#like the cartoon bone sort of jutting through the neck skin

[podcastwizard]

tried to suck the marrow out of life but i inhaled too quickly and got the bone stuck in my throat looney tunes style this is embarrassing af

[babyybitchhh]

Shigaraki x Reader 18+

Title: Crybaby

Rating: Explicit/R-18+

Words: 12,290

Warnings: I'll be honest and say I'm not entirely sure how to tag some of this so proceed with caution. Infantilization, forced age regression, mental age regression, non consensual regression, ageplay, mentions of baby bottles and pacifiers, coercion, general noncon and dubcon, diddling, vaginal fingering, involuntary urination, wetting, mention of forced third party bathing, diapers, penis in vagina sex, unprotected sex, creampie, excessive use of 'Tomu-nii', mention of sex slaves, a brief but explicitly violent death mention towards the start, overall very questionable decisions from both me and Shigaraki

A/N: I will not be taking any questions at this time, thank you.

( @tomurasprincess)

♥♥♥♥

There was a fine line between a gift and a burden.

A new video game, for example, is something people were generally happy to receive and there was no obligation to slave over it at all hours of the day, unless you wanted to. A puppy, on the other hand, came with a certain amount of responsibility that couldn’t be side lined until Tomura decided to deal with it. There was no save button, no coming back to it later. He had to be vigilant to some degree, mindful of the life that was now in his hands, and that wasn’t something he was accustomed to by any stretch of the imagination. He couldn’t stand it. Didn’t even really possess the vernacular needed to describe exactly how much it pissed him off that he was suddenly expected to take care of someone - something else.

It was bullshit.

Standing over your prone form sprawled out on the cluttered floor he thinks, not for the first time, about ending it right here and now. It would be easy, surely. One touch of his hand and you’d be gone. Disintegrated to mere dust and nothing more than a vague, unpleasant memory in the back of his mind. You deserved it by simple virtue of being such a damn inconvenience but, just as every other time, he hesitates.

Not because you don’t even realize the danger you’re in as you innocently kick your legs back and forth in the air, all your wide eyed, dopey attention locked on the tv screen. Tomura is not so soft as to consider a sneak attack you don’t even see coming an insult to his pride. He would’ve been showing you mercy, actually, because if he didn’t fear upsetting All for One so much he’d have preferred to wrap his hands around your scrawny little neck instead. Give you a good throttle or two. Squeeze until his knuckles were a stark white against your purpling blue skin. He could almost envision what you would look like, all bloated and full of blood from burst capillaries and reddened eyes rolling into the back of your skull.

His cock stirs in his pants and his hatred for you grows with it. He couldn’t stand you or what you represented, a sudden addition to his life that he never asked for but couldn’t get rid of, and the fact he was getting stiff from his morbid fantasies was certainly your fault too. Everything was your fault. Right down to the most minor of inconveniences, you were to blame - even if it happened before you were dropped into his lap with all the to-do of a posh, overly indulgent birthday present. It was you. You, you, you, you you you youyouyouyouyou -

“Tomu-nii?”

With a jolt, he snaps out of it. The haze lifts and his blown out eyes focus in on your tubby little face, now turned over your shoulder to glance back at him. Tomura isn’t sure when you realized he was looming over you like some horrible, sickly wraith and he knows even less how it is that you show no fear towards him. Were you really so stupid that you couldn’t sense his desire to not only kill you but make you suffer? So blind that you didn’t see the way his bony hands fisted at his sides with a purpose and not in idle reflex?

No. It wasn’t that you were as unintelligent as a brain dead sheep happily trotting off to slaughter. Rather, it’s because that was what All for One had designed you to be.

Tomura wouldn’t claim to understand how, exactly, his mentor had gotten these results but he knows enough to recognize the signs. You’d been stripped of everything in a way that far exceeded mere surface level nudity. All for One had gone even deeper than that, past flesh and bone and right into the heart of what made you you. The brain.

He had no doubt that a quirk had been used, the specifics of which he couldn’t even begin to fathom, but the tinkering and rewiring had done its job exceedingly well, in fact. While your body was that of a young adult woman, early to mid 20’s if he had to wager a guess, your mind was something like that of a toddlers. You could speak just fine but the enunciation was sloppy, your words childish and limited to small, easily communicable sentences. You picked up on things surprisingly fast, perhaps even a little too well if the way he’d heard you let out a soft, half hearted ‘fuck’ earlier was anything to go by. But you slipped up just as easily and he was getting real tired of making sure you went and sat on the toilet instead of pissing all over his (no doubt already smelly) carpet. Living in his own mess was one thing. Living in someone else’s was another matter entirely.

Nothing about this was in error, though. You were exactly what All for One intended for you to be - little more than an animal for him to look after but with arguably higher stakes involved - and he’d had enough. It’d only been a single day, a full 24 hours since you were dropped into his room, and he was already at the end of his patience.

“What’s wrong? Don’t like that stupid cartoon I put on for you?”

You actually had the audacity to pout at him, jutting your lower lip out and puffing your cheeks as if that was supposed to make him feel anything other than an even stronger urge to take you out of this world. “S’not that. Mm’ just bored. You’re no fun.”

Tomura very nearly lunges at you with outstretched hands, All for One be damned, but your next words stop him in his tracks.

“I thought maybe you were coming to play with me.”

Play with you? He would’ve laughed if only he could find even a sliver of real humor in this situation. This was a joke, if not because of the absurdity of it all then at least because he wanted to play with you alright. He wanted to play a game that started with you screaming in shrill terror and ended with a chilly body laid out on his bedroom floor. That sounded like more fun than a barrel of kittens.

He stills himself, though, and snobbishly peers at you down the length of his nose. “I don’t play games with brats. Sorry.”

That only makes you pout even more. “Meanie.”

“Watch your fucking cartoon,” Tomura grits out through gnashing, angry teeth, unreasonably irritated by your persistent refusal to cooperate. “Before I make you.”

He isn’t even really sure if that threat makes any sense at this point, so thrown off by your mere presence in what should’ve been his space that he can barely make heads or tails of his own thoughts anymore. But the dramatic way you squawk in displeasure and throw yourself out flat on the floor placates him somewhat. You were easy to rile up, and he would have been a boldfaced liar if he’d said he didn’t get a kick out of that. Tomura had never felt quite so cruel, so much like an adolescent bully looking to make his problems someone else’s as when he was working you up into a proper fit.

It was easily the most enjoyable aspect of this arrangement so far, and he watches with nothing short of smug satisfaction as you pound your hands on the floor in pent up frustration. It was laughably easy to picture what they’d look like, well groomed after a manicure and with a fresh coat of polish on the nails. You looked like you’d probably been the sort of woman who would go with reds. Fierce and bold, as much a statement as your pretty face, which was currently scrunched up and pressed tight against the carpet in front of his tv. Those same hands were plain and unadorned now, squeezed into tight little fists that were about as harmless as they could get. Tomura probably would’ve considered a turtle more of a pressing threat than you right now.

“Crybaby.” He spits the word out like it’s poison. “Does that make you feel better? Huh? Throwing a tantrum just because you’re not getting your way?”

“Mm’ not a crybaby!” You scream into the carpet. The contrast between your plushy figure and your behavior is disturbing on some very real, intrinsic level and that only seems to add fuel to his fire.

“Hah! That’s funny. You certainly look like one, you know that? What would you even think of yourself if you were in your right mind, I wonder.”

“Mm’ not!” Your incessant screeching rises in pitch and Tomura is almost positive you aren’t even really hearing him anymore, but he decides he doesn’t care.

“Embarrassing. Maybe I should have Kurogiri bring me a bottle since you want to act like a baby so much. Or would you like a pacifier instead? Hmm? Would that make you feel better, princess?”

“Nooooo!”

Your feet start kicking the air again, violently rather than in placid distraction, and the motion draws Tomura’s gaze to the seat of your onesie. Pink and humiliatingly infantile for a grown woman to be wearing, he’d looked at it with nothing short of contempt up until now. But the (no doubt exhausting) flex of your legs bunches the loose cotton, making it gather around your upturned ass and in turn emphasizes the convenient button flap across the back. Now that he’s actually looking at it, he’s almost positive it was wide enough to expose your entire rear to the world with little more than a quick snap of his fingers. Maybe even wide enough to expose other things too …

Tomura jolts with all the force of a sudden electric shock when you cry out his name or, rather, the ridiculous moniker you’d given him. He’d like to know who’d planted that particular seed in your head - if it was All for One’s idea of a twisted joke or if Kurogiri had really thought being called niichan by a woman who may or may not actually be older than him would make Tomura feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It doesn’t exactly matter now, though, because the wet quality of your voice makes his cock spring up in his pants. He’s mildly horrified with himself, far more comfortable with his earlier fantasies of killing you, but there’s no helping it anymore. Not when you say his name like that. Not when the tears he’d initially thought were crocodilian at best were so thick and heavy in your throat that the syllables come out garbled and almost incomprehensible.

He’s not sure what he intends to do, but he shuffles closer.

You’ve started to tire out now and the kicking slows before stopping all together. He watches your ankles cross over one another in the air, as if you were trying to self soothe on some level by physically keeping yourself together, but it doesn’t seem to do much in the way of good. Your shoulders were still trembling with the lingering traces of your fit, and he can hear you mewling into the abrasive carpet like a wounded animal. It was clear that you were hurting because of him - and not just as a result of his teasing. After the complete and utter deconstruction of your mind, you were probably scared without even really knowing why. Confused, but too lost in the quirk induced stupor that had left you in this sorry state to seek out answers.

He hadn’t bothered to test this theory yet, but Tomura would have been willing to bet good money that All for One left you with very little inside that thick skull of yours. It just made sense, after all. For what good was a doll with memories of her past life? What would he have possibly gotten out of playing house with someone who fought him every step of the way, either out of embarrassment or repulsion towards him as a person?

No. You were a blank slate in the strictest sense. His to mold however he deemed fit and with no recollection of who you were, who you’d been or even who you’d wanted to be, he was free to do whatever he damn well pleased.

There was still raging contempt for you burning within his chest, certainly. You were an annoying, unnecessary burden on him and there was no getting around the fact that he still wanted you gone. But the spark igniting his gut is even stronger and, for better or worse, it momentarily overrides his better judgement.

So he sinks down onto his knees, directly behind you, and reaches out to tentatively palm the swell of your ass. Pinky held away, so as not to disintegrate you, which surprises him somewhat given how vivid his fantasies of killing you had been. He doesn’t get to linger on that for very long though, because you grow still at his touch and your pathetic sniveling quiets to a soft, almost hopeful sniffle. Tomura bites back a crude snort, just barely managing to catch himself before he backpedals and hisses another insult at you. He could probably take what he wanted with any given method, he didn’t have to be nice about it, but somehow the alternative just felt wrong. Physically you were an adult, but with the mental state of a child it felt a bit like taking advantage of an innocent and he wasn’t a complete monster.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, the word foreign on his tongue. “I shouldn’t have been so mean. Will you forgive me?”

You squirm and push your face further into the carpet. “Mhm.”

He doesn’t smile. But he does take that as an incentive to push forward, and he starts caressing your backside with slow, cautious circles. “Do you really want me to play with you that bad?”

“Mhm.”

Hesitating, Tomura considers his next words very carefully. “Fine. I’ll play with you. But I get to choose the game.”

You don’t immediately respond and he starts to wonder if he’d made a mistake. Overestimated his ability to be diplomatic and conscientious - which wouldn’t exactly have come as a surprise. But then you shift on the floor, tension draining from your body as you turn your head so you aren’t suffocating in the carpet anymore. “Okay.”

His brows lift in surprise only to then knit together. It was that easy? He’s not so sure he trusts it but, dropping his gaze back down to your ass, he gives the doughy soft flesh an experimental squeeze. Your only response is a soft, faltering sigh that seems to help you relax more. This, too, seems a little too good to be true but he keeps going anyway.

When a few minutes of kneading your defenseless backside does nothing to upset you, Tomura starts to get bolder. He slowly brings his opposite hand forward and latches onto the other cheek with four fingers, massaging both sides in tandem. He’d had the unfortunate luck of seeing your bare ass late the previous evening, after you’d emptied your bladder all over the blanket he’d tossed you to sleep on which had resulted in an aggressively administered bath for you and a frustrated headache for him. He hadn’t paid too much attention at the time, far too angry to be horny, but he knew enough to realize that you were unexpectedly voluptuous under that onesie.

