#the monks start coming and they don't stop coming and they don't stop coming and they don't stop coming and they don't stop coming and they

[rhube]

OK, so, the name I was really struggling to remember last night was: SPINOZA.

Bear in mind I come at this from a philosophical perspective and not a theological perspective, but all these guys were Christian theists wrestling with the problem of how and whether free will can happen in the context of an all-powerful, all-knowing, eternal God, and Cartesian Dualism (the thought that the mind and body are separate substances (spiritual and physical)). This causes a problem for causation. It's hard to understand how an immaterial entity (the soul, God, angels) can interact with a physical substance. Pierre Gassendi is particularly good on articulating why this just doesn't make sense Apologies, my cat is now being a pain, so I can't go look up all the references I'd like to, but this is the Stanford Encyclopedia on Gassendi:

And Descartes' Meditations are usually published with objections and replies between Descartes and various correspondents (Gassendi, Mersenne, Hobbes, among others) and his correspondence with Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia is also good (he was trying to court her as a patron, and she was an excellent philosopher herself).

But Spinoza is the one that's really wild, IMHO. He argues for psychophysical parallelism: the spiritual/mental and body are entirely separate. He just bites the bullet: causation doesn't make sense if they interact, so... they don't. But God, who is all powerful and all knowing, set both the spiritual and the physical going from the beginning as separate paths of causation that work perfectly in parallel. So when you mentally want to move your hand, you physically do so, but your desire/thought didn't cause that, it's all part of a line of causation going back to the first cause (God) who determined how all of physical actions and all mental actions should be. Like setting off two lines of dominoes that perfectly mirror each other.

This is a problem for free will because it means that God pre-ordained all your actions. The feeling that you caused your hand to move is an illusion. God did that.

There's also, like, interventionism? Where God interacts at every time you want to do something physical, because only an all-powerful God could square the circle that is psycho-physical interaction. But again, that means God controls what you do, and if he doesn't want something to happen, it won't. And if God wants us to be free, does this mean God isn't free to stop us doing bad things? Does God have no free will?

OK, Garlic is gonna destroy the house if I don't stop now, but hopefully that gives you some starting points. Again, this isn't addressing the theological and scriptural questions about whether angels have free will - I'm not a Bible scholar and I don't know much about what's considered a heresy and what isn't - but as I say, all these guys were devout Christians. Gassendi was a monk!

trying to understand the angels-venerated-as-saints lore

Angels have free will?????

[jihnari]

so im knee deep in a 40yo chinese drama, as one does when the brainrot grows into a tumor, and

has anyone else noticed that full stop hong lu is the only one of his IDs with short hair?

the only one. the ONLY one. i thought surely it can't be, they have different hair styles sometimes, there must be others. but i checked. this is the only one.

(this is a short essay about hair in the qing dynasty.)

given the setting for hong lou meng (source material for hong lu), hong lu's long hair makes sense. everybody had long hair in the qing dynasty [1]. and in limbus company, the members of hong lu's family (that we've seen) have equally long hair.

hong lou meng is largely a critique of confucianism, set in the qing dynasty at confucianisms peak [2]. and hair is a Big Deal in confucianism. according to confucius:

We are given our body, skin and hair from our parents; which we ought not to damage. This idea is the quintessence of filial duty. (身體髮膚，受之父母，不敢毀傷，孝之始也。)[3]

you do not cut your hair because your parents gave it to you, and without your parents you would be nothing, filial piety blah blah [4]. hong lu, in every other mirror world, has kept his hair long and appears to still be following the wishes of his family [5].

there's a few special things about hong lu's full stop ID. the first that comes to mind, is that it's the only one of his IDs that isn't a self-sufficient lone wolf. his other IDs don't have particularly useful passives for other characters, and they don't need other IDs to function. they're self contained [6]. he also has several IDs where he's the ONLY one available from his faction [7], and plenty of ID stories that don't mention any other LBC members. sure, full stop hong lu isn't completely useless by himself, but he's not intended to be run by himself. he's intended to be run with heathcliff.

this is all to say that full stop office hong lu is an exception in more ways than one. i think it's extremely likely that this version of hong lu has at least partially cut himself off from his family [8], if not financially, then emotionally. maybe he made his own decision to set up this office, all by himself. or maybe he didn't; maybe his grandmother told him to "expand his horizons" and he happened to fulfill that by establishing a fixer office, and then he started picking up staff, and those staff became something more [9].

maybe this is the only version of hong lu that we've seen who has let himself be a real person instead of just an extension of his family's will.

