself from your painful thoughts, you unbotton the white-haired man's uniform, and you soon palm your hands over his muscular abdomen to ground yourself.

You think he doesn't notice the conflict pooling in your eyes.

He does.

He notices each pained hiccup disguised as a quick intake of air. He notices the shakiness of your fingers that struggle to touch him with vigor. He notices the downward curl of your lips that you try to mask with a half-hearted grin.

He notices everything about you, and he can perceive the entirety of your disposition with a single fleeting glance. He thinks it's not because he's extensively attentive and caring towards you — no, it's because he's Gojo Satoru, and his eyes are too sharp to miss anything.

He abruptly pauses his ministrations and peers at you with a blank expression. You return his heavy gaze with your own bemused one, wordlessly prompting him to say if something's wrong.

Gojo thinks back to the first time he met you — cheery, shy, and kind. He deemed you as his favorite underclassman before you decided to separate yourself from the bloody world of Jujutsu Sorcery. He recalls the sweets you frequently gifted him: tiny chocolates, mochi, sugary drinks, and decadent cakes.

He'd tease your bashful face as you outstretched your arm to offer him a snack, and Gojo looks back at such memories with fondness.

Unfortunately, Gojo also remembers flippantly bragging about your gifts to Suguru, telling his best friend that he isn't entirely hated by the student population and that he's actually pleasant and agreeable.

His mind is filled with memories of Suguru's exasperated face and playful nudges. His thoughts stray to youthful moments and banter, and even if you are in his dearest memories, they are only memorable because Suguru was in them too.

Fuck.

"I can't do this to you..."

Gojo trails off, pushing himself off of your body sprawled nakedly on the couch. Simultaneously, you are met with cool air and embarrassment, and you curl yourself into a ball as you urge yourself not to cry.

"Did I—did I do something wrong?"

Your small, shaky voice — which greatly contrasts the sweet confidence Gojo attributed you with — made the blue-eyed sorcerer run his hands through his shaggy locks in frustration and bubbling guilt.

He chokes out in an uncharacteristic infuriation that you've never sensed from him before, "No," he shakes his head and covers his eyes with a tense palm. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then, why—"

"I don't love you."

You feel your heart shrivel in excruciating pain at the harshly straightforward declaration. This is the painful rejection you felt coming the moment you saw how Gojo and Geto looked at each other, talked to each other, and touched each other.

From the very beginning, you were fighting a losing game, yet your heart is too stupid to fully eradicate your affections for the man standing before you.

"I know," you are unable to resist the tears that start to freely flow down your cheeks. "I know I'm not who you're in love with."

You try to make yourself appear more certain, even if the words that you mutter feel like acid on your tongue. "I know what I got myself into when I agreed to this, and I don't mind." Liar, liar, liar — it hurts like hell; your chest feels like it has become an empty cavity that is void of anything but excruciating hurt.

"I know you love Geto. I know he's the only one for you," you exhale a shuddered breath as you desperately attempt to keep your gaze on the strikingly magnificent blues of Gojo's eyes.

"Damn it, Gojo. Just use me all you want," your voice unconsciously rises in frustration and incomprehensible pain. "Just fuck me."

Gojo's unmoving figure shifts so subtly that you nearly miss it. Despite the tall man's pride for letting himself appear unfazed and unreadable, you knew he felt guilt — he's the strongest, but he's still human, and based on the growing tent in his pants, you know guilt isn't the only thing he feels at the moment.

You repeat yourself with all the composure you can muster, "Just...fuck me."

The tense man towering over your bare body releases a final grunt of exasperation before he gives in and lets his body decide for him. Gojo decides that — since you're so persistent — he'll throw away his hesitance for the time being. Your sudden display of boldness made him hard, and you want it anyway, so he'll let you take accountability for the uncomfortably throbbing member in his pants.

'Just for tonight,' he thinks. 'This won't mean anything.'

As if you read his thoughts, you tell him with faux conviction, "This won't mean anything." Your eyes are dilated, not once shying away from Gojo's immensely bright ones. You find yourself on your back once more, helplessly caged between the muscled arms of the strongest sorcerer.