The garment itself was so oversized it hid even the smallest hint of the womanly figure underneath. He probably would’ve forgotten all about it, pushed to the back of his mind in favor of more pressing matters (like getting rid of you) but now that he’s got his hands on your butt it’s all he can think about. The way your full tits jiggled when he’d non too gently manhandled you into the tub. The frustratingly cute lower belly pouch that bulged when you sat down, crying, on the porcelain surface. The way your thighs molded to whatever position he’d yanked them in so he could hose you off like a filthy stray. He’d actively avoided looking at what was between your legs, in fear of what he’d see as much as stubborn refusal, but looking back on it now he isn’t sure how he hadn’t given in to temptation.

Now, however, he was suddenly more interested than ever in finding out what your pussy looked like and, hooking his long index fingers into the flap, he starts to unlatch it one button at a time.

You make no move to stop him. Don’t even protest or question what he’s doing. It’s almost as if just having his attention on you is enough, and Tomura’s mouth pulls back in a sneer at the mere thought. You were so damn stupid for trusting him like this, completely oblivious or uncaring about what his intentions were. He could be as violent with you as he wanted. He could erase you from this existence with the briefest touch. But you just lay there, your shoulders slowly rising and falling with each even breath you draw, and he can’t decide if that feeling clawing at the back of his throat is hatred or guilt.

But there’s no real reason to stop now, so he carefully peels back the flap of fabric once he’s got it completely unfastened. Bare skin greets him, a perfectly exposed strip of swelling flesh that seems all the more enticing with pink cotton framing it so nicely. He pauses long enough to lick his dry, cracked lips. The weight of his stiff cock strains against the inside of his zipper, twitching eagerly when he reaches out to hesitantly touch your back side again.

The sensation of a real, living person under his fingertips makes his breath come a little faster. Still, you don’t move though and he picks up right where he left off, roughly groping your ass cheeks with barely contained excitement until he gets so vigorous that you whimper.

“Shh. I’ll try not to be so rough.” Tomura shushes you, throaty and barely more than a murmur.

You settle back into place, thankfully, and he takes that chance to spread your cheeks open. He gets a brief glimpse of the puckered hole hidden inside, white hot static racing straight to his groin, and he lets out a rumbling groan. His fingers squeeze into flesh again and he pulls, baring you entirely to his voracious eyes. The tight muscle twitches, winking at him, and his attention drops to the smallest satiny peak of your slit. He can just barely see it, mostly hidden behind the pooling fabric bunched under the swell of your ass, but it’s more than enough to make him feel dizzy.

“Shit,” he sounds winded even to his own ears. “You’ve got such a nice body.”

To his surprise, you actually perk up at that. “Really?”

Tomura almost snaps at you on impulse, so irritated by the sound of your voice that he nearly forgets what he’s trying to do. Quelling himself, though, he tugs at the bottom half of your onesie until he can see the plushy soft lips of your pussy. You look so inviting, so warm and real he can hardly even stand it.

“Really.” He croaks. “How old are you again?”

You seem to think about that. “Mm, I dunno’!”

He frowns. Contemplates that for a long beat. But the coarse hair curling around your slit seems answer enough, for him at least. You weren’t actually a child. You just sounded like one, acted like one, dressed like one. That wasn’t what was getting him so painfully hard though. It was the fact you were a woman, physically, and he’d never gotten to see one up close and personal like this before. Why hadn’t All for One just given him a proper sex slave instead of one that threw tantrums and cried at the drop of a dime? Was this really what his mentor had intended for him to do with you?

“Tomu-nii?”

Drawing a sharp breath, he brings his attention up to bark at you to be quiet but the words catch when he finds you looking at him over your shoulder. He can feel his cheeks starting to warm, suddenly embarrassed.

“What?”

“Why’re you looking at me like that?”

He flounders for a moment. Then, awkwardly clearing his throat, he decides to fall back on his original excuse. “This is the game I mentioned earlier. You wanted to play, right?”

You nod your head, but you don’t look entirely certain about that. “I do but … aren’t games s’posed to be fun? This is boring!”

His mouth presses into a thin line. It hadn’t occurred to him that you might not be content to just idly sit by while he molested your slutty little body, but if it was fun you wanted then he could certainly give you that. “This was just the warm up. Roll over and I’ll show you how to play.”

The way your eyes light up almost makes him regret this decision. It’s too late though, you’re already twisting over on to your back with your elbows braced on the carpet so you can stare up at him. Stupid and expectant.

He clicks his tongue.

Reaching out to grab your wide set hips with only eight of his fingers, he inelegantly drags you closer so that you were nicely slotted between his knees. Your legs curl up as you regard him with nothing short of intense curiosity, lips parting in a silent ‘o’ that very nearly sends him over the edge. You were too pretty for your own good. Much too beautiful to be wearing a pink onesie and acting like a baby. This was such a waste, and he almost feels bad for what All for One did to you.

But he shrugs it off, forcefully, and his delicately poised hands descend on your zipper. Zrrrrrt, straight down the length of your body. It stops directly above your crotch and he reaches up to reverently push the cotton out to the sides and expose the rest of you.

Your tits were even better than he’d initially thought. They were full and heavy, dotted with the most perfect little buds for nipples. Soft and smooth. Tomura’s mouth waters in anticipation and he doesn’t realize how roughly he’s jerking your arms out of the sleeves until you wail dramatically that it hurts.

He’d like to tell you what really hurts is his cock, unbearably hard and trapped inside his pants, but he refrains. Instead, he huffs out an insincere apology and keeps on yanking. He can’t get you undressed fast enough, mesmerized by the way your breasts jiggle and bounce every time he pulls on you. There’s something inherently wrong about this, he knows. It’s so damn obvious you’re not right in the head, that you aren’t of sound enough mind to even understand what he’s doing to you, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Not when you were so willing and pliant under his shaking hands.

Finally managing to wrest the blasted onesie off your kicking feet, Tomura tosses it off to the side and he eagerly sets his sights on your naked body. You should have looked seductive and coy, spread out in front of him with a devious smile curling artfully painted lips as you invite him to have his way with you. Instead, you fitfully squirm, neither seductive nor shy. It’s clear that you have no sense of shame, your artificially infantile brain completely void of the concept and even less aware of how inappropriate any of this was. You just keep looking at him, waiting for the explanation he’d promised to give you.

Oh. That’s right. The game he kept talking about. Perhaps he could still salvage this after all.

“The rules are simple,” he says slowly, scrambling to put together a decent excuse to keep going. “I’ll touch you for a little bit and if I can make you feel good then I win. After that, it’ll be your turn. If you make me feel good, you’ll win. Understand?”

Your expression pinches in confusion. “So we both win?”

“Only if we make each other feel good. What’s wrong? You don’t want to play with me anymore?”

Much to his relief, you quickly bob your head. “I do! Please play with me, Tomu-nii!”

The way his cock jolts at that makes his entire body ache. It’s much too late to turn back now, he was well past the point of salvation, and he haltingly drags his attention down to your chest. Your petite nipples had stiffened in the cool air but it’s as if you don’t even notice. Wasn’t that something a grown woman would be conscious of? He thinks so, or at least he’s pretty sure it is. Apparently it isn’t the sort of thing a dumb baby brain even registers, though, and he reaches out to curiously flick at one.

You gasp, eyes widening slightly. Misplaced hope sears his veins and he watches you intently, holding his breath, but you don’t seem to understand what it is you’re feeling. Your brows furrow as you glance down at yourself and bring a hand up to cover your nipple.

“Oww …”

That certainly wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. Or at least it wasn’t the sort of reaction Pornhub had taught him to expect, but it was still something.

“Baby.” He grumbles, reaching for the opposite tit.

“Mm’not!”

“Are too. Didn’t that feel good?”

“No!”

“Then you’re winning, aren’t you?”

Confusion marches across your face for a moment before understanding dawns. You look quite pleased now as you track the movement of his hand as he carefully pinches your puckered nipple between thumb and forefinger, gently rolling it between the pads. He doesn’t get an immediate reaction out of you but the longer he does it the more your lips start to purse. It’s as if you were holding back, determined not to show him that you might be enjoying it and risk losing the game, but it’s enough to embolden him.

His ministrations pick up and he gives your delicate little teat a mild twist. There’s no malice or cruelty behind the action. He just wants to see what you’ll do. And you don’t disappoint, the way you jump and your mouth flies open as if to squawk making his stomach clench with something perverse. You catch yourself at the last second though, teeth clacking together as your gaze flits up at him to see if he’s looking.

He is, of course, and you forcibly swallow the sound you’d almost let out. Tomura is a bit disappointed, sure. He’d wanted to hear how pretty you’d moan for him but there were still plenty of other chances for him to coerce at least one out of you.

Hunching over your prone body, he brings his other hand up to latch onto the opposite nipple, the one he’d previously flicked. You wince at the contact but make no move to stop him, biting down on your lower lip to keep quiet as you watch him play with your fat tits in petulant silence. It was ass backwards in so many ways. He’d thought, despite everything, his first time with a girl would be somewhat normal. Maybe not picture perfect or all that good when everything was said and done, but at least relatively mundane. This was the farthest thing from that though. He couldn’t conceive of a more wildly abnormal scenario even if he’d tried, nor did he recall ever seeing any porn with this hyper specific set up. But there was still some sick, twisted part of him that was deriving pleasure from this decidedly unorthodox encounter with the opposite sex, and that feeling only grows exponentially the more he keeps going.

Kneading, pinching, squeezing, tugging. He doesn’t let up until your nipples are flushed dark and straining hard, the glistening hint of tears at the corners of your eyes telling him beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was getting somewhere. The urge to call you a crybaby swells in his chest again but he doesn’t want to risk another tantrum. He wasn’t so sure his cock could handle it, particularly not when he’d positioned himself over you in such a way that one solid kick would put him out of commission for the foreseeable future. No, this was a delicate situation that required the utmost care on his part and, gathering his nerves, he swoops down to cover one of the stiff buds with his mouth.

The heated gasp that bursts out of you in a great woosh has him groaning into the meaty swell of your tit. You shudder underneath him, involuntarily twitching as he traces your areola with the tip of his tongue and laves it in warm, wet attention. He can tell that you’re not sure what to do so he waits with bated breath, reveling in the fleshy nub pinched between his lips. There was no reason for him not to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment he could get out of this while he could, after all - but then your hands find his hair, threading into wavy locks, and he throbs for you.

“Tomu-nii …”

He practically sinks into you, damn near suffocating himself in the plushy swell of your breast. His mouth opens wide and sucks more of you past his lips, suckling enthusiastically just like the infant you were programmed to be. This particular role reversal doesn’t even seem to register in your mind though and he seethes when you tug at his hair, trying to pull him off.

“St-aaahp …. I don’t like it!”

Tomura comes up off you with a wet gasp. “Bullshit.” He practically growls, narrowing his eyes at your dopey, flustered expression.

“It’s true! I don’t!”

“Oh? Should we check then?”

Your face scrunches and you draw a breath to question him, but he doesn’t give you the chance. Going back up on his knees, he plants one hand against the meat of your inner thigh and shoves it wide. His other darts between your legs before you can react, spindly digits finding your bare cunt and prodding at your folds with rough fingertips. You jolt at the contact but it’s too late. He barely has to touch you to feel the slick oozing out of you and he lets loose a harsh bark of laughter.

“My ass. You’re fucking soaked. You shouldn’t lie, you know.”

“I didn’t!” You gasp, clearly offended by the insinuation. “You’re just a fucking meanie!”

That gives him pause.

Glancing up at your face, Tomura regards you carefully as he tries to figure out his next move. On one hand it was his own fault for saying that word around you so much and it’s not like it was any of his business what you did or didn’t say, but on the other … there was something uncomfortable about hearing that come out of your mouth with such a childish inflection. It lacked any and all bite, not even a hint of impotent aggression to be found. You were just parroting him, that’s all, but for whatever reason he didn’t really appreciate it.

“Don’t say that.” He huffs, turning his attention back to your pussy.

Tomura had wanted to leave it at that, but of course you have to fight him every step of the way.

“Why not?” You ask rather flippantly.

“Because i said so. If you want to get smart, be my guest. I know how to handle bratty little girls like you.”

He’s a bit surprised when that actually shuts you up. Apparently, he was starting to get the hang of this but he still has to sneak a quick peek at you just to make sure. The fact you actually look contemplative, as if you were turning that over in your empty head, almost makes him laugh.

“Do you still want to play?” God, he sorely hoped you did.

You hesitate though, unwilling to give your acquiescence just like that. “When is it my turn?” You ask warily.

“Soon. I’ve got one more chance to make you feel good and then you can try.”

“Mmm … okay. But I’m not gonna’ lose!”

