#that i actually teared up from upon the first full read-through

[breadandbees]

tomorrow’s thursday and i’ve got a WHOLE other read-through for what i’m considering is BARELY a first draft

update’s gotta be postponed until likely next week

so far, chapter 17 looks like it’ll be wrapped up and onto revisions by the end of today! projected update next thursday! WOOOOO!

[gatorlovebot]

nsfw. mdni. this is self indulgent but its my right as a 20 something who is getting ready to move out on their own for the first time to write about landlord john price ok <3

landlord price who buys a nice looking duplex in the city and fixes it up himself. lives in the top floor because he doesn’t need much space to himself and rents out the bottom unit. so far it had mostly been couples or smaller familes renting out the bottom unit, until you came along.

you, who had been saving money to rent something nice for yourself, something with a little extra space. the two bedroom downstairs unit is perfect for you, but you have pretty mixed feelings about your landlord living right above you. until you actually meet him.

upon moving in your greeted by the warm accent of john price. his eyes crinkle when he smiles at you and you can pick out grey hairs in his full beard. it’s so cliche, feeling butterflies for an older man whose kind to you but what are you supposed to do when he offers to help you bring in boxes, muscly arms on full display?

he allows you time and space to get settled in, with a promise of, “i’m just upstairs if you ever need anything.”

you don’t see him for the next few days until there’s a knock at your door and its him, looking soft and sweet in a grey henley, just in time for the colder fall weather. “would you care to join me for dinner? i tried a new soup recipe and seems like a i have enough to feed a small army.”

and that’s how you end up in his space for the first time. it’s tiday yet lived in. furniture dark and worn. you can tell a man lives here. dinner is nice, soup rich and filling. but john makes it so much better. effortlessly making you laugh with his bad jokes and stories. he’s warm and personable. your little crush grows when he walks you back downstairs to your unit when the sun goes down. you find yourself struggling to go inside to your empty apartment.

some days you see him and some days you don’t. your work schedule is consistent but you can’t get a read on his schedule, coming and going unpredicatably. life of a retiree, you think.

sometimes you catch him when you’ve come home from work. usually you’re thrilled to see him, an immediate smile stretching across your face and a blush on your cheeks as soon as you see his smile and hear his voice.

sometimes you curse his presence. like now, when you can’t even wait until you get inside your place before the tears start to fall. and of course john has to be in the front yard racking up leaves. you try to give a polite hello and walk up the steps inside, but john price can already read you like a book.

he’s pulling you into his chest before you even know it, big, solid arms wrapped around your shoulders holding you snug to him. “what’s got you so upset, huh?”

and you let the tears fall in earnest, feeling safe and secure with john. “work…just fucking sucks.”

“oh you poor thing,” he coos before gathering you up in his arms and leading you up to his place. he brews some tea as you sink into his couch, the leather warm and soft underneath you. once the teas done, he settles next to you and let’s you warble on about how unsupportive your work environment is and how your boss never follows through on his promises. he mostly just lets you talk, letting out an occasional hum in affirmation. that night he’s not very talkative, he’s much more tactile. running his hands up and down your arms, rubbing the tension from your shoulders and back as he allows you to lean on him until you’re practically in his lap. you’ve exhausted yourself crying and he thanks you for being so vulnerable with him and tells you that even though you don’t deserve all the bullshit at your job, you’re such a brave girl for fighting through it.

things continue to get more and more comfortable between you two. you would almost go as far as to say you would consider him a friend. you do still sometimes have awkward moments though. like when you go down to the basement to change your laundry from the washer to the dryer and you find him already placing your garments in. “oh sorry,” he says, flustered, a tinge of pink dusting his cheeks at being caught. “i spilt some paint on myself earlier while touching up the trim outside and really needed to get some stuff in the washer. i was going to message you asking if all this stuff could go in the dryer.”

he’s so thoughtful, you think. “yeah, it can all go in. thanks, john!”

hours later when you’re finally putting away your clean laundry you realize some of your panties are missing. oh well, its an older dryer, must have eaten them.

its months layer when your stomach drops as you read a text from john asking if you could come upstairs later tonight, there was something he needed to talk to you about. you feel a flash of panic, his text sounding serious. did you do something wrong? you had just seen him the previous day and everything between you seemed fine. you thought you were a great renter, but now you weren’t so sure.

you make your way up to his place and he greets you at the door, usual soft smile on his face.

“i just wanted to get something out in the open,” he starts as you both take a seat on the couch. “i’ve noticed an odor coming from downstairs late at night.”

for a moment you have no idea what he could be talking about, an odor, you think and then it hits you. your late night smoke sessions. “oh, yeah.” it dawns on you. “i’m so sorry about that.”

“no, no, it’s fine.” he reassures, “i would be a bit of a hypocrite myself to be honest, i smoke cigars constantly. try to keep it to just the back balcony but sometimes i break my own rules.”

“yeah, i don’t do it in the apartment because that would be rude, but,” you wince, “sometimes i get a little too lazy to go outside so i just do it out my bedroom window.”

“ah, no worries, dear. just wanted to let you know that i know.”

with your panic subsiding you feel a little bold, “would you like to smoke a little, john?”

“if you’re offering, i’ll be on the balcony.”

you would have never imagined sharing a joint with john would lead you here. in his lap, legs splayed open with your pants around your ankles. listening to the wet sounds of your pussy as he dips his big fingers inside you, hitting all the right spots. your brain is floaty and your limbs feel weightless against his big body that surrounds yours.

there’s a constant stream of nonsense and whimpers that leaves your lips as you dumbly watch him pet your swollen clit. but its the filth from his mouth that really gets you. “such a pretty little thing fo’ me, huh?”

“this little cunt ‘s all mine, right?”

“i’ve been thinking about touching you like this since the day you moved in.”

“cum on my fingers, sweet girl, i know you want to.”

and you do, clenching around his fingers as you keen and moan through it. there’s a whispered, “good girl,” deep and gravelly in your ear before you’re being lifted into john’s arms as he carries you back inside, to his bedroom.

[that-guy-sleepy-miles]

Hello folks, it's Miles here! You may know me as the guy who deduced what Rayman is snorting in episode 5 of Captain Laserhawk! And today, I'll be going over how...

There Are 6 Types of Magic in LEGO Monkie Kid

You can honestly stop here if you don't want to get into the most convoluted stuff ever. If you're vaguely interested but don't have much time, click read more and scroll down to Red Son, because he's where shit gets interesting.

A disclaimer! I've literally never broken down or written a magic system before, I'm just like. writing down and making sense of what I've noticed while watching the show. If you disagree with my assessment of a character's magic, think there's a better term for something I've described, or think I'm just plain wrong, please let me know so I can update the post! I don't know what I'm doing, and I've never looked into magic systems before!

An important thing to note is that LEGO Monkie Kid adheres somewhat to the power systems in Chinese mythology, so I will be bringing up concepts from Chinese mythology that are not talked about in the show. Honestly, if you went 100% on the show and not on Chinese mythology at all, there wouldn't be a magic system in the first place.

Now, let's begin!

‎

First, vocabulary.

Magic Class: The root of a user's magic. Classes are not exclusive, but actually compounding. For example, Wukong has Intrinsic-based Actively Cultivated Magic. Magic Subtype: A modifier to a class; additional information to explain how a user's magic came to be or how it works. For example, Tang has Revitalized Bestow-Inherited Actively Cultivated³ Magic — the subtype goes before the class because it's a modifier. (Yes, I will explain why his Actively Cultivated Magic is cubed.)

(In the naming scheme of magic, everyone has a full classification and then a shorthand classification. The classifications above were all shorthand.)

Magical Energy: The basic form of magic; unfiltered energy that can be channeled, manipulated, and cultivated. This energy can be used to attack directly or utilized in a spell. MAGICAL ENERGY IS QI, "MAGIC" IS JUST BEING USED BECAUSE THIS IS WRITTEN FOR A WESTERN AUDIENCE. Power: A defined ability, such as a spell or a technique. Not all Powers are explicitly named, but powers have defined forms and details whereas Magical Energy is usually a geometric shape. Examples of Powers: 72 Transformations, Golden Sight, teleportation. Magical Expression: How Magical Energy and Powers form upon release. Examples of Magical Expression are glowing eyes, full body glowing, magical seals, anime-esque energy blasts, Red Son's* fire, Ne Zha's fire (two VERY different forms of Magical Expression), and Macaque's purple shadow outline. Ne Zha's Wind Fire Wheels are examples of Magical Expression with a conduit. Zero Magical Expression ≠ zero release, but can. Conduits: Anything that can hold, channel, or manipulate Magical Energy. All living beings and magical artifacts are examples of conduits.

Channeling: Collecting magical energy internally Releasing: The basis of Magical Expression; using collected magical energy for an attack

(Mei showcasing channeling and releasing in Rip and Tear) You can always tell when a character is channeling and releasing.

Knowing which class of magic a character is using can be hard — they all tend to utilize anime-esque energy blast graphics and glowing bodies for Magical Expression — so you have to pay close attention. I'll be going over how to identify the specific magic types as we go through them.

Each type of magic has a "poster child" — a character that fully embodies that type — and I'll be using them to explain how the magic works. Once we finish the easily categorized magics, we'll get into the Special Cases.

(MK showcasing Intrinsic Magic in Rip and Tear)

(Wukong showcasing Cultivated Magic in A Lifetime of Mistakes)

Now, onto the classes of magic!

Intrinsic Magic is a class of magic...

That's not inherently pedigree-related. Ne Zha's father Li Jing was a mortal man.

Most gods and local deities have, and some yaoguai have. (Older demons like DBK and Wukong have Intrinsic Magic, while younger demons like Pigsy and Sandy might technically have Inherited Magic. It all depends on how you want to look at it.)

That usually comes with unique powers, commonly the ability to walk and talk upon birth. (Wukong got laser eyes, and Red Son* got the Samadhi Fire).

And holders have unnatural births? Pangu's cosmic egg, Ne Zha being born a ball of flesh after being gestated for three years, Wukong's rock that's existed since the dawn of time, etc.

Ne Zha is the epitome of Intrinsic Magic! If you think Intrinsic Magic, you think Ne Zha. The unmistakable way to identify Intrinsic Magic is to look for themes. If a character has a theme to their magic, again and again, they likely have Intrinsic Magic! For example:

Ne Zha's Intrinsic Theme is (obviously) lotus flowers/petals.

Red Son's* Intrinsic Theme is flames.

Macaque would be a contender for intrinsic magic (we will be getting back to him, though).

Cultivated Magic is a class of magic that has two subclasses: ACTIVE and PASSIVE, and...

That's ENTIRELY self-created. A magical pedigree can help, but no pedigree is required in Cultivated Magic — Li Jing cultivated magic as a completely human man, for example.

That NEEDS a Conduit. The conduit for Cultivated Magic can be the magic user themselves, but often it's a magical artifact or a technique. Note: a conduit doesn't require Cultivated Magic to be used, but Cultivated Magic requires a conduit. (Known Conduits include: Wukong's Cloud Somersault, Nezha's Wind Fire Wheels, and Princess Iron Fan's Banana Leaf Fan.)

That's very backstory-heavy. There's always a way that a character learned or got their power, or a description of how old they are.

A magic that you see most with yaoguai and immortals. The older the yaoguai, the more cultivated they are.

Passive Cultivation: Every living being is a conduit for passive cultivation — by existing, you are passively cultivating. The best method of passive cultivation is age; the older something is, the more passively cultivated. A Huli jing is the best example of passively cultivated magic. According to literature, the older a fox is, the more power it accrues.

Active Cultivation: Active Cultivation is when a being seeks out magical power. The most common form of active cultivation is being taught Tao techniques (Wukong's Cloud Somersault, Li Jing's Burning Pagoda Art). In this situation, the technique is the conduit. Other forms of actively cultivating magic are yaoguai eating humans and magic-accruing technology (specifically DBK's Furnace armor, which converts rarity into magical energy.)

Cultivated Magic comes with the implication of being wise, at least in some form, and those with cultivated magic are able to teach others. Being a disciple immediately means you have Actively Cultivated Magic.

Cultivated Magic often doesn't have Magical Expression, because it's all about existing and learning. When it does have Magical Expression, it's usually depictions of strength and power or the conduit itself glowing.

(Wukong's hairs glow as they are used as conduits for his cloning technique in Macaque)

(Wukong and Macaque's strength is showcased through Magical Expression during a fight in Macaque)

Cultivated Magic can be seen through any technique that was stated to have learned, such as Wukong's astral projection and his speed/quick reflexes.

(Wukong focusing in order to astral project to MK in Dumpling Destruction)

(MK having to actively learn and practice astral projecting in Minor Scale)

MK: Monkey King! It worked! Monkey King: Hey, bud. So, you figured out astral projection, huh? MK: Yeah, and I only had five nose bleeds.

Cultivated Magic is best showcased in action, and characters cultivate over the course of the show.

(Wukong showcasing his Cultivated Magic by pulling some fast ones on MK in Impossible Delivery)

(4 seasons later in Strings That Bind, Wukong and MK spar, showcasing MK's Cultivated Magic. Tumblr will NOT let me embed both videos, and the first one is more important, so this will just be a link.)

Inherited Magic is a class of magic that has two subclasses: ANCESTERAL and BESTOWED, and...

Comes from someone else and was given to or passed down to the magic user.

Is sourced from Intrinsic or Cultivated Magic, but the magic user is not intrinsically magical/did not cultivate that magic themselves. The Intrinsic/Cultivated Magic is specific to another (perhaps deceased) being.

Can have ZERO Magical Expression or release.

If a character has Ancestor-Inherited Magic, they'll have a family animal, a family artifact, and/or a known ancestor.

If a character has Bestow-Inherited Magic, they were given their power by another magic user (known as the Bestower) so that they would serve that magic user, defeat a foe, or as a reward. Bestow-Inherit Magic users are often previously mortal.

Bestow-Inherited Magic is most blatantly a character giving another character magical powers, but being granted godhood, being brought back to life under a deal, and everyone receiving heavenly ranks/Wukong and Tripitaka receiving Buddhahood and Buddha titles at the end of Journey To The West is also Bestow-Inherited Magic.

A quick note: Older yaoguai (DBK, Azure Lion, Wukong) are considered to have Intrinsic Magic, but Modern yaoguai (Pigsy, Sandy) are deemed to have Inherited Magic. This is because these younger demons are not yaoguai specifically unto themselves — their status as a yaoguai comes from their ancestors. They have no unique, intrinsic powers, nor were they specifically predestined to be yaoguai despite their heritage (such as in the case of Nezha, who was predestined to be a celestial being).

For example, Pigsy. His status as a Magic User exists because of his family history. While, yes, his family is important to his character and story, it's not something he did himself — he did not cultivate his grandma — and there is nothing unique about him biology-wise besides just being a pig demon. He is a reincarnation, but being a reincarnation didn't make him a yaoguai. (That was a whole fate, symbolism deal, though.) If Pigsy hadn't been born, his family would still have a pig demon kid.

Now, onto the subtypes. (As a reminder, a subtype modifies a class!)

Revitalized Magic is a subtype of magic. It means that the magic is from a pre-incarnation that a character unlocks and requires reincarnation.

Uuuuunless it doesn't, and it required Un-Death. Auto-Revitalization of Magic is definitely a thing, but it's not a real category. It's just a specification to explain things that have happened to a character.

For example: The reason Macaque's shadows turned into chaos magic at the end of season 5 is because he's dead. He's outside of the reincarnation cycle, he's Undead, his magic is Auto-Revitalized —so when the reincarnation cycle is broken, his magic is also changed. At least, that's my personal theory. I might be DEAD WRONG.

Okay, back to Revitalized Magic proper: Remember back when I said Tang's magic was cubed? Yeah, this is why. (Before we start, Táng Sānzàng will be referred to as Tripitaka from here on out.)

The full classification of Tang's magic is: Potential Revitalized Bestow-Inherited (Tripitaka), Revitalized Actively Cultivated (Golden Cicada), Revitalized Actively Cultivated (Tripitaka), Actively Cultivated Magic. (Maybe, we'll get into this.)

The entire reason demons tried to eat Tripitaka was because he was the reincarnation of the Golden Cicada, who was a disciple of Buddha, which made Tripitaka's flesh holy. Being a disciple immediately means Actively Cultivated Magic; Tripitaka had Revitalized Actively Cultivated Magic. Tripitaka was a Buddhist disciple as well, which means he also Actively Cultivated. If Tang is a reincarnation of Tripitaka, who is a reincarnation of the Golden Cicada, then Tang has Revitalized Actively Cultivated Magic twice (or, even, 10 times, if you look at the Sandalwood Buddha thing, but Tripitaka and Golden Cicada are the important disciples so we're only counting them).

If Tang has Revitalized Actively Cultivated Magic and Revitalized Actively Cultivated Magic, that means he has Revitalized Actively Cultivated Magic². However,

Tang is a SCHOLAR. BEING A SCHOLAR MEANS THAT TANG IS ALSO AN ACTIVE CULTIVATOR.

HENCE, TANG HAS ACTIVELY CULTIVATED MAGIC³.

Celestial Magic is a subclass of magic that includes any magic with a seal. It's not exclusive to Celestial beings, but it's most often used by beings with Heavenly connections.

Celestial Magic is also known as "Spells", I'm pretty sure. Wukong just dropped this terminology on us in Season 5, and spells usually require words, but like. Okay, buddy. Whatever. You're the magic guy.

Celestial Seals have a unique symbol for every "Artist", or a Hànzì that explains the spell's purpose. For example, Li Jing's seals have a little pagoda on them, and the containment spell's seal (the only thing that can truly be called a spell here) has the character "牢", which means "prison" (or "enclosure", which is hilarious because it's containing 3 monkeys).

Consequential Magic is any magical energy or power gained as a result of an action taken by someone who is NOT the magic user.

Consequential is not a subclass of Cultivated because the magic user had no say in acquiring/did not know they were acquiring Consequential Magic; Consequential is not a subclass of Inherited because the magic user was not intentionally given these powers and they did not come from ancestry.

(Red Son* is literally the reason this subtype exists.) Every example of Consequential Magic is different, so I'm just going to some of the ones I know of in canon:

Wukong's Golden Sight (Consequence of the Eight Trigrams Furnace; Torture-consequence)

Ao Lie having the Samadhi Fire inside him after they fucked up the seal (Samadhi Fire/Red Son*; Samadhi-consequence)

Mei Dragon's ability to harness the Samadhi Fire/the remnants left over inside her after (Samadhi Fire/Red Son*; Samadhi-consequence)

MK's human form (form as in the shape of something btw) (Xiangliu fucked his shit up; Birth Interference-Consequence)

Macaque's new Chaos Magic (Xiangliu fucked his shit up; Chaos-Consequence)

I have spent this entire post explaining the way magic seems to work in LEGO Monkie Kid, getting slightly more and more unhinged as we go on. But there might be two things on your mind: Why? and Why does Red Son's* name have an asterisk on it every time I've mentioned him in this post?

I can answer both of those questions with one statement: Red Son does not adhere to the magic rules other characters follow. I've tried to find examples to see if I was thinking of the magic wrong — and that's fully possible — but I didn't find anything. In fact, the more I look, the more sure of this I become. It's like he actively decides against following the rules of the magic system.

He can be used as EXAMPLES of the magic system, but when you dig into his magic specifically, it's completely wack-a-doo.

First and foremost:

Red Son has a completely unique form of Magic Expression. His emotions are directly linked to his Magical Expression and release.

Emotionally linked magic release is something no other character does, but here he is doing it over and over and over again. The only example close to it is MK's Mystic Monkey form flickering in and out when he's distraught, and that's LITERALLY CREATION-GIVEN NÜWA MAGIC, THAT'S FROM A CREATURE WHOSE CANONICALLY "OUTSIDE OF THE 10 SPECIES" AND CANNOT BE CATEGORIZED?? AND ALSO NOT QUITE THE SAME EITHER.

(This could also be attributed to the concentration part of the Samadhi Fire, but he doesn't... seem to have access to that anymore? At least, not like Mei does. We'll consider it a factor in his magic expression, though.)

About his fire,

Red Son and his mom are the only two characters with Wuxing/Elemental Magic — every other example comes from a magical artifact. It's actually a 50/50 chance on whether or not PIF has wind powers or if the Banana Leaf Fan gives her wind powers (I'm pretty sure it gives her wind powers, but just to be safe we'll count her as having wind powers.) Wuxing Magic is not uncommon in actual Chinese mythology, but it is in the show for some reason. And it ALWAYS has an artifact as a conduit. Wuxing Magic always seems to be just a visual effect or an added addition to attacks in the show.

Another weird ass thing about Red Son's magic is its contrast with Nezha's. I'm pretty sure Red Son's fire is actual fire that he conjures magically, in contrast to Nezha's Wind Fire Wheels (conduits that Nezha fuels, and release Wuxing Magic as a visual effect) which make specifically magical fire.

Okay, so, I've been going through this assuming you're aware of the show's visuals concerning magic, but this is important for me to cover in detail. Everyone has two magic colors (white doesn't count for this). They can change in lighting, but you'll always recognize them as being the same general colors. Other colors may be used for emphasis, but they'll only be darker versions of the colors and they'll be used as a background for the main colors. (Quick note, MK and Wukong might have only one magic color? Fun stuff.)

The reason I think Red Son's magic is not... magic persay, is because it doesn't follow the color rule. Like, it's not actually the color of Red Son's magical energy half the time, it doesn't follow the magic color rule. Red Son's fire shifts like an actual fire, which is very cool visually, but is not how magic works.

(Quick note, magic seems to be lighter in the celestial realm. This is because the Celestial Realm is really well-lit. The environment is literally pure sunlight or some shit, so all the characters and their magic are in perfect lighting. So Red Son's magic getting inexplicably darker would make no sense unless Red Son's magic is doing that on its own and the lighting has nothing to do with it.)

His magic also isn't the color of the Samadhi Fire, nor is his fire. That time in season 5 when Mei helped him with the seal, the two of them together made a Samadhi Fire-colored seal. He didn't seem capable of doing that by himself, which leads me to my conclusion:

I think the suppression of the Samadhi Fire suppressed Red Son's Intrinsic Magic as a whole, and his magical core (as one user put it) is compensating by drawing directly from his element.

Characters having an element isn't a new thing. Wukong's element is metal, he's a metal guy, it's why he can't swim, and it's why MK can't swim. MK needs floaties because he'll sink like a rock because he shares the metal element with Wukong.

But this is a possible explanation for why Red Son's magic is so weird.

On the note of Mei having more access to the Samadhi Fire than him, Skellebonez (my rock through this journey of a post) brought up a good point: "[I] think it makes sense because whatever they did to remove it from him could have also added a barrier preventing its return to an extent[.] Like a filter[.]"

This Intrinsic Magic cap/Samadhi Filter might also explain why he keeps getting his shit rocked despite having such potential to be powerful (that's probably just because it's silly tho) and it could explain why his parents are so damn disappointed in him in season 1. It's because they took his magic from him (however unintentionally) and he's not as magical anymore. The only type of categorizable magic he uses is Celestial magic, which HUMANS can use and can be bestowed on ANYONE. You can just like... LEARN THAT, and I think he just did.

In canon, nobody ever seems to be hurt by Red Son's fire? It seems to just be... a thing that he does. Everyone is less and less scared of it as the show goes on, and the only thing it does major damage to is MK's apartment. He uses his fists to attack more than he uses his fire, it's generally left as a visual effect. Red Son uses his fire as an intimidation tactic, not as an actual weapon, and I think this could also be explained by an Intrinsic Magic cap. His intrinsic magic is suppressed, so he has to rely on things like physical strength/cultivation.

I also think nobody knows this in canon, they didn't know about it, or they don't understand it. I think Red Son has a magic limiter on him, which is why his parents were such raging fuckasses in season one. They thought their son was "useless", or in Wukong's words, "half-baked", after showing such promise in his childhood before an incident. They only got a healthier relationship after they stopped obsessing over power and spent some family time together, when they realized that their son being a powerful magical demon isn't the most important thing in the world. (AND WE WEREN'T SHOWN IT.)

Red Son is magic-disabled, in this essay I did.

ALL MAGIC COMES FROM THE PRIMORDIAL CHAOS, SO, IN ACTUALITY, ALL OF IT IS THE SAME! FUCK YOU!

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬.

and the smell of camphor dancing in the wind.

✦ info: he didn't know he'd lose you so soon. (come back, please. even if it is just for five more minutes.)

✦ featuring: alhaitham.

✦ warnings: angst, character death (reader), heartache, 1.2k words, somewhat proof-read.

✦ notes: i cried so goddamn hard writing this. why is my first work after hiatus pain. why did i pick up the angst wip. but!! i'm writing again, so that's good. (more notes at the end.)

he didn’t know that it was your last day together. 

he didn’t know that the smile you gave him that afternoon, your eyes sparkling like sunlight upon the serene waves of the ocean, would be the last he’d ever see. that the playful light in your gaze would fade so very soon, slipping through his fingers like sand.

he didn’t know that last night would be the last time he held you close while you drifted off to sleep. he didn’t know that today would be the last time he’d wake up with you.

he didn’t think he’d lose you like this. 

he didn’t think he wouldn’t be able to save you from that blow. 

“please, please,”  he begs, both to you and to whatever force that is just barely holding you together. “just stay with me for five more minutes, please. until i can get you somewhere.” 

the rain soaks him to the bone, clothes and hair sticking to his skin. your lips stay motionless, eyes shut.

“wake up, please,”  he bargains. “you can have all the five minutes of extra sleep you want later, i promise. just—”  his vision blurs, and something shines on the ground before it is gone, swallowed by damp earth, lost amidst drops of falling rain. 

desperately, he tears off parts of his traveling cloak to staunch the bleeding. deep inside, he knows it is futile. he knows your wound is too great. he knows what lies ahead. but he cannot help but press the cloths to your wound and pray. 

please, please tell me it’ll be okay. 

please stay with me, beloved. i’ll read you all the books in the world. i’ll sleep in with you everyday, even if we end up whiling away our time. 

please. stay. stay with me. i can’t lose you yet.  