"Good," he mindlessly replies, as if to convince himself — or even both of you — that no long-lasting damage will occur once he takes you in such a detached manner. Gojo dives in for a kiss, and it's not the least bit gentle. He ravishes you with barely any restraint, dragging his tongue across the cavity of your gaping mouth and biting your lip until it's throbbing and red.

Your moans instantaneously permeate the air, getting louder the closer Gojo's fingers trail towards where you need him most. When he rests his palm on your lower stomach, you note how his hands feel firm yet oddly gentle, as if there was a thin barrier that prevented him from fully touching you.

'Is he using Infinity?'

Before you can comprehend the implications of Gojo's guarded nature, your entire body shakes when you feel a sudden warmth on your folds. His fingers are precise — prodding and curling inside your gummy walls as his thumb rubs circles around the hood of your clit, as if to tease you.

Your warm cunt squeezes two of his digits so tightly that Gojo groans in anticipation for what you'll feel like around his cock. Despite the nature of your arrangement, he still has the decency to properly prepare you for his girth.

He pumps his fingers into you feverishly, and his thumb finally graces your throbbing clit, flicking and rubbing in a consistent and mind-numbing tempo. His other hand spreads your thights further apart, and his bright eyes are veiled with lust once your pretty, wet pussy is fully exposed for him to see.

"God, you're so gorgeous..."

Shyness envelopes you; however, anxious thoughts linger at the back of your mind, tormenting you with the fact that Gojo will never see you as more than a good fuck. Thankfully, a harsh bite to your perky nipple sends you back to the present, and you whine lowly while Gojo circles his tongue around your breasts like a starved man.

"You ready for it, pretty girl?"

His voice is low and sultry, devoid of his usual cheeriness, and it only makes you shudder and squirm. "Please, I want it. I want you."

You want all of him, but you know you can't have him; you decide, for tonight, you'll be fine with just his cock inside you. After all, you can't have his heart.

Gojo spares you from prolonged teasing, for he is too impatient to wait until he can fully sheath himself inside your warmth. Hooking your tense legs around his waist, he aligns his tented pants to your bare pussy. With unrivaled efficiency, he unzips his trousers and pulls down his boxers, revealing a cock so pretty that it makes you drool.

He grazes his thumb over his cockhead, moaning lowly as he spreads a bead of precum over his tip. You're entirely entranced — after all, Gojo is simply drop-dead gorgeous. It takes you all your mental strength to push away your inhibitions and tighten your legs around his waist.

"Put it in," you whimper as you palm his well-defined chest, desperate for anything and everything that is Gojo. You'll take what you are given, no matter how little he can offer.

"This," Gojo huffs as his cheeks redden in anticipation. "This doesn't mean anything, alright?"

Your heart aches, but — at the moment — your pussy aches much more, so you resort to pulling him closer to you, his tip now kissing your folds, as you lie through your teeth,

"We're just going to fuck, and it'll be nothing more than that."

Gojo releases a shuddered exhale and shakes his head before finally pushing himself in. Your body curls as heat spreads through your veins. He is being painfully slow with putting it in, but you appreciate being given time to adjust to his lengthy and thick cock.

You moan in unison once he's buried to the hilt. This time, he doesn't even wait a few seconds before slamming his hips into your pelvis like a feral animal.

Your body jolts upward with each stroke, making your breasts bounce so sexily; Satoru couldn't resist wholly engulfing your perky mound with his salivating mouth, nipping and sucking as if he were insatiable. His other hand finds itself on your clit, pinching it so suddenly, making you scream in immeasurable pleasure.

His entire form exudes absolute strength; there is truly no doubt about it. Being overpowered by his mere presence makes your entire body shake and arch in all the right places. It seems that Gojo is fully aware of his effect on you, for he intently gazes deep into your eyes with his magnificently blue ones.

The intimacy of such a gesture makes you moan, and you feel unwanted thoughts etch across your mind once again.

'Don't look at me like that, or I'll fall in love with you even more,' it's the only coherent thought bubbling in your mind, for you are quickly approaching your release.