He’s almost certain you would have already lost if you weren’t such a petulant little thing, but he keeps that to himself. Instead, he once again turns his attention to the spot between your legs. Your puffy slit was noticeably wet, the faint sheen of fluid glistening slightly in the overhead light, and he takes a moment to gently part the curls there. Just as he’d thought. Damp to the touch and only getting wetter. He really was going to have to talk to you about lying especially since, in this particular context, you were cheating. This was a far cry from his video games but that didn’t make it any less annoying.

Swallowing his reprimand for the time being, though, Tomura carefully presses two fingers into the doughy softness of your labia and spreads them apart. He can see now that you were practically drenched in slick arousal, thin threads of discharge stretching across your petal soft folds before snapping. He gulps down his nerves. You really did have the prettiest pussy he’d ever seen and the fact it was all his for the taking very nearly had him creaming in his pants right then and there. It was almost obscene how bad he wanted to fuck your tampered brains out but he didn’t want to scare you into noncompliance. He wasn’t going to fight for this if he didn’t have to.

Slowly, so as not to startle you, he brings his other hand close and prods at where he thinks your clit should be. He’d certainly seen them in enough triple X videos to have some idea of where to look, but when all you do is let out a soft sigh he knows he’s mistaken.

His teeth gnash in high strung irritation as he walks his finger lower and then higher, feeling a bit like a blind fool searching for buried treasure. There were so many fleshy ridges and folds that he couldn’t pinpoint the right spot from memory alone, so he has to take his time feeling around instead. He thinks he’s found it for a split second when you shift underneath him, but then he realizes you were simply getting fussy - no doubt bored with all his incessant pawing - and that only angers him further. It shouldn’t have been this damn hard to find!

Impatient now, Tomura roughly swipes his finger up the length of your slit and surprise washes over him when you jolt as if he’d electrocuted you. Your head comes up off the rug and you stare at him, wide eyed, but it was much too late. He’d finally gotten the reaction out of you that he’d been hoping for, and he leans into it with nothing short of devilish delight.

Knowing precisely where to look helps a great deal and it immediately occurs to him that the reason he’d struggled so much is because your clit was still hidden behind its protective hood. But he’s got the advantage now, and he ever so carefully pinches at satiny soft skin until he can ease it back and expose the sensitive little bud nestled inside. You whimper slightly as he does it, squirming awkwardly on your back as if you could instinctively sense that you might be in a bit of trouble now. It was kind of cute, if he was being totally honest.

“I don’t think I like this game …”

“You will. Trust me.”

Clearly not believing him, you start to open your mouth to complain but he stops you cold with a quick flick of his finger. Your engorged clit jostles against the indelicate contact and you blurt out such a startled sound that he actually glances up to make sure you’re okay. Unsurprisingly, you look a little more flustered now and the panic edging your expression is almost enough to make him reconsider this.

Almost, but not quite.

“What’s the matter?” He goads, dropping his gaze back down to your pussy again. “I thought you didn’t like it.”

“I … I don’t …”

“Really? I’m not sure I believe that.”

He does it again, gentler this time. Just a brief tap against the meaty little nub, but it’s enough to make you twitch and try to close your legs from him. Tomura won’t let you back out so easily though and he shifts even closer so he can wedge himself between your thighs to keep them spread. You issue a frustrated, huffy sound that he could only describe as babyish as you try to push up on your elbows, no doubt intending to scuttle away from him. He had to give you credit for being so hard headed even in this infantile state but he was far too invested to quit now.

Letting up his hold on your labia, Tomura directs his fingers lower and wedges three of them into your slit. You freeze, momentarily stunned, and he takes that split second opportunity to feel around for your entrance. It’s not hard to find. Much easier than your clit, at any rate, and he wastes no time wriggling a long digit up inside your body. The penetration is smooth, your guts such a slippery mess that it almost startles him.

You really were a liar.

He suddenly realizes he’s panting. At the same time, he realizes that you don’t appear to be breathing at all. Your expression is about as dumbfounded as it could be, and he dully watches the way you sway in your half upright position. Shellshocked would probably be an appropriate descriptor, and he wets his lips in anticipation.

“Well? Do you like it?”

Your legs flex around his arms and you shake your head. “Nuh … no …”

“If you don’t stop lying to me,” he grumbles. “I’m going to get mad.”

You stiffen, clearly drawing yourself up to challenge that statement just like he’d known you would. It was embarrassing how predictable you could be.

He’s had just about enough of this back and forth though, and he roughly curls his finger upward in search of the spot that would finally shut you up for good. But his efforts only make you more fussy and his patience quickly unravels when you try to twist away from him, wailing in displeasure. He hated that sound and, if you weren’t careful, he’d go right back to hating you too

Grunting, Tomura abandons your clit in favor of latching his hand onto the swell of your thigh and he digs his blunt nails in to keep you still. You actually have the audacity to kick out at him but he puts a stop to that quickly enough by shoving a second finger into your sticky cunt. Just like the first time, it makes you hesitate and he watches your warbling mouth drop open in what he thinks might be pleasure. It’s frustratingly hard to tell with you but, having no other choice, he decides to take it at face value.

Your pussy clicks loudly when he starts pumping into you straight down to the knuckle, the wet squelch almost deafening in his ears. It’s unreasonably hot though, his mind running a mile a minute as he tries to commit every little detail to memory. The way your face screws up with a stuttering gasp, the way you squeeze your eyes shut and try to brace against the pressure of his digits driving into you again and again. The way you moan, even when you try not to, is particularly enticing, especially since it’s just as pretty as he’d hoped it would be. The way your legs shake and you threaten to double over, the way he can see you clutching the carpet in a death grip, the way you just seem to get even wetter for him. There was too much to take in all at once but it was also far too erotic to look away from. He really was going to cream his pants at this rate.

Somehow, your honest reaction appears to make up for all the trouble you’d given him up until now and Tomura can feel the wet spot bleeding through his boxer briefs start to grow. He was positive he’d never been harder in all his life. Animalistic and practically slobbering like a rabid dog, he hunches further over your quaking body and pistons into your cunt so vigorously his arm starts to ache. You were wailing for him to stop, crying out for Tomu-nii, Tomu-nii, Tomu-nii, but he doesn’t even slow down. He can’t.

Your cunt just keeps sucking him in deeper on every plunge, gummy walls pulsating around his no doubt pruning fingers so enthusiastically that he’s sure you’re going to cum. He can practically taste it. Tomura wasn't going to stop until you did and, realizing he doesn’t have to hold onto you any longer, he reaches out to roughly shove you down on your back again.

“Are you going to cream for me, princess? Huh?” He grits out through savagely bared teeth. “Is that what you’re going to do?”

“No! Please, Tomu-nii … it hurts!”

Even in the heat of the moment he can’t stop himself from clicking his tongue in irritation. “No it doesn’t, you big baby. You love this. I know you do. I can see it written all over your stupid, pretty face. Go on. Tell me exactly how good you feel. Do it!”

Wailing, you peer up at him through heavy lashes with a look so imploring it very nearly gives him pause. “I - I can’t! I’m … Tomu-nii, I’m gonna’ … I’m gonna’ pee!”

“No you aren’t. That just means your clo - -“

Tomura cuts himself off when you do exactly that. He’s almost too stunned to react and all he can do is watch as the steady stream of urine bursts out of you before dribbling down his wrist to soak into the carpet underneath. It’s only now, when you’re pissing all over yourself as well as him, that he finally has the decency to slow his pumping to a staggered halt. For a fleeting moment he actually considers the notion of keeping at it. There wasn’t much else you could do to ruin this for him, after all, but one look at your expression immediately quashes that idea.

He’d be lucky if all he could manage was to stop you from dissolving into ugly, heaving sobs, let alone worry about getting himself off. Dammit. You really were nothing but a pain in his ass.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” He deadpans, slowly withdrawing his fingers from your cunt now that he was thoroughly coated in warm, smelly piss. “To be honest I was kind of tired of that rug anyway. And these clothes, too.”

You hiccup so sadly that what little bit of anger had sparked inside him immediately dies out. He couldn’t even be mad at you for this no matter how much he may have wanted to blame you for everything. You’d tried to warn him.

“T- Tomu-nii … mm’sorry …”

Tomura sighs through his nose, hard enough to make the split end tips of his hair shift. “Don't be. That was my fault. Just - let me find something to clean us up with.”

“Do I have to take another bath?” You ask so meekly he almost misses it.

Pausing halfway through the motion of rising to his feet, he glances down at you again. It occurs to him quickly enough that it wasn’t the accident you were so upset about but, rather, the looming possibility of another aggressively meted out trip to the bathroom. Interesting. He’d almost think he was mistaken, it had only happened once, after all, but the way your lower lip wobbles tells him everything he needs to know. Apparently you were more scared of him than you’d let on.

“No, not right now. I think I can get you clean enough with a wet rag or something. You’ll have to take one later but,” Tomura scoffs, hating that he was actually trying to be nice after you’d peed all over him. “I’ll try not to be so rough next time. You just made me mad last night, that’s all.”

You nod slowly, looking like you don’t quite believe that, but still too naively trusting to press the matter. “Okay.”

Nodding once, Tomura climbs to his feet. The inner seam of his pants from the knee down is absolutely soaked and he makes it only three steps before deciding he didn’t like them all that much to begin with. Dropping his hand to the rough denim, he brushes all five fingers across the thigh and they dissolve into nothing without a second thought to the matter. He can faintly hear you ooohing behind him but there were much more important things to worry about than how easily impressed you were.

His half flagged cock throbs hopefully inside his boxer briefs and he reaches down to delicately adjust himself. God, he’d be aching for the next week thanks to your uncontrollable bladder.

An idea pops into his head with that thought. You weren’t the only thing he’d been saddled with yesterday, and he turns to regard the thick gym bag he’d previously thrown against the far wall in anger. It’s where he’d gotten your pink onesie after you’d similarly soiled the first pair of clothes you’d been wearing. He hadn’t bothered to look through all of its contents just yet, but he felt relatively confident he’d find what he wanted in there.

Circling back around, Tomura squats in front of the bag and yanks it open. He can feel your eyes watching him from your spot on the floor but he pays it no mind. Digging inside, he pulls out a few more articles of clothing, far too cutesy for his tastes, and then a book on child care that he knows for certain was put there in jest. Over his shoulder it gets chucked, and he digs deeper. Down at the very bottom he finds exactly what he’d been looking for.

But in addition to the baby wipes there are two other items that catch his attention. He outright balks at the very notion - however, realistically speaking, it could very well be the answer to his problems. At least the most pressing one, anyway.

The idea that All for One knew he’d likely run into this issue but still decided to dump you on him anyway bothers Tomura a great deal and he frowns even as he looks over the packaging. Diapers and pull ups. What was the difference? He’s not so sure there is one, and he feels almost certain that they serve the same purpose. But further inspection proves him wrong. One was for a total lack of control and the other was for the potty training stage, so not as thick or absorbent. That’s what the packing said but, at any rate, they definitely weren't the plain adult brands he was looking at here.

These were bright and colorful, and he can’t help but cringe at the thought of putting you in either of them. But he was still left with a very real concern that he simply couldn’t overlook. The fact he even had to make this decision at all was ridiculous but he couldn’t very well have you pissing on every available surface in his room. And given your track record of absolutely drenching whatever you happened to be sitting on at the time …

Hesitantly, Tomura takes out the diapers and shuffles towards his unkempt bed. The print on the back wasn't particularly clear about what to do with them. He’d probably have to look up a tutorial later, when he wasn’t feeling quite so downtrodden and his balls weren’t aching, though that would certainly put him on a few watch lists. Not that it really mattered.

He sighs and tosses the package on top of his sheets before tearing into the baby wipes. Taking his time, he methodically scrubs his wrist and his legs clean while he contemplates his next move. It wasn’t going to be pretty. It certainly wasn’t going to be sexy. It was still probably the lesser of two evils, though. Far be it that he wanted to go this route but did he really even have any other choice at this point?

“Tomu-nii …”

Your soft whining draws him back to reality and, abruptly realizing you’ve been sitting in your own piss this entire time, he turns to look back at you. For a split second, he seriously considers just killing you right then and there. It would save him a lot of trouble and you wouldn’t even realize what was coming. You were so stupid you’d probably think he was going in for a hug or something asinine like that. He’d be doing you a favor, really, because as far as he was concerned, death was certainly preferable to wearing diapers but … the urge fizzles out almost as quickly as it had appeared. He wasn’t going to let you slip out of his hold until after he’d gotten to bury himself in that tight, pretty little pussy of yours.