“— just wake up, beloved.” 

by some miracle, your eye flutters. just a bit. just enough to set hope ablaze, just enough for the grip on his heart to loosen a tiny bit. he buries his face in your shoulder, resting his head against your neck, uncaring of the blood that stains his clothes. your blood. on his clothes. his hands. everywhere. 

no. no. this can’t be happening.

he feels you strain beneath him, your unwounded arm gently, weakly brushing his back. he jolts upright, eyes trained on your face. you send a frail smile his way. he clasps your face softly as you nuzzle into his palm.

“alhaitham—” 

his full name. archons, how long has it been since you called him that?  

“— take good care of yourself, okay?” you tell him, chest heaving, your fingertips touching a tear on his cheeks. “i love you. so much.” 

those are the last words he hears fall from your lips. he presses a kiss to your forehead, to your eyelids, and to your cheeks and to your lips, over and over and over until he feels your breath slow, hoping they’ll say what he knows he cannot manage to choke out.

i love you. 

he stays there next to you for who knows how long, holding you until the rain slows and a faint rainbow smiles in the sky.

until he can’t smell camphor anymore.

—

every person has their curiosities. 

they’re just the little traits that set them apart from others, the things that make them tick just a little bit differently, the things that make them, them.

for instance, someone may be obsessed with collecting tiny furniture, while another eats the crusts off their sandwich before actually consuming it. someone may have an affinity for the most niche aspects of linguistics, while another can accurately predict the next raindrop that slides down a window pane.

after all, no two people are exactly alike, are they?

alhaitham knows he’s got his fair share of these curiosities himself. his aversion to soup and all things that resemble it, to name one. and with you, he’d noticed two things. 

number one: the scent of camphor that seems to linger on every inch of your person. 

he’d caught whiff of it almost immediately the first time you met. you were but one of his juniors in the akademiya, filled with bright-eyed curiosity and anxiety to match. you had tripped over a stair and bumped into his table in the library, bringing the mountain of books in your arms crashing down.

and with subsequent coincidental meetings, he learnt that the subtle scent of camphor dancing in the air meant you weren’t far away. 

you were, unfortunately, one of the poor souls who seemed to be cursed with constantly recurring minor illnesses, and almost always walked about with a stuffy nose. and so, you always carried a small disc of camphor in a handkerchief, as well as in your pocket.

you swore up and down, left, right and center that sniffing the vapors helped make breathing easier.

‘it’s my grandmother’s remedy, alhaitham! camphor always works wonders. well, that and eucalyptus oil.”

alhaitham may not know the validity of your claim or the legitimacy of the cure, but he knew to never, ever question a grandmother’s remedy. that, and he’d much rather refrain from starting a back-and-forth about something so small.

and number two: your neverending pleas of different variations of ‘just five more minutes!’ 

“five more minutes, ‘haitham. please.” you’d whine grumpily when he woke you up to start your day. “let me sleep in for five more minutes.” 

“five more minutes, habibi,” you’d ask when he put down the story you’d requested he read out to you before bedtime. “read me the part where she finds the music box?”

“five more minutes, baby,” is what you’d tell him when he asks how much longer you’d take getting ready. “you can’t rush perfection!”

those five more minutes were never five minutes long. 

but he’d always, always indulged you and those pleading eyes of yours. as stoic as he appeared to be, you lived in his heart. of course he could never deny you anything under the sun.

—

alhaitham remembers that silly little song you sang over and over, the one you’d learnt from a kid in the bazaar. he’d taken you to see one of nilou’s performances, and, friendly soul that you were, you’d struck up a conversation with some of the eager audience members before the play. 

“oh, how i wish i was a bird flying free,

i’d see the world, every mountain and every sea!

oh, how i wish i was a cloud in the sky,

wouldn’t you like to wave to me as i pass by?”

you’d hum that rhyme on every idle afternoon.

loss is inevitable. he knows that, with how logical and rational and straightforward he is. he’d lost his parents, but he was far too young to remember. he’d lost his grandmother, but she passed in her sleep of old age, serene and wise.

but you? he didn’t think you’d leave him this soon. a singular wish sits in his soul, making its home in his bones. 

a wish that you’d come back, somehow. 

he wishes you gave him five more minutes, just as he always did.  but he knows that you could’ve given him five more hours, five more days, five more years and five more decades and it would still not be enough time spent with you. 

a blue feathered bird comes to perch on his shoulder, interrupting his musings just as he raises his face to the sky. he sees the heart shaped cloud that floats idly above sumeru city.

 he thinks of the rhyme again, and something in him tells him to wave. and so he does. a scent so familiar lingers, faintly brushing his nose in the wind that picks up.

“alhaitham, it's time to go.”  kaveh calls his name softly.

 alhaitham doesn't move. “five more minutes,”  he says, echoing your favorite phrase. “i smell camphor in the breeze.” 

✦ extra notes: my alhaitham characterization for this fic stems from how i believe that when alhaitham is attached, he's attached. so i focused more on that, and less of all that rationality and whatnot. this one loves deeply, yk?

that camphor thing is a real grandma remedy in our household (my mom would tie some in a hanky and put some under my pillow and still to this day reminds me to do it when i'm sick) which is what originally sparked the idea for this

when i'd initially started this wip, i didn't expect it go this way. usually i write with my brain, but i think i wrote this one with my fingers working faster than i can think hsjhsj so sorry if it's kinda out of place lmao but yk what? i'm happy with it still even though i feel like it doesn't have my usual quality.

thanks for reading.

[etheries1015]

Heheha!!! Could I request about being Lilia Vanrouge's personal "stress ball"? (Aka relieve of stress via sex)

And he just LOVES degrading you and doing stuff to make you cry and beg?

Imagine if he like, makes you go on his cock while he's lying down, and he just orders you to pleasure him because he's too lazy too (what a lie) and he will randomly snap his hips at random times up just to see your reaction. Then it would go to full-blown fucking after a while, but y'know, you get it

Fingering you while you're blindfolded and you have to guess which finger he's using. Get it wrong, and you don't get to cum! But he lies, and makes you beg to cum. Fucks you into tomorrow, ehe!

Etc, etc...

Then imagine that after the war, he realises that he actually likes you! Confession? Fluff? And more smut? Lol my brain is now empty, pls expand.

AHHHHHHHHHH I READ THIS A COUPLE TIMES OVER BECAUSE IT'S SO GOOD??? moister than an oyster over here eheheheheh I wrote something pretty similar about this concept of Lilia taking home a human sex toy, it is very short and not in-depth but you can take a read of it -> HERE hehehe

This might be a little dark, so warning you... 18+ below with some dark themes, a bit of non-con sprinkled in there. Rough fucking, Lilia a little mean :[ but he turns out pretty soft hearted after it all <3 mildly rushed, hopefully you still enjoy <3

But I LOVE to imagine the fact that it starts out as just a fling- a way for him to let out his anger and frustrations through pleasurable means. To see you cry out as he continues to thrust into you- the chains on your hands making your wrists become sore. You kind of liked this, though, being tied up and used as the Generals release. Something about it was enticing to you, despite the toll it sometimes takes upon your body.

He lets you free of course, but he loves the way you tighten around him and how much more warm you feel when you're chained up. There's times when he comes back utterly exhausted from the days endeavors, sitting down with his head tilted back and his hands covering his eyes, legs spreading. His gaze flickers down to your needy body, before he unzips his pants pulling out his cock. Soft at first, before he tells you to entertain him enough to get him hard.

If you weren't able to properly arouse him- you'd be punished for it either later or in that moment. Depends how "tired" he is.

"You understand I've had a long day, don't you, my little bat? You can't even get me hard all by yourself. I guess I have to do all of the work, don't I?" He grabs a fist full of your hair, pushing your head into the pillow before roughly grabbing you by the hips and pulling your ass to meet his pelvis. He grinds into you before tearing your pants, your feeble whines falling upon deaf ears as he pumps his cock a time or two before entering your hole painfully slow. Now you're whining for a different reason- Lilia chuckling at such neediness. All at once he suddenly snaps his hips against your ass, leaving marks upon the back of your neck almost drawing blood. Your punishment, he says.

Over time, you felt as if Lilia was getting "bored" of you. He was coming home later than usual and didn't call upon your services as often. But this was far from the truth. He started to find himself...interested in you. Once he walked in on you indulging in your hobby, simply existing. You were so beautiful in that moment in his eyes- the way you were focusing on your task, now allowing the outside world to interfere with your happiness in that moment. Being so used to seeing hatred and bloodshed, Lilia almost forgot what it was like to be happy. He began to realize that you were indeed more than just a toy to be used at his disposal, and with this slight change of heart, he began to treat you differently.

Coming closer to the end of the war, instead of keeping you up all night to have his way with you, it would be spent asking you questions and talking about what life would be like after the war. Your hopes and dreams, your hobbies, your future plans. He began to bring you heartier food and random trinkets he felt would suite your interests, even bringing you a peony at some point, not without a deep blush and quickly disappearing into thin air almost as if to avoid your reaction. He was becoming gentler, and you weren't sure how to feel about it. Was it a trap? Was he getting your hopes up to take you by surprise? After all, you spent so long thinking you had not much worth besides being used for his sick and twisted pleasure.

Once the war was officially declared as over, you were his first visit. The first on his mind in which he wanted to share this moment, running swiftly to the cottage in which you took shelter in. You were standing in front of the garden with a smile on your face as he came back to you.

During that period in which he began to treat you differently, you had also become much more light hearted and comfortable around the fae. Perhaps a mistake you often wondered about, yet you continued on with reckless abandon nonetheless. "Lilia! It's finally over! I'm so proud-" You were cut off as he ran to you and immediately smashed his lips against yours. He had never kissed you so gently yet so passionately at the same time- his hands snaking around your body and pulling you close, almost like...a hug. Your heart dropped for a moment- thinking perhaps this was the time in which he decided to ravage you. When the war was over and worries were off his mind- he could have his way with you once again. How twisted.

"...Shall I go get my chains?" He was startled at this, pulling away and looking you in the eyes with a hint of sadness and guilt. He shook his head, pressing his forehead against yours with his hands trembling as he cupped your cheeks, peering into your eyes.

"No more chains," He muttered, "I thought I made it clear that you are not worth your body to me anymore. I apologize if I did not make that clear, my little bat." The nickname he had chosen for you sounded much softer, much more kind, and in the most loving tone, unlike the degradation you were subjected to. You bit your bottom lip as if to hide a giddy smile, Lilia taking notice of this and pressing a kiss against your forehead. The war was over, and Lilia had finally confessed his feelings for you.

The first time you two have sex, he asked permission.

"Can we...I..." He was stuttering over his words. Lilia was so used to taking what he wanted from you that it felt almost weird and awkward to ask for permission- but he promised to do it right.

"I would like to make love with you."

This time, he was gentle. Taking his time with you. He gently lay your back against the bed and propped your legs over his shoulders, bending over to pepper kisses around your face and love marks on your chest. He asked you if you were alright, and was certain to prep you before entering. Your fingers interlocked with each other, his thrusts were short and intimate yet reached the deepest parts of you. This time, it was for your pleasure- not just his own for the taking. With every thrust and every whispered "I love you's" came with praise you were unfamiliar with. This wasn't the same general who simply used you to fill to the brim and bark orders at, this was someone who wanted you to feel the love with every stroke of his hips and dulcet words that left his once fiery mouth.

it's truly a wonder how much people can change.

( @mellowwillowy I think you'd enjoy this one, pookie)

[euovennia]

oh oh - and if it’s not too much trouble to ask, an addition to mom/dad friend simon, maybe another hc where reader takes a bullet for him and he’s like "why would you do that" and she’s all like "because your my friend" and he’s like "🥹" rubbing my hands together deviously

so for anyone new, this post is a continuation of this request, but it can be read as a stand alone if you so choose! i will say simon may be a bit ooc but you've already been besties forever so it's fine. thank you to the anon who requested this, i hope i did it justice. now please, enjoy <3

so by this point it's become well established that you and simon are pretty much a package deal

one can never be seen without the other trailing too far behind

unless of course one of you (usually simon) is actually trying to do their job

but even then you both have a tendency to hover

well

the hovering is usually done by simon who will take it upon himself to sit somewhere in the same room as you while you work

but you're more direct in your approach

which basically means you have no hesitation in pulling up a chair and talking his ear off

depending on his mood/what he's working on he'll either slide something your way in hopes of distracting you into silence or he'll take part in your mindless chatter

it's usually the latter much to the annoyance of price whose come to notice that simon tends to submit his mission reports just a tad later than normal when you're around

but he doesn't dare say anything because he's just happy simon finally has someone to keep him company

even if it does mean him missing a deadline here and there

now with the amount of time you two spend around one another, there was the small concern that you two may become a bit more reckless on missions together

but honestly?

that couldn't have been farther from the truth

as much as you like messing around with simon, you're very aware that your line of work requires your full attention

so, despite how hard it can be at times, you limit your jokes and general shenanigans to the bare minimum so you can get the job done

and obviously it goes without saying that he does the same by shedding the name simon riley and becoming the infamous ghost

it was a bit startling for the team to witness this change at first

they honestly thought you two were mad at each other

but after the mission was said and done, you and simon started hanging out again and it just kinda clicked

simon probably uses you as an example to soap to be honest

anyway, point is

you both know how to keep your friendship out of the way in the field, you've practically mastered the art of it

but the moment you see him get into a knife fight with an enemy soldier on a mission, you can't help but worry

and you can't help the way your worry morphs into panic as you see a tiny red dot plant itself on his body as he finally drives his knife into the neck of the rival soldier

and you certainly can't help the way your feet seemingly begin to move on their own as you sprint toward ghost and practically ram him into the ground

and you most definitely can't help the yelp of pain that drops from your lips as you feel a searing hot pain rip through your lower abdomen

so much for those bullet proof vests

simon looks up from his position on the ground, knife in hand and ready to stab it into the poor soul dumb enough to tackle him like this

but then he sees you

he sees your face, eyes wide with shock and mouth agape

his eyes trail down your body and he swears his world nearly crashes as he stares at the dark red spot currently staining your shirt

he can only fear the faint sound of yet another gun going off before you're tumbling onto the ground

he snaps out of his daze to catch you and he can't help but feel horrified upon seeing another bullet wound lodged into your thigh

he can hold in his cry of agony and heartbreak as your breathing soon becomes labored and your eyes fill with tears

he gives your struggling form a once over before sucking in a sharp breath and dragging you to a nearby hill that was littered with enough rocks and boulders to offer shelter from the incoming storm of bullets

he settles your head onto his lap as he harshly barks out words you can't even begin to understand through the comms

you can barely register the way his hand gives your face a small smack

your eyes connect as he pulls a roll of gauze from his tactical backpack, "come on, kid. don't do this to me. just a bit longer."

even with the searing hot pain that was overruling all your other senses, you can't help but smile

you grab onto his inked forearm and he stops as he looks back at you, eyes wild and frantic

"hey simon?"

"what?"

"thanks for putting up with me."

your eyes begin to flutter open, a small hiss of discomfort escaping your mouth as you cringe at the bright overhead lights

you make a move to bring a hand up in front of your eyes to shield yourself form the harsh fluorescents, but stop your movements when the lights suddenly begin to dim

confused, you begin to look around the room only to see simon standing by a wooden door with his hand on what you assumed to be a light dimmer

he stares at you through the eye holes of his balaclava, "better?"

you offer him a nod paired with a small smile and open your mouth to offer your thanks but stop when he puts the lights back up to their full brightness causing you to let out a groan

you open your mouth once more to vocalize your complaints and throw a half-hearted insult his way, but stop when you hear the heavy footfall of simon's boots making their way over to your hospital bed

he comes to a stop by your bedside as he glares down at you, a swirl of emotions darkening his already hardened gaze

after giving your eyes a few moments to adjust he speaks, "you're the stupidest person i've ever fuckin' met."

your eyes widen as your jaw goes slack, "excuse me?"

he leans down and stops just a few inches short of your face, "i said you're stupid and i'd yank you off the field myself if i could."

you can feel your heart drop at his harsh tone but decide to soldier on, "you're in a good mood today, aren't ya?"

his eyes narrow and a growl of anger and frustration escape the lips hidden by his mask, "don't give me any of that shit, you know what you did."

you sigh, "i'm in a hospital bed, simon. i don't think i could've done any–"

you don't even get to finish your sentence before he's interrupting you, "why'd you do it?"

you stare up at him, confusion and annoyance evident on your face

"simon, what are y–"

he scoffs, "the fucking bullet! you took the fucking bullet! why'd you do that? what made you think that was a bloody good idea? do you have any fucking clue what you put this team – what you put me through?"

oh

right

your expression melts into one of sheepishness as you attempt to get in a word, but stop when simon decides to continue

"i had the situation handled, i could've taken care of myself! i'm smart, i'm capable, and i have years more experience than you do so tell me, i can handle myself! i don't need you steppin' in and throwin' yourself in front of bullets! you coulda fuckin' died!"

"simon–"

he points a finger in your face as he continues on with his rant, "no, you don't get to call me that, not anymore. from here on out, you either address me as ghost or lieutenant, nothing else until you can learn how to handle yourself on the field. we need soldiers, not daredevils. do you understand?"

you exhale, "no."

before he can continue with his angry tangent you sit up with a painful grimace and grab the pillow the pillow your head once rested upon and fling it at him

he narrowly dodges it and stares at you with a mix of rage and pure disbelief with a glare that practically screamed, "what the fuck."

hit block limit again. i'm afraid this may become a habit. anyway.

taking his silence as your cue to speak, you do just that, "okay fine, you're right. i probably shouldn't have tackled you down like that and taken a bullet for you, i probably should've remembered that you're a fully capable man with more experience than me, and i probably should've remembered that the field is no place to be playing favorites. you're right, i should've kept that all in mind but–"

you let out a small sigh as you avert your eyes to the think blanket draped over your body, "when i saw that gun pointed right at you i...i couldn't bring myself to care about any of that. at that moment, all i saw was you in danger and i couldn't have that so i did what i did. you can reprimand and punish me all you want for doing it, but i don't care. i stand by my actions."

simon eyes you for a few moments longer before grabbing onto a chair nearby and settling it beside your bed

you watch as he sits down with a small sigh, his eyes never leaving yours

"why?"

your brows knit together in confusion

"why what?"

"why'd you take a bullet–no, why'd you take two bullets for me? you and everyone else on this team know i could've handled it, so why?"

you frown, "because you're my friend, simon. why else?"

once those words leave your mouth, you're greeted with his blank ghost stare

again, he's just 👁️👁️

and you feel a small wave of concern wash over you

like

this is the same man who was torturing you with the bright fluorescent lights and lecturing you to hell just a few minutes ago and now he's just staring at you

still and silent as ever

you almost ask if he's okay, but stop yourself when he brings his large hand up to the edge of your hospital bed and begins inching it closer to yours before eventually resting it over yours

it's quiet for a few moments longer before he speaks in one of the quietest voices you've ever heard from him, "you took that bullet cause i'm your friend?"

you can't help but soften your own voice as you respond, "my best friend."

upon hearing you say that, simon can just feel the small well of tears that begin building up in his eyes

and as much as he wants to fight them off, he just can't

you, already being able to sense the internal war he's got going on inside his head, simply turn your hand so you can grip onto his and give it a firm squeeze

and by god he hates you for that

because now he can't help but disconnect your hands in favor of surging forward and wrapping his arms around you

you swear you can feel the small rumble of his shoulders as he tries and fails to conceal his quiet sniffles but you decide to overlook it because oh my god simon 'ghost' riley is crying in your arms and it's all your fault

so you decide it's best to just hold onto him as tight as you possibly can

he notices this and he just melts

what did he do to deserve you?

what overpowering force of life felt that he was good enough for the sunshine that is you?

who gave him the honor of being blessed with you?

he's not sure but quite frankly, he doesn't really care

not when you're holding onto him like your life depends on it

not when you pull back from the hug, look into his eyes, and offer him the brightest smile he's ever seen

and certainly not when you grab onto his hands and speak in that sweet honey voice of yours, "i'll always take a bullet for you. i can't lose you, simon."

jesus christ you're going to make his heart burst

he sucks in a small breath and squeezes onto your hands, "i can't lose you either, kid."

you only smile, "you won't, i'm always gonna be here with you."

words that once would've annoyed him to no end now set his cold heart alight

"you fuckin' better."

your smile widens and you lean forward to capture him in yet another hug

with his arms wrapped tightly around your body and you pressed up against him, he can't help but smile

it's definitely nice to have a friend

:)

[sebscore]

Hey!

Heres my request for ur fem!driver series:

Y/N wins her first race and everyone is waiting for her national anthem to play but somehow an error in the sound system leads to this song playing:

But instead of being mad abt it, she’s ecstatic just absolutely vibes her lil heart out on the podium and soon she has the other drivers, some commentators and the entire crowd joining in w/ her (cuz she’s THAT GIRL🤩😂)

PLEASE RISE FOR THE NATIONAL ANTHEM

pairings: lewis hamilton x driver!reader / charles leclerc x driver!reader

warning: kinda changed how the podium ceremony normally goes, but it's nothing drastic, tbh. they already received their trophy and champagne.

author's note: thank you so much for the request, I started laughing when I read it, cause it reminded me of that one meme. Anyway, I hope you enjoy it and lmk what you think of it 🫶

• • • • • • •

Y/N stood proudly on the top step of the podium, full in disbelief that this day had actually come. She had won an Formula 1 race, she had won a Grand Prix. The first woman in history to actually do that.

Charles and Lewis glanced up at her, delighted that they could witness the historical moment from this close. They always had the faith that she could do it one day, that she had the skills to overtake them and cross the checkered flag first.

The time had come for her national anthem to start playing. Her eyes welled up with tears, the patriotic feeling in her rising up and the knowledge she had done her country proud. Y/N had prepared herself and had put tissues in the pockets of her racing suit, knowing she was probably gonna end up sobbing by the time the song had finished.

Only, that moment didn't happen.

There had been a mistake in the sound system and instead of the beautiful harmonies of an orchestra being heard, the opening beats of the hip hop song 'Get Low' by Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz were being played.

It had taken Y/N a few seconds to comprehend what was happening, the frown on her face evident that she was confused. Similar expressions of confusion and shock were found on Lewis, Charles and everyone else's faces.

Y/N briefly glanced at the staff on the side of the podium and the audience anticipated what she would do. The young woman could give one of two reactions. The first reaction would be for her to stay serious and be upset about the fact that her national anthem wasn't being played. Or, she could go along with the situation, and start dancing to the song to make it fun for everyone witnessing the moment.

Obviously, she went for the second option.

It started with the bobbing of her head to the loud beats that were coming out of the speakers, wiping away the tears that had escaped earlier with her hands. Then, she began to mouth the lyrics and the sight only became funnier from there on.

The song wasn't even halfway done or the podium ceremony had become a concert with the female driver as the headlining act. At first, Lewis and Charles had covered their faces in embarrassment, not for the young woman, but simply for the entire situation. Yet, once they saw the crowd getting hyped up, they joined her and started jumping up and down.

Upon seeing their still unopened champagne bottles standing lonely on the podium, Y/N started the fire and began shaking it. As soon as her two colleagues noticed what she was doing, they picked up their own respective bottles and started doing the same.

Eventually, the song ended and the podium ceremony was over, to everyone's dismay. The drivers picked up their trophies and made their way down the grid again for the short post-podium interview.

Y/N had been the first one to come downstairs and Coulthard grabbed that oppurtunity to interview the young woman first.

''Y/N, what's going through your head right now?'' He asked, handing a microphone to her.

Her hand went through her hair, thinking of the right words to say. ''Pff, I don't know, David,'' her voice sounded out of breath, ''I'm still processing what just happened.'' She nervously laughed, public speaking not being her favorite thing to do.

''I think we're all still processing what just happened,'' Coulthard laughed along, ''what went wrong there on the podium?''

She shook her head, looking back at said podium behind her. ''Geez, uh, I think there was a mistake or something with the cd and, uh, yeah, my national anthem started playing.''

Coulthard started a new question, wanting to change the subject, but was interrupted. ''You know, David- I'm very proud of my country, Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz, I know I've made my people proud.'' She joked, making the audience laugh as they listened to the interview.

''That's great, Y/N,'' Coulthard awkwardly replied, just wanting to continue to ask his questions, ''So, about the race…''

''Yes, the race.''

''Talk us through it, how did you feel it was going?''

Y/N nodded her head to David's words. ''The race, uh, the race, it went, uh- listen, I've gotta be honest- I don't remember a thing, but I'm gonna assume I did really well, you know, cause I won.'' She rambled on, genuinely having forgotten all about the competition that had happened earlier.

Lewis, who was standing a few feet away from her, loudly cackled at her answer and his laugh was picked up by the microphone.

''Alright, Y/N, thank you so much and congratulations.'' He padded her shoulder, rounding up the interview.

''I'm so sorry, David.''

[pixeltwix]

{The Disconnect & The Spiral}

(I realize this isn’t my usual content, but hear me out, the rekindled GF fixation is going hard rn)

- -As an avid fan of Gravity Falls and an even bigger fan of the tragic old man lore packed into the mystery trio, I honestly gotta say..

I refuse to believe this is the full story towards WHY Fiddleford and his wife had a whole blasted argument over…him forgetting to get her a Christmas present?? Upon reading this section, I can frankly say I had a similar reaction to Ford. The immediate sense of, ‘really? That’s it? Your family reunion was torn up over that?’

I mean- your husbands been gone for lord knows how long, your young son also hasn’t seen him in ages, and let’s be honest- with how much trauma the ole hillbilly is stacking up on a day to day through his adventuring with Ford, how often is he actually able to call home or write a letter with a sound mind?

It just doesn’t feel feasible that a man who started this journey so troubled and in yearning to return home to family would be so forgetful as to not scrimmage up not even a souvenir or postcard from Gravity Falls for his family. So what is it then? Perhaps he’s become so averse to everything in the small town he wouldn’t dare bring a trace of it home with him, or rather, he truly had forgotten some small one off promise he made. Perhaps he’s forgotten a lot by this point-

Because of lack of dates on a majority of his entries it’s a little difficult to put together a timeline of when Fiddleford finished his memory wipe gun and when he started using it. By all means he racked up a lot of memories he wished to forget in the beginning being as quote ‘weak minded’ as he is. But then of course we all know he becomes addicted to quite literally erasing every little inconvenience until of course the end result. The freedom of a clear mind outweighing all consequences for him.