Gojo removes himself from your breast and opts to peer down at your connecting bodies. He marvels at how your slit stretches to accommodate his cock, and he feels himself twitch at how you obediently take him like his own personal slut. He releases a dry laugh at how terribly he treated you just moments prior. He always has been a blunt and disrespectful person. That's what Suguru always told him.

Suguru.

He growls in frustration to shake away thoughts that feature his best friend, and his apparent infuriation results in a quicker and stronger pace that leaves you silently screaming.

Thrust.

Gojo misses Suguru so fucking much.

Thrust.

His mere strength isn't enough to save him.

Thrust.

He doesn't want to be saved, after all.

Thrust.

It's all his fault—

"Satoru!"

The spiral of Gojo's distressing thoughts comes to a halt, for your yelp of pleasure helps him regain his focus. You reach your climax, and your lips are parted as you make small, sensual noises of contentment.

Your expression is overtaken by bliss as your body faintly tremors from your high. The mere sight of you is enough to make Gojo stagger in his movements. With a shaky breath, he fully burries himself in your heat, and he fills you to the brim with strong spurts of his hot cum.

His grip on your waist loosens as his cock softens inside you. Slowly pulling himself away from you, he sighs at your mixed fluids dripping from your gaping hole. Before Gojo can stand to his full height, he feels your hand gently tug at his wrist.

"Won't you stay?"

You're too spent to even think of the repercussions of your question. Drunk in pleasure, you forget how you told Satoru with certainty that no attachments will form after this night — this horrid, heart-wrenching yet unforgettable night.

To your disappointment, he gently shakes off your grip as he takes a few steps away from you on the couch, closer to the exit of your apartment.

"No," he keeps his cool while he dresses himself with his discarded clothing on the floor. "I still have missions to do."

"...Oh," your dejected sigh hangs in the air, and the piercing sadness returns to fill your lungs.

'This won't mean anything,' you painfully recall your untruthful assertion. Your body may feel tired and sore, but your heart continues to mercilessly etch sorrow onto your soul.

You turn away from Gojo, hoping that he won't notice your glossy eyes and silent hiccups. You don't see him stare at your back with a hidden melancholy behind a practiced poker face. You don't see him frustratingly run his hands through his hair, cursing at himself silently.

You don't see him take a hesitant half-step towards you before taking two steps away.

All you hear is an uncharacteristically quiet 'goodbye' before the sound of your apartment door opening and closing fills your home.

"Fuck," you cry to yourself. "I'm so fucking pathetic."

You curl into a ball, a messy heap atop your ruined cushions, and you cry to yourself under the luminous moonlight.

Gojo Satoru will never want you — love you — the way you want him to.

You will never be in his heart.

Someone else is already in it, after all.

a/n: I made myself feel depressed with this one. If you want, I might make a second part (maybe a happy ending can be possible for you and Gojo). For now, enjoy the angst. Reblogs and comments are much appreciated! ☆

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suguru-getos · 2 years ago

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|| octaves part -1 | gojo satoru x geto suguru x f!reader ||

summary: being suguru’s s/o, you were in agony with the news of his death, and satoru had only one mission in his head, heeding the last words of his best friend and saving you from being broken

warnings: lots of angst, this series will have sm angst and dark themes, comfort, etc.

a/n: i just want to bleed thru my words for stsg else i cant cope up with how my heart breaks for them😭 lmk if you wanna be tagged for part two !!

the skies felt drenched with the heaviness of the grief you carried in your heart. you dragged yourselves out of the bed, footsteps dragging against the wooden floor as you strided towards the balcony, glossy eyed and gazing up at the sky. the only sight in your head was suguru’s smile. he looked so tender, as if he was made of glass. breakable at the slightest touch; whenever he was being himself. a lonely rain drop fell on your cheek, and before you could envelop your senses for anything more, you were drenched. your tears mingling with the rain, masking your choking grief and misery.

suguru geto was no more…

the man who killed his parents, just because they were non-sorcerers, couldn’t bring himself to kill you. he thought the immense cursed energy you had within yourself could be controlled, could be— moulded into something that’s supreme. suguru refused to see you as a filthy monkey, even though. that’s just what you felt you were. yes? you could see cursed energies, but you were no sorcerer. sometimes you wonder if the man who so tenderly cherished you would’ve slayed you just because he hated you for not being one of his kind.