Decision made, Tomura makes his way over to the carpet again. You look cold, which doesn’t exactly come as a surprise, and he bends down to grab the meat of your upper arms so he can drag you up to your feet. “Come on. I think I’ve got a solution.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Salution?”

“Close enough.”

Steering you over to the bed, he makes you bend over the mattress so he can take a baby wipe to the backs of your thighs and ass. Luckily, depending on how you looked at it, the urine had run down rather than going every which direction so it was pretty easy to clean up. The way you tremble and shift your weight back and forth makes it a bit more difficult than it needed to be but he manages, somehow.

Tomura straightens after a long moment, finally deeming the back of you good to go. He’s not so sure he can get through this next part when you were fidgeting so much, though, and he briefly considers the clothes in the gym bag. The thought of putting you in another girly, saccharine sweet garment repulses him almost as much as the thought of putting you in a diaper. But he was going to have to pick and choose his battles here and, reaching back, he delicately tugs off his t-shirt.

“Turn around.”

You slowly comply, teeth chattering the whole time.

“Arms up.”

At this, you hesitate. But at his expectantly bland look, you do as you're told and raise your arms up in the air. The lift of your heavy tits almost successfully distracts him and it is with a great deal of self control on his part that he pulls his shirt down over your head, yanking it a little too forcefully into place.

“There.” He practically hisses, watching you clumsily work your arms through the sleeves. “Is that better?”

You think about that for a moment, eyes scanning across the front of his shirt, and he briefly wonders if you’re going to say something derisive about the worn video game logo stretched across your chest. But then you smile, nodding your head a little too enthusiastically.

“Mm! It smells like Tomu-nii!”

He really couldn’t stand you.

“Good. In return, I’ll need you to cooperate with me here. I’ve never done this before, you know?”

You blink at him quizzically. “Done what?”

Tomura rolls his eyes, feeling grumpier by the second. He couldn’t wait to get this over with and have you situated so he could run off to the bathroom for what probably wouldn’t even amount to five minutes of desperate jerking. “Never mind. Just do what I tell you, okay?”

You nod your head again, but he has some very real doubts about that. Even when you were pretending to go along with whatever it was he wanted you still found some way to fuck everything up for him. If this scheme somehow backfired because your brain was so scrambled you couldn’t even follow simple directions, he was not going to be happy.

Mentally bracing himself for the worst possible outcome, he reaches for the diapers. He rips the bag open almost violently and pulls one out, but it feels even more wrong in his hands than he’d thought it would. A strange sense of scandalized affront warms his chest, making him reconsider this choice for the upteenth time. If Tomura was being completely honest, he felt embarrassed for you but a quick glance in your direction proves that you don’t share quite the same sentiment. You really couldn’t have cared less, huh?

Right. Baby brain.

He grumbles under his breath as he non too gently snaps the diaper open with a loud crinkle of plastic and lays it out close to the edge of his bed. Motioning you closer, Tomura awkwardly helps you get seated on the damn thing and then instructs you to lay down. You genuinely don’t seem to have a problem with this as you recline back, just placidly peering up at him with your little fists balled in the hem of his shirt, but now that he’s gotten this far he’s not sure how to proceed.

At a loss, he takes another baby wipe out of the package and inserts himself between your bent legs. “I’m going to clean you some more, okay?” He's not sure why he’s telling you that, especially when all you do is nod your dopey head in understanding. Just buying time. That’s all he was doing.

But it gives him a chance to think and for that he’s grateful. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to figure out what All for One’s intention with all this had been. ‘A splendid birthday present for my favorite pupil’, he’d said, as if there were any others. But what was the reason? Surely you weren’t actually supposed to be a sex slave for him. Not in this sorry state. His battered onahole did a much better job on that front and it wasn’t prone to tantrums or crying, and it certainly didn’t pee on his stuff. It also didn’t require more than a perfunctory cleaning every few months. He couldn’t very well shove you into his nightstand and forget about it until the next time he was in the mood to rut into something.

All that was true, yes, but … his onahole also wasn’t warm to the touch, and it didn’t have soft, curly hair framing its abused slit (he really should buy a new one) nor did it self lubricate. It didn’t squeeze him quite the same way your pussy had squeezed his fingers, and it didn’t even really feel like an actual vagina now that he had something to compare it to. You were soft and squishy, pliable in the way only flesh and blood could be, and although he had no way of knowing if this had been All for One’s plan or not, he was certainly self aware enough to recognize that he’d screwed up somewhere along the line.

Tomura absolutely should have turned you to dust while he still had the chance.

Licking his lips, he drags the wipe through the seam of your cunt much more slowly than he needed to. You don’t even stir on the bed, and he thinks you must be starting to doze after … all of that. He’s not quite ready to leave well enough alone yet though, and he gently presses down on the spot where he now knows your clit is hiding. Still using the moist towelette as a pretense to keep touching you like this, he circles the sensitive little bud with it and genuine surprise washes over him when you let out a soft, pleasant sigh.

He glances up at your face but you aren’t even looking at him, lashes fanned out against the apples of your cheeks. It’s hard to tell if you were actually asleep or just pretending so you could lull him into a false sense of security, yet he doesn’t particularly care one way or another. You were his so he could do whatever he wanted to you, right? Besides. You kind of owed him after pissing all over his hand like that.

Discarding the baby wipe, Tomura bends closer and carefully spreads your labia again. He could see your little hole weakly palpitating, beckoning him to pick back up where he’d left off, but he drags his gaze a bit higher instead. You were so velvety soft and smooth it bordered on insane, so much more inviting than he ever would have thought possible.

He briefly hesitates before throwing caution aside and sealing his lips around your clit, gently mouthing at it. Your plushy thighs twitch around his head as you shift on top of the mattress, letting out another breathy sound that rushes straight to his cock. It almost hurts, the way it so eagerly springs back to life after being denied something as simple as release, but he can’t find it in himself to complain. You were giving him another chance, knowingly or not, and he wasn’t the type to squander such an opportunity.

Tomura takes his time lapping at you over the next few minutes until you’re almost as wet as when he’d started. You taste heavenly even with the artificial flavor of the wipes clinging to your folds and he entertains the notion of eating you out until you cum all over his face. There’s something he wants even more than that, though, and he sighs in relief when he finally straightens up so he can fish his cock out. It was almost painfully sensitive to the touch, and he could feel it throbbing potently in his hand. He knew this probably wasn’t going to last long but he didn’t care.

Guiding himself to your waiting entrance, he slowly pushes in one fraction at a time, damn near blowing his load the second his glans disappears into your body. He holds back though, struggling to maintain his composure as he seethes through gritted teeth. You finally seemed to realize that something was going on and your pretty eyes flutter open, immediately searching out his face.

“Tomu-nii …?”

“Be quiet. I’ve got you.”

You accept that in lieu of an explanation surprisingly fast, at least by his standards, and without another word you sleepily glance down at the juncture where your bodies were connected. A slow inhale makes your chest rise, mouth falling open as if to groan. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fuck,” the sound rattles out of Tomura’s chest as he slides in right down to the base, toes flexing against the floor. “I’m not even gonna’ get to enjoy this.”

Brows knitting together, you let out the softest mewling sound he’s ever heard and it makes him dig his carefully poised fingers deeper into the meat of your hips. He can’t even bring himself to move, so overwhelmed by how soft and wet your guts are. It felt like you were massaging his length, involuntarily or not, as your pussy suckles at the tip like he’s almost positive your mouth would.

Softly wheezing, Tomura drops his chin to look at where the two of you were stuck together. His pelvis was so flush against yours that your pudgy cunt was molded to the front of him, squishing under the pressure, and his silvery pubes were tangled with your darker ones. He hadn’t expected such a sight to be so damn erotic and it has him twitching, fighting back the orgasm he’d gone through hell and back for.

He’s almost scared to do it but, slowly, he eases back. The way his cock gradually reappears, glistening obscenely now, very nearly sends him over the edge. He isn’t sure how he hasn’t ruptured yet, his ballsac drawn so tight and throbbing that it leaves him feeling lightheaded, but through sheer force of will alone he manages to sink back into the inviting heat of your body without spraying your insides white. His self control was tentative as best, hanging on by a mere thread, but you felt far too good to waste on a quick nut.

“Goddamn … you’re so tight, baby. So fucking tight.”

You fidget underneath him, fussily tugging at the hem of his shirt. “Mm’ not a baby …”

Your pouty little response is enough to make him bark out a clipped laugh, more breathless than amused. You could insist you weren’t a baby all you wanted but, even putting aside the cruel, infantile reprogramming of your brain, it was hard to think otherwise when you were spread out on top of a diaper. It’s stark white, cottony lining was an almost unsettling backdrop to the perfect view he had of his cock stuttering in and out of your slick cunt. Even when he was barely moving, it crinkled softly underneath you with each rocking motion of his hips and he couldn’t quite forget it was there no matter how hard he tried.

Tomura wasn’t sure what he would ultimately do with you and he knew even less why he was even entertaining this wildly absurd situation to begin with, but there was no denying that you did have some use. The clinging grip of your pussy, for starters, and if he could get that bratty mouth of yours under control he might even some day find your company bearable. He still didn’t particularly like you but it wasn’t so farfetched to think that he might be able to tolerate you, with enough effort.

Hissing through his teeth, he drags one of his hands down to spread your puffy lips apart and get a good look at the way your petal soft folds clutch to his cock. It was a mesmerizing visual in the worst possible way, especially when accompanied by the soft, wet clicking he pulls from your body. He could have watched this for hours on end but, realistically, he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer, and he gives his wrist a brief twist to bring the middle finger down on your clit.

You twitch at the contact but Tomura takes a much more gentle approach this time, sedately drawing circles around the swollen bud. He doesn’t get much in the way of a reaction for his trouble so he just keeps at it, rubbing you in tandem with his staggered thrusts. The thought of making you cum around his cock is almost disturbingly enticing, but he isn’t so sure he can accomplish that. Not when so much of his focus was devoted to simply biting back his orgasm - but then, to his throbbing surprise, you draw a faltering breath.

“Tomu-nii … feels good …”

It’s as if the air had been punched right out of him. He isn't so sure he even believes his own ears, the blood suddenly pounding inside of them making it hard to hear much of anything. He groans though, thick and heavy as he slides his other hand up across your stomach to push at the bottom of his shirt. Your grip on the soft cotton momentarily tightens, still fighting him at every turn, but you give in almost immediately and allow him to shove it over the swell of your tits.

They’re moving, jiggling ever so slightly with the push and pull of his narrow hips as they quietly slap against the backs of your thighs. Tomura heaves, practically doubling over you with another throaty moan that rises in pitch at the tail end. His palm descends on one of your breasts, squeezing hard enough that the pliable flesh bulges and spills out between four of his fingers. You just stare up at him the entire time, face pinched and flushed while your glistening eyes dreamily watch him with a far off sort of quality that he’s sure must be - has to be pleasure.

He’d never seen anything sexier in his whole life, and that thought alone is far more terrifying than he could have ever guessed it would be. There was something wrong with you, yes, by All for One’s design. But there was something even more inherently wrong with him for getting off on this so much and without the added bonus of quirk tampering to excuse his behavior. You were so sweet and unfairly innocent despite your seductive figure, the sight of you naked save his bunched up t-shirt driving him absolutely wild. It was like you belonged here, with him, in his bed. It wasn’t that he no longer wanted to kill you but that he couldn’t.

What little bit of self control he’d still been clinging to up until now shatters, and Tomura snaps his hips into your upturned ass: once, twice, three times. The sticky squelching between your bodies increases in volume, echoing inside his skull like a ricocheting bullet as he watches your face screw up at the sudden force. It doesn’t even matter though. He’s long since reached his limit and, with a wounded grunt, he slams into you one final time, lurching over your prone body.

The sound that comes out of his mouth as he shudders and violently paints your pink guts is, frankly, embarrassing. But he’s riding a high too great to care, clinging to you hard enough to make his joints ache and you whimper in discomfort. He can’t stop though. He’s cumming so hard, pulse after pulse, that it feels like his soul actually slips out of his body for a worryingly long beat before returning in fragmented pieces. The same, but also somehow different. Like he’d experienced rebirth in the warm, comforting clutch of your drenched cunt.

He wheezes as if he’d been stabbed in the chest when he finally eases his softening cock out of you some time later.

Tomura was completely spent, both physically and mentally. His wobbly legs could hardly support his weight anymore but, with a strength of mind he hadn’t even realized he possessed, he directs a shaky finger to your clit again. You squirm in response, huffing after that rough treatment, but he soothes you with hushed words and a gentle touch to the delicate little pearl he barely even needs to brush against to have you shaking for him.