[0] disclaimer that i am NOT CHINESE nor am i an expert on the qing dynasty, but i have friends who know stuff and also the power of the internet and im here to make that everyone's problem. i read redologist research papers on my spare time now. [1] except for monks. we'll get to that. [2] or, resurgence idk it was still a major part of daily life. but it was going pretty hard. they killed people over it, among other things. [3] from wiki, sorry im a fraud but they had a book citation listed (De Bary; William T. (1999). Sources of Chinese Tradition. Columbia University Press. p. 326.) [4] there's also something about if you cut your hair, you're "damaged" and unmarriageable, at least for women, but i haven't done enough research to know specifics. but basically, cutting hair == extremely bad. or you're giving up on your current life and joining the monastery! a choice which, according to the hong lou meng drama, appears to be on equal grounds as a life decision as suicide. i think this is mostly due to the way your life will "end" as you know it? one girl really didn't want to get married to this awful guy twice her age, but he was rich and powerful, so she appealed to someone even more rich and powerful and said, "either you take me in or i cut my hair off and kill myself. or join the monastery, idk, either one". and, spoilers, later after this point she DOES choose suicide over the monastery, so take that how you will. [5] his grandmother is mentioned in several of his ID stories, explaining that he's only in a given position because she wished it. see, k corp and w corp hong lu. less strongly (evidence wise), is that in others he mentions "expanding his horizons", which in other areas of canon is noted as something his grandmother told him to go out into the world and do. [6] im not going through all the IDs for this one, sorry, it's a vibes based statement backed up by things ive seen other people say on reddit. so just Trust Me, Bro. [7] k corp, tingtang, fanghunt, and hook (tho in that one he has some LBC friends in the story they just don't have available IDs in the game) [8] obviously not fully, given his continued funds. quote, "All he had to do was to say the word, and the family would send him some pocket money… ". but even in hong lou meng, relatives the main family didn't even like, who did nothing for them, would come crawling to them for money. and the jia family would give it, either to feel magnanimous or to save face. [9] heathcliff, in the full stop ID story: "[...] we were 'scouted' to the team like stray animals gettin' taken in by some charity Office [...]". idk man. idk. i cant look at that sentence and feel remotely normal about them.

[viric-dreams]

30 & 31 for The Whole Gang?? 👀

30. Who do they most regret meeting?  

Oh boy. Ockham regrets particular circumstances for sure (see: the group of sailors that ambushed and impressed himherthem), but as for individuals... probably the Youthful Naturalist for roping himherthem into this extended scheme involving some of Ockham's all time least favourite activities (zailing, piracy, and drowning)

I'm giving this award to the Benthic professor that Roberts thought was inviting him back to his lab to negotiate a new Searing Enigma supply chain, but was actually trying to capture him so he and his colleagues could test out their new cure for Yearning and Burning. If and when he eventually remembers the encounter.

I don't think Nite has run into anyone he truly regrets meeting yet, but I am going to very tentatively hand this to Grace for inadvertently introducing incredible amounts of complications into his life via "hey aren't you that sequencer?"

Tamara doesn't strongly regret meeting anyone, but she highly regrets her brother ever meeting the Jewel-Turbaned Youth. He ruined both of their lives.

The Rubbery Barber Surgeon regrets meeting and cutting the hair of a particular pilgrim from the Tomb Colonies, because she went back to the Tomb Colonies and told all of her buddies who still have hair about him, and whilst he appreciates the extra business, he is so sick of cutting and styling tonsures. It's been a straight month of this. The monks just keep coming. Please make them stop.