“let’s curse each other.” is what he had said to gojo satoru, and still— he didn’t let you enter the battle. himiko and nanako opened the door to your room. locked by suguru and hugged you till they passed out crying; telling you suguru was no more. you had no words, no emotions to explain the tightness in your chest, your head haunting with the daunting fact of suguru’s absence which will linger forever.

you didn’t really agree with what suguru wanted, you knew in the end; he just wanted the suffering to end. he didn’t want his comrades to be gory dead bodies. suguru cared, suguru cared oh so much that it took him his heart. you didn’t mind that. you were broken just like him, suguru accepted you as it is. only fair you did too… even if; it was… unacceptable. besides, you thought you could change his unhinged ideals. typical case of, ‘i can fix him’, while he continued getting worse.

suguru never wore his kimono/monk dress with you, with you he was— suguru. smiling softly, wearing clothes that scented like him, that scented like home. the way he’d smile and grin whenever you’d kiss him on the cheek, whenever you’d kiss his forehead and tell him he’s beautiful. whenever you’d pout over his hair being longer than yours… suguru geto was an exquisite man, and now you were bearing the consequences for loving him with all your being.

it was like your heart was slowly forked out, carved out of your chest with the pain, you wanted to scream out until your throat burns and you wanted to kill yourself… you didn’t want to live in a world without suguru geto.

“y/n san.” himeko called out, shaking your tranced form in the bathing rain. dragging you inside and wrapping a blanket against you. you still remembered them as little girls, dazed eyes and shaky hands wrapping and cupping her face as a pathetic chuckle escaped you. tears drenching your face. “himeko chan, where’s suguru?” part of you knew the answer to it, yet asked the same question. refusing to believe it.

“geto san-” himeko teared up, leaning her forehead against your knee. “please, y/n san. please.” she silently babbled, begging you to not ask that again. you were his family and he was yours. right now, all you felt was intolerable grief.

“make it stop.” you mumbled, eyes strained from the lack of blinking due to your haze. “himeko chan, leave me alone.” your words didn’t seem like a suggestion, it was an order. the girls knew better than to respect you, especially in a time like this. when you were shattered, broken, unmendable.

himeko got up, looking at you and wiping her tears. you wanted to be there for them, for everyone. but you wanted to be selfish as well. you wanted to destroy the world, you wanted to destroy yourself, you wanted to destroy every single thing in this world. the next thing you heard was her footsteps, fading away from you as you sunk down the couch.

there was a pin drop silence, until you could hear the second hand of the clock tick with every moment. everything started to seem overwhelming at that point, suguru’s smile engaging with your grieving soul. his warm hugs, the intimacy of feeling him inside you.

a shrill scream echoed, tearing through the deafening silence of the room. it was you, horrified with everything. you screamed until you couldn’t anymore, until your silent tears turned into wails, broken sobs and panicked breathlessness. “come back, come back, come back please please pl-”

meanwhile, the man who stood outside your door, satoru gojo. hearing everything and also sharing your pain as tears spilled from his baby-blue eyes, remembered the last conversation he had with his best friend, the only one he had.

“any last words.”

“… no matter what, i fucking hate those monkeys”

“suguru…”

“satoru… promise me. you will take care of y/n. i deliberetely kept her away from everything- from,” a weak chuckle escapes suguru, causing him to cough out blood. “from who i am as a whole, just so she is redeemable if i am not here. that’s my last word to you. neh? satoru. promise me.”