“Relax. You feel good, don’t you? Let me hear those pretty sounds again, baby.”

Obstinately, you purse your lips together to deny him even that one simple request. Tomura heaves a tired sigh, wishing you weren’t such a brat, but he doesn’t let up. The gentle circles he rubs into your clit with the pad of his finger slowly brings you around though, grudgingly, and he can’t quite deny the satisfaction that sparks in his throat when your mouth warbles open to let loose the sweetest, tiny moan he’s ever heard.

“Nngh … Tomu-nii …!”

“Don't fight it. I want you to feel good too, yknow.” He pauses, tongue glancing over his dry lips. “Will you cum for me, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, eyes screwing shut, but the way your body continues to tense up seems to suggest otherwise. He could tell you were practically thrumming with it, burning from the inside out even as his milky white discharge slowly oozes down your slit to pool in the seat of the diaper. It was unexpectedly exciting to watch, disproportionately naughty given how utterly unappealing the crinkly plastic was at first glance, and he picks up the pace of his rubbing.

“I think you’re lying again. You liked how it felt when I was inside you, right? This will be even better, I promise. You’ll love it. I know you will.”

Weakly writhing on top of his bed, you crack your eyes open to peer up at him again. “T - Tomu-nii … I can’t … ahh. Ahh. Ahh! I … I’m … ahh! Tomu-niiiii!”

You suddenly jerk, tossing your head back against the sheets, and he watches in rapt fascination as you quake so hard it nearly catches him off guard. It wasn’t the seductive, rolling tremors he was used to seeing in porn videos but, rather, a full bodied spasm that had you twisting as if to get away. Your thighs try to clamp shut around his hand but he elbows them apart, refusing to let up until he’d milked your orgasm as thoroughly as you’d milked his.

And you looked so pretty, too. Caught up in mind numbing pleasure so intense he couldn’t even begin to fathom what you were feeling. Even his own earth shattering release seemed to pale in comparison to this, and it takes you much longer to start coming down from it than it did him.

Your hair is a mess by the time you’re done, matted in some places and sticking to your damp forehead in others. For a fleeting moment, Tomura can almost see the adult woman you should have been when your face goes slack in ecstasy and your flushed lips were parted to suck in as much oxygen as you could get. He imagines you were probably no stranger to pleasures of the flesh, not with that body and those looks, so the thought that he could make you feel this good was a bit like a pat on the back for him. It was probably just beginners luck, but that didn’t stop him from feeling any less proud of himself.

Slowly, he takes his hands off you and steps back. The spot between your legs was absolutely covered in fluid, your sticky, copious slick mixing with his spunk to make a truly viscous concoction that clung to your damp curls. He thinks that he should probably clean you up again and reaches for the baby wipes, but stops himself short.

The idea that crosses his mind is very likely foul, perhaps even more offensive than anything else he’d done til now, but … a quick glance at your sloppy pussy proves too great a temptation. There was something inherently erotic about making you walk around with his semen dripping out of you, even if it was only going to be absorbed by the diaper, and he shuffles close again with his heart in his throat.

Tomura hasn’t the slightest clue what he’s doing and it takes him a long moment to figure out the tape tabs on the sides. He gets frustrated halfway through the process, struggling to make sure the crinkly plastic was secure enough around your waist, but by some miracle you stay relatively still through all of his fumbling. He isn’t quite sure how he got so lucky but he doesn’t stop to question it, hawkishly focusing all of his attention on the task at hand.

At length, he straightens to admire his work. It’s not perfect by any means but he’s pretty sure the damned thing wasn’t going to fall off as soon as you stood up so there was that. The diaper itself was just as obnoxiously girly as everything else in the gym bag; a soft, lilac purple with a flowery, cartoon bunny design on them. He didn’t mind the rabbits so much, and it was certainly preferable to the onesie, but he still thought you’d look nice in something a bit cooler.

The realization that he was thinking about this in such quaint, fuzzy terms chills Tomura to the bone, and his gaze flicks to your face so he can ask what you think of them. Even if only to distract himself from his own uncomfortably perverse change of heart.

But you were already asleep. He probably should have expected as much, and he could tell you were actually snoozing this time by the shallow, even rise and fall of your chest. A strange sense of embarrassment washes over him and he reaches out to delicately take the hem of his shirt between thumb and finger so he can tug it back down into place. You only snuggle further into the mattress though, getting comfortable, and further cementing the notion that he had, indeed, fucked up.

He’d never be able to get rid of you now.

Grumbling under his breath, Tomura leans over you with one hand braced on the mattress. The other slips between your legs, unable to squeeze shut now with the bulk of the diaper between them, and ever so carefully cups his palm over your crotch. It was cool to the touch, but if he pushed down hard enough he could feel the warmth of your body bleeding through. You let out a quiet huff in response, petulant towards him even in your sleep, and he can’t quite stop himself from laughing. It was absurd. It was strange. It was strikingly, unequivocally weird, but he was almost glad he hadn’t disintegrated you or strangled you to death.

This wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he’d wished for a woman he could do with as he pleased and not have to worry about her running away, but … it was close enough, he supposed.

[yeojaa]

NOT YOUR FAIRYTALE - ft. myg

What do you do when you've called your wedding off but forgot to cancel your cake tastings? Why, you ask your brother's grouchy best friend, of course.

pairing.  min yoongi.  sort of.

genre + rating.  fluff-adjacent.  general.

warning / tags.  mentions of infidelity, cake tasting, cake tasting isn’t a euphemism, fluff and hurt/comfort, alternate universe, alternate universe - modern setting, friendship, friendship/love, childhood friends.

reading.   n/a.  a stand-alone three part one-shot.

chapter i.

"You want me to what?"

The way he's looking at you makes you want to sink six feet under ground and bury yourself among the roots and bugs.  There's so much judgment in the feline turn of his stare, the depths of his irises and the pupils that disappear among the hue.  Still, his voice remains decidedly bored.  Apathetic, even.

If you were anyone else - hell, if he were anyone else - you think you might've slunk off, proverbial tail tucked between your legs.  But you aren't and he isn't, so you repeat yourself, louder this time.

"I want you to come to the cake tasting with me."  You're proud of yourself for how the words don't waver, clipping off your tongue and teeth in short bursts.  You're even more proud of how you meet his intimidating gaze, chin jutted out in something like defiance but admittedly softer, a little more vulnerable.

His expression is inscrutable, a palette of greys that only further the uncertainty that sinks like a stone in your chest.  Every second that passes feels like an eon and you think you might crumble into dust by the time his lips move, though sound is slow to come.

It seems even he's having second thoughts.

"So, you want me to pretend to be your fiancé."  A pause, incredulity written into every syllable.  "For cake."

When he puts it like that, it feels like nails on a chalkboard or cardboard against cardboard.  It raises the little hairs on the back of your neck and has you gritting your teeth, lids sliding over eyes in what can only be called distress.  It fits onto your face - curving lips and tensing your jaw all at once.  You remind yourself to breathe around the discomfort that lodges into your airway and within your skull.  

Why had you thought this was a good idea?  Why couldn't you have asked someone else?

Anyone but Min Yoongi.

"Everyone else is busy,"  you retort, though it's not quite as hard as you mean it to be.  It falls like a stone in the ocean - inconsequential.  "If you don't want to, just say so.  I'll go on my own."  

Your own, because you'd called off your engagement months ago and had forgotten to cancel this.  Or rather, you'd put it off.  You'd put a lot of stuff off.  It kind of came with discovering your boyfriend - your knight in shining armour soon-to-be husband - was a philanderer.  Still, you'd felt a little silly when you'd gotten the two-week reminder text (and email, because oh, you'd been excited!).  

When you'd approached your best friend about it, she'd reacted in her patented Lee Sora way.  A derisive snort - for that piece of shit ex of yours - and then a sweeter cloying laugh, insisting you go.  After all, you'd booked things on his dime.  'Better to eat your cake, even if you can't have it!'  were her words.  

Honestly, you'd forgotten about it again - purposely pushed it to the furthest recesses of your mind - until you'd gotten the call the day before.  Imagine your surprise when the assistant was chirping all over the phone line, completely oblivious to your stunned silence.

Why did you have to have the memory of something with really bad memory?  Your brother wasn't like this.

So here you were, asking his best friend to take some sort of pity on you.  It felt worse than tripping during your university graduation.  (Because yes, you had done that, nearly face planting in front of hundreds of your peers.  Clumsiness ran in the Kim family.)  You hated it with every fibre of your being.  Not because you had too much pride - god no - but because you'd had to ask him.  Yoongi.  

On a good day, he was gracious, if not distantly quiet.  On a bad day, he could cut you down with just one look.

Frankly, you couldn't tell what kind of day this was.  

"You know I'm not making you go alone."  The man in question sounds exasperated, though it's barely hidden, an undercurrent of frustration that peeks around the edges of consonants.  His expression betrays nothing as he turns back to face the array of monitors, nimble fingers already resuming their previous actions.  You feel a pang of guilt - you know how much he hates being bothered when he's working.  Namjoon's drilled it into your head since you were old enough to barge in without asking and though they'd taken a lunch break, it still feels a little clandestine.

You ignore the hope that sparks to life in your chest and the way your fingers curl around the door frame.  Or, at least, you try to ignore it.  You're grateful that his back is to you when you speak.  "Is that a yes?"

"Yes."  For a moment, you think he might turn by the way his shoulders shift, hands stilling.  But then he thinks better of it and slides his headphones over his mop of carefully styled smoke - a clear indication the conversation is over.

Before his right ear is fully covered, you're rushing to speak.  "It's at 3:30!  I'll come grab you before we have to leave!"  And then you're gone.

You'd thought it would be easier with someone else.  Appearances and all that.  

But as you're walking up to the pretty storefront - all unassuming whites to showcase the brilliant confections in the window - you somehow feel even more nervous.  What if they knew?  What if they could tell you two were polar opposites and you'd come to swindle them out of their painstakingly crafted cakes?  Would they tell you to get out?  Would they not say anything, even if they knew?

Scenarios play in your mind like the climax of a Bond film and you don't even realize you're hovering five feet away until his voice cuts through your thoughts - a hot knife through butter.

"What're you waiting for?"  There's that irritation again.  You try not to take it personally.  This was just who Yoongi was - had always been.  He was someone who didn’t suffer fools gladly, no matter how they presented themselves.  You know it isn’t directed at you necessarily, but just at the strange situation he now found himself in.  You tell yourself that over and over as you find your words, plastering what you hope to be a genuine smile on your face.

By the way he looks at you, lips curled around disbelief, you know it's a poor effort.  You were bad at hiding your emotions.  It was like Namjoon had stolen all the emotional maturity, leaving you with wide-open eyes and a face like a billboard.

"What if they know?"  You say it in a voice barely above a whisper, as if they might hear you through the intimidating glass door.

"Know what?"  A brow quirks, disappearing into his fringe.

"That we aren't together!"  The words explode out of you, a firecracker set off too close to curious hands.  Your mouth draws into a thin line of apology and you're twisting a section of hair around your index finger.  It's a nervous habit and he catches it immediately.  

His expression softens, just barely, and he sighs, breath blown through his nose.  "It'll be fine."  The confidence he reassures you with is surprising but somehow, it calms you.  Maybe it's the two decades of friendship rearing its pretty, often neglected head.  Whatever it is, you cling to it like a security blanket, eyes the size of dinner plates as you follow the hand that suddenly rises and inches toward you. 

"What're you doing?"  You speak before you can help it, admiring the softness of his skin and the long fingers built from years of piano.

Rather than speak, he grips your own.  It's loose but your knuckles knock together, palms flat and moulded into one.  "You want it to be believable, don't you?"  Despite the bemused inflection, you appreciate his gesture.  It means a lot to you.  

You squeeze his hand, nodding once.  "Thanks, Yoongi."  It's soft and shy, filled with all the things you don't say.  He reads between the lines easily, years of platonic intimacy guiding him into what could almost be described as a smile but falls just short of revealing his gums.  Still, it's as good as having him shout his understanding from the rooftops so you take it with grace, dutifully following after him when he pries open the door.

The smell is intoxicating.  If your life were a cartoon movie, you're sure you'd be following the smell and floating into the kitchen with hearts in your eyes.

"You must be the soon-to-be Rims!"  

She's a pretty young thing with big doll eyes and a sweetly upturned nose.  You recognize her voice immediately as the girl that had confirmed your appointment.  She oozes honey and kindness and you can't help but smile;  she's sweet as apple pie.  How fitting.