Instead however I choose to believe these were the first persisting side effects of his machine. We know enough about it now to get the fair suggestion that even one use of the memory wipe gun can be more damaging than can truly be discerned, so seeing as he quite possibly has used it at least twice by now- both events he used them for being extensive (the shifty incident and the gremloblin incident cited in journal 3) I believe it only fair to assume this quoted argument he got into with Emma-May was hardly over one measly little present. True, we have no frame of this woman much less the rest of the family (minus what we get of Tate once he’s grown), but I am TRULY giving her the benefit of the doubt in believing her husbands mind has begun to scatter in ways he didn’t even realize. So much to the point that a fight possibly fueled by ‘it’s not just about the Christmas present, it’s about ————“ would truly confuse him

I say that in the kindest way, I love Fiddleford, truly he’s the most tragic character in my mind regarding this story, but the man’s self destruction and drift from his family had to have started somewhere. And just like any addiction that can tear a family apart, this one was definitely packing punches. I realize I don’t have much backing, and I’m really just rambling some nonsense, but Alex Hirsch just doesn’t feel like one to write a one off ‘oh by the way this silly reason is why Fidds is alone from his family for the holidays, something he clearly holds a deep fondness for’. Nah, that man is too cryptic for him to write something like that and for me to not overthink it <3

(But with all that said and done- dear god the snow globe cabin and the knitted six fingered gloves literally killed me- that hillbilly is such a damn sweetheart, it can almost make me ignore the doom that will befall him and the town <3!!)

[thelastofhyde]

you cut your hair, and take some space (2)

pairing. narcos!javier peña x fem!reader

synopsis. an anthology of events that precede and procede the termination of you and your father's best friend's sexual relationship. this is part 2 of 3! (part 1)

warnings. no use of y/n! all spanish text is followed by immediate translation ( please note that i am fluent in castilian spanish, therefore some words/phrases may differ from that of other hispanic countries ), age gap , student!reader, dbf!javi, post-s3!javi, policeofficer!javi bc i said so, break up au, mutual pining, forbidden lovers kind of vibes, reader has a healthy relationship with her parents, violence, nondescript depictions of sa ( not javi ), pedro-ception aka there's a small cameo of another pedro boy, vomiting, mentions of pregnancy, reader is described to have hair and celebrates christmas ( but no mention of the reader's religious beliefs )! smut ( creampie, breeding kink through the roof, domesticity kink?? javi just wants to love and be loved and start a family, dacryphilia, indecent use of a credit card, spanking, dirty talk, prostitution kink?? i feel like i'm making these up at this point, + a hell of a lot more ) this fic is based on bsc by maisie peters except this has a happy ending bc im a sucker for mr. peña :( not all warnings listed here appear in this part, these are warnings for the fic as a whole !

word count. 14.3k

hyde’s input. hey... hey... how y'all doin'?🧍remember when i said part 2 would be posted a few weeks after part 1? yeah, that was a fucking lie. and, remember when i said it would be 2 parts in total? that was also a lie! the universe is praying on my downfall ( i had a fun mental health episode and fell into a black hole for a few months <3 ) unfortunately, i am very much still alive and kicking, so this is me trying to get the ball rolling again when it comes to posting fics. as the fic has surpassed 40k words, meaning it would likely crash the tumblr site for anyone trying to read it + tumblr will not allow me to post it as a whole due to it's paragaph-count limit, i've decided to post it in three parts. the fic will be posted in full on ao3 once all three parts are available on tumblr!

if you see any typos, no you didn't 🫣

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of. “huh?” “this. us. it could be casual, y’know?”

Golden boy, you dropped the ball I am Annie fucking Hall

The year moves too fast.

It’s like you blink, and suddenly it’s Thanksgiving.

Leaves turn brown. Pumpkins are carved only to rot upon front porches. A gathering of friends, young adults getting their first taste at hosting a thanksgiving meal.

You’re put on dessert duty, which culminates in stressful tears and your mother’s hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, reassuring you that it’s okay, everyone burns their first pie.

No one at the party needs to know the pumpkin pie you brought was a product of your mother’s gentle care.

Then there is actual Thanksgiving, which you celebrate, as always, at your aunt's.

The highlight is, and forever has been, the road-trip out of state, your father making it his mission to deafen you and your mother with his horrific singing.

As they drop you back at your apartment, your father has no qualms leaning out the car window and calling after you.

“I expect to see you cheering me on at the Thanksgiving Touchdown event!”

Which brings you here, to said event, sweater sleeves tugged over cold fingers and a wandering pair of eyes who refuse to comply with your wants.

You want to focus on the ongoing football match- Fire Department vs Police.

Your eyes prefer to follow him, striding up the field, his hair soaked in sweat and his t-shirt long removed.

You’ve no valid reason to roll your eyes at the other women who seem to prefer spectating the sport of Javier Peña. You’re no better than them.

Yet, as one of them let’s out a joyous shriek as he takes a pass at the ball, your eyes roll.

"He’s a show-off, that boy.”

At least you have company. An older gentleman, who you caught struggling to pick his wallet up from the floor. He’d smiled as you returned it, and conversation had flowed easily from there.

As the whistle blew, commencing the final match of the local community services’ football league- or, Thanksgiving Touchdown, as your father so aptly named it-, he’d patted the empty seat next to him.

“Hmm?”

He points, and you follow the direction, realising he’s speaking about Javi.

“Him,” he says it with a teasing tone to his voice. It’s like he’s mocking the agent. “Think’s he’s God’s gift, takin’ his top off like that.”

The more you sit with the older gentleman, the more you enjoy his company.

On the field, your dad bellows something at Javi. He replies with a curt salute, and shoots off down the length of it.

He’s fast, agile, stealthy.

A force to be reckoned with, keeping pace with rookies half his age.

The vision of him, gun strapped to his leg and a tact vest on his chest, speeding down streets in the columbian heat conjures in your mind.

You wonder how it felt to know him then, if worry kept his companions awake.

It had certainly kept you awake in recent months, and that was with him safe, in Laredo, cooped up in some bachelor pad.

“Surprised he’s not thrown his top to the crowd of screaming ladies!” The gentleman continues his mocking, and it rouses laughter out of both of you.

A whistle is blown, your eyes return to the field and, though he’s quick to look away, you catch the tail end of Javier’s eyes on you.

Fifteen minutes pass, in which you do your best to not stare at him.

You’ve made worse attempts in the past.

Eventually, the man next to you coaxes you into getting him a lemonade from the food truck.

You oblige, of course, and deny his attempts to hand you cash, insist it’s on you.

He’s kept you smiling on a rather gloomy day.

You tell him you’ll be right back, smile, and realise you don’t know his name.

“Chucho,” he tells you, and waves you off.

You join the queue, keep your head down, ignore the gossiping women three spots ahead of you, claiming to have each shared an encounter with Javi.

You don’t need to know what he’s been up to.

You don’t want to know who he’s been up to it with.

It happens when you’re finally being served.

There’s no longer a queue, just you, smiling as sweetly as possible. The service industry is rough enough, nevermind on holidays.

You order successfully, both Chucho’s lemonade and a hot chocolate for yourself.

The guy working the truck- young enough, a bit too traditionally good-looking, with coiffed hair and a shaven face- he’s talkative.

Friendly.

Too friendly.

Till it crosses the border into flirty.

You’re not interested.

At all.

But it’s flattering, to feel wanted.

Even more so after a something that means nothing yet everything ends out of the blue and you’re left reeling over whether or not some part of you is to blame.

So you let him shoot you his dashing smile, and throw in unnecessary pet-names that just feel forced into every sentence he speaks to you, and write his number on the paper cup of your hot chocolate.

“Here you go, pumpkin,” he winks. The pet-name feels a little too on the nose for the season. Couldn’t he have called you sweetheart instead? “A sweet treat for that sweet smile.”

You wonder if he’s allowed to gift the free donut he slides your way.

Your stomach growls and begs for sugary release before you can fully bring yourself to care.

An awkward thanks. Hands reach up to grab the to-go cups, three fingers curling up the bagged donut. 

He helps you get a grip on the beverages, placing them in your hands.

His touch lingers, more than necessary, fingertips brushing over your knuckles as if trapped in slow-motion.

“So, a pretty girl like you got a boyfriend, or are you gonna let me take you out to-”

Gasps fill the air.

Half the crowd boos.

Your father screams one name, loud and clear, down the pitch.

“Peña, get your head out your fucking ass and pick up the ball!”

Turning on your heal, the scene unfolds.

The ball, abandoned on the ground.

The players, scrambling to grab it before one another.

Javier, frozen in place, face an unreadable maze of emotions, eyes staring right at you.

They follow you all the way back to your seat, even as the game picks up again.

Even as you congratulate your dad on another victory for the police department, now the four-time consecutive champions of the Thanksgiving Touchdown.

Even as you head off to your father’s car.

Even when you’re home, curled under a blanket and watching a televised copy of Annie Hall, you feel his eyes on you.

The look of betrayal on Javier Peña haunts you even once you fall asleep.

If you don’t love me, What was April?

You’ve always been organised.

Everything has it’s place, from the books that line your bedside table to the memories inside your mind.

You compartmentalise.

Tucked deep into the right side of your brain, there’s a box.

It’s contents, memories you’ve yet to process.

Moments you know that, if you wish to move on, you’ll have to relive.

Caution tape holds the lid shut.

Fragile stickers cover every corner.

And, scribbled in bold red marker, April ‘99.

A late night.

You, wide awake, laying on your back and mapping out stars in his ceiling.

Javier fell asleep hours ago and now snores softly against your neck, muscled arm curled around your waist as his legs entangle your own.

The agent is a fiend for cuddling, and so often wraps himself around you like a vine.

You find yourself nestling your hand in his hair, and take note of the sharp breath he intakes.

Go still.

Worry you’ve woken him.

Relax when you feel him snore and press himself even deeper against your naked skin.

He’s tired. Exhausted.

Work was getting to him as of late.

He hadn’t told you that, but he didn’t need to.

You know him. You can read him.

Can tell in the way he moved slower against you.

In the way he let you take the lead, resting back against the couch to watch how your hips wound down on him.

In the way he got even clingier than usual, dragging you into the shower with him just to have you near, holding you from behind as you washed up the plates he’d used to serve you dinner (a trade-off he’d reluctantly agreed to months ago: he cooks, you clean), laying his head on your lap as you curled up to watch some cheesy horror movie- one you’re bound to fall asleep during and he’s counting on it, glancing up till he spots you slumped over and eyes closed, granting him the perfect excuse to carry you to his bed and nestle himself in beside you.

Unlike other nights, you’re trapped awake.

Something feels off, makes you queasy.

There’s something nagging at your mind.

It’s like you’ve forgotten something, misplaced something, and can’t even figure out what it is.

You just know its absence is wrong.

Javi mumbles something, dreaming away, and you feel the subtle press of his lips against your skin.

Fingers curl tightly into the fabric of your (his) shirt.

He can’t get you close enough, it seems.

Playing against his wants, you pull back, slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

There’s a pinch between his brows, furrowed in worry.

It’s not fair, you think.

Sleep is usually where you see him at his calmest.

It’s a selfish act, born purely from your own desire, but you find yourself pressing a kiss against his forehead.

His grip loosens, though slightly.

It gives you enough time to feel a stir between your thighs, a calling coming from your bladder.

So you do your best to slip out his hold.

It’s a struggle that leaves you topless and feeling a pinch of cruelty, standing over the bed as you watch his hand grabbing at the vacant spot you once occupied, your scent and shirt the only traces you leave behind.

You don’t bother turning on a light, make your way to his bathroom with practiced ease.

Pad your way across the cold linoleum floor, sink down onto the porcelain seat- he’d stopped leaving it up when your overnight visits became more frequent. You hadn’t asked- didn’t need to ask-, he’d simply done it.

Closing the door over, yet not enough for the hinges to squeak and the handle to lock, you pray the wood muffles noise of the flushing toilet.

When it stops, you wait a few seconds, until you’re sure there’s no rustling coming from his bedroom.

Then, you open the tap.

The water is barely a trickle, yet you tell yourself its enough.

Lather your hands in soap, sit them under the constant drip of cold water till you feel the suds wash down the drain.

It’s hard to stop yourself from sneaking a glance at the mirror, just as it’s hard to recognise the version of yourself you see.

Your hair frames your face, though messy.

Your eyes are bloodshot, yet carry less bags.

Your cheeks are rounder, fuller.

You look different.

You feel it too.

Yhen come the thoughts of Javier, and how he sees you.

Has he noticed a change?

Is he the reason for it?

Does he feel different, too?

Your stomach flips.

He’s not said anything. Or done anything, to make you notice a change.

But, then, Maybe it’s been subtle, slow, dragged out long enough it’s not drastic enough for either of you to take note of.

You eye the spare toothbrush he keeps in his bathroom, and try to remember when it became yours.

You don’t remember.

One moment, his toothbrush sat alone. And, the next, you were standing side by side, laughing as you raced to see who could make a foamier mess of the toothpaste.

Corazón, you look like a rabid animal, he’d called you once, laughing through tears as he wiped away the white suds dripping off your chin. You’re lucky that you’re just so cute.

You can recall, even now, how quickly his mouth had found yours that night, with no ulterior motive other than to bask in the minty taste of one another.

The stir in your stomach becomes more intense.

Eyes refocusing, you find yourself in the mirror again.

Only, sweat lines your forehead and your face seems drained of colour.

You make it only two steps back before you’re hurtling across the bathroom floor.

Your knees crash down first, harsh and unforgiving against the tiles.

The first wretch burns, has you coughing over your own gag.

In the dark, it’s hard to see what exactly comes out of you, but you know where it came from.

Your stomach.

Another wave of nausea hits, this one harder, and you’re gripping at the sides of the bowl, spewing into the water below.

A splash meets your cheek, but you’re too out of it to care, wave after wave of nausea leaving you a coughing, gagging, crying mess.

You feel lightheaded, only managing a moment to catch your breath before another wave hits.

It feels like you’re suffocating.

It’s in your throat, in your mouth, in your nose, in your hair.

It feels like it’s never stopping and you’re doomed to spend the rest of your days submitting to the horrors of throwing-

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” warmth, against your naked back.

It’s a nice warmth, not like the one that has you covered in a cold sweat.

There’s a soothing motion over your skin.

Up, down, up, down.

You try to follow it, match your breathing to the tactile comfort.

“That’s it, baby,” cool air meets your neck, the hairs that stuck to your skin now pulled up and pushed back. “I’m right here, I got you.”

Eventually, all that’s left is the burning of bile at the back of your throat and the dull ache of eyes gone raw with tears.

You’re pulled into a solid mass, naked chest pressed to naked chest as you go slack upon the bathroom floor.

You’re exhausted, and covered in your own sweat, tears and vomit.

Javier doesn’t care, pulling you tighter against him and whispering sweet words you don’t quite pay attention to.

“Woke up and you weren’t there, corazón. Don’t do that again,” even in his attempts to chastise, he’s gentle, brushing the remaining strands of sweat-slicked hair off your face. You must be an awful sight, yet his expressions don’t give way. “You wake up, you wake me up too. ‘Specially if you’re gonna hurl, okay?”

You glance at him, swallow back a lump and deal with the realisation that dawned upon you ten minutes earlier, as you sat hunched over the toilet’s bowl.

“Javi,” he smiles at the way you call his name.

You feel sick all over again at the thought of that changing, everything changing, as you build the courage to speak.

He calls your own name back to you.

“I’m late.”

You await the sharp inhale.

And the unwinding of arms.

You imagine he’ll stand up, pace the floor.

Run his hands through his hair, rant over every thought he has.

Ways to get rid of it, the dangers of your dad finding out.

Then he’ll turn the blame to you.

That’s what men do, right?

He’ll ask why you weren’t safer, why you forgot to take that morning-after pill, why you played so fast-and-loose with your body.

None of it arrives.

He stands, yes, but only to pull you up with him, tired limbs leaning into his strong build as he drags you both under the heat of a warm shower.

You watch the remnants of your own vomit wash down the drain, and question how he can stand there, not disgusted with you.

He dries you off, delicate drags over your skin.

He’s rougher with himself, scarcely drying properly before he’s carrying you back to his bed, a replay of hours earlier as he lays you down, crawls in behind you and tucks you both under the soft comfort of his worn-out sheets.

Only, this time you’re wide awake.

He so easily nestles himself behind you, dragging you back against him and committing himself to the role of big-spoon.

His hands have always felt large, their touch always electrifying, but nothing compares to the feeling of him splaying one across your lower stomach, a subtle press into where part of him could be growing within you.

“Javi,” you whine, fighting off the sleep your overwhelmed body so badly needs. “I’m sorry.”

You say it because you feel obligated, like it’s your place to be apologetic.

After all, the blame is yours, surely.

“No seas boba (Don’t be silly),” there’s a fresh set of tears already sliding down your cheeks by the time he replies. “Don’t need to be sorry, baby.”

“But I-”

“But, nothing,” his tone feels final, one that tells you you’ll get nowhere arguing against him. “You’ve done nothing wrong, corazón.”

You fall asleep, eventually, soothed by his gentle breathing and the repeated motion of his thumb stroking over your belly.

Yhe next time you awake, there’s a crack of sunlight creeping through his blinds.

Javi’s still in bed, only he’s propped up on his elbow and staring down at you.

His smile stretches a little wider when he spots your open eyes.

Lips press against your own, soft and subtle.

A quiet greeting, a wordless goodmorning.

“I gotta go, corazón,” is met with a protest from you, rolling over to curl into his solid chest.

Expecting it, he wraps you up tighter in his arms, presses an array of chaste kisses to your head.

You don’t want him to leave this bed.

Or this apartment.

You don’t want him out, in the real world, where the hours you’ve spent cooped up together become more scandalous than the peaceful nature of them.

“I know, I know. Don’t wanna go either, baby,” you wonder if you spoke your thoughts aloud, or if Javi simply knows you so well.

Eventually, he peels himself away from you.

You watch him dress.

Tell him which tie to wear.

Help him tie it, the comforter pooled around your naked waist as you sit criss-cross-apple-sauce and Javi’s at the side of the bed, legs bent at the knee.

He thanks you with a kiss, then asks you to pass him his cologne.

It’s on the other side of the bed- his side of the bed- and you lean over to grab it.

You don’t bother handing him it, spraying it directly onto your own wrist and dabbing it into the skin of his tanned neck.

He lets you, a gentle smile on his face and eyes that pull you in for a hug, burrowing himself between your naked breasts.

He presses a kiss between them, hums in enjoyment.

“You’re gonna smell like me all day, cariño (darling),” he tells you.

“Good,” you reply.

Another hum, this time of approval, and a squeeze to your hip.

When he pulls back, he looks even more reluctant to leave.

Reality rears it’s ugly head, but he pushes it out your mind with the pressing of his hand against your stomach, the same spot he’d held onto all night.

Leans down, brushes his lips against it.

Your hands instinctually curl in his hair, and you like to think you leave it a little messy, enough to ward off any of the women he works along side, hopeful eyes hoping to get a taste of the handsome, unmarried cop.

“Stay,” he mumbles against your skin, as if you’re the one who’s about to leave. “Don’t go, ok? I’ll call around lunch.”

He keeps his word.

Calls you, a few minutes past two, interrupting whatever daytime TV you were pretending to watch.

Answering leaves you feeling lightheaded, like you're trapped in a daydream.

Listening to him croon down the line while your finger anxiously tangles in the phone’s wire as you stand in his apartment, it feels domestic, like you’re waiting for him to come back home, a place you share together.

The thought has you pressing a hand against your womb.

“How bout you, corazón?” He knows how to make you melt, picturing him smiling at his desk. “Have you ate yet?”

With a grimace, you admit you haven’t.

“You need to eat, baby,” you don’t like the fact he uses that pet-name, not right now. “There’s plenty in the fridge. Could make yourself a sandwich, or some toast. Might even have some of that pasta left over. You know, that one you said you liked? Oh, wait, maybe don’t eat that, don’t think uncooked salmon is good for pregn-”

You don’t want him to say the P word, so you cut him off.

“I’ll probably just have toast.”

He says ok, then you hear him take a bite of whatever his lunch is.

The call goes on a little longer.

It’s mostly him talking.

He tells you a quick story, something about one of the younger guys accidentally stapling his tie to an arrest warrant.

That rouses a laugh out of you, makes you forget all about the massive P word he almost said.

“I’ll be home soon, okay?”

That sounds nice coming from Javi.

Home.

Not his home, just home.

A place he feels his soul at rest.

A place he’d begged you to stay this morning, safe and tucked away.

“Was thinking we could drive out to the clinic, find out for sure if we’re pr-” he cuts himself off this time, like he knows you’re not ready to hear that word. “Then we’ll take things from there, okay? Whatever you decide you wanna do, corazón, you call the shots.”

He keeps his word, again.

Comes home barely three hours later.

He walks through the door and welcomes the way you coil yourself around him, humming in delight as he peppers a few kisses over your face.

“Still smell like me,” he says it with approval, takes a purposeful whiff at you as he pulls you tighter against him.

You still smell his cologne on him too, buried beneath a few layers of sweat and cigarette smoke.

Near clinging to one another, it’s a miracle you two make it out his apartment and down the elevator.

An arm around your waist, he guides you over to his car.

Pulls the door open for you, stops you from bumping your head on the way in.

He practically runs round the car’s hood, jumping into the driver’s seat and thrumming the engine to life with the turn of a key.

“You remember to eat?” He asks as he pulls out onto the street.

You nod, then audibly reply.

Tell him you did in fact eat toast, leave out the part where you spewed your guts again twenty minutes later.

The drive is quiet.

Not uncomfortable, just relaxed, with the radio playing gently and his window rolled down enough to let in some air.

At some point, his hand slides over the console and rests against your thigh.

You welcome it, covering it with your own.

As you watch out the window how he drives past the turning for the local hospital, he must catch your questioning gaze.

“They, uh,” he clears his throat, rings his hand over the steering wheel. A small stain of sweat marks it. “Know your dad pretty well in there. And me. Figure you’d rather he not find out about us like that.”

He’s right.

So you relax back into your seat, accept the fact you’re both driving out of town together.

At some point, the beginning notes of your favourite song play through the stereo.

You instantly perk up, sitting up straighter in your seat and tap your foot a little to the beat.

Javi says nothing, simply peels his hand off you to turn the volume dial up.

Seconds later, he turns his head and throws you a look just asking if he’s done good.

You smile, and thread your fingers between his own.

A soft squeeze before he pulls them up to his lips, eyes back on the road.

The clinic is bright.

And squeaky, each step you take making you a little more nervous than the last.

Javier, by all accounts, is solid as a rock, signing you both in, picking up a few pamphlets, buying you a can of soda, all while you curl up in some plastic chair and just focus on not spewing your guts out.

You only relax once he’s sat beside you, helping you get a sip of the sugary drink and wrapping a protective arm around you.

You don’t mean to but you fall victim to sleep, the past 24 hours getting the best of you.

You come-to likely not much later, but to the sound of a childish giggle.

Cracking one eye open, just slightly, you notice you’re slumped into Javier, head on his shoulder.

There’s a giggling little girl in front of you both, in purple overalls and with two pigtails to hold her curly hair.

One of her hands is on Javi’s knees, using him to keep herself standing.

“First time?” You snap your eyes shut as a stranger’s voice fills the quiet bustle of the clinic.

A confused sound leaves Javier.

“Yeah, could tell from the look on your lady’s face,” the man continues. “Same one my own wife had during our first visit.”

You want to pay attention to Javi’s response, but you’re a bit busy dealing with the fact he’s not correcting the man, telling him you’re not his lady nor his wife.

His thumb soothes over your hip, and you wonder at what rate you’ll melt away into a pile of nothing thanks to his soft touches.

“You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

You tell yourself to try harder, to actually pay attention.

You succeed, catch as Javi replies, “a girl.”

“Yeah?” the stranger seems genuinely invested, it almost makes you want to open your eyes, see him for yourself.

But you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“Wanted a boy, myself,” that same little girl giggles again and you can’t fight the temptation to peek once more, catch as she crawls into her faceless-father’s lap. “Doc told us it was gonna be a boy, too. Then this one came along and, wouldn’t ya know, not a boy.”

“Surprise!” the little girl squeals, and you feel Javi’s shoulder shake under your head.

God, you want to look at him, see if he’s looking at her with the same adoration that’s festering in your heart.

“Yeah, baby, you’re my little Sarah-Surprise,” the man coos and, despite his rough accent, it suits him. Like he was only ever meant to speak with gentle words and a soft heart, all for his precious daughter. “It’ll get easier, on your lady, just so ya know. Less scary, more exciting. ‘Bout to welcome our second one, and I’ve never seen my wife so happy.”

Javi’s still not correcting him.

It makes you nauseous for a whole new reason.

“Mr. Miller?” A voice calls out.

A nurse, you imagine.

A chair squeaks as pressure is taken off it, the stranger standing.

You peak your eye open in time to see him picking his daughter up, her little legs dangling off his hip.

He takes a few steps, till Javi interrupts him.

“What,” he clears his throat, and you wonder if it’s of emotion. “What are you hoping for this time?”

“A girl.”

Eventually, it’s your turn.

You’d pretended to wake up to Javier’s coaxing.

Shuffled into some room, reluctantly separating from Javi.

A smiley nurse handed you a cup, talked you through what you needed to do for your tests.

Took your blood pressure, complimented your earrings, and stepped out the room to give you privacy.

A short while and a reunion with Javi later, you sat in a doctor’s office, both a nervous wreck as you clasped each other’s hand.

“Mrs. peña,” again, Javier does not correct the doctor. And you realise it’s because he filled out the forms, he signed you in. He wrote you down as Peña. “You and your husband are not pregnant.”

What should have followed was a sigh of relief, from both of you.

But all you felt was led drop in your stomach and Javier’s grip tighten on your hand.

“You are, however, displaying symptoms of acute food poisoning, likely salmonella.”

The doctor continues on, detailing a prescription you’re being given.

But it falls on deaf ears, the world around you gone blank as you wrestle with conflicting emotions.

You’re not pregnant.

You should be elated. Jumping, and cheering, and dancing all over the place. Instead, you’re silent, letting yourself be guided back into the car by Javi.

This time, the drive is silent.

Not quiet.

Silent.