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arrenlebanen777 · 7 months ago

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🩸PERSONAL SOLAR RETURN OBSERVATIONS 🩸

Sun conjunct Mars in Scorpio in 7th house: In terms of relationships this year has been tough. It has started with a painful breakup where I thought it was the first time I dated a narcissist. Lots of lies. An ex from years ago reappeared in my life and it has been complicated but it has become a beautiful friendship. I have had to stand up strong and defend myself a lot, many people blaming me for things they did and wanting to fight me, it has been intense but despite all the pain, I have felt much stronger and a little colder, although I have to say that my heart has closed a little. Mercury in Scorpio in 8th house: I have been much more reserved, much more meticulous, it has been very difficult for me to talk about superficial things and I have criticized them quite a bit, I have been much more analytical getting to the bottom of things, I have felt my intuition stronger although it has made me sense sad and painful things i didn't want to like lies, people talking bad about me, betrayals, and that some familiars are not very well in terms of health issues. North node in exact conjunction with Aries rising: This year I've had face lot's of karmic lessons. It is the first time that in an esoteric reading I was told that my vibration was too low and that my heart was too closed. My self-esteem has been on the floor many times. I have had to learn to work on my self-love and dignity a lot. I have felt a lot of anger and have been in situations where I have felt helpless. However, therapy has been one of the richest moments in terms of internal and personal growth. I had many moments where I thought that I did not deserve to live, and that I was a bad person, but I have continued with my life, I don't know how, I have simply just done it.

Venus In Virgo in 5th house opposite Neptune in Pisces in 11th house: The dating area has been a difficult area as well, a lot of people being delusional in front of me, a lot of rejections and people who appear to be available but are not, I have never been ghosted so much before, some dreamy girls have appeared but have left as if they never existed, I have also felt that I want to retire from the area of love. Lilith in Virgo in 5th house: As I said before, the love and dating area has been a tough area this year, I feel like a lot of people expect too much from me, rejecting me for superficial things, I have felt like I have been lied to a lot this year in the love area. Despite that, I have talked to some pretty girls who in the past wouldn't even talk to me, the conversations start off intense but then they reject me for very superficial things like how many followers I have on Instagram, how much I earn, how tall I am, how I write, how I speak, etc. I have felt a lot of pressure and frustration this year in this area, it has been a shitty area. Moon in Leo in 4th house: Maybe in my home it has been a richer area, my family supports me, the family area has become a rather bright area, as if everyone feels more alive, I have felt more confident in my family, it has been more entertaining to meet and talk to more relatives, but despite this, they have been very demanding with me but it is as if I had the emotional energy to do all the things they ask me to do it. Pluto in Capricorn conjunct Midheaven: This year I have had a huge change in what I want to do for my future, I am no longer doing yoga (as a teacher), but I am much more focused on making money only, despite that I am focusing on making music or art in a much more serious way, but I must admit that many times I feel as if my future is going to shit, or I feel helpless about how to face the world sometimes, it has been a tough year in that area but despite that I have felt too resilient to these pressures, accepting them. And I don't resonate at all with the "life is a game" thing lately, everything feels a lot more serious. Saturn in Pisces in 11th house: I already have Saturn in the 11th house in my natal chart, but this year I have felt much more lonely than before. I have had many times where I have wanted to go out to collective events or parties but it is like when I want to go out right away nobody wants to or everyone is busy, it has been quite frustrating for my inner child, it is as if I cannot have fun with others or as if others do not want to spend time with me, there was even a situation where I was with a friend and she told her friend (who was at a party) if she could go, but as soon as she mentioned that she was with me, her friend said no. It has been very frustrating, it has been hard for me to understand it, I feel as if there is something wrong with me, but anyway. I have felt on a lonelier path, and focused much more on what I want to do in terms of work and money.

#astrology observations #astro observations #astro notes #astrology #astrology blog #solar return #solar return observations #neptune #mars in scorpio #mercury in scorpio #pluto transit #pluto #birth chart #astrology birth chart #tumblr astrology #astrology community #astro tumblr #zodiac tumblr #saturn

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basimdasasonst · 8 months ago

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snw spock rant

i've been watching strange new worlds recently, and the prevailing feeling i always leave with, no matter the episode, is that i would like it if not for spock.

don't get me wrong; i'm a tos fan to my core. star trek launched me into a love of sci-fi and space fiction and is the whole reason i'm in university studying astrophysics, why i'm writing a book using said inner astrophysics nerd, why i have any sense of purpose to me, cliche as it is to say. star trek was an integral, important part of my upbringing, and continues to be one of my main interests to this day. i love jim (and i love snw jim! especially after aos kirk (shudders)) and i love bones (i really hope he joins snw soon....leonard mccoy save us....save us leonard mccoy...) and i love scotty and i love spock. but not snw spock.