So swept up in her sunny greeting, you belatedly notice the way your not-fiancé stiffens at your side, his interlocked fingers tightening imperceptibly.  There's a tick in his jaw, tension running the length of his bones and steeling around the column of his neck.  For a second, you're tempted to reach out with your free hand, smooth whatever consternation has him grimacing, but in the next moment, he's a blank slate.  His chin dips, nods in affirmation because you've been too caught up in him to answer the poor girl.

"That's us."  He hides it well, but you can still see the flicker of annoyance just beyond the flat of his barely realized smile.  It's the same ebb and flow that you've become familiar with over the years.  (Especially since, during a particularly annoying time during your teens, you'd been the reason for it.)

"So nice to meet you finally.  I'm Siyeon."  It seems the assistant is completely oblivious to whatever displeasure lies beneath the surface of Yoongi’s carefully crafted facade, her beaming smile never faltering.  You can even hear it in her voice when she turns and begins leading you past the front pastry case and toward the open space further back.  "Come this way!  We have everything set up." 

You squeeze his hand again when the whites of his eyes grow prominent by the way they roll in their sockets.  "Be nice,"  you chastise quietly, closing the distance just enough to keep the conversation between the two of you.

"I am nice."  When your gaze meets, you're mirroring each other's expression.  It makes you laugh;  he simply shakes his head.

"You two are so sweet,"  comes Siyeon's meant-to-be kind observation.  She's watching you two closely from the head of the long table where she waits.  There are slices of cake laid across the top, three pieces in total.  Place cards sit neatly behind each plate, another three placed off to the side.  There are two forks, two pens, and a bare white notepad.  "Please, take a seat.  Would you like some champagne?"

"Please!"  You've answered before your companion has had a chance to and he levels you with a quirked brow and nothing else.  You note the way Siyeon disappears with your answer, leaving you to stick your tongue out at him.  "What?"

"Take it easy, party animal,"  he drawls, nonchalant as ever as he turns his attention to the offerings laid before him.  

You know he's just teasing, so you say nothing, instead opting to do the same.  Every slice is perfectly cut - a generous portion for two people - and so lovingly crafted that you almost feel bad thinking you'll never get to try it again.  

"Here you go." 

Two champagne flutes are presented, ice bucket with the orange label bottle set aside.  You take a tentative sip, enjoying the way the liquid bursts across your tongue.  You'd always been more of a beer girl, but this is nice.  It feels a little like a treat to yourself - for getting through everything that's brought you here.

"So, we're pretty hands-off here."  Siyeon is speaking again, the words rolling off her tongue like she's given this spiel a hundred times.  You're sure she has.  She's so confident, rattling off the process with practiced ease.  You focus intently, grateful for the way Yoongi even leans forward - the picture of an attentive partner.  "We've prepared six cakes for you.  You'll taste them in groups of three, so your palate isn't overwhelmed.  We leave you alone during this portion so you can discuss without any pressure or input and you can make notes on what you do and don't like.  Once you're done all of the samples, you'll meet with one of our pâtissiers and discuss."  There's a pause, then realization.  “You also mentioned on the phone you wanted us to include a red velvet option, so that’s on the far right.”  A hand gesticulates, though it’s impossible to miss.  The cake is vivid maroon and off-white – a picture perfect slice presented on the minimalistic ceramic. 

You don’t miss the way Yoongi’s brow knits together beneath his neatly styled crown of silk or the stare he levels you with.  He doesn’t betray emotion easily, but you can feel it from your periphery, and it licks hot shame across your cheeks.  You hated red velvet – called it bullshitter’s chocolate – but your stupid awful ex-fiancé had loved it, claiming it to be one of his favourite things in the world.

More than even you, you find yourself thinking bitterly before you can help it.

“Thanks.”  The word is short and dismissive.  Very clearly the complete opposite of how it should be but if Siyeon notices, she doesn’t comment on it.  You have to applaud her self-restraint.  Instead, she offers another winning smile, and retreats back a step.

“I’ll just be at the front, if you need anything.”

A part of you wants to ask to her to stay – save you from the scathing words you know are about to fire off of your pretend-partner’s tongue.  You settle for returning her smile and watching as she departs, gaze trained diligently on her back as if that might protect you from the verbal barrage you know is coming.

“You hate red velvet.”  It’s a statement that has you cringing because you can hear all of the implications behind it.  The words he doesn’t speak but clearly thinks linger in the air between you, falling like rain drops that sink into your bones.

You don’t immediately answer, taking your time in turning your fork over in your fingers.  You know this silent treatment won’t work.  Yoongi’s the master of silence – and of death glares – but you push onwards, gliding tines into the nearest cake slice.  It doesn’t crumble or break, held together by pure craftsmanship and quality ingredients.  The pretty not-quite-purple, not-quite-red winks up at you. 

Honey wine Moscato with triple berry mousse and seasonal berry compote. 

A definite yes in your books.  Or would be, if you were actually getting married.  You take another bite, then another.

“Why the hell would you have asked for a red velvet wedding cake if you hate it?”  He’s not about to let it go, though he follows suit once the question has left his lips.  He’s also not about to let you leave him with crumbs when he was the one who’d been forced into coming here.

The way his jaw relaxes has you smiling just a little, an expectant gleam in the brown of your irises.

“Tasty, right?” 

“Yeah, good.”  But now that you’ve spoken – confirmed that you’re not mute, despite how quiet you’ve been since he’d poised his initial question – he repeats himself.  “Seriously, why ask for a cake you hate?”

You know you have no reason to hold the words so tightly to your chest but you do nonetheless, not quite sure how to speak them without your voice cracking.  “Red velvet was his favourite.”  There.  You’d thought the admission would be a weight lifted but it feels somehow worse.  Like there’s shame draped across the concession, a heavy brocade that lingers in your throat once the words have left.

“You were going to have a wedding cake you’d hate?  Because of him?” 

It’s exactly what you’d been afraid of.  The judgment that rolls off him in waves and crashes against you like a shore at hightide.  Your eyes remain steadfastly trained on the next slice – almond cake soaked in Grand Marnier with honey-cream and Mariska cherries.  Crimson fruit is speared on an individual tine and popped into your mouth as you continue your vow of silence.

You think the quiet is enough of an answer but when he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, you finally look up.  Whatever words of defence had been forming on your tongue die off, dragged into an abyss that opens up beneath your feet – a surprise, because you’ve never seen that look on his face before.

It’s equal parts frustration and something else but because it’s so new, you can’t quite place it in your catalog of memories.

He must realize, immediately rearranging his features into their usual stoic mask.  Just the tilt of his mouth betrays him, corners turned down ever so slightly.  It’s enough to know that he’s holding back, which is something he never does.  Ever.

“Spit it out, Yoongi.”  You don’t look at him, too afraid that both his words and stare will completely eviscerate you now that he has the go ahead.  You fork a proper mouthful of cake past your lips, humming contentedly as the flavours spill over your tongue.  You hadn’t expected it to taste like a creamsicle – okay, a very adult creamsicle – but it’s welcome, nonetheless. 

Fork of his own spears a sizeable bite and you watch as the slice disappears before your eyes, under both of your measured ministrations.   The red velvet plate sits untouched.  You know Yoongi doesn’t mind it – enjoys it, in fact – but you think he must be refraining for your sake.

Solidarity in crisis, probably.

“You know you’re better off without him.” 

Of course you know that.  He’d cheated on you – in your home and more than once!  You knew, just as you knew how to ride a bike or how to swim, that ending things was the best thing you’d ever done.  Sure, it’d hurt like hell and sure, you’d had to move in with your brother until you found something else – you hadn’t yet – but it was all for the best.

So why can’t you say those three simple words?  Why, instead of your usual barking hyena laugh meeting his words, was there nothing?

“How are the cakes?”  Siyeon has materialized at your side as if summoned.  The still intact slice draws her attention immediately, concern settling alongside the winning customer service that oozes out of her pores and fixes itself into her permanent smile.  “Did you not like the red velvet?”

Before you have a chance to speak, Yoongi’s doing so for the both of you.

“She hates red velvet.  She only asked for it for me.”  There’s a shrug disrupting the ridge of his shoulders, shifting the soft cotton plaid that hugs his lithe frame.  “Could you bring out the rest?”  His tone is friendly, gentle even.  It's at complete odds with the line of his mouth, terse and teetering dangerously on irate.  Still, he's not unkind when his gaze meets Siyeon's and she simply nods, gathering up the plates and taking the disregarded slice in stride.

Silence stretches between the two of you but it isn't uncomfortable.  It's the same quiet that's followed you throughout your lives, carried gracefully by years of close quarters.

"Which do you like best?"  He breaks it first, with a gentle hand like a delicate sculptor. 

"Is both an acceptable answer?"  

There's a rueful tilt to your smile.  It feels very you to him, so he knows it's okay to rib you, teasing colouring every syllable.  "Two cakes, huh?  Pretty greedy."  

Whatever you're about to say falls off your tongue yet again, forgotten on the tip with the return of Siyeon. 

With the same sunny smile she's adopted the entire visit, she sets the next three selections carefully before you.  Just as before, they're beautifully crafted and effortlessly chic.  You spy what looks like carrot cake - from the telltale chunks of golden raisins and fluffy whipped frosting - but you're not sure which the rest are.  

"Their cards are right there,"  Siyeon supplies helpfully, noting your curiosity.  You smile, grateful as she departs with another grin and a reminder.  "Don't forget to take notes!"

Vanilla cake soaked in mandarin syrup and kumquat liqueur with mandarin vinegar from Jeju Island and mandarin curd. 

Dark chocolate mud cake soaked in espresso with white chocolate and black truffle ganache.

You opt to start with what appears to the airiest of the three, gliding your fork through the pretty mosaic of orange and cream.

“You deserve someone who’d let you have any cake you want.”  It’s soft - barely above a whisper - but kicks up gravel in its wake, drawing your attention with the grit that tracks over syllables.

You study him for a moment, masking curiosity as consideration of flavours as citrus bursts across your tongue.

“You mean someone like you?”  What you’d thought to be deadpan comes across coaxing, like honey swathed in broad strokes.  You’d only meant to tease - you don’t mean anything by it (or so you tell yourself).  Because you’re definitely not there yet, and certainly not with him.

But when he looks at you with that inscrutable expression, you swear you’d give up any three magic wishes to read his mind.

“No, not like me.”

notes.  based off of this prompt.

this will be two parts because i can’t write a short one-shot to my satisfaction.  :l  thank you for reading, though!

[machinakrp]

>> OPEN SONG JINSOL’S FILE …

:// AGE — 27 :// OCCUPATION — drug chemist :// CLASS —native

>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …

:// MAGIC —  

jinsol’s magical is learned, and at the same time, seemingly twined into him. muscles and memory and nerves. it feels like it. something taught to him and adopted since he was old enough to let it manifest in his mind. it’s a second nature, nearly. infusing magic with medicine. or in his case, pseudo-medicine (he calls it medicine, at least). it’s something slipped in between measurement and chemicals and crushed herbs. built into molecules and compounding in a way that seems nearly impossible. should be impossible. but isn’t. a medical miracle, and maybe if he applied it different jinsol could be finding applications that would astonish, would’ve hefted him out of the slums of elysium on some miracle cure. but he doesn’t. just finds a way to manufacture emotion, to create a fabricated sense of bliss or love or warmth for people to envelope themselves in. like whiskey to warm yourself in the middle of a blizzard. a sort of danger ignored for that immediate sense of comfort.

:// MODIFICATIONS —

despite being an elysium native and building a large enough business that he has more means than most, jinsol doesn’t have many body modifications to speak of. just two.

the first is one he got done before he worked his way up, before he was able to pay enough for something above the books. but he’d needed it in the before period of his life. less now, though it’s a comforting reminder that it’s there. if you peel back the skin of his right wrist, there lies a hollowed out tube nestled between veins and bones. resting inside is a sliver of a knife.sharp and poised near a trigger spring. if he digs his finger in near his forearm and jams down on the end of the mechanism, it cuts out out. not entirely pleasant, considering it rips through skin on the way out. it also has to be manually wound back into his arm, meaning he has to seek someone out every time he hits the trigger. it’s meant as a last ditch defense system, for a hand ideally tucked up against a throat. he used to need it, back before he was working with hades. back when he was peddling his own goods and on his own. there’s a scar on his wrist now, a jagged sort of line left over from the two times he’s used it.

the second is less intrusive. a holographic tattoo on the nape of his head, a circle ring of a sun curved around the first jut of bone from his spine. something that shimmers and shivers and shakes before it implodes. then the hologram is looped back whole once again.