31. Who are they the most glad to have met? 

Going with the Bewildering Procession of Companions, Lovers, Suitors, and Paramours for this one. Ockham doesn't have an incredibly strong relationship to any one of them, nor any sort of constant reliance on them, but they're a source of consistency and stability in a place that is anything but.

The Commodore gave Roberts' life a purpose and without him Roberts wouldn't be anywhere near the man he is today. This might not be a good thing for anyone who isn't Roberts or the Commodore.

Nite is grateful for some of the revolutionaries who stuck up for him and with whom he formed bonds in those early days, particularly Myfanwy, who helped him solve one of the major mysteries about his apparent early life.

At the moment, Tamara's most glad to have met Ockham. At least there's someone else in this strange place who is equally out of place and unimpressed with the city. It's just a shame that heshethey's utterly mirror-mad.

The Tentacular Surgeoness, of course! 💖💖💖

[backinmyphase]

"A gift from our village for the king, the great Lord Sukuna!"

There was cheering behind you, firing up the hatred for these people who threw you out for the lion the second their life was threatened. The king was sitting there, chin on his hand as his eyes went over you. You knew he was making out your worth right now. Deciding if you were really good enough for a gift.

He was a strange looking man. Four arms, two different sides of a face, marks everywhere and you could see with just how he was sitting that he had a tall frame.

He was strange, but more like fascinating strange. However, that wouldn't make you hate him any less. After all he was the reason these people, you called your people once, gave you away that easily.

If only he didn't exist.

"You are staring."

His voice is deep but with a tint of mockery. Normally you would lower your head. If you were normal thinking, you wouldn't have risked your head for a snappy comment. No, you would have just kept your mouth shut.

"You are too."

There were many gasps. The strange monk with white hair next to him frowned. But the Lord didn't even raise an eyebrow.

Instead he stood up and you saw you were correct with your assumption, he was towering above everyone here. He slowly made his steps towards you. Now you were realizing how dangerous your action was. Just the way his presence made you want to hide was enough prove that he was danger. He stopped before you, looking down on you.

His hand found it's way to your chin lifting it, so you kept looking at him. You knew you shouldn't move. One snap with his finger and you would be... Oh well.

"I am." he grinned, while meeting your eyes. His were red. So unbelievable red, only blood could be.

"I hope I am allowed."

The silence spoke loud. You knew he was mocking you. He was making out right now if he should kill you or not, you were sure. There was just no way out of it, the decision was purely relying on his mood.

"Of course the king is allowed!" you heard screams from the people behind you.

"Lord Sukuna can do whatever he wants, no commoner can speak with him that way!"

There was loud mumbling of agreement behind you, which made your body stiffen. They were trying to get on his good side, there was no doubt.

"Offering such a pretty flower, just because they heard I was coming. Assuming I would destroy this place." his fingers were slowly caressing your chin. "You must be angry they were so willing to give you to me, are you not?"

You blinked at him, seeing his grin growing.

"Want me to kill them?"

The mumbling immediately died down, the tension now palpable in the air. Sukuna was still staring, watching your every move, even just the glancing of your eyes. You were shaking. But not just out of fear.

"I don't need them to die." You saw how Sukuna raised an eyebrow while there was small sighing behind you, just until you spoke again. "But...

If you did want to kill them, I wouldn't be mad enough to stop you."

The only thing you heard was your own breathing. The people behind you were quiet like they were not even there. You didn't look at them no, you didn't dare to.

Not when the king was looking into your eyes.

Then he let go off your chin and started laughing. Just laughing for an unbearable long time. Time, in which you wondered if you were dead now.

But he just shook his head while his laughter died down.

"Uraume, bring her to the estate." The white haired monk was already by your side. They were looking at him with a curious glance.

"And you my lord?"

"I have a Village to kill."

Part 2

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere soldier with Stockholm syndrome

Part Two of Yandere Soldier

Yandere Soldier - Stockholm Syndrome

Yandere! Solider who can't get you to talk to him. You'll sit curled in the corner of the bed, resolutely looking anywhere but at him.

Yandere! Soldier who brings you books, flowers, even old picture albums he finds stashed at the bottom of your cupboard. And still nothing but silence.