here's the thing about spock: his internal character conflicts have always had some sort of root in him being not enough/not vulcan enough/not human enough/etc. his struggles with relationships as a result – because, lets face it, both humans and vulcans are social creatures and need friends otherwise society as a whole wouldn't be a thing on either world – make up a core part of his character. in tos, his relationship struggles were nearly purely platonic, with a few offhand remarks about stray crew members having crushes on him (uhura in early first season, chapel in amok time).

s1e4 "the naked time". spock, right before losing his figurative Marbles, sees "love mankind" written on a wall. later, he goes on to say to jim: "when i feel friendship for you, i'm ashamed." other posts have done and will do better jobs of explaining it, but in conjunction with "sinner" written on the turbolift near jim (about not being able to form lasting relationships with other crewmates because its too much of a power imbalance), the writing on the wall (literally) is that spock is inherently ashamed of his humanity. he has been raised on vulcan to be a vulcan.

his internal conflict is always about him struggling with his human side. he struggles with friendship, he struggles with his humanity, he struggles to be something that people don't immediately deem wrong. as a gay man, and certainly as a young queer child first watching tos, i felt closest to spock not just because of feeling ashamed of part of my cultural heritage, but also because of repression. spock represses these feelings of insecurity, of friendship, of the need for connection in others in a certain way, so much that it causes him pain. growing up gay, his pain was very real to me. writing on the wall. he’s silly and a cool character of course, but he resonated with me in a way that, at the time, i didn’t have anything to resonate with.

what does this all have to do with me hating snw spock so much? i want to preface this by saying i went into snw really wanting to love it. i saw the intro and the planets and the nebulae and the black hole and the music and was like "damn, this is fucking cool." star trek, to some part of me, was also about the space exploration aspect as much as the characters. the whims of wacky crewmembers and sentient rocks. the impossibly infinite things nature can form on its own. snw looked fun. i really wanted to like it. and you know what? i almost like it.

except for spock. quite literally the only character i have any quarrels with is spock. dehydrated, glistening, oiled up spock. wtf. why is he in a relationship with t'pring? why does he (almost) cheat on her with chapel? and why chapel??????????? chapel has a one-sided (VERY CLEARLY ONE SIDED) crush on him in tos. why is it two sided now.

what, and i can't stress this enough, the fuck?

and don't come into my house and tell me "oh you know, it makes sense, because, because then spock gets all hard and Logical and shuts himself off and obviously the reason for that is a breakup–" No!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! no no no no. i don't care if it makes “sense” it feels so intrinsically wrong to his character. i’ve had much more character development from losing life-long friends than ending barely a year long relationships. spock wouldn’t immediately shut down because he kissed a girl once and then she said “acshually sowwy my work is more important” when that’s the exact sentiment he echoed to t’pring when they broke up.

more importantly, snw spock barely has friends. he calls pike a friend once or twice, but i hardly believe that they're friends. he barely interacts with la'an or erica, he has a few passing conversations with uhura in season 1 on episodes about her that don't really carry into season 2, and otherwise he's just There. he doesn't have friends in snw. the writers are prioritising him having a romantic relationship over a friendship. snw spock needs a friend way more than he needs a bone buddy. and it really rubs me the wrong way the way the relationship with chapel was portrayed to be first friendly and then romantic. i never believed for a second that he and chapel were friends – despite the screenwriters trying. every time they talked prior to s2e5 there was this odd undercurrent of sexuality that seemed to follow them. lingering looks, touching fingertips, long pauses – it was so unbelievably awkward and obvious that they were setting up a relationship between the two. i mean, for fucks sake, s1e1 uhura calls chapel "spock's girlfriend." boy did my blood boil when i figured out that was where the show was going. s1e5 was actually painful for me to get through (chapel sits down, gives spock relationship advice, giggles, smacks him upside the head, and calls him an idiot. 2017 wattpad is calling, they want their material back) and i had to take two full days to get through s2e5 because i was in anguish the whole time. it was a constant mental barrage of "spock wouldn't say that," and "spock wouldn't do that," and "this is not spock."