>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …

tw: blood, drugs

RETRIEVING MEMORY…

21430102_sooji.vrml

a glitch – a vibrant flash of blue that reads so bright it hurts the retinas – the angle seems tipped. like the world’s off its axis. set instead on a lopsided table. baited breath, waiting for everything piled on top of it to slide off in a violent clatter. that’s the reaction the memory loop gives off when replayed. something not quite right that settles like nausea in the gut. trepidation. the unwanted kind. the memory holder’s perceptions, emotions flooding in. the room is sterile. blank-white floods the space. walls and sheets and floor. a glossy linoleum. there’s a rhythmic beep from a machine. a baby nestled in a set of arms – the memory holder’s – another glitch. the baby wails. the angle of the memory slips more. like the downward trajectory of a rollercoaster. from here, she plummets.

21430102_sooji.txt

lee sooji, a woman with too many secrets and unwillingness to divide interest from herself. naturally, a baby doesn’t fit well into the equation. even if it was planned. there’s not a lot of picture perfect anything that happens in elysium, but she’d always liked the idea of that. perfection. it’s hard to obtain though. even with a knowledge of chemical-infused magic that gave her the ability to create and shape her own world in the form of hallucinogens. is it a surprise that the marriage fell apart? probably not. a lot of things fall apart in elysium. dismantled by the society around them. he moved on, she was stuck with a baby that she didn’t really want. ignored at first. sharp cries, neglected fits. palms fit to ears of someone who constantly decided she was too young to deal with this mess of a life.

her feelings changed overtime. not dramatically, in a wild shift of personality. but slightly. when jinsol started to take shape more as a human than living soundbox. she liked some things, and she could list them off in a way that was reminiscent of explaining why one preferred a certain restaurant. she liked the adoration in his eyes. the way words could be pieced together into loving sentiments, something that seemed to runaway along with her ex husband. and sooji had always liked that. adoration. she valued it above nearly anything else. instilled the same beliefs into a young mind. he grew under fickle reliance. like a plant with a broken trellis, bent with the whims of her emotions. whether or not she felt like being a mother. whether or not she felt like being free of his shackling existence.

21490714_jinsol.vrml

it’s a humid day. it’s distinguishable based on that summer haze of warped air that makes the floor look bent. the click-whir of a broken fan. the chunks of ice jinsol has shoved into his cheeks, like an overambitious chipmunk. not that jinsol has any idea what a chipmunk is, he’s never seen one. just the scattered pigeons with broken-toed feet that loiter near the bottom step of his building. he looks like a wild thing. a smattering of band-aids covering scabbing, knobby knees. overgrown hair that hangs knotted in his eyes. a dirty smudge near his nose. gangly colt legs thrown over the edge of a dilapidated couch. he’s alone. some might say he’s too young to be alone, but he’d brustle up defensive at that. independent. biting off more than he can chew, but he’d rather swallow it down and half-choke than risk his pride and spit it back up. there’s a children’s cartoon projected up from an old holo-box sitting on a coffee table. sometimes it fritzes, and he stretches out a leg to thwack it with his heel. every ten minutes it seems like there’s a run of commercials hoping to sell him synthetically flavored juice. eventually, he loses patience and separates himself from the show, slips outside the door. some might say he’s too young to be running around the streets of elysium on his own. jinsol would cut them a smile, jagged and feral. a boy raised by chaos and the immediate impulses of a six-year-old.

21490714_jinsol.txt

jinsol’s youth is cut up into fractured pieces. the moments when his mother was there, and the moments when she wasn’t. his morals are ambiguous, lessons learned infrequent. and sometimes best avoided anyway. it depended on her mood, that’s what he learned. and it turned him desperate. seeking affection in a way that could turn near-violent. he’s a mirror image, in some ways. her reflection. has a constant needing for affection and validation. and when she gives, he takes. soaks it up. he likes it best when she’s at home with him, and jinsol babbles this out often. she regales stories in his ear, drifting off in the crook of her arm. humid ‘ i love you’s whispered against her neck, and she tells him just how much she loves him back. he can tell when she’s going to disappear by the look in her eyes. it’s like a lightswitch that only she can reach. a blank stare, or an emotion he can’t quite piece together yet, but he knows it’s bad. knows it makes him feel bad.

it’s resentment, but that’s a connection he makes later.

and then he’s on his own. raiding the fridge for non-perishables left behind and amusing himself. sometimes he skips school. it doesn’t matter, nobody notices he’s gone in the overcrowded classroom. wanders the streets instead, making friends with stray cats slipping through gaps of buildings too small a fit for most anyone else. a grand adventure, that’s what he’d tell himself to keep from feeling lonely. and then she’d come back, and it’d warm his bones. chase away that feeling. would try to grip to her with nails embedded into skin when he saw that look in her eyes. until he was pried off. he thinks he left scars, when he reminisces back nowadays, kept up late at night, sleepless. tries to reimagine his mother. but he can’t remember just how violent his longing for her to stay was.

21601130_jinsol.vrml

he’s older this time, pushing the bounds of maturity. stick-skinny still, and he drowns in his clothes. his hair is stained purple. so are the tips of his fingers. a smell of potent chemicals hang in the air, something nearly palpable. it’s either from the fresh dye or the burner he’s bent over. there’s a vial clamped above it. something bubbling and neon when the fluorescent flicker of the overhead light decides to work in brief moments of unsurity. his mother’s next to him, fingers tracing spirals up and down the line of his spine. every so often she redirects his hand. murmurs words into his ear. a palm pressed to the small of his back, and it’s nearly like a transferal. pressing magic into nerves. he doesn’t think it’s how it works, really. but it felt like it at the time, sitting in that tiny, cluttered apartment. a flicker of fire and warmth and belonging as his mother taught him secrets that were hoarded in his family. jinsol wonders if they’d ever been illustrious. if this strange magic ever mattered. there’s a sizzle-pop of a noise. a change in color. the vial’s removed from the fire. eventually, his mother tests it. he holds his breathe, waits to see if there will be a change in her eyes.

21601130_jinsol.txt

jinsol loves and hates it. the knowledge he has, the strange way he can cut chemicals with magic. something that grows larger and more complex as he does. now though, all of seventeen, and he loves the connection it’s forged between him and his mother. the way she’ll gravitate back to him, pass down this strange family heirloom. and he hates it, because it robs him from her too. how she’ll twist herself up in these strange moods and slip out of his life. to find someone, something, more capable than him. more fulfilling. but he took those mismatched emotions and jammed them into his own ambitions. his mother had never really scratched past the surface of capabilities.

jinsol became obsessive, in the same manic way he tends to become obsessive about a lot of things he cares about. and with that same strange of caring, an emotion caught halfway between love and violence. he found ways to bottle bliss, press desire into pills. a manmade euphoria, and he expanded his experimentation as he got older. found a way to coax out truth from an unwilling tongue and an addled mind. trust from the wary, if only they’d swallow down some of his magic. how much of jinsol’s success is luck? if one knew what he could make, the obsessive lengths he’d go to carve out what he decided he was owed, it would be a laughable question.

21630214_jinsol.vrml

the setting’s changed in this memory. the apartment’s even smaller, and the window’s stuck. the corner doesn’t fit down all the way. a cold gust slips underneath everytime the wind howls, angry and cutting with frost. a worn curtain flutters. there’s hardly a point in it, it’s nearly transparent from sun damage. jinsol’s fingers are white from the cold. there’s a scattering of pills on a table. his hands are sticky with blood. so is his wrist. half-congealed. his face is white too, but he looks ghost-startled over cold. the shock of a situation that saps the life, leaves everything devoid of color. eventually he fumbles for an old shirt, jams it over his hand. the blade’s still visible, sticking out from his arm. his own blade. his own modification. he slipped it into the side of a client broke enough to think wiping out jinsol inventory might’ve been a good idea. a heavy-sounding curse falls from his lips. a messy swipe of his hands as he tries to collect everything upturned on the table. manic eyes and chattering teeth. a glamorous life. it’s what he yearns for. he can’t meet his own expectations.

21630214_jinsol.txt

eventually, jinsol got sick of his mother’s dizzying circles that left them both lost. he moved out, on. hellbent on turning everything she taught him into a tool for himself. a way to crawl from the sheer desperation he seemed to live in. he craved opulence and wonder. awe and admiration. for all he’s seemingly worth now, jinsol’s initial endeavors were small, touch and go. dealt with the sorts of people that were elysium born and bred. namely: none too kind. but addiction’s a market all its own in this sort of place, and jinsol took advantage of it. he’s used his mod all of twice. a painful thing, and it’s left a scar. he doesn’t know what happened to either of the people on the other end of it. he’s callous enough to wish them dead. human enough that he wakes up in cold-sweat at four in the morning sometimes wondering if he’s a murderer.

it took a while to work his way up, and maybe he used some underhanded methods. doses meant to coax out secrets, understanding, trust. worked his way up and out of what seemed to be closets advertised as apartments. until he could afford a better supply, turned his brand into a necessity. ended up getting to know some bigger players around elysium. tried so very hard to pick up his mother’s mantle – to continue that endless, pointless quest of building a perfect life.

21680512_jinsol.vrml

jinsol looks almost garish. almost. draped in twined gold necklaces and delicate rings stacked along the lines of his knuckles. catch him in the right light of the fluorescent club-shifting-neon and he might glimmer like imitation sunlight. a white silk shirt and bottle service tucked away in a back corner of the afterlife. he has money, and he wears it like bragging rights. but he thrives on it. the stares. the attention. jealous, wanting. he craves it as much as people seem to crave his drugs. a symbiotic relationship. music thrums too loud around the room. enough to shake at bones. he spins a pill between he knuckles, and his eyes follow it. like he’s considering slipping it underneath his tongue. eventually, it’s pocketed. he doesn’t want to be his mother – as losing a battle as it seems to be.

21680512_jinsol.txt

twenty-five and he’s managed to carve out his own legacy. something built on the backs of vices. exploitative to be sure. but he’d argue a necessary one. doesn’t everyone deserve to be happy? he’s got connections, buyers, more than enough clients that he’s long ago been able to afford to move into an apartment with more than one room. he likes old school opulence. likes gold and velvet. likes paper-thin silk shirts, the subdued glimmer of diamonds. maybe he’d have more money if he didn’t waste it all so carelessly. it slips like water from his fingers. jewelry, furniture, perfumes, alcohol. anything that catches his whims, the unhoned impulse controls he’s given into all is life, only now he has the means for bigger mistakes.

21690326_jinsol.vrml

jinsol’s sprawled out on a couch. crushed velvet. it’d look lavish if not for the blotchy purpled wine stain near one arm of it. music spirals from a metal-boxed contraption in the corner. there’s a blanket tossed on top of it, maybe to hide a hologram it’s meant to simultaneously project. every time he takes a breath, it sounds wet. like pneumonia’s made a home from his lungs. his eyes are unfocused, and there’s a sheen of sweet on his brow. laid out next to him are vials in a shimmering variety of colors. an uncapped bottle of something that smells potent and alcoholic. there’s a retch of a noise, but nothing comes out. he rolls to his side and nearly topples. a manic laugh follows him.

21690326_jinsol.txt

new creations are in need of a willing test subjects. that’s what he tells himself, to keep himself from reflecting that warped image of his mother. bad habits catch up to him, pile up. he ignores the repercussions. it feels, sometimes, like he grew up wrong. like he’s constantly searching and seeking and coming up empty handed. but what he’s searching for is unknown, and without a name. despite it, he tries to continue his image of faux-perfection. what else is there to live for in the wasteland that is elysium?

[machinakrpx]

>> OPEN SONG JINSOL’S FILE …

:// AGE — 27 :// OCCUPATION — drug chemist :// CLASS —native

>> LOADING DEVELOPMENT …

:// MAGIC —  

jinsol’s magical is learned, and at the same time, seemingly twined into him. muscles and memory and nerves. it feels like it. something taught to him and adopted since he was old enough to let it manifest in his mind. it’s a second nature, nearly. infusing magic with medicine. or in his case, pseudo-medicine (he calls it medicine, at least). it’s something slipped in between measurement and chemicals and crushed herbs. built into molecules and compounding in a way that seems nearly impossible. should be impossible. but isn’t. a medical miracle, and maybe if he applied it different jinsol could be finding applications that would astonish, would’ve hefted him out of the slums of elysium on some miracle cure. but he doesn’t. just finds a way to manufacture emotion, to create a fabricated sense of bliss or love or warmth for people to envelope themselves in. like whiskey to warm yourself in the middle of a blizzard. a sort of danger ignored for that immediate sense of comfort.