You watch him drive past the turning into your street.

He doesn’t explain that he’s taking you back to his place.

Getting you back in his bed, switching off the lights, he curls himself in behind you and splays his hand over your stomach.

Over your empty womb.

For some reason, you find yourself sobbing into your pillow, unaware of the tears from him that stain your neck as he tries to hush you.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” the irony of him repeating those very same words last night is not lost on you.

It’s hard to move on, when every month there’s a stabbing pain in your abdomen and a trickle of blood staining your underwear to remind you of April.

And so you keep it locked in it’s box, slapping another caution tape over it’s lid as you groan and roll out your own bed, trudging your way into your bathroom to check if the wetness between your thighs is your monthly visitor.

You played a game But I run the table

You’re avoiding your dad’s calls.

It’s not because he’s done anything to warrant your rejection, but, rather, it’s the forthcoming actions he’ll be guilty of.

See, you know why he’s calling.

Your mom let it slip, over brunch and a few too many glasses of wine.

He’s hosting another poker night.

He wants you there, as always.

Some baseless theory of you being his good luck charm.

Or, at least, that’s what you were until the last poker night he’d hosted, way back in March.

He slips away, phoned by your tipsy mother and obligated to drive three towns over to go pick her up because she misses him.

“Fill in for me, will ya, kiddo?”

It was less a suggestion, more of a pleading, his hands already scraping the seat back and awaiting you to plop yourself down.

He leaves you with his hand, his winnings so-far, and a kiss to the top of your head.

“Watch out for Peña,” he whispered, as if you hadn’t been keeping an eye on the agent all evening, clouded by his own cigarette smoke and sitting looser each sip of his whiskey, no ice. “His poker face is dangerous.”

He turns out to be no threat.

None of the officer’s are, really.

Rounds end and rounds start, and you father’s pile of winnings grow more and more.

It’s an ego boost, taking money from these cocky men who look at you as though surely you have no clue what cards you’re holding.

But, taking from Javi?

That’s something else, entirely.

Each time you win, he gets more agitated.

Flinging down cards, muttering curses, shoving his cash across the table.

All whilst glaring, at you, eyes black with ire.

And intoxication.

And something else.

Something you know all too well on Javier.

Lust.

Nearly an hour’s past since your father left, someone else leaves the table.

Says he needs the toilet, you point him in the direction of it.

You all call for a break, and then you graciously offer a refill on drinks.

It’s what your dad would’ve done, kept them all drinking and lowering their inhibitions, their focus disappearing alongside it.

“I’ll help!” One of the officers exclaims.

He’s on the younger side.

Practically a rookie, it’s only the second poker night he’s attended.

He’s sweet, with his large-framed glasses and his nervous smile.

You both make your way out of the basement- refurbished to be your dad’s man-cave- and head towards the kitchen.

You open the fridge, grab however many bottles of beer you need.

He heads to the liquor cabinet, pulls out a bottle bourbon.

You beat him at grabbing the whiskey, an unvoiced need to be the one who refills Javi’s glass.

Maybe, he’ll offer you a sip.

Conversation flows naturally between you, in spite of him being a near stranger.

He asks about college.

You ask about working with your dad.

You both agree on the fact he’s a pain in the ass.

He tells you about a new bar, downtown.

You tell him where to go to get the best club sandwich.

It’s light, it’s easy, it’s friendly.

You’re enjoying his company.

nNeither of you can tell who causes it, but one of you mispronounces a word and you both wind up in a pile of giggles, falling over yourselves and banging into counters.

His hands grip his sides.

You’re clutching your chest.

Through wheezes, he repeats the phrase that left you both in this state.

You laugh harder, louder, warn him to stop before you lose control of your bladder.

Something thuds in the hallway, your eyes shoot up to the kitchen entry and you swear you see Javi’s retreating figure.

Blink a few times, realise there���s no one there.

You both gather some decorum.

He grabs as many of the beer bottles he can manage, and looks at your empty hands in question.

You tell him to head back without you, that you just need to go to the toilet.

Parting ways, you find the both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms occupied.

Sigh in frustration, only to remember your parents en suite.

It’s empty, because of course it is. No one would feel comfortable enough invading the privacy of your parents' bedroom.

You do your business, wash your hands, fix yourself in the mirror.

Decide your lipstick needs a little touch-up, your clothes need straightening out.

And, when you’re done and ready to head back down to the poker table, you hear a thud.

Pull open the bathroom door, expect to find your father struggling to put a tipsy, giggly, clumsy version of your mother into bed.

Instead, there is only a brooding look and disapproving grunt.

A firm grip, on your arm, dragging you right back into the bathroom.

The door slams shut, a little harsher than you’d like, the sound of it surely reaching the ears of those regrouping for the next dealing of the cards.

He doesn’t pounce, like he so usually does when he’s wearing that look of frustration.

He’s simmering in it, teetering on the edge of boiling anger as he smooths a hand over his chin, visibly clenching his jaw, swallowing back whatever it is he wants to say to you.

He takes one step forward, and you go one back.

Then two steps, which you also match.

Your hip smacks into the sink’s counter on your fifth step backwards and it’s enough to finally put his hands on you.

He tugs you right into his chest, one hand soothing over where you’d banged your hip.

It’s alarmingly gentle for his stoic features.

When he speaks, you nearly melt into a puddle, the heat of him invading your space, face inching close to your own, enough to have you questioning the sanctity of your parents en suite.

“What’s going on with you, huh?”

“Could ask you the same thing, officer,” you make the fatal mistake of giggling, but you’ll blame it on the fruity cider you’d helped yourself to.

He clearly finds no humour, not even as you fiddle with the top button of his shirt and shoot him your best look of innocence.

“Think you’re real fucking funny, don’t you?” His hand, warm and imposing, grips a hold of your face.

It’s almost painful, but you like it, squirming a little at the blunt stab of his nails and the way he smooshes your cheeks, forcing a pout onto your lips.

You try shake your head, his grip won’t let you.

“Sitting in a room full of men, making yourself the centre of attention,” he huffs a breath out of his nose, and you can’t help but compare him to an angry dragon.

He’s worked up, frustrated, angry.

And it’s hot. A turn-on.

“What’s the matter, Javi? Jealous you’re not the centre of all those men’s attention?” You’re poking the dragon, teasing him, and it’s an act that may leave you burned and scarred.

Or, as you’re hoping, it’ll win you the ride of a lifetime.

He doesn’t even grace you with a verbal response.

No, he scoffs, as though he’s in physical disbelief at the words you’re saying.

Spins you around, pins you to the sink’s counter, tugs your hair till you’re forced to stare at your reflection.

He’s right behind you, seething in anger, fire in his eyes.

His head dips between you neck and shoulder, brushing his lips against your pulse point.

“Not all of us are attention whores like you,” it’s fleeting, and he’ll deny it if you dare mention it, but he smiles.

Just a second, but you feel it, see it even though he tries so hard to turn his face into your neck.

It’s what lets you know he’s playing, teasing, egging you on to push him over the edge.

“I’ve been with real whores, corazón,” he confesses a sin you already know, eaves-dropping one too many times on your dad fishing stories of Colombia out of him. “Fucked them so often they started doing their nails in colours they knew I wanted to see wrapped around my cock.”

Involuntarily, your back arches, brushing your ass against him and providing him the perfect access to wind his hand up between your heaving breasts, all the way up till his fingers curl round the base of your throat.

In the mirror, the image is one of ownership, of Javi seizing your bodily autonomy. A whore and her gentleman caller.

It’s arousing to think about, Javi and his whores.

You wonder what positions he put them in.

How many rounds he lasted with them.

How often he made them cum.

“And not one of them took half the money you’ve taken from me tonight.”

Oh.

So that’s what this is, his pretty ego, bruised at the hands of you?

Poor Mr. Javier Peña, humiliated in front of all his peers round after round, hundred bill after hundred bill.

You almost taunt him for giving into the temptations of the fragile male ego, but you’re stopped in your tracks.

By him, hands squeezing at you a little tighter as he grinds the unmistakable outline of his hardened cock against you.

That single action changes the game, entirely.

Because this isn’t about you stealing his money and his ego.

No, this is something far filthier, that has your panties growing wetter beneath the skirt of your dress.

“I’m worth every dime though, aren’t I, officer?.”

The grip tightens.

He shoves you harder into the counter, so hard a tub of your mother’s moisturiser topples off.

The hard outline of him is still there, ever-present.

“‘S that what you like, huh, taking my money? Wanna be Javi’s personal little whore?”

Every ounce of feminism evaporates within you.

Who could deny such a tentative offer?

Certainly not you, reflection mimicking the way you eagerly nod, teeth biting down on your bottom lip in a failed attempt to hold back a grin.

Javi notices- of course he notices- and takes his victory, hips rocking even deeper into you.

There’s too many layers between you, a feat on which you both agree, yet neither of you do anything about.

You just savour the friction, instead, pushing and pulling one another to the axis of pleasure.

Your panties, soaked.

His jeans, tight.

“What’s it gonna cost me to get you bent over and stuffed full of my cum, corazón?” One hand leaves your body. The mirror snitches on him, exposing how he’s reaching into his back pocket. “This?”

He smacks something down, into the bowl of the sink.

It’s his wallet, and you watch the worn leather of it shine with the residue of water on the linoleum.

The hand at your throat pulses a squeeze, his knee nudges you from behind.

“C’mon, don’t be shy.”

His mouth, right by your ear, lips tickling you with the subtlest of brushes against it.

His hand guides your own, down into the sink, flipping the wallet open and putting it’s belongings on display.

Bills, some placed neatly, others stuffed in forcefully, edges spilling out the pockets. There’s less in there than when he arrived, courtesy of you.

There’s a few miscellaneous cards. A library card, an ID slip you’re sure he uses for something in the sheriff's station, a loyalty card to some record store.

The picture of his mother sits centre stage, radiant smile and loving eyes grabbing the attention of any who dare open it.

He has his mother’s eyes, you notice.

And then you notice something else, peeking out from behind his mother’s picture.

You dive into temptation, dart your nosy fingers over to tug at the object, till you realise it’s another picture.

A picture of Javi, and you.

Taken on a polaroid you found under a box of his belongings, you remember the day clear as ever.

The two of you had messed around, captured your sins on film with the promise of destroying it after. It would be too risky a thing, to allow image evidence of the intimate ways in which you knew each other’s bodies.

Javi’s fingers on your skin, your nipple in his mouth, his cock’s outline bulging within your lower abdomen.

There was no point risking your father ever finding it.

But this picture, this one you do not remember.

Fully dressed, eyes fixed on his television, your head lays in his laps while his fingers card through your hair.

It’s captured from above, as if Javi’s own eyes had made a permanent record of his view.

The sweetness of this living on, of Javi taking something sacred for himself to keep hidden in his wallet distracts you for a moment.

He does good to bring you back into the room.

“Take how much you think you’re worth, corazón,” whispered into your ear, as he rips a few of the notes out his wallet.

They sit in the sink, growing wet.

And you are too, frozen on the spot.

You glance down, count over the different bills.

Five dollars.

Twenty dollars.

Hundred dollars.

With each bill you count, your internal price shooting up within your head, you try picture his reaction.

In the mirror, he’s watching.

Not the sink bowl, no.

You, your face, looking at your expressions in a way that reminds you it’s his job to read people.

You decide to be bold, dig into his wallet and, even though your insides twist in anxious turmoil, hold up your hand to present him with your answer.

Resting neatly, between your fore and middle finger, a shiny credit card.

The gleam in Javi’s eyes just about match it, blackened and blown out with lust.

The card is plucked out your hand.

The hand on your neck leaves, in search of your waist.

The fabric of your dress bunches, wrinkling and creasing as his fabric-straining grip inches it’s hem higher and higher.

You feel sexy like this, face heated and breathing heavy.

It’s an effect he has on you, has had on you, forcing you to look at yourself in new lights, in new angles, admiring every out-of-line trace of you for what you are.

Desirable.

And attractive.

And pretty.

And smart.

And every other word under the sun that Javi whispers into your skin with innocence as his body commits sins within you.

At the bottom of the mirror, you watch as the white cotton of your panties comes into view.

Wet, as you both expected, the thin fabric now turned almost sheer, exposing the delectable view of your cunt hugged cutely by the cotton’s tight seams.

Javi hisses, muttering something to himself.

There’s a strain to his voice, one that would have you worried he’s in pain if it weren’t for the way you’re watching as his face contorts with lust.

His eyes are dark and you study them like he studies his card, contemplating something.

A few seconds pass. 

Tension is puffed out his chest with one exhale, through the nose.

You feel the air tickle your skin.

He nods curtly, to himself, and flickers his gaze back to meet your own in the mirror.

It’s unwavering, even as he brings the black plastic down and smacks it against your mound.

You squeal, he hushes, and you both know he doesn’t mean it at all.

He likes when you gift him noise, a private aria only he has tickets to.

Just as easily as the first time, he snaps the card against you again, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight through your clit.

Just as loudly as the first time, you squeal, a jolt back into his warm, steady, hard embrace.

“What’re you running from, hmm?” His face turns, burrowing itself in the tresses of your hair.

A shallow sniff, and you wonder if he notices the smell of his shampoo on you.

There’s a pressing of lips, against your scalp, and it’s far too gentle of a juxtapose to the imagery of his fingers pulling your panties to the side, exposing your pussy to the bathroom’s cold air and the two pairs of hungry eyes in the mirror.

“You say that this is what you’re worth, and then you don’t want to take it?”

The third spank of the card against your bundle of nerves is harder, louder, echos in the confined space. A moan, minuscule and muffled, slips past tightly shut lips, a look of fear flashing through wide eyes.

Javi’s quick with his reassurance, gentle with his comfort, a hand stroking over your collarbone.

“Don’t worry, no one’s gonna hear you. You just be as loud as you need, hermosa, they’re too busy encouraging that boy-cop to ask you to dinner.”

There’s a tint of jealousy to the way he says boy, and you’re reminded of the image of him in the kitchen doorway.

Smack!

The card strikes down, once more, this time eliciting an open-mouthed gasp. 

He doesn’t let up, repeating the action twice more.

It hurts, in a way that makes your core throb and your toes curl, squirming aimlessly in a grasp he knows you don’t truly want to escape.

But he mocks you, with a hushing noise in your ear and gentle it’s okay, corazón, Javi’s got yous against your neck. His thumb swipes through your folds, coating it in your wetness and dragging itself up to your clit, soaking it in soothing rubs.

His gentle nature lasts mere seconds, his wrist flicking back only to smack the credit card down again. This time, it’s a pattern of three, repeatedly crashing down on your sensitive nerves one after the other.

In the mirror, you watch him observe as he twiddles the card between deft fingers, contemplation on his mind.

The room’s quiet, apart from your shortened breaths and his deep inhales.

You hear a cheer.

From the basement.

It must have been a loud cheer, for you to hear them all the way up here.

And, suddenly, the stakes feel higher than when you were sat at the poker table, counting Javi’s coins with every passing round.

If you can hear them, they could hear you.

This doesn’t seem to cross Javier’s mind, who merely twists your head away from the bathroom door and back to the mirror, to where his hungry eyes await.

All contemplation is gone, he’s decided in what he’s going to do, and so you watch as he takes the card and swipes it through your cunt.

It’s not a pleasurable act, in itself.

In fact, it’s rather uncomfortable, the solid plastic hard on your delicate skin.

It’s the arousal of him doing it that gets you weak in the knees, to have him perform such a mundane act- the swiping of his credit card- in such a crass, dirty, wrong way.

Like he’s paying for you, committing a physical transaction in exchange for your body.

It doesn’t matter that he could have you for free, has had you for free.

He wants to pay, wants to reward you in a way that aligns with the capitalistic world.

“Javi…” You whimper, softly, head lulling back against his shoulder as he swipes the card again.

Your eyes, slowly slipping shut, shoot right back open as you feel the rounded corner of the card prod at your opening, as if trying to notch itself within you.

“Think she could take it, corazón?” Javi bites at your ear, teeth clamping down and pulling at it’s lobe. The card sinks in, not even an inch. You nudge back into, your cry circling the room around you both. “I know, baby, I know. It’d be a wide stretch, but ain’t that all pretty whores like you are good for, hmm?”

It’s automatic, the way you bend to his every whim, head nodding without direct orders from your brain, every part of you, conscious or not, ready and willing to prove you could fit his card inside of you.

For him, you can do it.

“Fitting big things in your little pussies?”

Surprisingly, the hand between your thighs retracts and you watch as he brings the card up to your mouth, glistening with your arousal.

“Open,” the directions are unnecessary, your mouth already dropping open for him in an act of muscle memory.

He hums approvingly, yet his eyes are still fury filled as he slots the card between your lips, lathering your tongue in your own taste. 

“You’ll take anything I give you, won’t you, corazón?”

The statement rings true, both ways: as much as you’ll take anything, he’ll give anything.

You don’t tell him that, though, finding it much easier to rest your palms on the countertop, backing your sopping core into him, enticing him with the wiggle of your hips and whines from your lips to take you already.

“Shh, shh, don’t you worry that pretty head. Javi’s gonna feed this greedy little cunt, ok?”

The unbuckling of a belt.

The unzipping of teeth.

The shucking down of-

Something smashes, in the basement, and it’s enough to have you flinching.

Javi’s touch soothes you, a hand running over the curve of your shoulder as he presses yet another kiss into your neck.

“S’okay, probably just a beer bottle.”

He doesn’t move another inch, not till he sees you nod, melting back into him.

You hear, more than you see, the way he tugs his trousers down, just enough to free his hardened cock from its jean-clad confine. The risky business of a quickie in your parents’ en suite calls for clothing moved aside, and not removed.

Much to your annoyance, his all-encompassing warmth drifts away as he moves back, hands clamping down on your hips. 

He tilts them to the angle he wants, the angle he knows gets him brushing all your sweet-spots.

He tugs the skirt of your dress up, and then readjusts your soiled underwear.

You hear him draw a deep breath and watch his eyes in the mirror, glued to that spot between your legs, entranced.

The drag of his cock over your folds is familiar, the way he smacks the head of it against your clit is welcomed.

He spears you no gentle coaxing, no stretching around his fingers first, coming undone just for him to fill you right back up, this time with his cock.

No, this is a vengeful touch, the kind that’s meant to display his irritation, his fury, for reasons you’ve yet to confirm yet you’re more than willing to accept.

A man like him, so unfairly selfless, taking something in this world for himself, how he wants to and how he likes to.

You’ll be his vice, so long as he grants you his virtues.

Javi fills you with a single thrust, grunting low into your ear as you feel the way the air is physically knocked out both for your lungs.

He’s still, head buried in the crook of your neck as he works on steadying his breathing, giving you time to adjust to the delicious stretch.

You whine out some version of his name, feel yourself pulse around him.

A hand, reaching up to cup your cheek.

A kiss, gentle and longing against your mouth.

He’s making you wait for it, you think, torturing you with an impending paradise.

He’s savouring the feel of you, he thinks, taking advantage of the few moments alone he wins with you.

"Javi,” he barely lets you part from him to speak, chasing a trail of kisses down your jaw. “This isn’t the time to develop patience.”

The snide remark earns you a bite, his teeth nibbling on the sensitive skin of your earlobe. You squeal, try remind yourself to be quiet, only to squeal louder when his hands tickle at your waist.

“I’m a very patient man, corazón.”

You scoff.

“Just not when it comes to you.”

His hips roll back, slowly, but it’s better than nothing, better than when he wasn’t moving at all.

Still, he makes you squirm a little longer, moan his name a little louder.

Only then does his fake resolve snap and he’s fucking into you at a brain melting pace in the blink of an eye.

Javier does his best to keep quiet, at first, biting down on his lip and your neck just to contain all those melodies he usually makes.

You can’t say the same for yourself as, despite your efforts, broken moan after broken moan tumbles out your mouth and into the sink, filling and filling and filling it in sync with how Javi your cunt.

You wonder how long till it all spills over the edge.

“Joder (Fuck),” he groans as you unconsciously squeeze him tighter, pulling him deeper into your walls. serves him right, for the teasing and the torturing. “Tienes el coño más lindo en todo el mundo. (You have the prettiest cunt in the whole world.)”

You feel lightheaded.

Warm, sweaty, covered in the fingerprints of a lover you shouldn’t be with.

The bathroom fills with an array of sounds. The slapping of skin against skin, the broken cries of an agent’s name, the mindless rambling of a man drunk on pleasure.

“So good to me, baby. Always so fucking good to me.”

“Gonna stay here forever, fuck. That sound good to you, corazón, hmm? Full of my cock always?”

“Look at yourself… Pura belleza (Pure beauty).”

He consumes you, mind, body and soul.

There’s no worrying about the happenings around the poker table, no listening out for your father’s car pulling in the driveway, no worrying about your tousled hair or sweating skin.

There’s just Javi.

Beautiful, gorgeous, deserving Javi.

“Please, please, Javi-“ The words all melt together, pleads becoming his name, his name becoming pleads.

You’re not sure what you’re begging for.

It’s okay though, Javi always knows what you need.

“I know, amor (love), I know,” he murmurs into your skin, butterfly kisses so gentle you wonder how they come from the same man that’s pistoning his hips into you like it’s the last chance he’ll ever get. “Let go, c’mon. Show me how much you love this cock, how much you love-”

He’s cut off by his own groan, you cunt fluttering around him as you inch closer and closer to the edge of euphoria.

Hands hurry off your waist, slipping between your thighs. 

It brings a welcomed cushioning, shielding you from repeatedly bumping against the marble of the countertop.

Your legs part further, eagerly, an easy pathway for his yearning fingers to seek out the wonders of the female body as they brush over your clit.

The gentle tactile that he strokes over your bundle of nerves, partnered with the repeated brushing of his cock against that spot that makes you weak in the knees, drool out your mouth, it’s becoming too much.

Eyes glancing in the mirror, you wonder if yours is the same image of the whores who’d warmed his Colombian nights: sweat soaked skin, hooded eyes, messed up hair, wrinkled clothing.

He tilts your hips, a deeper angle to fuck into you that has you perching up onto the tips of your toes, fighting with the chance of losing balance.

He’d catch you, if you fell.

Wrap you up in an embrace that’s more familiar than your own.

“I’m gonna- Fuck! Corazón, need you to cum. Now, please. Please. Need to feel you-”

He’s babbling, losing composure and revealing the side of him you pray he never showed those other women: the side that needs, the side that longs, the side that begs to see you cum before he allows himself to, before he’s able to.

“Javi,” it’s a struggle to speak, but you endure, fighting off your orgasm and holding back tears. There’s something you need from him too. “Cum with me. Wanna be full of you, all of you-”

“¿Sí? (Yeah?)” He pleads back, thrusts already getting a little sloppier, hands a little shakier in the way they touch you. Much like his poker face, you know how to read the face he wears moments before he falls apart. “¿Eso es lo que quiere mi corazón? (Is that what my sweetheart wants?) Want me to cum in you, hm?”

“Yes, oh god yes! So bad, Javi, I want it so bad!”

“Ay, bebesita, no llores. (Aw, baby girl, don't cry.)” He coos, a condescending lilt to his words that has you falling into a bigger mess. “Shh, don’t worry, baby. Gonna fill you right up, so my cum’s dripping down your thighs when that poor kid asks you for your number. Thinks he’s got a shot with you cause he made you laugh, poor boy wouldn’t know how to deal with all the noises I get out of you.”

Javi divulges into a spine-tingling rant of burning hot jealousy, the kind that leaves your cheeks burning and your heart scorching, lit under a flame of your desire for more of him. To have him, equal parts physical and emotional.

You try warn him of the bubble that’s about to burst, the feeling in your loins building and building till it’s seconds way from toppling over. 

“That’s it, baby, squeeze my cock. Lemme feel it,” He urges, heart pounding out his chest against your back, hands tightening their grip on your hips. “Need to feel you cum, ‘s all I want.”

You both crash and burn, together.

You fall first, a chaos of unfinished words, crying out for Javi.

He follows close behind, body pressed against your own like he’s willing you to fuse together, to become to entangled in one another that all possibilities of separation become void.

“Take it, cora-” He’s in your ears, in your head, in your heart. Inside of you, consuming you, as eagerly as he’s willing to be consumed by you, fingerprints on hips and teeth-marks in necks. “Take it, take it, take it.”

Arms envelop you from behind, crossing over your chest to pin you back against him.

He’s nearly stagnant, nothing but the twitch of his cock and the shallow thrusts he fucks you deeper with, filling you with another, another, another pump of his cum.

“So good,” Javi’s voice persists, teeth gritting as he bites back the need to be loud, to be heard, to lay a claim on you so blatant no one could deny hearing it. Your relationship with your father is the only thing that holds him back. “Good to me, baby. Always… Good… Díos. (God.)”

Craning your neck to the side, you manage to pull him in for a kiss.

It’s something he accepts easily, lips parting and melting into a dance against your own.

One of his hands falls over your jaw, twisting your face even closer to him.

The kiss dies slowly, with each of you refusing to truly part, pecks being splattered messily against the other’s mouth.

“Was I,” Javi interrupts you with another kiss, his free hand smoothing up and down your side, his hips still slowly rocking into yours, a delicious sting of overstimulation biting at your core. “Am I worth it?”

He pulls back, tired gaze warm as it takes in your messed features.

With the smile that stretches over his lips, however, one would think you were the prettiest creature in all the world.

He calls your name, calmly, slowly, like he’s trying to memorise the shape of it on his tongue. “You’re worth everything I could give, and more.”

There’s something behind the ways he says it that makes you believe him.

With little will to do so, you peel apart from each other, his hands moving quick to adjust your underwear as his cum starts to leak out onto your folds.

He exits the bathroom first, a final kiss placed on your cheek before your left alone, forced to confront the wrecked version of you that will never see your parent’s en suite in the same light.

Your dad arrives back just in time to see you slipping back down to sit at the poker table, no seat left for him to take but the one between his sweet daughter and his loyal best friend.

If only he knew he was placing you both where you most wanted to be when he suggested Javi give you a ride home, waving you both off through the car window with no idea Javi's cum sat dripping out your cunt, staining the car seat.

Your phone buzzes to life in your hand, slipping you out of your memories.

Your father’s contact name reads clearly on the screen.

Hitting decline one more time, you roll over and try ignore the gathering slick between your thighs.