for the most part, i couldn't figure out why spock and chapel's relationship specifically bothered me so much. i mean i have my quarrels with la'an and jim, and i really don't give much of a care about pike and batel so why was spock and chapel grating on me so badly? was it because it was being shoved in my face? was the writing that much more atrocious than the others? was it the decimation of spock's character?

it was, i found, a product of all of those and the issue of queerness.

look; i've survived sherlock bbc, i’ve survived the golden age of quotev fandom in 2016, i've bared witness to so much queerbaiting in my life that i don't even bother trying to hope for any sort of main character queer representation anymore. we’re going to be a footnote until someone does something about it. unfortunately, that’s not going to be me because i’m not a film director. so i look the other way and steam about it on twitter or tumblr or whatever hoping that i, like many other frustrated queer people, get noticed one day in the far future when it’s ok to have a queer romance in mainstream, it’s ok to have a queer main character, and it’s ok to let it simmer slowly and burn instead of jumping into it to say “look guys we’re woke!!!!!” (star trek literally was the pioneer for most of these things back in the day. but that’s another discussion on the heterosexualisation of progressive media that i wont get into. it just feels bitterly funny that this is happening to star trek of all things.) these days i just pretend the relationships dont exist and skip over them when they happen. i've developed a sixth sense for when weird, forced heterosexuality is about to be shoved down my oesophagus. i've just gotten used to it.

but sphapel (or whatever it's called) burned through me. i've never felt quite this angry at an on screen relationship. and, trust me, i saw AOS. i didn't like spuhura then and i don't like it now but i wasn't angry so much as i was just tired and annoyed. but spock was – and always is to me, confused, queer 10 year old me – a queer character. his struggle with humanity, with friendship, with fitting in, with just being as a perceived "other" was what made him an interesting character to me to begin with. he was a certain outlet to vent that frustration for being "wrong" in society no matter how hard you try to conform one way or another. the knowledge that even if you are different, you still have people backing you up. his fucking friendships, guys. jim and bones. yes i know his friendship with jim is also inherently romantic dont worry im spirk #1 shipper but that’s not relevant here because, and forgive me for being pessimistic, i don’t believe for a second that these writers are going to lean into spirk anytime soon. their relationship went beyond friendship or romance or any of that stuff. coughs in the roddenberry footnote.

what i’m trying to say here, in layman’s terms, is that giving a friendless character a romantic relationship is exactly how you alienate a character. name one person you know in real life that can survive healthily with one single relation, that being their romantic partner that they have no friendly base of. you can’t. that’s a toxic relationship. that’s not romance, that’s alienation. that’s isolation. that’s loneliness. and that’s the OPPOSITE OF WHAT EXPLORING SPOCK’S HUMAN SIDE IS SUPPOSED TO DO TO HIM .

by stripping spock of his friends, and forcing his arc to be purely romantic, you have essentially stripped the character of all he is. i'd be mad if chapel was a dude, too, honestly speaking. but beyond that, corralling spock of all people into a heterosexual romantic relationship is – well. it's a choice i don't think i can ever agree with. the best way i can describe such a choice is like a dissonant chord – you can pluck the notes and they'll sound fine on their own, but when you put them together they will clash. there is nothing you can do with your fingers to play the same notes and not cause the clash. they will always clash. it is dissonance ringing through you, an inherent wrongness coupled with writing that is lazy and clearly meant for a very specific audience. snw spock is bad writing, fanservice, and extraordinarily out of character. notes i can tolerate on their own, but strung together – dissonant.

i really want to like snw. fuck, i love la'an, i love erica, i love jim (!!! thank you paul wesley for making him a nerd, and kind (glares at AOS), and generally a jim kirk that i can look at and say, "yeah, that's jim alright"), i love uhura, i love una, i love m'benga and i love pike but i hate spock. i really, truly, cannot like snw when i have to pause the show and take an irritated deep breath in every time i see chapel approach spock. it's – frustrating, and alienating, and wrong. so, so wrong.

#spock #snw spock #star trek #star trek snw #star trek strange new worlds #star trek spock #mr spock #spirk #star trek tos #star trek the original series #strange new worlds #snw

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