:// MODIFICATIONS —

despite being an elysium native and building a large enough business that he has more means than most, jinsol doesn’t have many body modifications to speak of. just two.

the first is one he got done before he worked his way up, before he was able to pay enough for something above the books. but he’d needed it in the before period of his life. less now, though it’s a comforting reminder that it’s there. if you peel back the skin of his right wrist, there lies a hollowed out tube nestled between veins and bones. resting inside is a sliver of a knife.sharp and poised near a trigger spring. if he digs his finger in near his forearm and jams down on the end of the mechanism, it cuts out out. not entirely pleasant, considering it rips through skin on the way out. it also has to be manually wound back into his arm, meaning he has to seek someone out every time he hits the trigger. it’s meant as a last ditch defense system, for a hand ideally tucked up against a throat. he used to need it, back before he was working with hades. back when he was peddling his own goods and on his own. there’s a scar on his wrist now, a jagged sort of line left over from the two times he’s used it.

the second is less intrusive. a holographic tattoo on the nape of his head, a circle ring of a sun curved around the first jut of bone from his spine. something that shimmers and shivers and shakes before it implodes. then the hologram is looped back whole once again.

>> LOADING BIOGRAPHY …

tw: blood, drugs

RETRIEVING MEMORY…

21430102_sooji.vrml

a glitch – a vibrant flash of blue that reads so bright it hurts the retinas – the angle seems tipped. like the world’s off its axis. set instead on a lopsided table. baited breath, waiting for everything piled on top of it to slide off in a violent clatter. that’s the reaction the memory loop gives off when replayed. something not quite right that settles like nausea in the gut. trepidation. the unwanted kind. the memory holder’s perceptions, emotions flooding in. the room is sterile. blank-white floods the space. walls and sheets and floor. a glossy linoleum. there’s a rhythmic beep from a machine. a baby nestled in a set of arms – the memory holder’s – another glitch. the baby wails. the angle of the memory slips more. like the downward trajectory of a rollercoaster. from here, she plummets.

21430102_sooji.txt

lee sooji, a woman with too many secrets and unwillingness to divide interest from herself. naturally, a baby doesn’t fit well into the equation. even if it was planned. there’s not a lot of picture perfect anything that happens in elysium, but she’d always liked the idea of that. perfection. it’s hard to obtain though. even with a knowledge of chemical-infused magic that gave her the ability to create and shape her own world in the form of hallucinogens. is it a surprise that the marriage fell apart? probably not. a lot of things fall apart in elysium. dismantled by the society around them. he moved on, she was stuck with a baby that she didn’t really want. ignored at first. sharp cries, neglected fits. palms fit to ears of someone who constantly decided she was too young to deal with this mess of a life.

her feelings changed overtime. not dramatically, in a wild shift of personality. but slightly. when jinsol started to take shape more as a human than living soundbox. she liked some things, and she could list them off in a way that was reminiscent of explaining why one preferred a certain restaurant. she liked the adoration in his eyes. the way words could be pieced together into loving sentiments, something that seemed to runaway along with her ex husband. and sooji had always liked that. adoration. she valued it above nearly anything else. instilled the same beliefs into a young mind. he grew under fickle reliance. like a plant with a broken trellis, bent with the whims of her emotions. whether or not she felt like being a mother. whether or not she felt like being free of his shackling existence.

21490714_jinsol.vrml

it’s a humid day. it’s distinguishable based on that summer haze of warped air that makes the floor look bent. the click-whir of a broken fan. the chunks of ice jinsol has shoved into his cheeks, like an overambitious chipmunk. not that jinsol has any idea what a chipmunk is, he’s never seen one. just the scattered pigeons with broken-toed feet that loiter near the bottom step of his building. he looks like a wild thing. a smattering of band-aids covering scabbing, knobby knees. overgrown hair that hangs knotted in his eyes. a dirty smudge near his nose. gangly colt legs thrown over the edge of a dilapidated couch. he’s alone. some might say he’s too young to be alone, but he’d brustle up defensive at that. independent. biting off more than he can chew, but he’d rather swallow it down and half-choke than risk his pride and spit it back up. there’s a children’s cartoon projected up from an old holo-box sitting on a coffee table. sometimes it fritzes, and he stretches out a leg to thwack it with his heel. every ten minutes it seems like there’s a run of commercials hoping to sell him synthetically flavored juice. eventually, he loses patience and separates himself from the show, slips outside the door. some might say he’s too young to be running around the streets of elysium on his own. jinsol would cut them a smile, jagged and feral. a boy raised by chaos and the immediate impulses of a six-year-old.

21490714_jinsol.txt

jinsol’s youth is cut up into fractured pieces. the moments when his mother was there, and the moments when she wasn’t. his morals are ambiguous, lessons learned infrequent. and sometimes best avoided anyway. it depended on her mood, that’s what he learned. and it turned his desperate. seeking affection in a way that could turn near-violent. he’s a mirror image, in some ways. her reflection. has a constant needing for affection and validation. and when she gives, he takes. soaks it up. he likes it best when she’s at home with him, and jinsol babbles this out often. she regales stories in his ear, drifting off in the crook of her arm. humid ‘ i love you’s whispered against her neck, and she tells him just how much she loves him back. he can tell when she’s going to disappear by the look in her eyes. it’s like a lightswitch that only she can reach. a blank stare, or an emotion he can’t quite peace together yet, but he knows it’s bad. knows it makes him feel bad.

it’s resentment, but that’s a connection he pieces together later.

and then he’s on his own. raiding the fridge for non-perishables left behind and amusing himself. sometimes he skips school. it doesn’t matter, nobody notices he’s gone in the overcrowded classroom. wanders the streets instead, making friends with stray cats slipping through gaps of buildings too small a fit for most anyone else. a grand adventure, that’s what he’d tell himself to keep from feeling lonely. and then she’d come back, and it’d warm his bones. chase away that feeling. would try to grip to her with nails embedded into skin when he saw that look in her eyes. until he was pried off. he thinks he left scars, when he reminisces back nowadays, kept up late at night, sleepless. tries to reimagine his mother. but he can’t remember just how violent his longing for her to stay was.

21601130_jinsol.vrml

he’s older this time, pushing the bounds of maturity. stick-skinny still, and he drowns in his clothes. his hair is stained purple. so are the tips of his fingers. a smell of potent chemicals hang in the air, something nearly palpable. it’s either from the fresh dye or the burner he’s bent over. there’s a vial clamped above it. something bubbling and neon when the fluorescent flicker of the overhead light decides to work in brief moments of unsurity. his mother’s next to him, fingers tracing spirals up and down the line of his spine. every so often she redirects his hand. murmurs words into his ear. a palm pressed to the small of his back, and it’s nearly like a transferal. pressing magic into nerves. he doesn’t think it’s how it works, really. but it felt like it at the time, sitting in that tiny, cluttered apartment. a flicker of fire and warmth and belonging as his mother taught him secrets that were hoarded in his family. jinsol wonders if they’d ever been illustrious. if this strange magic ever mattered. there’s a sizzle-pop of a noise. a change in color. the vial’s removed from the fire. eventually, his mother tests it. he holds his breathe, waits to see if there will be a change in her eyes.

21601130_jinsol.txt

jinsol loves and hates it. the knowledge he has, the strange way he can cut chemicals with magic. something that grows larger and more complex as he does. now though, all of seventeen, and he loves the connection it’s forged between him and his mother. the way she’ll gravitate back to him, pass down this strange family heirloom. and he hates it, because it robs him from her too. how she’ll twist herself up in these strange moods and slip out of his life. to find someone, something, more capable than him. more fulfilling. but he took those mismatched emotions and jammed them into his own ambitions. his mother had never really scratched past the surface of capabilities.

jinsol became obsessive, in the same manic way he tends to become obsessive about a lot of things he cares about. and with that same strange of caring, an emotion caught halfway between love and violence. he found ways to bottle bliss, press desire into pills. a manmade euphoria, and he expanded his experimentation as he got older. found a way to coax out truth from an unwilling tongue and an addled mind. trust from the wary, if only they’d swallow down some of his magic. how much of jinsol’s success is luck? if one knew what he could make, the obsessive lengths he’d go to carve out what he decided he was owed, it would be a laughable question.

21630214_jinsol.vrml

the setting’s changed in this memory. the apartment’s even smaller, and the window’s stuck. the corner doesn’t fit down all the way. a cold gust slips underneath everytime the wind howls, angry and cutting with frost. a worn curtain flutters. there’s hardly a point in it, it’s nearly transparent from sun damage. jinsol’s fingers are white from the cold. there’s a scattering of pills on a table. his hands are sticky with blood. so is his wrist. half-congealed. his face is white too, but he looks ghost-startled over cold. the shock of a situation that saps the life, leaves everything devoid of color. eventually he fumbles for an old shirt, jams it over his hand. the blade’s still visible, sticking out from his arm. his own blade. his own modification. he slipped it into the side of a client broke enough to think wiping out jinsol inventory might’ve been a good idea. a heavy-sounding curse falls from his lips. a messy swipe of his hands as he tries to collect everything upturned on the table. manic eyes and chattering teeth. a glamorous life. it’s what he yearns for. he can’t meet his own expectations.

21630214_jinsol.txt

eventually, jinsol got sick of his mother’s dizzying circles that left them both lost. he moved out, on. hellbent on turning everything she taught him into a tool for himself. a way to crawl from the sheer desperation he seemed to live in. he craved opulence and wonder. awe and admiration. for all he’s seemingly worth now, jinsol’s initial endeavors were small, touch and go. dealt with the sorts of people that were elysium born and bred. namely: none too kind. but addiction’s a market all its own in this sort of place, and jinsol took advantage of it. he’s used his mod all of twice. a painful thing, and it’s left a scar. he doesn’t know what happened to either of the people on the other end of it. he’s callous enough to wish them dead. human enough that he wakes up in cold-sweat at four in the morning sometimes wondering if he’s a murderer.

it took a while to work his way up, and maybe he used some underhanded methods. doses meant to coax out secrets, understanding, trust. worked his way up and out of what seemed to be closets advertised as apartments. until he could afford a better supply, turned his brand into a necessity. ended up getting to know some bigger players around elysium. tried so very hard to pick up his mother’s mantle – to continue that endless, pointless quest of building a perfect life.

21680512_jinsol.vrml

jinsol looks almost garish. almost. draped in twined gold necklaces and delicate rings stacked along the lines of his knuckles. catch him in the right light of the fluorescent club-shifting-neon and he might glimmer like imitation sunlight. a white silk shirt and bottle service tucked away in a back corner of the afterlife. he has money, and he wears it like bragging rights. but he thrives on it. the stares. the attention. jealous, wanting. he craves it as much as people seem to crave his drugs. a symbiotic relationship. music thrums too loud around the room. enough to shake at bones. he spins a pill between he knuckles, and his eyes follow it. like he’s considering slipping it underneath his tongue. eventually, it’s pocketed. he doesn’t want to be his mother – as losing a battle as it seems to be.

21680512_jinsol.txt

twenty-five and he’s managed to carve out his own legacy. something built on the backs of vices. exploitative to be sure. but he’d argue a necessary one. doesn’t everyone deserve to be happy? he’s got connections, buyers, more than enough clients that he’s long ago been able to afford to move into an apartment with more than one room. he likes old school opulence. likes gold and velvet. likes paper-thin silk shirts, the subdued glimmer of diamonds. maybe he’d have more money if he didn’t waste it all so carelessly. it slips like water from his fingers. jewelry, furniture, perfumes, alcohol. anything that catches his whims, the unhoned impulse controls he’s given into all is life, only now he has the means for bigger mistakes.

21690326_jinsol.vrml

jinsol’s sprawled out on a couch. crushed velvet. it’d look lavish if not for the blotchy purpled wine stain near one arm of it. music spirals from a metal-boxed contraption in the corner. there’s a blanket tossed on top of it, maybe to hide a hologram it’s meant to simultaneously project. every time he takes a breath, it sounds wet. like pneumonia’s made a home from his lungs. his eyes are unfocused, and there’s a sheen of sweet on his brow. laid out next to him are vials in a shimmering variety of colors. an uncapped bottle of something that smells potent and alcoholic. there’s a retch of a noise, but nothing comes out. he rolls to his side and nearly topples. a manic laugh follows him.

21690326_jinsol.txt

new creations are in need of a willing test subjects. that’s what he tells himself, to keep himself from reflecting that warped image of his mother. bad habits catch up to him, pile up. he ignores the repercussions. it feels, sometimes, like he grew up wrong. like he’s constantly searching and seeking and coming up empty handed. but what he’s searching for is unknown, and without a name. despite it, he tries to continue his image of faux-perfection. what else is there to live for in the wasteland that is elysium?