Damn Javi and all the memories he haunts you with.

Mr, I don’t want a label You made me a little miss unstable (And it)

Days grow colder.

Nights grow longer.

You change your bedsheets, stuff a comforter back inside.

Pick out a tree, synthetic, and lump the box up the countless stairs to your apartment.

Try not to think of how he would’ve insisted on helping, refused to let you carry it.

Even if it culminated in him doubled over in pain, clutching his lower back.

Lights, baubles, action.

The tree’s smaller than you expect, barely reaching your hip, but it’s green, tree-shaped and festive. It’s enough.

Your decorations are minimal, a few inconsequential things you picked out your parents’ stash. There’s a Santa hat, frayed with time. A few cracked baubles, with string so thin you suspect they’ll snap off. A gingerbread man ornament, a glass snow-flake. A crooked star, missing one of its points, tops the tree.

A homemade snowman, one you’d gifted your parents after a busy day in nursery. Neither of them had the heart to tell you you’d made its nose a rather phallic shape.

And then there's the red phone-box, nestled somewhere in the middle, an etching of LONDON brandishing it as a reminder of your trip.

You’d picked it up in a tiny bookstore, right next door to The Distillery Club.

The winter season has never felt so lonesome, tucked away in your grown-up apartment. 

There’s no fireplace to warm your hands, no hot cocoa boiling on the stove. No cheesy hallmark movies to laugh at with your mother, no racing past your father to grab the last slice of dessert.

It’s just you, alone, with only your wandering mind as company.

Sometimes, more often than not, it wanders to him. To if he’s alone.

To if he’s filling his heart as easily as he fills his bed.

To if he’s finally bought a second seat for his dingy balcony.

“Is this some tactic of yours?”

He hums, brows furrowing, lips pouting, smoke dragging into his lungs.

The cigarette sits perched between two fingers of the hand resting on your knee, his other curled around your waist.

“Some what?”

“Tactic,” you repeat. Watch him blow a puff a smoke, taste his ash at the back of your throat. “Only having one chair, so pretty girls have no choice but to sit in your lap.”

He lets his gaze wander away from the streets below and up to you, sitting pretty in his lap. Like a cat, draped over his thighs.

Nothing but his own rumpled, inside-out shirt to cover your skin.

Bare legs, messed hair, smudged lipstick.

Fingerprint bruises littering your hips, bitemarks etched into your collarbone.

“I gave you a choice,” he speaks with a reservation he didn’t have before, when he’d offered you a ride home from the bar. There’s an etching of something that’s diluting his expressions, sinking him deeper and deeper into his own pensive mind. “You were the one who insisted on sitting on me.”

“You weren’t complaining earlier.”

Nails pinch at your thigh, causing a squeal out of you.

A few birds fly off a nearby wire, a head or two turn in the street below.

They don’t see you, or Javi, or the lack of clothing that sits between you.

“Neither were you. In fact, you were a little busy fucking my fac-”

“Stop!” Your sudden modesty feels unearned, yet that does nothing to stop you from placing your hand over his mouth.

He licks at it, you grimace, he licks again.

Then takes another breath of nicotine, as you wipe the remnants of his spit onto his naked thigh.

When he offers the cigarette your way, you hesitate.

Picture your father, disappointed to see you smoke.

The whiff of Javi’s post-sex smell- muted cologne, matted sweat, burnt ash- steals your senses, reminds you you’ve already done enough to disappoint your father, a cigarette can’t do much damage.

So you let him hold it up to your mouth and inhale it’s poison.

You and Javi were never meant to happen.

Sure, the line had already been crossed weeks ago.

But that was supposed to stay in Vermont, tucked between snowy slopes and wooden cabins. Existing in a timeline separate from your reality, where you are your father’s precious daughter and Javi is his trustworthy colleague and friend, that is where it should have stayed.

And it had, for two weeks. Sixteen days, specifically. 

You’d returned to classes, to sharing lunch breaks with your father in his office, to slowly moving more of your things out the family home and into your new apartment.

And Javi, from what you heard, had returned to keeping civilians safe, to sharing a drink or two with your father at the end of the work week, to flirting with every secretary within a mile radius.

Neither of your crossed paths and, when you nearly did, the other made the effort to turn a corner, shut a door, hide behind a wall.

Until tonight.

Until you ditched your mediocre date, some lame excuse of having a last-minute paper due.

Until you’d gone to console yourself over your failing love life, unknowingly sliding into a bar stool right next to the most desired cop in town.

Until he’d turned to you, tilted his head, and asked “d’you wanna get out of here?”

He’d offered to take you home.

The drive was quiet, tense, until his hand drifted over the gearstick and you dragged it down onto your thigh.

He squeezed.

You inched it further up, till the tips of his fingers brushed at the edge of your dress.

He took the invitation, took a turning towards his own place.

Brought you into his apartment, drowned you in his fountain of kisses, begged you to sit upon his face. He’d made you see stars beneath a roofed sky, eyes rolling so far back they threatened to get stuck there.

With barely a moments recovery from a third blinding orgasm, he dragged you down the expanse of his body, sat you down on his cock and refused to help your overstimulated, puddle-brained self ride him, grinning cunningly with his back pressed against the mattress as you struggled through shaky legs.

Eventually, he tired and launched himself, arms tangling behind your back, feet planted flat behind you, hips fucking up into your battered cunt until you both came to a haltering crescendo.

He’d layed you down to rest, cleaned you of any mess, and then wandered out to his balcony, inviting you to join him when the feeling returned to your legs.

Which brings you here, fifteen minutes later.

“...wouldn’t have to be serious,” he’s speaking, finishing off a sentence you don’t quite catch the start of.

“Huh?”

“This. Us. It could be casual, y’know?” Another puff of smoke slips right through his lips. “If that’s what you’re worrying about… your dad, and all that other stuff. I don’t need a label, not if it means I get to have… We could keep it casual, if that’s what you want.”

It takes a few moments for you to fully register his words, and then a few more to formulate a response.

“Is that what you want?”

He shrugs.

Pulls in another breath of his cigarette.

Stubs it out on the arm of the chair.

And says nothing.

You assume it’s a yes.

Because what else could Javier Peña, notorious womaniser, want with you if not a casual, no-strings-attached permit to sleep with you, as many times as he sees fit, without the risk of losing his job or, worse, his best friend?

Silence falls upon you both.

You twist in his lap.

He tightens his hold.

Within a half’s hour, he’s got your hands white knuckling as they grip the metal bannister of his balcony, his own hands busy pulling your hips back to meet each of his desperate thrusts, not even the cool air of the night enough to soothe the flaming desire that burns between you.

Your stomach twists, your mouth dries, your eyes water at the thought of him out on that balcony now.

Somebody else, some new body sat in your spot, upon his lap as they exchange smoke rings and warm mouths.

Broke me big time It’s funny and I’m laughing baby You think i’m alright

The Laredo sheriff’s department is known best for three things: its lack of parking, its swoon-worthy ex-DEA agent, and its office holiday parties.

Each year, it’s the same.

The station, decked out in decorations.

A Christmas wreath, mistletoe hanging from every doorway, egg-nog and mulled wine.

It’s not just Christmas.

It’s menorahs, and ficus trees, and a statues of different gods.

Each piece of culture, tradition, holiday that makes up the people that inhabit the station, day in and day out, behind desks and in cop cars, filing paperwork and fetching coffees, represented in some way, celebrated.

Each member of staff is encouraged to bring their friends, their family.

Their spouse, their mothers.

Anyone, and everyone, is welcome.

Then there’s the gift exchange, a Secret Santa system, optional for each member of staff.

It’s the part you look forward to most.

Crowding your dad the minute he gets home on the first of December, poking and prodding till he lets it spill who he’s got.

Fishing out a pen, some paper.

Drawing up a list, made of details and anecdotes your father remembers of his target.

Dragging your shop-avoidant father down to the mall, for a day of gift hunting and sweet-tooth indulging.

Getting to watch your father’s coworker open their gift, eyes lighting up as you once again knock the ball out the park and gift them something perfectly tailored to them, winning your dad the spot of top gift-giver year after year.

This year, there was none of that.

No list of pros and cons for each gift option.

No trying to crack just what exactly your dad should gift his person.

No waiting with baited breath to watch them open it, heart racing with that little fear of them not liking it, of you failing.

No, the moment that name fell from your father’s mouth, you knew what he needed to get.

Hinted at it, slightly.

Claimed you’d smelt it on a friend, thought it would be a good idea.

Sipping on some wine and picking at the buffet, you watch him pick up his gift.

Hold it up to his ear, shake it.

Look down at the box, confused, then tear into the wrapping paper.

The whole room stops.

Not really, but it feels like it does, as somewhere across the room Javier Peña holds up a bottle of that damn cologne.

And, when his eyes instinctively find yours, it feels like everything else fades away.

Fades to grey.

It’s just him, and you. The only two within the room, holding a secret too heavy on the tongue to ever speak it aloud.

He knows.

Of course he knows.

Knows you’d watched him spray it on his skin, day in, and day out.

Knows you’d worn it on your own, sunk it deep into your pores after intertwining your souls upon wrinkled sheets.

Knows you’d watch its contents decrease over time, time you’d spent with him.

That bottle of cologne reminiscent of a timer on you both, that morning before the hospital trip becoming the last few sprays he got out of it.

Colour returns to the world that surrounds you as your dad steps into view.

He’s hugging Javi, pathetically tipsy and ignorant to the lipstick stain on his cheek, no doubt ingrained to his skin with how hell-bent he is on having your mother kiss him beneath each mistletoe.

They’re exchanging words you don’t hear, slapping one another on the back.

You turn on your heel, insides twisting as nausea overcomes you at the scene.

The next time you see Javi is hours later.

You’re trying to leave, tempted to take the good old Irish exit and just slip out a back door.

But your parents- ne, your father- are so busy show-ponying you around the room, that you fail to take a single step that goes unnoticed.

“There she is!” Your father calls out, somewhere behind you, as you slip your hand into the arm of your coat. This act sparks outrage, a frown birthing onto his face. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving too.”

You say you’re tired.

He boos, loudly, like he’s not the chief of police and a whole grown adult.

Grabs at you, lovingly, trying to pry the coat out of your hands.

The effort is minimum, and you know he’s only messing around.

You can leave, if you want to, even if he’d rather you stay.

“It’s not even midnight and you two buzzkills are leaving!” He wails, all the while he’s reaching around and helping you slip your other arm into the coat.

That’s when Javi’s face comes into view, over the arch of your dad’s shoulder, sporting a smile and a pair of keys dangling off one finger.

You try your best to counter his smile with your own, though your throat feels dry and your cheeks feel tight.

“I can’t believe I’m being betrayed like this by two of my favourite people!” The smile slips before you can catch it, eyes widening at your father’s words.

Words you’d spent months agonising over the thought of hearing. Picturing the circumstances in which he’d find out. Imagining the horrendous fallout, a red slash over Javier’s reputation. Swearing you’d quit it, quit him, and then winding up tangled in his sheets again, head pressed to his chest, eyes closed in the soundest of sleeps.

Javi plays it cool.

Nudges your dad’s shoulder, shakes his head and tells him to “quit the dramatics, viejo (old man).”

“I gotta head out to my pop’s first thing in the morning, he’s wanting me to help him rewire some of the fences.” Comes out as his excuse, one your dad can’t really argue against.

He knows better than anyone that Javi drops everything for his dad.

Well, better than anyone but you.

Your excuse, however, falls a little short, a consequence of the last minute conjuring of the lie.

“I’ve, uh, got an early class. Don’t wanna flunk out in my last year, right?”

Your dad stares at you.

Your mum stares at you.

Javi stares at you.

And that’s how you know you’re screwed.

“Class? I thought you were on winter break.”

Javi takes the momentary distraction to shrug his coat on, over those broad shoulders.

Shoulders that twist with the rest of him, as he makes space for you in the doorway, nodding you over. Here, he’s saying without really speaking, escape with me.

So you do, tiptoeing past your parents as though, the slower and quieter you move, the less they’ll notice your approach to the exit.

“Oh! Yeah, I- Sorry, I meant that I-”

“The library, it’s still open for the graduate students,” Javi swoops in effortlessly, dragging the spotlight off you.

He takes hold of your jacket, too, slipping the zip into place and dragging it up the length of your torso, over your chest, till it rests snuggly at your sternum.

A little too snug, making each new inhale deeper, harder, practically heaving the air into your lungs.

At least that’s the reason you give yourself.

You don’t get to dwell on it too long, fortunately, for your mother lets out a gasp.

She points, eyes a little widened by excitement, at the both of you and nudges at your father.

“Look!” She tells him, and you watch in confusion as he displays her same reaction, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Then comes the laughter, straight out the depths of your dad’s belly and right to your weak heart, a melody that reminds you so much of easy Sundays and curling up next to him on the sofa, watching kids’ shows that seemed to entertain him more than you.

“Oh that’s just,” he takes a laugh break, doubling over slightly, his own finger joined in pointing at you two, beneath the doorway. “Too perfect!”

Before you can inquire on either of your parents bizarre reactions, Javi’s eyes are staring into your own and pointing upwards.

Wrapped with a red bow and barely hanging onto the door frame with a single strip of tape, a mistletoe stares down at you, two white berries like mini eyes.

When you glance at the agent once more, it’s hard to read what he’s thinking.

His shoulders are tense, his lips are pursed, his brows are furrowed. But, his eyes.

His eyes burn you with an unspoken intensity, a look he should never possess in front of your parents.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” You mom, camera in hand, urges you both, a wide grin cast upon her face.

You dad is in no better state, rushing forward to squeeze you both closer, one hand clasped over the back of Javi’s head.

When the once-agent exhales a nerve-striken breath, the warmth of it, of him, hits your neck.

“Dad, c’mon, stop-” you’ve never imagined yourself stuck like this, your mother and father both urging you to kiss a man you spent months tossing and turning in bedsheets with behind their back.

The creatively deviant part of your brain tells you this is how it could be, maybe, in some other life.

Some other life, where Javi’s not a cop, you’re new in town, and you both bump into each other at the grocery store.

Both of you reaching out for the same apple, or box of cereal, or bottle of milk.

Your hands, brushing.

Your eyes, meeting.

He’d charm you, easily as he always has.

Get your number and then, the next day, a date.

One date leading to two, three, four, more dates.

Till you bring him home to meet your parents at last, squeezing his hand tighter when he tries to pry it away as the door opens to your father’s stern face.

It would take a while, you reckon, for your dad to see past the difference in years.

Your mother wouldn’t care, wouldn’t spare a second thought to it, not when she notices how much he makes you laugh and how he can’t keep his eyes off of you in any room you occupy.

This could be your first Christmas together, your parents begging for one sweet photo of you under the mistletoe, before you both head off to spend the rest of the holiday season with Javi’s father.

But it isn’t, and you’re not.

“C’mon, it’s bad luck not to!” Back in the present, in reality, your dad’s found his way over to your mother’s side. “Peña, just kiss the girl on the cheek for Christ sake, I ain’t gonna bite your head off for it this one time!”

His lips brush your cheek like an autumn breeze.

Gentle, a hint of warmth, a tickle from the wisps of his well-groomed moustache.

“Get a bit closer, you’re not fully in frame!”

The flash goes off on your mother’s camera, and the two give a little cheer, and Javi wraps an arm around your back, squeezing you a little closer.

When all is said and done, your mother’s forcing you both to stare at the camera screen, a perfect picture of the most doomed couple to ever grace this Earth.

Such dramatics in your thoughts reminds you of the copious glasses of prosecco you’d downed throughout the night, and of your intentions to get yourself home before you done something stupid.

Like stand under the mistletoe with your former casual lover, the very same man your father calls for golf matches and March Madness debriefs.

Javi offers you a ride home, an idea your father approves of.

“I’m heading that way anyway, gotta pick up a few things before I drive out to the ranch.”

A part of you thinks he’s lying, wanting any excuse for a moment alone with you, but then that’s the kind of delusions you shouldn’t be feeding into.

You and Javi don’t spend time alone anymore.

You and Javi do not exist together anymore.

Maybe you never did.

“It’s okay, I already called a cab.”

You part ways at the door, your father watching you from inside.

Javi calls your name, before you can take more than a few steps.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then his arms are pulling you in, and he’s got you right against his steady chest, and he’s resting his head atop your own, arms squeezing tightly at your sides.

“Get home safe.”

He walks away before you can tell him to do the same, the door slamming to his car the last thing you hear as you pull out your phone and call a cab.

It takes twenty minutes for it to appear, in which the rain starts and your clothes get soaked, but all that and the fifteen dollar fare are a cheaper price to pay than the torture of letting Javier Peña drive you home.

Crawl up the stairs, unlock the apartment door, drop your clothes onto the floor.

You find sanctuary under the shower, soap suds and boiling water, a dynamic duo that scrub off any remnants of his skin against yours.

Even as you step out, fully cleaned and towel wrapped around yourself, you catch a hint of his cologne, the very same one you’d made sure your dad picked out for him.

And as you pick your coat off the ground, a distant voice that sounds much like your mother scolding you for leaving such a mess, you notice it.

First, just a little extra weight.

Then, scratchy paper as your hand dives into the left pocket.

The wrapping is haphazard, with an uneven bow tied atop it, but that’s not what matters.

You tear away at it, let the paper fall to the floor at your feet.

Then you’re met with a small box, which you tear open too. 

And find it sitting neatly among balls of yarn, the prettiest, most delicate looking glass bauble.

It’s ribbon a deep green, and it’s centre an image of mountain slopes, backed by a green forest and a valley full of wooden lodges.

It shakes in your grasp, and you spy the snowglobe-esque white foam that dances around within it.

In it’s centre, in bold, italic and green, Vermont.

One more glance in the box.

There’s a note, tucked at the bottom.

You fish it out in one breath, hold it up to read what it says.

Corazón, For your tree. I hope there’s still space.

[thepersonperson]

The Reproductive Horror of JJK Part 2 (Dealing with Trauma)

Part 1

Notes before we start.

1) This analysis deals heavily with topics of nonconsent, grooming, abuse, and reproductive manipulation. Please proceed with caution.

2) This post was inspired by @hermitw and @tangsakura

3) Read the light novels. They are the equivalent of Bleach's CFYOW for JJK. There is a fan translation (Book 1 & Book 2), but I will be citing the official translations from my own copies.

4) I will be mainly using the TCB scans for the manga because of their accessibility. 

5) Written as of JJK 265.

(Click images for captions/citations.)

Preface 

This was written with the assumption you've also read these other analyses:

Thoughts on Sukuna and Kenjaku’s relationship as of JJK 258.

Gojo's You Pronouns (Gojo's Relationship with Toji and Geto)

Please give them a quick glance at least.

...

Some of you may have found it odd that a discussion about bodies being irreversibly changed and used left out Mahito whose ability quite literally irreversibly changes bodies for them to use. That was deliberate. Blame Tumblr’s 30 photo limit.

The previous post was actually about Mahito. 

Mahito

For series that has a power system based on strong negative emotions, it is a bit odd that curses surrounding sexual trauma aren’t ever directly mentioned in this work. You could chalk it up to the series being Shounen and not Seinen. But that is precisely why I think JJK delves into the topic using abstract representations. It allows the topic to be explored in a way that connects well with those who’ve experienced it without being too graphic for the younger audience.

Though Kenjaku is a literal rapist, I argued the methodology and effects behind vessel creation resemble rape. Someone's body belonging to another through force, permanent changes brought about after experiencing immense trauma, being groomed into tolerating it as a natural part of this world…  When I think of a curse equivalent to this, there is no one other than Mahito that fits.

The transfigured humans Mahito creates are through nonconsentual touch that strips them not only of their autonomy, but their clothing as well. These people are in immense pain from the distortion of their bodies and can never be returned to their original state. In this way, transfigured humans can be read as a stand in for victims of sexual assault.

I didn’t propose this idea first. The Tumblr user that inspired this entire analysis, hermitw, did so in this post (please read it, it's very good). This person’s ideas will be reiterated in this discussion and I will expand upon them starting with how poorly other characters react to their Cursed Technique (CT).

Breaking Composure

Mahito sets themself apart from other curses by how they’re able to get under the skin of the most seasoned sorcerers. It’s not because of their words but the transfigured humans.

Nanami is heralded as the no-nonsense man. Nothing gets to him. He is always calm and professional no matter the circumstances. Mahito's first interaction with him immediately throws him off kilter.

We saw how much fun Gojo was having beating Hanami to death and tearing Jogo apart. That stops entirely when the transfigured humans show up. Yuji can see it coming too. This is the first time during the fight that Gojo’s composure visibly breaks. His reaction to Mahito isn’t any better. There are no smiles and he looks to be in shock.

Gojo’s Six Eyes allow him to see Cursed Energy (CE) to the point where he can infer someone’s CT at a glance. When he sees those transfigured humans, he’s probably seeing the extent of their pain in how the CE controls their souls.

I also want to point out that sexual harassment on trains is such a massive problem in Japan that they have special cars for women. There’s something to be said here about a train full of people that can represent victims of sexual assault.

This visceral disgust when it comes to Mahito isn’t limited to the protagonists either—the main antagonist, Sukuna, finds them to be repulsive after a few interactions. In this instance, Mahito's touching of Sukuna's soul is straight up compared to a patron harassing a hostess.

Just like Gojo, Sukuna goes from having fun to having a really bad time in an instant.

I bring their reactions to Mahito up because there is something off about it. These are all characters that hardly balk at the gore and death brought about by curses. It’s as if Mahito’s brand of violence needs to be categorized as something else.

If Mahito is seen as the embodiment of sexual assault, this is in line with how sexual violence is separated into its own category for treatment and study. When compared to non-sexual violence, the lasting effects are so severe it's not helpful to treat it the same way.

And that’s just what Mahito is. An exceptionally dangerous curse that Jujutsu Society deems needs to be exorcized before it destroys everything because barely anyone can deal with its effects. Likening that damage to something on par with natural disasters is significant.

Mahito as a Natural Disaster

Mahito is the leader of the natural disaster curses despite being born of humans. Hanami, Jogo, and Dagon are forms of wrath spawned from environmental damage brought about by humans. When nature, the ocean, or volcanoes cause mass death, people accept it as a part of living in this world. Sometimes they’ll go as far as to blame others for causing their own demise by living so close to it. 

Mahito doesn’t seem to fit into this category unless you consider how widespread sexual assault is. In the US alone 81% of women and 43% of men reported experiencing some form of sexual harassment and/or assault in their lifetime. These numbers are likely higher due to the underreporting of this crime in general.

In 2021 it was estimated that 101.8 million people were affected by natural disasters or about 1% of the current 7.9 billion population. By 2050 some estimate that 1.2 billion people will be displaced by climate change related natural disasters. That’s about 15% of the current population.

Compared to natural disasters, sexual assault certainly rivals their numbers. But when compared to reporting? It��s under discussed. People chase storms. Natural disasters are tracked extensively by the damage and cost. Nations build infrastructure and plan around them. They’re acknowledged as a problem that is to be dealt with. The victims of sexual assault get no such attention. Warnings against perpetrators are often ignored and the victims are something people would rather keep invisible.

Mahito is a lot like that. Able to go about unnoticed as they stockpile thousands of humans whose bodies disturb those around them. The transfigured humans are targeted first by sorcerers both because it’s easier and because the one creating them seems untouchable.

Mahito’s effectiveness as a curse is their ability to force people to reckon with the worst humanity has to offer. They mirror every little sin and exploitation committed by others, putting it on full display with their manipulation of Junpei.

Just like Mei Mei grooming Ui Ui with inappropriate but gentle touches and praise…

Just like Kenjaku manipulating the vulnerable to gain access to and use their bodies, only to betray them in the end… 

You might call Mahito Kenjaku’s protégé. Really taking after all the worst aspects of that bastard. However, I have read CFYOW. Mahito’s true source of inspiration comes from someone unexpected. 

Allegory in Darkness (JJK Summer of Ashes, Autumn of Dust, Chapter 3)

Before Mahito met Junpei, they met a blind homeless man living under a bridge. Their interactions with this man fundamentally change their view on humans and their approach to breaking them. This short story is one of the most harrowing things I’ve ever read. The quiet horror of JJK is on full display here. I’m not going to summarize all of what happens. Just read this.

This old man is so detached from himself and the world around him that he has essentially become nothing. He exists as a thing. This fascinates Mahito and they decide to observe them, forming a weird sort of companionship with him. Eventually, Mahito learns why the old man is this way.

Immense trauma. Abused and disfigured, the old man gives up on everything and in turn is freed from his suffering. Mahito likens his state to enlightenment Buddhist monks may achieve. 

They’re not wrong about this. Buddhism is centered around the escape from suffering via detachment. But there’s something greatly unsettling about this situation. Unfortunately that never gets addressed, the old man dies and Mahito oversees it.

And what’s this? Right at the end. The old man appreciates Mahito for being there for him. His “enlightened” state is revealed for the facade that it is, causing his soul to waver. He appreciates that his suffering has been acknowledged by another and dies satisfied, leaving Mahito both in a state of mourning and with the perfect way to manipulate someone before they pass.

What a human is to Mahito.

There’s a lot I left out in my summarization of Allegory of Darkness. Mainly the little discussions they had to build a relationship. They’re centered around movies and books because Mahito uses those to understand the humans around them. 

From their studies, they conclude the following. 

Humans are creatures that eat, sleep, and rape while curses are creatures that deceive, cheat, and kill. But I’d like to break down the kanji Mahito uses for their description of humans.

食 (ku) is usually read as "ta" which is in line with regular eating. The "ku" reading is more like devouring and it can be a sexual innuendo.

寝 (ne) means to sleep. And just like in English it can mean to have sex with someone.

犯す (okasu) is the tricky one. It can mean to commit a crime, to break, to violate, to contravene, to deflower, to rape.

Translating this as rape isn’t wrong, but it can overemphasize the sexual connotation. Okasu is more about the nonconsent. Doing something against another’s will. 

However in Mahito’s case, they’re most definitely drawing attention to that. The eat uses the ku reading and is next to sleep with heavy innuendo. Okasu implies an assault on a body that does not belong to them. With this in mind, I think eat would be best localized as consume to get across the greedy inconsideration.

This isn’t coming from nowhere. They watched such a thing occur first hand. That old man I mentioned? He’s killed by two random men on a dare because they see him as something for their consumption. His body doesn’t belong to him. It’s a thing for them to play with.

Kenjaku, a human, reinforces this behavior by having Mahito participate in death womb painting incarnations and other manipulative schemes. And in the end, Kenjaku causes Mahito to fall to the same victimization they learned from humans.

Mahito sees humans, not curses, as creatures that take without consideration. They’re beings that have made the violation of boundaries so commonplace it can be seen as natural. And he’s not really wrong about that in the context of this story. All the stuff I mentioned in the previous post—it’s both right there in your face and nearly invisible. 

The acts themselves are never depicted but always implied. It’s an insidious thing that goes ignored or is outright denied by fans. Anyone who has experienced these things, recognizes it, and points it out will be chastised for reading too much into it.

But can you blame them? The perpetrators are named. They’re goofy and strong and interesting. Their victims are footnotes with little presence and are sometimes outright denied names. And yet they’re always there, just out of sight, suffering in the background.

How horrific that this mirrors a victim’s experience almost identically.

Mahito vs Yuji

The first time Yuji kills a human, it’s as a mercy. At the request of the transfigured human, Yuji puts them out of their misery.

It’s a sin Nanami has been trying to protect Yuji from as a child and Mahito forces it on him with a cruel choice between leaving them to suffer or ending it for them. Yuji chooses to liberate them from suffering.

I think Yuji is able to see the outline of Mahito’s soul, not because of Sukuna, but because he is willing to see Mahito for what they are and face them head on. He doesn’t hide how the transfigured humans or deaths affect him. He cries over them and carries on with that hurt. 

And it’s painful. Yuji vomits and wails on the floor. But he deals with it. Unlike his mentors who bury their emotions and pretend everything is ok.

This is what makes Yuji fundamentally incompatible with Mahito. He is the exception that won’t allow Mahito to go unnoticed and slip away. He does it for their victims and himself. And still Mahito taints him. Yuji starts to see himself as a cog no different than Mahito.

He carries that mentality until he finally confronts Sukuna in JJK 265. Acknowledging why he started thinking that way in the first place, moving past it and onto something better. 

That’s what I love about Yuji the most. To him, anyone’s trauma will never be invisible.

And the horror persists…

Even though Yuji is this tiny beacon of hope in this rather depressing narrative, there’s still so much he can do as a 15 year old boy. The trauma he takes on and deals with is only for those he was witnessed or has been told of. This means a lot of the characters don’t have their grievances addressed in a way that gives me comfort.  

The old man under the bridge may have died satisfied, but I can’t stop thinking about him. His suffering and isolation masked by numbness went on for decades. The happiness he experienced at the end was for seconds. And the worst of the worst, Mahito, was the one to comfort him…

I can't stop thinking about the old man under the bridge.

There’s a lot I left out in my summarization of Allegory in Darkness. I really wanted to include more, but I found it to not fit into the rest of this discussion. Strange little bits of dialogue like these.

When I read these passages, a single question lingers in my mind.  

Why does this man resemble Sukuna? 

I lied. This post is actually about Sukuna.

Let’s go back to that homeless old man under the bridge. Mahito admires him as enlightened, but anyone can his state is mortifying. He has coped with the abuse, disfigurement, and suffering by becoming nothing. No different than a rock. He has no name. He’s not a person. He feels nothing. And the worst thing about it is how that’s technically better than being tormented by those memories.

JJK asks how does one cope with trauma? And repeatedly this question is answered by most characters in one of two ways:

1) You let it consume all that you are.

2) You become nothing as you detach yourself from it entirely.

The old man under the bridge is what Gojo tried to and failed to become. As much as he pretended otherwise, his attachment to grief and love controlled him. Sukuna mocks him for this. Calling him painfully ordinary in the English localization isn't incorrect, but it strips away that religious context. In Japanese this kanji 凡夫 (bonpu) can be read as Unenlightened.

The old man reached enlightenment while coping with his trauma. It worked for so long. But right at the end, when Mahito shows some semblance of care for him, those feelings he thought were shaved off cause him to waver. 

A new question plagues my mind.

What the hell happened to Sukuna? 

It’s presented as a humorous thing. Framing Mahito’s nonconsensual touching of Sukuna’s soul as a handsy patron ignoring the boundaries of a hostess.

Gege sometimes introduces character quirks as something funny before they’re revealed to be induced by trauma. Gojo Satoru is the biggest culprit of this with his sweet tooth and manner of speech and childish behavior that desperately tries to claw back the youth that was stolen from him.

Sukuna has such an averse reaction to having his soul touched by Mahito. He’s wearing women’s clothes when it happens. He’s likened to a hostess for it.

When we consider this and the quiet way misogyny and sexual assault is woven into this story… And how Gojo, the Strongest, was preyed on by older women. And how Yuki escaped having her body being used by someone much older than her by becoming strong. And how Rika, the Queen of Curses, is likely a victim of CSA by someone who was supposed to take care of her. And how Mai, a twin and a victim of CSA, creates a stronger twin by dying when she can no longer cope with her trauma.

I don’t like what this suggests for Sukuna at all.

Sukuna is willing to bond with all the other natural disaster cursed spirits, except Mahito. He himself became something akin to a natural disaster so it makes sense he liked the company of those like them. It’s him rejecting the strongest of the bunch because of how their CT violates others’ bodies is something I cannot overlook.

Jogo’s fire is so kind in comparison. The bodies he burns and the corpses he leaves cannot be defiled by anyone. It’s what would’ve prevented Geto’s body from being stolen. And hey! Sukuna returns the favor, burning Jogo in a way that prevents Kenjaku from absorbing him.

The easiest way for Sukuna to permanently scar and  traumatize Yuji is to inflict sexual violence on him or his loved ones. JJK does not shy away from having rapists like Noaya and Kenjaku do just that. A common complaint from fans is Sukuna not trying to manipulate Yuji into working with him. JJK does not shy away from having groomers like Kenjaku, Mahito, and Mei Mei (and to an extent Tengen) do just that.

Sukuna is strong and clever enough to do these things, but he doesn’t. I think there’s more to this than a disinterest in sex.

Choso’s mother faced ostracization for her unique body that allowed her to give birth to hybrid children. With nowhere left to go she wound up at a temple for sorcerers.  Kenjaku took advantage of her situation and body, partaking in her rape to satiate intellectual curiosity.

Sukuna faced ostracization as a child for his unique body that made him a great sorcerer. Just about everyone who knows him has tried to exploit his abilities for their benefit.

There’s a massive blank in this parallel. What happened to Sukuna growing up to make him this way? Every time I try to fill in that blank with the information we have now, I’m left with something deeply unpleasant. 

When Sukuna has flashbacks, it only ever goes as far back to his time as Yujikuna. He verbally recounts his time in the womb and there’s nothing else. The first time we see Heian Era Sukuna in full, it’s from Yorozu’s memory. And if you recall…this introduction is him being sexually assaulted. 

Sukuna’s fingers are scattered everywhere, fragments of himself are throughout the world and in a little bit of everyone. A curse that cannot be destroyed that only gets stronger with time. He’s something that was repressed despite everyone knowing he exists—a victim of sexual abuse.

Sukuna’s Backstory—Revised

Back when I theorized that Sukuna is an ex-slave, I deliberately withheld references to sexual abuse slaves are often subjected to because I felt it was too heavy for the post.

But seeing others theorize something that severe happened in part because of his CT’s name and spiritual pederasty practices at the time, makes me regret not including it. Please read the post by Tumblr user tangsakura that brought this to my attention.

Pederasty, if you do not know, refers to a boy having a sexual “relationship” with an older man sometimes as a form of “guidance”. The most known form of this originates from ancient Rome and Greece. I put “relationship” and “guidance” in quotations because children cannot consent to or grow from this kind of abuse. 

Such a thing was common, sometimes socially accepted, systemic abuse in the ancient world. (Though a form of it exists to this day.) Japan partook in pederasty, even in certain types of Buddhist temples, prior to the Meiji Restoration in 1868. (Here’s a video source on it. Be warned it's pretty upsetting.)

And in most of these societies that accepted pederasty, a relationship between two men of equal standing was frowned upon or not tolerated at all. The imbalance of power and exploitation of children was the socially acceptable thing. Despite, you know, the resulting trauma and suicides of the victims.

As discussed in the linked video, the children at these temples were seen as pure and therefore closer to Buddha. Since celibacy between human monks was expected, fetishizing these children as gods allowed for the mental gymnastics to justify molesting them. 

That’s not too surprising. Organized religion with massive followings all have it in common—the sexual abuse of minors and tolerating it or covering it up. What’s striking about this abuse is that it was considered important to or even necessary for enlightenment by some sects. Their suffering brought about enlightenment. 

Mini crash course for those not familiar with Buddhism. There are 4 Noble Truths that are foundational to this religion. (Copy and pasted from Wikipedia.)

1) Dukkha: Suffering exists: Life is suffering. Suffering is real and almost universal. Suffering has many causes: loss, sickness, pain, failure, and the impermanence of pleasure.'Dukkha: Suffering exists: Life is suffering. Suffering is real and almost universal. Suffering has many causes: loss, sickness, pain, failure, and the impermanence of pleasure.

2) Samudaya: There is a cause of suffering. Suffering is due to attachment. It is the desire to have and control things. It can take many forms: craving of sensual pleasures; the desire for fame; the desire to avoid unpleasant sensations, like fear, anger or jealousy.

3) Nirodha: There is an end to suffering. Attachment can be overcome. Suffering ceases with the final liberation of Nirvana. The mind experiences complete freedom, liberation and non-attachment. It lets go of any desire or craving.

4) Magga: In order to end suffering, follow the Eightfold Path.

Per the 3rd Noble Truth, enlightenment comes from the end of suffering, not its continuation. The idea that suffering is needed for enlightenment contradicts this Truth. But that’s not surprising either. I was raised Protestant and I’ve got a whole laundry list of how that branch of Christianity seems to have ignored the basic fundamentals of Biblical text. 

What I want to get into is the specific branch of Buddhism Sukuna appears to have been abused under—Tachikawa-ryū. Just as a heads up, information on this sect is limited as this person explains:

“Tachikawa practice became forbidden and the school’s ritual texts were destroyed. As a result, only a few original scriptures and rituals survived the persecution, which makes it very difficult nowadays to fully understand the teachings of the Tachikawa-ryū.”

(The wikipedia page is straight up missing citations so feel free to correct me if I get some stuff wrong.)

The destruction of records sounds exactly like what happened with Kenjaku and the Meiji girl. But the similarities don’t start or end there. This sect is accused of using human and animal skulls for rituals. And if you recall, Sukuna sits on a throne of oxen skulls. Other heretical acts included the consumption of meat, which at the time was forbidden. Another thing Sukuna loves to do. 

But what this sect is most known for are the bizarre sex rituals needed for enlightenment. You know the thing Sukuna explicitly has no interest in. More excerpts about that from the non-wiki source:

“Since the idea of a world, created by the union of male (yang) and female (yin) elements, is the essence of cosmology in Tantrism, sexual union serves as the “real life” version of this dualism. In other words, sex is an effective way to achieve buddhahood in a relatively short amount of time (best case scenario: this life, “becoming a buddha in this very body (即身成仏 sokushin jōbutsu)”). Furthermore, much ink has flown on the description and discussion of a human skull ritual that involved sexual intercourse and the use of seminal and vaginal fluids to create an object of worship.”

This melding of male and female elements is everywhere in JJK. It’s a massive component of the reproductive horror too. Everything with Kenjaku is self explanatory. But Sukuna, who wears women’s clothes, is currently pregnant with the Merger, and has a gender ambiguous servant… He’s a part of this too.

It should also be noted  that Tachikawa-ryū is actually a sub-sect of a sect. It originates from Shingon Buddhism. …Which was first introduced in the Heian Era.

Here are some quotes from the wiki article:

“The essence of Shingon practice is to experience the Dharmakaya, the ultimate reality, by emulating the inner realization of the Dharmakaya through the synchronized meditative ritual use of mantras, mudras (hand gestures) and visualization of mandalas.”

Oh hey that sounds like what Jujutsu Sorcerers do.

“The goma (護摩) fire ritual is an important and recognizable ritual in Shingon. The meaning of goma is to burn the firewood of delusion with the wisdom flame, consuming it completely.”

Oh hey that sounds like Sukuna’s fire CT.

“The most important Shingon mandalas are known as the Mandala of the Two Realms which are: The Womb Realm (Sanskrit: Garbhadhātu; Japanese: 胎蔵界曼荼羅, romanized: Taizōkai) mandala based on the Mahavairocana Sutra and the Diamond Realm (Sanskrit: Vajradhātu; Japanese: 金剛界曼荼羅, romanized: Kongōkai) mandala based on the Vajrasekhara Sutra.”

Oh hey that’s Kenjaku’s Domain.

I wasn’t raised any kind of Buddhist, so there’s probably a lot here I’m missing. My point here is that the symbolism and historical context are in line with Sukuna enduring some pretty horrific abuse as a child. It’s very likely that the way he behaves and thinks is one massive cope to rationalize what happened to him. 

Identity and Trauma

Sukuna is a difficult character to grasp because he’s so unforthcoming in personal information. He’s not once introduced himself by name and reveals fragments about himself in very cryptic ways. Most of what we know about him is from other characters. (Much like how the original writings of Tachikawa-ryū are lost and the remaining info is sourced from outsiders.)

To better understand him, I’ve been working under the assumption that other characters reflect fragments of Sukuna that will eventually fall into place.

Sukuna is like Maki. Consuming his twin to survive and becoming stronger for it.

Sukuna is like Toji. Discriminated against for the way he was born, he becomes strong enough to separate himself from Jujutsu Society only to be dragged back in.

Sukuna is like Geto. Falling from grace and procuring a cult-like following. 

Sukuna is like Todo. He’s completely self-centered and hates taking orders from those weaker than him.

Sukuna is like Mechamaru. Disfigured by birth, longing to connect with others, he finds himself at the end of a manipulative deal that promised him a second life.

Sukuna is like Kenjaku. He sees himself as above others and only wants equals for companionship. Other people are playthings for him to consume to stave off boredom. 

Sukuna is like Mahito. Endlessly curious about the humans he was born of, he consumes their art and lives in an attempt to understand them.

Sukuna is like Yorozu. Obsessively pursuing a single person, trying to teach them love through violence.

Sukuna is like Yuji. Adapting to any situation with battle intuition like no other by understanding his opponent.

Sukuna is Gojo. I call them twin flames since they have the most in common. If you noticed, that homeless old man from Allegory in Darkness resembles Gojo a lot too. For this reason I often use Gojo as a reference to infer how Sukuna is as a character.

Gojo’s trauma that helped him reach his self-proclaimed enlightenment was Toji. And that was just normal assault. But let’s reframe that battle as something a little more abstract…

As a teenager Gojo has his Infinity, a barrier that kept him safe, forcibly penetrated by a much older man. This both kills him and awakens him to immense power that irreversibly changes him. His loved ones can no longer recognize him and his relationships are destroyed by this. His ability to feel pleasure and his sexuality are contorted in ways that others find deeply perverse.

This is the plot of Baby Reindeer—an extremely upsetting semi-autobiographical recounting of how the creator’s sexual trauma ruined his life.

But that’s not how everything is framed at first. The main character, Donny is introduced as a man trying to report his stalker, Martha, to the police. 

Martha recognizes that Donny has been abused. Maybe not in the same way as her, but similar enough to the point where they become toxicly attached to each other. She stalks him and assaults him in what she believes to be acts of love. You both pity her for her circumstances and hate her for the destruction she causes. 

That sounds like Sukuna doesn’t it?

Sukuna saw something in Gojo he can’t recognize in anyone else. And I think it’s much more than the loneliness that comes with being strong—It’s having your body violated and no one recognizing or taking your trauma seriously because you’re supposed to be strong. 

Toji’s failed assassination attempt on Gojo resembles sexual assault in how Gojo reacts to the whole ordeal. He wants some kind of support but pushes everyone away. He craves touch but has a barrier to prevent it running 24/7. He both pities Toji and admires him, fears him and kills anything like him. His sexuality cannot be divorced from this incident, needing a good deal of violence to get off. It’s too similar to how Donny engages his own sexuality after his assault. 

But to my knowledge, Gojo hasn’t been raped. He went through something that resembled it and Sukuna picked up on that. During their fight, Sukuna essentially dealt with that trauma. He became a sort of Toji that satisfied Gojo’s perverse needs while tearing through the very thing that had him targeted in the first place—Infinity.

This is the source suffering Sukuna seemingly liberates Gojo from with extreme violence like some kind of heretical Bodhisattva. There’s also something to be said about him using Mahoraga to do this.The Eight-Handled in its title is a reference to the Eightfold Path that’s to be followed in order to obtain enlightenment.

And they both have this trait in common—using violence to guide others towards enlightenment, a perversion of the 3rd Noble Truth. Gojo just calls it tough love.

(And notice how Megumi recalls both Sukuna and Gojo's words as he grows from a difficult fight.)

I know that Gojo does this because of his trauma with Toji and his own “growth” coming from it. It’s one of Gojo’s many destructive coping mechanisms. He’s stuck in the past trying to relive what was stolen from him. Like I mentioned before, Sukuna calls Gojo unenlightened for this. And if they’re twin flames, I have reason to believe Sukuna is the exact same way.

Sukuna finds Maki to be the most compelling of Gojo’s students. And I think there’s more to this than seeing a  fellow monster in her. She’s what he wants to be.

Not only is Maki free of the sorcery that ruined their lives, she has confronted and dealt with her trauma. She killed the source of her suffering, the Zenins, and has accepted the death of her twin she was so dearly attached to. And unlike her mentors, Maki appears to be emotionally stable because she did this in spite of her trauma, not through it. The sumo guy's compassion is what guides her. In other words, she’s obtained enlightenment outside of violence.

Maki also succeeds where Toji failed. There isn’t anything left that would cause her to waver. She stays true to herself and remains enlightened.

That seems to be a recurring thing—characters deviating from their “enlightened” state through human connections that rouse their unresolved emotional issues and then dying. Toji’s projection of his trauma from Jujutsu Society onto Gojo gets him killed. Kenjaku’s desperation for companionship has Takaba create the perfect opening for Todo and Yuta’s ambush.

Sukuna has started to deviate from himself because of Yuji. And it’s probably because he’s projecting his trauma onto him. If that’s the reason both Toji and Kenjaku were felled, it’ll be the reason for Sukuna’s downfall too. Just like that old man under the bridge.

Sukuna and Yuji

Umineko no Naku Koro ni (When the Seagulls Cry) is a visual novel about a person who is fundamentally misunderstood by those around them. They desperately want to be loved without being perceived, believing themself to be unworthy due to trauma and immutable characteristics given to them at birth. Instead of telling anyone these feelings directly, they play games akin to torture. They torment the ones they love over and over in hopes they'll see through their actions and understand them.

I’ve always compared Sukuna to this character, but for this analysis I’ll be comparing him to another from Umineko—Rosa Ushiromiya.

The youngest of 4 from a rich conservative household, Rosa was subjected to physical and verbal abuse by her father and older siblings. As an adult around them she cowers. She shows her abusers respect they don’t deserve because of her social standing within the family and tolerates their jeering.

But with her little 9 year old daughter who can’t fight back? She beats her the moment she makes any mistake. As she beats this child she screams about how everything is her fault. Rosa projects her financial woes, her childhood abuse, and systemic misogyny all onto this child that never asked to be born. She blames this child for her own shortcomings that keep her tethered to her abusers year after year.

The sad thing is that Rosa doesn’t realize why she’s doing this. She is unable to come to terms with her own trauma and remains stuck in the cycle of abuse as both a victim and a perpetrator, unable to spare her daughter from it. 

Knowing that Sukuna and Yuji are blood uncle and nephew. And knowing that by technicalities, Yuji would be genetically recognized as Sukuna’s son…I see that kind of hurt in their relationship.

Sukuna is a very good liar. Most take him at his word. He says that he hates Yuji for his ideals—how he puts his life on the line in service to others. The things Megumi, Higuruma, and Gojo do as well. And yet Sukuna admires them. Todo sacrifices himself to prop up Yuji and save Hana. Sukuna calls him a true sorcerer for this. It’s not unreasonable to conclude that Sukuna isn’t being honest about why he hates Yuji. 

I think it’s because Yuji is somehow linked to Sukuna’s trauma through no fault of his own. And because Yuji is easier to target, Sukuna uses him as an outlet.

We’ve seen this scenario play out before in JJK. Mai lashes out at Maki instead of Naoya or all the other men like Naobito who enabled or partook in her abuse because it’s the safer thing to do. She doesn’t actually hate Maki. She hates what she has to endure at the Zenin Clan and sees it as inevitable. Fighting back is scary and she really hates doing that. If the manga didn’t make that clear, the CFYOW: Thorny Road at Dawn, Chapter 4: Advancing in the Face of Fear sure does.

Yuji isn’t a cage to Sukuna because he chose to be this way. Kenjaku made him for it and even manipulated him into ingesting the fingers. But you know, Yuji is someone Sukuna can attack without consequence. 

I do not know if Kenjaku is the person who abused Sukuna or if Kenjaku merely resembles the person who abused Sukuna. Kenjaku is older than Sukuna, has a fascination with him, and has manipulated him. There are plenty of other characters that have been traumatized by Kenjaku.

Whatever the true nature of their relationship is, Sukuna is choosing to attack a symptom of his restriction instead of its source. He’s behaving no different than Mai or Rosa which leads me to believe there’s something deeper to his hatred of Yuji.

Yuji’s Role

I think that Yuji is aware something terrible happened to Sukuna. He’s not really sure what. The type of abuse Sukuna likely went through is not common historical knowledge even in Japan.

For the longest time, Yuji regarded Sukuna as a curse and denied him his humanity. But as of JJK 265, Yuji treats Sukuna like a human. He takes him through his memories and plays little games with him. He rejects the cog mentality Mahito groomed him into and says this:

“I could very well be doing the wrong thing here. So I thought I should at least let you see the humanity of someone other than yourself.”

Yuji is admits that his approach to Sukuna may be flawed.

And flawed it is. This entire chapter and offer Yuji makes to Sukuna might be one of the cruelest things he has done so far and he isn’t even aware of it. Yuji is recounting a pleasant childhood full of love and quiet moments. That’s something Sukuna didn’t have because it was taken away for reasons beyond his control.

This accidental cruelty isn’t anything new. It happens right before Junpei dies to an ability that resembles sexual assault. Yuji reaches out to him and asks what’s wrong. He notices something is off and tries to console Junpei through it.

And here he apologizes for saying something so insensitive. He didn’t know, but he had to ask. Sukuna was there to see that.

I think that's what Sukuna wants from him. He wants Yuji to acknowledge he was hurt. To recognize that something happened to him and offer something like he did with Junpei. It’s a bit odd that he humors Yuji’s kindness towards him instead of immediately opening his domain as a counter. This could be an explanation for that.

Yuji hasn’t given Sukuna the same treatment yet. In fact he’s done the exact opposite thing he does with other people. Yuji usually lets his opponent yap at him and meets them as they are. This time, Yuji is the one who does the bulk of the talking and he doesn’t give Sukuna a chance to open up about himself.

That’s not his fault at all. He’s 15 and it’s not his job. The reason he thought Sukuna was a curse for so long is because everyone else told him he wasn’t human and Sukuna never denied it. But just like with Junpei, Yuji did something really insensitive.

Yuji showed Sukuna pity then told him to die or go back into his cage.

People picked up on Yuji being posed like the Fallen Lucifer painting. I think it’s deliberate this offer is being framed as villainous. If Sukuna is outright revealed to be a former slave or a victim of CSA, on reread this would come across as wicked.

It wouldn’t be the first time a scene goes from hype to depressing on reread. I loved watching Yuji and Nobara grow as they killed Eso and Kezichu. After Choso? That fight breaks my heart. Yuji has been manipulated into killing his own brothers and he didn’t even know it.

Yuji’s status as a cage is likely reminiscent of whatever bound Sukuna to the abuse in the first place. And that’s what he’s offering. Death or existing in that state you could argue is much worse than death—a state where his body does not belong to him. Where he is forced to watch a normalish life he can’t have play out for the one tormenting him.

The anger Sukuna displays at Yuji for this is something we’ve only seen him lob towards Mahito. Hell, it’s the same kind of face Yuji makes at Mahito.

I think it’s also telling that Sukuna couldn’t feel anything towards the small things in life. That’s common for anyone who has undergone immense trauma. He was rather cordial about trying this stuff out until Yuji gave his ultimatum.

I’m sure Yuji would give Sukuna more grace if he’d just be honest with his feelings. But this guy is no different than Gojo. He bottles everything up and gets mad at others for not intuiting he’s about to explode.

Strength and Masculinity

Baki the Grappler. This is a manga where men destroy each other’s bodies as a test of strength. It’s poorly written but the art is terrifying and I love it so dearly. Between fights of extreme violence and body horror the characters eat. And that’s it. That’s the manga.

I’ve brought this series up before when discussing how fights can be used as a dialogue between characters. In Baki, many of those combat convos ask the following:

What is strength? What does it mean to be strong? 

What is a man? What does it mean to be a man?

Various characters will answer in their own ways. But I want to focus on the man who seeks to challenge death.

This is a man, who after being raped feels like he’s less of a man. And he thinks that others will see him as less of a man if he ever admits to it. (This happens in Baby Reindeer too.)

In a misogynistic society, women are expected to tolerate sexual assault. Their identity is often linked to experiencing it. Men are expected to be perpetrators of it, not victims. This is why this character calls his rape being shown “the woman within him”.

Echoing this sentiment, Sukuna, in women’s clothing, is quite literally referred to as a girl when Mahito touches him without permission. It’s also treated as a joke. The Baki character doesn’t fare any better in fanspaces. If you mention his name, someone will eventually reply “Yujiro Rapes Mid Diff”. It’s got an abbreviation too: “YRMD”. A little in-joke since the fandom at large refuses to take his assault seriously. 

This is probably why Sukuna refuses to even hint at his abuse. It fundamentally conflicts with his identity. He’s the strongest sorcerer in all of history who would be mocked for being a victim. After all, he did just that to Junpei and torments Yuji over his helplessness. He perpetuates the cycle of shame to protect himself even though he’d benefit more from dismantling it.

And there’s another reason Sukuna wouldn’t be forthcoming with his trauma—predators will take advantage of this vulnerability and revictimize people. It’s often why those who escape abusive relationships find themselves in another. Straight up, that’s why it’s considered safer to not list out your traumas and mental illnesses on dating apps. It’s safer not to trust.

But still, this is something you eventually have to disclose with anyone you’re trying to connect with. Otherwise they won’t understand you or why certain things send you into a panic. And that’s the problem. When is it safe to do that? When can you tell someone of this thing that makes you so vulnerable? It’s not like you can show up to a first date and go, “Hi, I was abused as a child. I need to make sure you’re not going to hurt me. If your voice rises above a certain pitch I’m going to cry on the spot.” If that somehow doesn’t sour the mood, they now have the exact tools to hurt you with. That’s scary as hell.

Sukuna has been destroying absolutely anyone that can have power over him, despite him craving companionship from those of equal strength. Gojo did this same song and dance with anything that resembled Toji until it killed him. It’s a consequence of a coping mechanism this toxic. As long as they are strong, they can’t be hurt like that again. And because they are strong they must endure solitude. The loneliness is worth being safe.

Yuji’s approach to trauma is the polar opposite. He faces it and deals with it. In the same way Mahito forces sorcerers to see the worst of humanity they’ve been overlooking, Yuji is forcing Sukuna to reckon with something he’s been repressing for centuries. This is why Yuji can strike at his soul.

Outliers

This section is for characters I don’t know how to fit into the rest of this analysis and should be considered because of their direct relationships to Sukuna.

Megumi

Sukuna is rather merciful with his kills compared to other characters like Kenjaku. When he’s done playing with someone, they die. He’ll even be respectful about it in his strange little way. Megumi is the sole exception to this, putting him in a very weird spot with the rest of this analysis.

Sukuna forced himself into Megumi’s body through incarnation and has subjugated his soul. And though this has been better for combat as he wanted, Sukuna is noticeably more miserable. Yujikuna before the Culling Games is still the happiest we’ve seen Sukuna. Whether this is from Megumi’s gloominess influencing him or Sukuna no longer having a goal to work towards or Sukuna incidentally retraumatizing himself by repeating the cycle remains to be seen. Maybe it’s all of this at once.

This is probably one of those things that will make more sense to me with more information. For now, I’ll focus on how Megumi’s name means blessing. Sukuna stole Gojo’s Blessing and destroyed it. And if Sukuna is Gojo, he has also destroyed his Blessing.

That kind of makes sense. Mahoraga, a representation of the path to enlightenment, has been destroyed by Sukuna’s actions as Megkuna. Adaptation is something that could’ve kept Sukuna entertained for a very long time since it would evolve with him. It could’ve also killed him and set him free. But he squandered that blessing when used it to satisfy Gojo instead.

Uraume

Uraume is also in a weird spot. They can gauge Sukuna’s mood by his CE and anticipate his needs in an instant. And yet Sukuna doesn’t feel fully understood by them. 

That’s mostly Sukuna’s fault. He didn’t disclose he was a twin to them for over 1,000 years, so it’s unlikely they know the extent of his trauma. However, Uraume dresses like a monk and has the androgynous features considered desirable in the child acolytes that were abused in historical Japan. This could mean they went through something similar to Sukuna and share that connection. It would explain why Sukuna is so gentle towards them compared to other characters. 

In other words, Sukuna should be able to trust them of all people with his trauma. They’re loyal and have always been there for him. So why won’t he do that? 

Looking at Gojo's relationships for an explanation, this kind of reminds me of how Gojo blew off Shoko’s friendship after Geto left. If someone that close to Gojo could betray him, why would Shoko be any different? Plus he’s stronger the more alone he is. And strong people don’t need help with their emotions. (Cue increasingly contradictory and destructive behavior stemming from a combination of trauma and toxic masculinity fuelled by questionable practices based in religion.) 

Yuji differs from Uraume in how he has directly shown Sukuna time and time again that he is a person who can be trusted. Everyone who has admitted their trauma to him has been taken seriously. Sukuna sat there and watched Yuji’s soul never once stray from compassion. He may hate this about him, but Sukuna seems to know he is the safest person to be open with. I think this is why Yuji is being framed as the one to guide Sukuna towards true enlightenment. (Aka addressing your trauma instead of burying it until you no longer understand how it is influencing your actions.)

In conclusion…

I want to emphasize that I am trying to explain why Sukuna is the way he is. To do so I’ve been rather assertive about his trauma despite it remaining unrevealed.

I’m certain something really awful happened to Sukuna. Exactly what I don’t know, but it’s likely something worse than what all the other named characters have experienced. I can say this with relative confidence because of this:

Sukuna himself suggests he has suffered more than Yuji.

Gege has been very careful not to show extreme instances of child abuse outright. If any of this gets confirmed, it’ll likely be vague.

But as it currently stands, I think you can read Sukuna as a victim of CSA. This sort of thing has always been in the manga, it’s just hard to see it.

[luciferlightbringer]

Love in a Hopeless Place

Chapter 3

You guys!!! Thank you so much for all of the love so far! I makes me so happy to see people liking the story so far. Here is Chapter 3! xoxo, Dany <3

Chapter 2|Chapter 3|Chapter 4|Updated through Chapter 12

Lucifer x prostitute fem!reader Word Count: 2.6k CW: Prostitution, Slowburn, mentions of panic, anxiety, depression, hurt/comfort, bullying, slight manipulation

The next morning, light started to drift through the curtains of Lucifer's room again, like they did every morning. But something about this morning felt... different.

Lucifer felt himself return to the waking world, and his eyes fluttered open and he felt... actually kind of awake, for once? Lucifer sat up with a bit of confusion, partly from how he felt and partly due to realizing he was still in his mostly unbuttoned shirt and trousers from the previous day. Looking around, he tried to remember what all had happened the night before.

Seeing his bowtie on the floor, hat on a random table, and his jacket hug up on the mirror, he remembered that something different had happened the night before, but it was fuzzy. Eventually his eyes caught sight of a small note card that was left on his bedside table. He picked it up and read it.

'Thank you for inviting me to share the evening with you, for all it's ups and downs. It was an honor. You are welcome to call on me again if you are ever in need of company of any sort. Best Wishes, (y/n)'

Upon reading your name, Lucifer started to remember scenes of interaction from the night before. His first view of you near the door, kissing your hand, walking you into his room, you on top of him in your lace lingerie, you beside his bed with eyes full of concern, you holding out your arms as he ran into your hug, and the comforting darkness of your embrace as tears ran down his face while he slipped into slumber.

'Oh my god... Did I just cry myself to sleep in her arms? I hired a prostitute and all I did was fall asleep in her arms? Crying?! How pathetic am I?' he thought to himself. He looked back down at your beautiful handwriting, the way the letters curved and twisted, a small heart over the i in "Wishes", and thought about how gentle your eyes had looked when he was in so much pain. Such warm and comforting eyes. How his mood had shifted, and on a dime, it seemed that so did yours when you could tell something was wrong. Was that real concern? Or were you just acting? Honestly, if it felt that good... did he really care which one it was?

For once, he felt like he had actually slept, that he was more alert, not perfect, but something had improved after the last night. That did not feel like a coincidence. Something about being with you last night make him feel better, and he wanted more. He wasn't sure about sexual intimacy at this point, since something about that had seemed to set him off, but the comfort was nice. Would she be willing to come over again just to comfort and hold him like that?

He read the note again, 'You are welcome to call on me again if you are ever in need of company of any sort.' Company of any sort. Any sort. Anyyyy sortttt... But what did she mean by that?! Did she mean like, 'I'm here for you no matter what! We can hang out, we can talk, you can cry, we can fuck, just whatever! I'm your gal!' or did she mean like 'I'm down for whatever, hot stuff~, wink wink, nudge nudge, *insert lude hand gestures here*'

Lucifer would spend much of the next hour thinking way to hard about that one line of text you had written, mumbling to himself as he took a shower, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, got dressed, and once he got a look at himself in the mirror.

"Mayyyybbeeee... I'm thinking way to hard about this and she is just, I don't know, wanting to give me whatever support I need. What do you think about that!" he said to his mirror-self dramatically. He stared at his reflection for a minute before deciding to agree with himself on his last statement.

"That's what I thought" he said smiling and nodding to the mirror version of himself. "Now onto the next question... how long do I wait before requesting her again without looking like a total fucking creepy loser."

That question... would consume him for the majority of the afternoon, only to be quickly interrupted by the realization that he never paid you for the night before, which briefly gave him something else to panic about.

______________________________________________________________

You on the other hand, woke up and started the day the same as you always had, in your tiny room that you had been renting over the brothel. Most of the other girls from the Lounge also lived there, it wasn't required but it was easier in some ways, mostly for the nights that you had so many clients throughout the day that your body hurt and you could barely move.

It was not so great most of the time, it was loud and cramped, smelled of drugs and cigarettes, you could often hear the sounds of sex from the Lounge below, and some of the girls would try to steal shit. To minimize that, you just tried not to have a lot in your apartment other than a bed, a couch, a small table with a tv, and one of the best safes in hell that you could get your hands on the would fit in your small space for your money. It wasn't much, but it worked.

As you got up and started on your morning routine, your thoughts drifted back to Lucifer from the previous night, and wondered how he was doing. You weren't used to thinking about clients after you were off the clock with them, but you also weren't used to watching them have a panic attack and then cry themself to sleep in your arms. Or you know, being the most powerful being in all of hell for that matter either.

Something about that felt, soft, and nice. It made you feel like you did something possibly worthwhile for once. Who knows if it made an impact on him, or if he would even remember or care about you once he woke up, but something in you prayed that it did. How odd it was to think about that you had not just comforted a normal demon, but the King of Hell, a former high ranking angel, someone who had probably seen God or the highest orders of Heaven. It almost felt like it shouldn't be possible for angels to cry, surely they were not meant to know such pain? And yet, here was one, full of pain and torment probably beyond your understanding. It made you sick just thinking about it.

But that was not for you to concern yourself with, who knows if you would ever see him again. Plus, you had today's clients to focus on. Another day, another dollar. 'Hey, hey, hey, fuck my life.'

You head downstairs to find Cynthhhhia waiting with a shit eating grin on her face once she sees you, giving you a sinister laugh. You roll your eyes.

"Tch. What's got you in such a good mood this morning?" you scoff.

"Larry's been looking for you. You're in trouble," she says with venom in her voice.

Your chest tightens. Oh shit. What could it be? Did you miss your day to clean the dressing rooms? Did Lucifer call and complain about something you did? Were you gonna get fired? You try not to show it on your face, but you do stop walking.

"Why do you say that?" you say, trying to hold an even tone.

Cynthhhhia laughs with a hiss, "Apparently, someone forgot to get a payment from a certain customer last night."

'Fuuuckkkkkk!'

God damn it. You were so focused on taking care of him through his panic attack, then he fell asleep, and you completely forgot to ask for your payment. It also didn't seem appropriate at the time. You could work with this though.

You just laughed and flipped your hair, Cynthhhhia's expression shifted to confusion.

"Ohhhh haha, well ya, I mean that happens sometimes when you just fuck someone so good that they pass out, right? I mean we have all been there," you say giving her a big grin. Cynthhhhia's face changes to her normally prissy annoyance.

"Oh! Have you never had that happen? Oh, well. You'll get there." you smugly walk past her as you pat her on the shoulder. Cythhhhia aggressively shrugs off your touch and hisses as you walk past her. "I'll just go find him now, thanks for the heads up girlypop. Kisses!"

Nailed it. You loved shutting that bitch up, but you always wish it didn't have to come to that. But she wasn't the only one who could play a mean girl, you were just smarter about it. Now to go find Larry and put on a good show for him too.

You put on a panicked look and start to run around the brothel, asking around for Larry. After a few minutes, you find him out in the lobby, chatting with some patrons. You make eye contact with him, give a relieved smile and run to him.

"Darling, there you are! I've been looking all over for you!" you exclaim with your biggest sweetest smile.

"Babydoll! Excuse me fellas, I'll be right back," the pig-man says as he moves past the group of men he was standing with to meet you half way across the room. "What's going on? I didn't see a payment from your customer last night, and that's not like you," he said with concern in his voice, but not like a genuine type of concern. It was the type of concern that you had come to know as 'You better be giving me a good reason as to why I didn't get my money.'

You pouted and tried to look flustered, "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry! I just had such a good time and we got so into such a rough and dirty night of kinky sex that, I accidently fucked him so hard that he passed out! I didn't know what to do, so I just came back home and hoped you would be able to help me figure it out. I'm really sorry for getting so carried away," you finish with a bat of your eyes.

Ugh, you hated your own fake, ditzy, whiny voice, but you knew Larry was a sucker for it, and it normally got you out of some uncomfortable situations. Larry's face morphed into a smile and he let out a boisterous laugh before giving you a pat on the shoulder.

"Aww that's my girl! You know what, he's a first timer. So I'll cut him some slack for today. If he doesn't get me a payment by tomorrow, I'll give him a call, give him a day to recover from the high. Hopefully I won't have to send the Sharks after him!" he gave you a nudge in the ribs and you laughed along with him.

You were thankful that he bought your story, but you hoped that this wasn't going to cause trouble for Lucifer. Larry was friends with some of the Loan Sharks, and sometimes he told stories about the aggressive lengths that they would go to in order to get their money back, or take out the people that didn't pay. But, it wasn't your fault that Lucifer had forgotten to pay. Plus, you did not anticipate how last night was going to go, and you don't normally ask for payments at the beginning of the first meeting, that felt tacky to you.

Luckily, your worries were extinguished a few hours later. After your first few clients of the day. Larry came to find you again with a big grin on his face.

"Well, looks like we didn't need to worry, Mr. 'Lance' night came through with payment and an apology for not remembering to pay last night," Larry boasted with a sharp grin.

You try to hold back your surprise, "Oh? Did he come in to drop it off?"

Larry waved a hand, "Naw, he sent some lackey of his, all snooty and fancy like 'I was sent on behalf of Lance to give you his payment for last night and an apology for not paying after the appointment last night due to being incapacitated. He promises that this will not be an issue with future appointments' blah blah blah" he laughed, dropping the mocking pompous tone he used to mock the "lackey".

You laughed along with him, but internally you were caught up on the last part about "future appointments", was that a paraphrase? Or did the messenger actually say that?

"Ah, so does it some like I've secured a new repeat customer?" you ask, trying not to sound too excited.

"Sounds like it! I asked if he had wanted to schedule for his next appointment, but his lackey didn't seem to know. Said he would probably be in touch at some point. Oh also, here is the tip he left for you," he smirked. Larry slid your tip into your hands and headed off to pester one of the other girls for something.

Your heart fluttered. Lucifer wanted to see you again, possibly, and that made you feel good. You normally didn't care what customers thought of you, but you thought it made sense that this was an exception. This was the King of Hell himself. Who knows how he will want to interact with you this next time around, but you figured you should be prepared for both possibilities of comforting and sexual intimacy. Not something you needed to figure out right at that moment.

You then looked down at the money in your hand, and your eyes went wide at the amount of money in your hands.

Wait, holy shit. What?!

The tipped amount that was in your hands was more than you had ever seen at one time. This was probably the same amount the you would usually get tipped in a week, let alone from one client.

You quickly tucked away the money under your arm and made your way up to your room to hide the money in your safe. You did not trust anyone except Larry knowing how much you would be making in tips from 'Lance' if this was going to be a regular thing. Especially, Cynthhhhia and her hoard of goons.

As you got to your room, closed the door, and started to count through the money, you smiled. He didn't need to tip you this much, you don't know why he did, but it made you feel good. You didn't feel fully comfortable seeing this as confirmation of any sort of building blocks of connection, but it didn't feel like it was a negative sign either.

You didn't hear anything else for a few days, but soon Larry notified you that 'Lance' had called again to meet with you, scheduled for a week after your first meeting at happened. Larry also relayed a message from 'Lance', requesting that he "really liked that thing you did at the end of the night, and would really like more of that if it was possible." You smiled and nodded.

Larry asked what it was you had done at the end of the night, you replied with only a finger up to your lips, a wink, and the statement, "A magician never reveals her secrets."

_____________________________________________________________

Thank you again to all my new and returning readers and followers! I'm so happy I get to share this story with you all <3 Let me know if you want added to the taglistTaglist: @froggybich @wonderlandangelsposts @glowinthedarkbones1150 @marydragneell @crescent-z @superdinosaurnacho

[miyuhpapayuh]

back at the office.

“Well, at least you two are on a first name basis, now. Improvement!” Mercedes pokes Mya in her side. She swats at her friend’s hand in feigned annoyance.

The pair are seated on a park bench across from the office, munching on fruit before they have to clock in for the day.

“Girl, gon’ somewhere,” she says with a laugh, “We work together and that’s about it. He’s probably not even from here!” The aloof tone of her voice betrays her actual feelings.

“Ma’am, that accent is thicker than chunky peanut butter out the freezer. Of course he’s from here. Or at least near here! Plus, I seen him at the poetry spot downtown, he could be pretty decent,” she says casually, while chomping on a chunk of watermelon.

“And just what the hell are you doing at a poetry spot? Last book you read had a big cat on the front,” Mya jabs at her friend.

“First of all, fuck you,” she’s interrupted by Mya’s snort of a laugh. “Second of all, didn’t I tell you? I met my new boo down there,” she finishes with a shimmy of the shoulders.

“How many felonies does this one have?”

“I’m gonna let that one go ‘cause I’m in a good mood. And if you quit being a punk, you can snag yourself a man, too.”

“I’m not a punk. I’m just not in the market for a man right now.” She shrugs as Mercedes rolls her eyes.

“Chile, a lie don’t care who tell it. Ray Charles can see you want his ass.”

Mya can’t contain the burst of laughter that leaves her lips.

“Why would you say that??”

“I'm just sayin’!” Mercedes continues through her own laughter.

“I’m not ‘bout to play with you today,” she dabs the tears that formed at the corners of her eyes. Glancing at her phone, she notices she’s dangerously close to being late.

“Oh shit,” she pops up from her seat grabbing her things, “Savannah’ll have our heads if we're late again.”

“Please, Savannah loves us. She’ll fire that shiftless ass Colin before she fires you,” Mercedes responds as she gathers her things at a more leisurely pace.

“Either way it goes, I’m not tryna make a habit outta being late.” She says, as they make their way inside.

“Nice of y'all to join us,” none other than Savannah herself greets them both just as they punch their timecard in the lounge.

“Hey auntie!” Mercedes cheeses, before heading out.

“So, what lil’ boy done caught your attention and got you showing up late now?” Her boss teases.

It never fails to surprise her how nothing gets past her boss, not that he was the reason for her tardiness.

“Nobody. Only thing that has my attention is work,” she lies casually, trying to breeze by her and back towards the lobby.

“Hmm. You sure it’s not that handsome young tender with the strong arms that’s always breakin’ his neck to catch a glimpse at you?”

Her ears perk up at the new piece of information, and she deftly pivots on her heels.

“He does?” she responds a little too earnestly for her own liking. Clearing an imaginary blockage from her throat, she adjusts her tone.

“He does?” She repeats, cooler this time, as she tucks a freshly straightened, cherry red tendril of hair behind her ear, a nervous tick.

“Mhm.” The all-knowing smirk on her boss’ full lips makes Mya’s cheeks redden even further.

“All the time. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you out yet. Must be shy like you. Lord knows if I wasn’t married and old enough to be his mama…” she trails off.

As if her poor cheeks couldn’t get any rosier.

“Alright! I’m gonna start workin’ now.” She starts to back her way out of the hall toward the printer room to save herself further embarrassment.

“Hey! You're coding, for the next hour. Grab the big stack of card stock from the back to refresh your signs, before you get started.”

Grabbing her tools for the day, she heads to the big printer in the middle room, closing the door behind her.

She’d taken it upon herself to color code the system, helping everyone navigate through it just a little easier, as well as replacing the faded, white company signs with brighter, more colorful ones.

Pulling up her stool, she gets started.

A knock sounds at the door, before Isaiah steps inside, heading towards the supply closet.

“Mornin’, didn’t mean to interrupt,” coming out with a stack of copy paper in hand, he looks up to see the pretty brown girl with bright red hair that’s had mind jumbled for the last few weeks or so.

She looks up from the screen and smiles. “Mornin’,” she responds, “I’m knee-deep in this screen, I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“S’alright. Just came to refill the printer.” He replies, gesturing towards the big contraption she was currently sitting in front of.

“Oh! Let me move out of the way, sorry.” He chuckles, watching her grab her laptop and work on her feet, before he moves in to refill the tray.

“It’s alright. What you workin’ on, today?” He asks, printing a few documents.

“Coding the system to make it easier for everybody. Then, I’ve gotta redo the signs, out front. Savannah’s finally letting me loose in here.” She giggles, typing away on her keyboard with one hand.

Gathering his paper, he moves out of her way. “Sounds like a project. Can I see?”

“Sure!” She sits her laptop down and shows him the screen as she types away.

“Our plans are in green, projects are in pink and tasks are in blue, now. Holidays are highlighted, as well employee birthdays. Ooh! I really loved doing that, because I get to choose different colors for that, as well.”

He hums a laugh. “This your avenue, yeah? Projects?”

“Projects can be fun,” she turns toward him. “Imagine if she let you use photoshop on the ads that you create? It would take them to the next level!”

“You’ve seen one of the ads I’ve done in photoshop?” He asks.

“Mhm. It was up on the main computer, the other day. I didn’t know it was yours, until I saw the little eye you placed in the corner.”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “It’s like my watermark, for now.”

“It’s cute. But, your ad was nice!”

“I appreciate that. Especially, coming from you.” She blushes, as he heads toward the door.

“See you later?” He asks, hope burning behind his brown eyes.

“See you later.” She nods, mirroring his smile, before they get back to work.

About an hour and a half later, all ten of her fingers are cramped to hell and her back is killing her, but she’s finally finished with her project.

Closing the door behind her, she sighs and heads towards her own office, bumping into Savannah.

“Oh, Mya! The system is running so smooth, now! And the signs look wonderful!” She praises.

“Thank you! I’m always happy to help!”

“So am I.” She smiles.

“What do you mean?”

“I may have put a bug in someone’s ear about someone.. you can thank me, later, sweetheart.”

“A…what? Savannah, what are you talking about?”

“Your secret admirer is about to become not so secret, anymore.”

Her heart begins to beat triple time.

“Oh, God… I think I’m having a stroke.”

“Oh,” Savannah starts laughing. “You are too much, girl! Just relax! I know he’s pretty, but he’s a sweet man who’s sweet on you!”

Isaiah conveniently walks down the hall, his sight set out for Mya.

His eyes light up as he spots her talking to their boss.

“Afternoon, ladies.” He greets. “Can I steal Mya away?”

“As long as you give her back,” Savannah pats his shoulder, before heading back down the hall.

“Hey,” she waves, that intoxicating cologne of his hitting her nose.

“Hey,” he smiles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I was kinda hoping that you would join me for lunch.. that is, if you didn’t already have anything planned, of course.”

The corners of her mouth lift into a smile. “Well, seeing as we like the same kind of food, I would love to join you for lunch. Let me just grab my wallet.”

She moves for her office door, until he speaks, again. “I was actually hoping that I could buy your lunch, as well.”

“You’re doin’ a lot of hoping, today.” The smile never leaves her lips.

“Looks like I’m doing a whole lot scorin’ today, too.” He humbly brags.

“Does this work for you, often?”

“I don’t know. This is the first time I’ve tried.” He laughs.

They share a laugh. “Lead the way.”

☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.☆:☆: .☽ .☆: .☽ · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆

“So, where exactly are you from?” Mya asks, biting into her sandwich.

The pair had decided to head over to Panera for a quick lunch.

“I’m from Texas. Dallas, to be exact.” He replies.

“Ah. I told my friend that you weren’t from here, I knew it!” She giggles.

“How’d you tell?”

“Well, no offense… but, your accent is rather thick. They don’t really sound like that, down here, too fast.”

His smile takes over his entire face at her comment. “None taken. I’ve gotten that, a lot. I like the accents out here, though.”

“Well, at least y’all sound like you come from somewhere.” She rolls her eyes.

“What do you mean? You’re from here, ain’t you?”

“Yeah, but I don’t sound like it.” She frowns.

“Yes you do,” he snorts. “You got a lil twang.”

“You’re only sayin’ that.”

“Honest,” he holds his hands up. “You do. It’s subtle, but it’s there.” He assures.

“Really?” Her brows raise. He nods.

“Mhm. Don’t trip, pretty.” He says, popping a chip in his mouth. She blushes.

Catching the three minute warning on her phone, she begins to gather her trash.

“Almost time to head back?” He eyes her movement, reluctantly doing the same.

“Yeah,” she sighs, “rest of the day’s filled with paperwork.”

“Well, we can’t all be God’s favorite and color code the system in the mornings.” She laughs at the crack he takes at her.

“It’s not just about making it pretty, mister big  arms.” She playfully rolls her eyes.

“My broadness distractin’ you, little lady?” He asks, amusement coloring his tone.

Yes. God, yes.

“We should head back.” She stands up from the table to toss her trash. His eyes travel to her derrière.

“Mm.” He remarks to himself, standing from the table to throw his own trash away, before they head back to the office.

Making plans to catch back up once the day was finally over, Mya sinks down in her chair.

Her phone begins to ring.

“Hey, mama,” she answers, turning her laptop back on.

“Hey, baby. You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just ready for the workday to end. It started pretty great, though.”

“Yeah? What’s going up at Vannah’s that’s got you in the good spirits, besides the angel, herself?” Her mother speaks fondly of her beloved boss.

“She’s finally taken me up on my offer to brighten up the place!,” she cheeses like her mother could see her face. “I started color coding the system to make everything easier to navigate, because it was starting to give me a migraine! Nothing on this earth should ever be that dull.”

Her mother laughs. “You are something else. But, that’s amazing, sweetheart. I always knew you’d be able to showcase your talents.”

“Thanks for always believing in me.”

“Always. Now, who’s this boy that Mercedes was goin’ on about?”

Sighing aloud, she sits up in her chair. “I gotta call you back. We’ll talk about it later, I promise.”

“Is she in trouble?”

“She’s about to be. Love you.”

“Love you too, baby. Bye bye.”

Hanging up, she quickly facetimes Mercedes. “Look, I know you and my mama are cool and all, but why would you tell her about Isaiah?”

“Girl, I honestly just told her that you got a crush on somebody, like you always do! And she was like “is he cute?” And I was like “do you know your daughter? The men are always fine!” And she laughed and that was that.” She shrugs.

“You two are gonna give me grey hair.” Mya shakes her head, beginning to type away at her keyboard.

“Now, I know you FaceTimed me to spill somethin’, so please get on with it.” Mercedes laughs. Her infectious laughter grows as Mya turns her attention back to her best friend.

“Ooh, I knew it!”

“Cedes, be quiet,” Mya giggles,” he asked me to join him for lunch and offered to pay for it! So, we went to Panera and talked. He’s from Texas, by the way.” Mercedes’ mouth falls open.

“I was wrong??”

“You were! I told you, too!” She whisper yells. “He’s from the south, but it ain’t here.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. So, you got you a Dallas cowboy, then, huh?” She says, the look on her face makes Mya wanna hang up on her.

“I really don’t like you.” She tries to hold back the smirk.

“It’s okay! Cause, I really love you!” She cheeses. “And, that’s cute, seriously. He bought you lunch and made you fall in love!”

“I’m not in love!” She laughs.

“What was in that sandwich? Bacon?”

“Mercedes.” Mya calls, it falls on deaf ears.

“That bacon must’ve been extra crispy.”

“It was. Goodbye.”

“Ride ‘em, cowgirl!”  She quickly hangs up, shaking her head.

“That girl is a mess.”

Grabbing her keys, she locks her office door behind herself and heads towards the front of the building to wait for Isaiah, like they’d planned.

“Yeah, she’s great.” He smiles, telling his friend and coworker, Jane, about Mya.

“I knew you two would hit it off. She’s been eyeing you for a while.”

“Well, she wasn’t alone.”

“Don’t I know it. You’ve talked my head about her for months, Isaiah.” She laughs, patting his shoulder.

“That’s what friends are for, right? Don’t I listen to you when you go on and on about uh, whatever his name is, this week?”

She rolls her eyes. “Tell your girlfriend to enjoy you, cause I’ll be killing you, soon.”

He laughs. “Don’t be me like that, Jane Doe. I’ll catch up with you later.” They hug and part ways.

He finds Mya with her head in her phone. He walks over, her eyes locking with his as he approaches her.

“Hey, pretty.” He greets, enjoying the view of her reddened cheeks as she twists her lips up.

“Hey, handsome.”

“Can I walk you to your car?” He offers.

“Sure.” She accepts, allowing him to lead the way, opening the door for her. She mentally checks manners off her list.

“Thank you, Isaiah.” She unlocks the driver side door.

“You’re more than welcome. Before I let you go, I’d like to ask you somethin’.”

She leans against the car door. “What’s up?”

“I been meanin’ to ask you, if you’d like to accompany me to this new spot, Friday?”

Completely taken aback that he was actually asking her out, her immediate yes jumped out, before she could contain herself. Their smiles are identical.

“I would love to. What kind of spot are we talkin’?”

“S’called Tropic. You know, one of those clubs with the disco lights, like we’re still in nineteen seventy-five and the drinks got them tiny umbrellas in ‘em.” He chuckles, rambling on as she dazedly stares at him.

“Sounds like fun.” She cheeses.

“It’s a date, then," grabbing her hand into his own, he softly caresses her skin. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me, too.” Her voice came out smaller than she liked. He doesn’t tease her about it. Kissing the back of her hand, he releases her. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She nods.

Waving goodbye, he heads to his own car, leaving her to slide inside of her own and squeal.

“A date?!”

[miracleonice87]

the camp letter

a/n: the requested note (which turned into more of a letter — I’m a writer, what did you expect?) written by Mrs. Kelce, from “new heights, new news, new baby.” enjoy!

___

“NHL tournament kicks off in my room in ten, big fella!” Isiah Pacheco called through the door after a few raps of his knuckle.

Travis smiled to himself, pushing his now-empty unpacked duffle into the dorm closet and clucking his tongue.

“You know I ain’t missin’ that, son!” Travis assured. “Be right there.”

As Isiah’s footsteps retreated down the hall, Travis grabbed the last piece of luggage on his bed, his toiletry kit, and walked it into the bathroom to hang up. Upon opening the flap, a piece of white notebook paper fell to the counter, folded so only the top of the page was visible.

Open when you get to camp! it read in your unmistakable penmanship. With an enamored grin, Travis quickly lifted and unfolded the page.

87,

the salutation read.

At that simple greeting, his throat tightened with emotion.

Oh boy… he was in for it.

He wandered to take a seat on the bed as he continued.

With another Super Bowl celebration summer coming to a close, another season is now on the horizon and it just might be the most special one yet.

I remember the first time you invited me to Chiefs camp when we had just started dating, watching all your teammates’ kids run to them after practice, watching them chase after footballs, watching their dads throw them up in the air and tote them around so proudly, and I remember thinking, “I hope that’s gonna be Travis someday with our own kids.” Sure, that happened just a little sooner than we planned, but with each day that passes, I only grow more excited to share this with you, and to make those football-centric memories with our little one, and hopefully more little ones to come.

I can’t wait to hold our baby in the stands and explain to them what you do for a living, Trav. I can’t wait to see how excited they get waiting for you on the sideline for a pregame kiss, then watching you ball out. I can’t wait to watch them meet you in the tunnel or the suite after a game, win or lose, and love on you like I do. I can’t wait to see them run around Arrowhead with Sterling and Bronze, and, as much as possible, take them to games with Wy, Ell, and Benny, watching them spend time together and clap for their daddies.

When I close my eyes, I can so vividly see another Super Bowl win, finding you in the midst of another red and gold confetti snowglobe, but this time, with our kid in my arms. I can envision you on the podium with Coach Reid and Patrick, a Lombardi in one arm and a baby in the other. And as much as I already miss you, despite you still being just a couple of rooms away as I write this, we both know that camp is the first step toward making that happen.

We are so lucky to get to do this at all, Trav, but I feel impossibly lucky to get to do this with you. Thank you for being the man that you are – I can’t tell you how much I admire your drive, your passion, your work ethic. You are the best teammate, captain, leader, friend, husband, brother, son, and daddy-to-be that I’ve ever known, and I know you’ll instill your best qualities in our little one.

I love you so fucking bad, Travis Michael. Have fun, be safe… go be great. See you soon.

XO

Silent tears were dripping down Travis’s cheeks and nose as he finished the letter, a fond smile permanent on his lips. God, he was the lucky one, to get to be able to play this silly game he loved so much with your full support backing him. And the thought of you and your baby cheering him on, together, in just a few more months… man, that made him actually giddy, despite the tears he was still trying to get under control.

A moment later, the only person who would ever push open the door to his room unannounced did just that — his quarterback and best friend entered with a casual “you comin’ to play Chel, you hockey freak?” before his eyes actually landed on Travis. Patrick was fearful for just a moment, seeing his friend so emotional, then the tight end met his gaze and held up the piece of notebook paper covered in your neat writing.

Travis cleared his throat and announced, “Letter from home. Got me.”

Patrick smiled, taking a few steps toward him to squeeze his shoulder.

“I gotchu,” he said understandingly. “All good, though?”

Travis nodded emphatically, beaming even as he wiped his watery eyes with the flesh of his thumb.

“So good,” he assured the fellow dad.

Patrick nodded, too, and pawed Travis’s arm affectionately.

“Glad to hear it. Take all the time you need, man,” he directed. “I’ll go take the first round with the hooligans.”

Travis giggled and reached to dap up Patrick, the quarterback giving him a warm hug.

“Thanks, brother,” he said softly.

As Patrick left the room, Travis gave the letter one last brief read, then pulled out his phone, screen lighting up to display his lock background — you from the back in an 87 jacket after this most recent Super Bowl, being hoisted in his arms the very moment you found each other on the field. Smirking proudly at the memory, he unlocked the phone and opened his text thread with you.

Just read your letter, you sneaky lil thing, he tapped. My god, you know how to make a 6’5” NFLer weep like a baby! Thank you for writing it, sweetness. I love you so much. Less than four days now until I hug you and baby Kelce again 😍🤰🏻 Tell Mama I said hi and I love her! Call you later 😘

With that, he hit send, took a deep breath, tucked the letter into an empty drawer for safekeeping, and headed toward Isiah’s room — which was already echoing with his teammates’ raucous cheers and jeers — all while wondering what the hell he ever did to deserve a life so damn sweet.

[shadowdaddies]

Oh my thank you so much for that Lucien one shot! It was perfect! And I do actually have an idea for a Ruhn thing as well🙈 so if you feel up to writing it:

How about reader has a big event that she is very proud of and worked hard and long on, like for example she published her first book or something, and she is so damn proud of it and really excited for all her friends to be there with her and her boyfriend Ruhn as well, but they all forgot, and Ruhn mixed up the date or something and is at a big party with the others completely unaware. Just super angsty but with a happy ending perhaps?

Hi! I'm so glad you liked it, thank you for the requests 💜

Forget Me Not

Ruhn Danaan x fem!Reader

Smoothing the skirt of your dress, you strode proudly towards the Fae Archives. The library was bustling, full of people there to celebrate your new book launch which you’d worked years towards. Cheers greeted you as you entered the reception area, champagne and hors d’oeuvres passed on trays under the light of the chandelier.

You smiled broadly, joy radiating from every fiber of your being as you thanked each person who offered you their congratulations. You were, however, sidetracked in search of the only person whose presence mattered to you, Ruhn. The prince was nowhere in sight, and you began weaving through the crowd frantically for the one person who could keep you grounded and comfortable tonight.

As you jostled your way through the crowd, your eyes locked with Bryce’s her red hair like a beacon in the room. She waved to you, a smile beaming on her face as you walked towards each other.

“Hey honey, I just finished my shift at the archives. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stop by earlier, but this is a hit!” Bryce gushed, pulling you in for a hug. 

You smiled ruefully at her, thankful for her presence as you tried not to be too obvious that it was her brother’s that you were seeking. “Thank you for stopping by anyway, Bryce. Have you seen Ruhn, by chance?” you asked nervously.

Amber eyes softened as her smile disappeared. “No, I haven’t seen him.” Her hand reached out to hold yours, giving it an encouraging squeeze. “But I’m sure he’ll show soon.”

You nodded, too preoccupied in your own thoughts to fully listen as she continued on about the evening and your book. You were brought back to reality by the feeling of your phone buzzing in your pocket, sending Bryce an apologetic smile as you pulled it out to check.

On the screen was a message that had your blood heated. 

Ruhn: Hey princess, are you coming by the party tonight? Been looking for you everywhere

Nostrils flared, eyes twitching, your grip tightened around your phone as you read the message. He forgot. The stupid bastard threw a frat party on your release night. 

Bryce’s eyes widened, her hand reaching tentatively for your phone as she took it from your hand, reading the message for herself. “That idiot,” she groaned, pinching her nose with a sigh. 

Her eyes flicked to yours, enviously long lashes batting against her freckled cheeks as her pitied stare gazed upon you. Swallowing thickly, you forced a weak smile. “Thank you for coming, Bryce,” you managed, barely above a whisper before fleeing from the building. 

You sat in your car, folding your arms as you laid your forehead against the steering wheel. Your phone was buzzing incessantly against your thigh, but you threw it into the passenger seat as you drove home. 

Slamming the car door shut, you trudged your way up to your apartment, locking the bolt behind you as you stripped your clothing, padding towards the shower. The hot water burned against your skin, a soothing distraction from the whirlpool of emotions within you.

Stepping out, you finally felt clean and relaxed enough to fall asleep as you checked your phone, over forty unread messages from Ruhn on your home screen. Pursing your lips, you read through each one - the confusion, the sorrow, the apologies as he remembered the importance of the evening for you.

Tears stung, your heart calling out to him while your mind insisted on sleep. You crawled under the covers, bare as you curled up and tried to fall asleep. A familiar click of your door lock sounded, rousing you from your slumber as boots trudged towards your bedroom.

The door creaked open to reveal a teary-eyed Ruhn, bags under his violet eyes as they softened at your half-asleep form. 

“Hi,” he whispered, holding back a choked sob as he closed the door softly behind him. You simply stared, curly tighter into yourself as you bit your lip, forbidding yourself from shedding any more tears tonight.

“I am so, so sorry, princess. I really thought that your event was tomorrow. I never, ever would have planned a party had I known. Please, I need you to understand,” he begged, crumpling into himself as his elbows dipped against the corner of your bed, his face buried in them.

You let out a shaky sigh, eyeing Ruhn for a moment before nodding your head for him to join you. He smiled, shedding his outer clothing as he lifted the sheets, scooting towards you under the covers. Frustrated, you allowed yourself to sink into his warmth despite your anger, falling asleep quickly in his arms. 

You awoke to the smell of cinnamon and butter, stumbling out of bed to find Ruhn frying a pan of French toast for you. You cracked a soft smile, before remembering the events of last night.

Your eyes shifting towards Ruhn in a glare, recognizing the instant guilt in his eyes, shoulder slumped as he looked to you. “I am so sorry about last night. It hurts me that I could ever forget something so important to you. I vow to never let that happen again. I am so sorry,” he cried, sniffling as he scooped the toast onto your plate.

Your gaze softened, understanding the sincerity of his tone. “Well, as long as it doesn’t happen again,” you teased, taking a bite of the toast on your plate. You moaned, eyes rolling back as you chewed. “Or as long as you make it up to me with this,” you gestured towards the cinnamon treat in front of you.

Leaning up to kiss him, you licked the syrup from Ruhn’s lips, a smirk spreading across your own as you relaxed to focus on your own plate. Ruhn smiled at you, tongue toying with his lip ring as he admired you in the morning light.

“I have plans tonight, to make up for yesterday. I know that nothing can really make up for my failure, but I want to take you to dinner. Please?”

You smirked, shaking your head as the wide blue eyes that watched you, knowing you could never say no. “Alright, alright. Try to make it up to me tonight,” you teased, shoveling a forkful of breakfast in your mouth with a grin. 

“Perfect. I’ll be back later to pick you up. Wear something nice, that you can dance in. Alright?” he mumbled, leaning in to kiss your cheek before heading out the door.

Later that evening, you slipped into a silky lavender dress, hair curled in loose waves. You were putting the finishing touches on your makeup when the front door unlocked, Ruhn calling out your name as he closed the door behind him. 

Stepping out of your room, you stumbled as you took in the sight before you. Ruhn was dressed in an all black suit, perfectly tailored to show his physique. His eyes wandered around the room, widening as his gaze landed on you.

A swallow worked its way down his throat, Ruhn’s jaw going slack as he stared at you in a trance. Your giggle snapped him back to reality, violet eyes darting to yours as an embarrassed laugh escaped him.

“You look... There are no words to do you justice. I do not deserve you,” he murmured, eyes soft as he approached where you stood. Warm hands wrapped around your waist, giving a light affectionate squeeze as he rested his forehead against yours. “Now, let’s go celebrate you.”

Ruhn led you downstairs, calling a car to drive you to dinner. “Plan on a crazy night, do we?” you teased, sliding into the car with Ruhn closing the door gently behind you. 

He seated himself on the other side, taking your hand in his as the driver took off down the street towards the Old Square. When the car stopped in front of The White Raven, you flashed an unimpressed glance towards Ruhn. 

“This is what you planned for a special night to celebrate?” you asked, lips pursed as you folded your arms across your chest.

Ruhn laughed, pressing a kiss to your hand before opening his car door. “Just trust me,” he said, swiftly exiting the car before running around to open your door for you. Helping you out, Ruhn thanked the driver, placing his hand on the small of your back as he led you to the entrance of the club.

Opening the door, Ruhn stepped to the side as he ushered you in, the sight before you taking your breath away. A large banner saying “CONGRATULATIONS” spanned the length of the bar, streamers and balloons decorating the entire space.

All of your friends were there, dressed in their finery as they cheered at your entrance. Tears immediately filled your eyes, your head whipping to wear Ruhn smiled softly at your side.

Leaning in, he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “The plan was to surprise you with this afterparty all along. My dumb ass just mixed up the dates,” he admitted softly. 

Your heart melted at his words, and you reached out to him without a thought, pulling him in for a deep kiss. Whoops and hollers sounded from around you at the shameless public display of affection, and you laughed against Ruhn’s lips before pulling away.

“Thank you. This means so much to me, and I am so grateful for you,” you whispered, admiration in your eyes as you brushed Ruhn’s long black hair behind his ear.

A broad smile took over his face, Ruhn’s demeanor visibly lightening as he pulled you in for a hug. “Anything for you, my love. Now let’s go celebrate you,” he whispered, taking your hand as he led you into the crowd, where friends and family greeted you with hugs and accolades.

[vampcubus]

Roommate!Kyojuro who’s been your best friend since Pre-K. You know each other inside and out, down to your usual orders and all your favorite restaurants. 

Roommate!Kyojuro who brings you food whenever he stops to grab takeout, always thinking of you and what you’d want. Haven’t eaten lunch yet? He’s driving up to your work so you can eat in his car. Falling asleep during college classes? He’ll show up with your favorite coffee order.

Roommate!Kyojuro who can read your mood with a single look and knows exactly what to say to get you cracking up. He’s emotionally intelligent and gives you massive side eye if you try to lie and say you’re feeling fine when you’re clearly not.

Roommate!Kyojuro who makes you do silly TikToks with him and has countless random pictures of you doing the most mundane shit in his camera roll. Most of the photos he takes are ruined somehow; there’s always a glare of light or you move at the last moment. Among those god-awful cryptid pics are albums upon albums of pictures of you two together. All photos from trips you’ve taken, those impulsive 3 am outings, and movie nights with you passed out on his shoulder.

Roommate!Kyojuro who sends you a meme when you’re both supposed to be asleep just to hear you laugh through the wall separating your rooms.

Roommate!Kyojuro who pokes his head into the kitchen the moment he hears pots and pans being moved around. “What’re you cooking?” 

Roommate!Kyojuro who relies on you for meals that aren’t takeout since he’s a pretty crummy cook, and though you’ve made progress teaching him, his rice still comes out crunchy and he overcooks most other things. Whenever you’re away for a few days he sends you pics of the meals he attempts by himself seeking your approval. Pls tell him his grilled cheese looks amazing, he’s so proud of it.

Roommate!Kyojuro who will actually RKO you if you even try to do the dishes. “You go through the trouble of cooking for me every day. I don’t want you to even look at those dishes, you hear me?” And if he finds out you did them, you’re in for an earful.

Roommate!Kyojuro who would never force you to come to the gym with him but always insists that he come along when you go. His close proximity wards off creeps and he’s an amazing hype man so you never complain, but he genuinely just wants to make sure you’re safe while you’re there.

Roommate!Kyojuro who cuddles with you on the couch and gets sucked into your tv dramas. He has the funniest reactions to shady moments and fights. He never fails to fall asleep at integral moments and needs to be briefed again, but acts so betrayed when he catches you watching them without him.

Roommate!Kyojuro who gets into crochet and makes you cute little plushies and socks. He’s SO proud to present his first full blanket to you and melts into a puddle whenever he finds you snuggled up with it.

Roommate!Kyojuro who has a bit of a “stray problem” and is always feeding the stray cats that roam around your apartment complex. At least two or three of them have become 100% indoor cats and he considers them his children. Takes them to get all their shots, sends you clips of them doing silly stuff while you’re at work, and crochets toys for them. He tears up when the most aloof kitty starts batting one of the crochet mice around. Sends you a frantic text of “HE TOUCHED IT!!!” 

Roommate!Kyojuro who mindlessly tosses your laundry in with his if he sees it building up.

Roommate!Kyojuro who sneaks your shampoo because he likes the way you smell and acts dumb when you complain about running out so fast.

Roommate!Kyojuro who respects you too much to steal your panties when they get mixed in with his laundry but desperately humps into his fist later that night to thoughts of you filling them. A hand clapped over his mouth to smother his loud whimpers so he doesn’t alert your sleeping form through the paper-thin wall between your rooms. 

Roommate!Kyojuro who wants to tell you how everything you do inadvertently turns him on, but would rather die than risk fucking up your friendship.

Roommate!Kyojuro that always cums with your name on his lips without fail, golden-red eyes rolled back as he fantasizes about your hands replacing his own. 

Roommate!Kyojuro who never forgot the time you were dared to kiss at a party in high school. The soft press of your plush lips against his trembling ones has been burnt into his mind, always surfacing when he’s rutting into a pillow, pretending it's you. He imagines kissing you so often it’s a wonder you don’t see the way his eyes stare at your lips when you drink from a straw or chew at a pen.

Roommate!Kyojuro who would do anything for you, but selfishly wishes you'd see him as more than a friend.

[pennyellee]

preview of chapter VI

LACRIMOSA | MYG MAFIA YANDERE AU

pairings: mafia leader!yoongi x f!reader genre: mafia!au, yandere au, historical au

summary: Their interlocking gaze served as a butterfly effect on his heart, stirring it to the core. She, in turn, only dreams to find a way to escape. But perchance, over time she might forcefully learn to love the man who has taken so much from her.

Thus unfolds a twisted tale of love and loss, of hope and despair, of life and death. The music reverberated through the dimly-lit streets. Tears of sorrow, weeping symphony - reflects the hurt, the scars that linger deep within and the wounds that never healed. Lacrimosa.

chapter warnings: minors dni 18+ | mafia au, dark!yoongi, mafia!yoongi, yandere, manipulation, possessive/obsessive behaviour, angst, mentions of God, mentions of alcohol, manhandling, mentions of murder, gun use, abduction, attempted non-con, gaslighting, vomiting, anxiety, choking, decapitation, strong language, smut, loss of virginity

beta read by @chaoticpuff17

word count: 844

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain depictions of violence, blood shed, death, mentions of abuse, smoking, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, old social norms and traditions, which we do not condone.

m.list CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI

“Do we?-” She interrupted, praying for a change of his mind, though fully aware of the inevitability. He needed to ensure no loopholes in their marriage for others to exploit or for her to negotiate over. She knows this is mandatory.

“Yes, we do,” he acknowledged after some thought. Knowing what she had been through that day, he recognised the potential impact, but he also saw it as a way to fully claim her. It was a selfish desire, perhaps, but one he had long awaited. 

Yoongi longed to feel her skin to skin. It was indeed selfish, he knew that much. Some would say it is careless of him to demand such an intimate act to happen after all she has been through. But he wanted to show her that this is a part of their marriage she can truly enjoy. Yoongi wanted to give a final full stop to their relationship by solidifying the union rightfully, as the tradition goes.

The flickering flames of the fireplace danced in the dimly lit room, casting a warm glow upon Y/N and Yoongi. Consummating the marriage was a private but necessary measure.

His selfishness had not gone unnoticed by the syndicate elders, who questioned his insistence on not just any hotel room but the house where generations of memories had been created. He deliberately wanted to spend the night in the house he grew up in, where his father started a family, and his grandfather, and his grandfather and so on down the history line.

Yoongi, having lost his parents at a young age, yearned to start his own family. He wanted to witness the growth of his children, their marriages, and their own families.

Y/N knew this day would come, sooner or later, and as a young woman, she had learnt to protect herself from unplanned consequences. She understood his desire for a child, though he never explicitly discussed it with her. But she was far from being ready to surrender to the life fate had planned for her, not just yet.

Heaven had given her a sign, a slight hope when she found a particular herb in the garden before the first snow fell. Y/N had kept it discreet, asking the maid to dry the flowers and serve them as tea in the morning. Tonight, she was calm, knowing it could not happen, even if he wished otherwise.

Yoongi observed her hesitance, her eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and resilience. The room, with its walls that held generations of memories, seemed to echo with the weight of tradition and expectation. But as he reached out to touch her cheek gently, his eyes softened.

The sharp sound of a loud whistle from the tea kettle startled them both, tearing them out of the cocoon of their thoughts. The iron kettle hung gracefully over the open flame, steam rising in wisps as if trying to escape the weight of the night. Yoongi carefully prepared the tea, his movements deliberate and unhurried. The aroma of freshly brewed leaves filled the air. The porcelain teapot, an heirloom passed down through generations, sat patiently on the wooden small table that was next to them. As he poured the tea into delicate cups, he eyed her small physique yet again, searching for any signs.

She accepted the cup he offered her, the warmth seeping through the delicate porcelain. Her mind briefly paused when she recognised the familiar scent. She chuckled and Yoongi raised his eyebrows in surprise, awaiting her words. Y/N took a few careful sips from the cup, accepting what it offered.

“Are you afraid, Kkangpae?” She asked, taking another sip. Yoongi put his cup on the wooden table and looked directly in her eyes.

“Me? No,” he pointed at himself, hiding a smile.

“So why did you choose to make tea from Valerian root?” Her studies that surely included herbalism had escaped Yoongi’s mind.

“I knew this night would be difficult for you, and I — I wanted to ensure it went as smoothly as possible,” he confessed.

“Considerate,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. Yoongi’s gaze faltered, and he looked away momentarily.

“I want you to enjoy it—”

“Then make me enjoy it,” she interrupted him yet again, gulping down the contents of her cup, setting it down with a gentle clink next to his almost full one.

“I intend to,” he said. The complexities of tradition, the weight of the syndicate expectations, seemed to press down on them like the heavy beams of the hanok. Yet, he was thrilled at the prospect of laying her down and making love to her, while she tried to make peace with the path ahead.

A mixture of emotions played across Y/N’s face, the tension in the air made her anxious. The tea flowed in her system, calming her. The steps were set, and she cannot back down now.

His hands cradled her face, a gesture that held both tenderness and an unspoken understanding. But Y/N knows he will never understand. And thus, the night unfolded.

.

.

.

.

01.12.23 23:00/11 PM CEST - 01.12.23 17:00/5 PM EDT

©pennyellee. please do not repost

Don't be a silent reader, comment, re-blog, heart, asks are more than welcome ♥

keep in mind - I'm not expert on chinese, korean and japanese culture, but I tried to research everything realistic I wanted to add to the story. Nonetheless, take it as a fiction.

let's be friends chummers ♥

lots of love, 𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖓𝖞𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖊

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