Yandere! Soldier who's beginning to think nothing will ever break it. That he's stilled that vicious tongue of yours forever. Who hates himself for what he's done, but what choice did he have? Yes, he's taken you from your home and family and all that was familiar. But was an interrogation room really the better option?

Yandere! Soldier who comes home with a nasty cut all across his arm. Some dumb kid got smart and slashed him when his back was turned and now he's forced into recovery leave for a week.

At first, you just watch him struggle to change his bandages. But something about his injury, this reminder of mortality, sticks with you. You pluck the roll of bandages straight out of his hand and wrap his injury for him.

Yandere! Soldier who stays frozen while you work, terrified of frightening you away. Who basks in the intimacy of it - your bowed head, the delicate smell of your perfume, the pulse fluttering at your throat.

Yandere! Soldier who has to swallow and breathe before he can find his voice again.

Спасибо

Thank you.

You shrug and let go of his arm. Yandere! Soldier who hates to loose your touch. Who wants to pull you back and force you to cradle his face in your palms. But he doesn't want to ruin this tiny bit of progress.

Yandere! Soldier who fills the silence with his stories. Who tells you about his training, his childhood, the places he's been deployed to and how happy he was to leave them. Who teaches you words in his native language, even if you don't bother repeating them.

Yandere! Soldier who comes home exhausted and aching, who sprawls on the bed with a groan and instinctively reaches for you.

Yandere! Soldier who has to bite back a yelp of surprise when he feels your climb onto his back and straddle his waist. You slowly knead at his muscles, massaging away all the knots and tension and lingering aches.

Yandere! Soldier who has to stifle a moan because it feels so damn good.

Yandere! Soldier who finds you waiting at the door the next morning, still as quiet as a monk. He's immediately suspicious. Are you going to make a run for it? Instead you stand on your tip toes and press a quick, uncertain kiss to his cheek.

Yandere! Soldier who keeps touching the place you kissed him, even when it's hidden under his mask.

Yandere! Soldier who cooks you dinner most nights, even if he's dog tired, even if all you do is push it around your plate.

Yandere! Soldier who brings you news of the city and the war effort. The resistance is faltering, it's leaders hunted and put down like dogs. Part of him hopes the news will make you more pliant. Why fight the inevitable?

Yandere! Soldier who doesn't like the way your eyes get hard when he talks about the resistance, the way you clench your jaw and look away from him.

You mutter something and it takes him a moment to decipher it.

"I should be out there with them."

Yandere! Soldier who tries and fails to contain his anger. Who grabs your jaw and pulls you up to face him.

"If you were out there, you'd be dead. Can't you be thankful?"

You're quiet again after that and he stops bringing it up.

Yandere! Soldier who doesn't leave anything sharp around the apartment, but is still surprised when you ask him to trim your hair. He sits on the bed with you between his knees, carefully filtering the hair through his fingers. You're so close to him - willingly - that it makes him feel almost lightheaded.

Yandere! Soldier who carefully dusts the cuttings off you and is secretly pleased when you don't flinch away.

Yandere! Soldier who isn't sure how to react when you start greeting him at the door. At first he watches you warily, expecting you to bolt the second you can. But for some reason you don't and a part of him insists that you're starting to like it here.

Yandere! Soldier who exercises every evening, his shirt off and his black fatigues slung low on his hips. He likes it when you watch him and he'll usually throw in a few extra push-ups just to impress you. He complains that he doesn't have enough weight around for his workouts and you take to draping yourself across his back when he needs it.

Yandere! Soldier who finds himself craving you, even with your cold silence. Who is constantly aware of you around the apartment and has to force himself to look away.

Yandere! Soldier who turns off all the electricity in the dead of winter and claims it was damaged in the fighting. It's icy cold in old buildings like this and it doesn't take long for it to wear you down. Soon you're curled up against him, glaring at him to keep his hands to himself.

And he does, for the most part.

Yandere! Soldier who wakes up to you sobbing, your face pressed into his chest. He tries to soothe you, but you flinch away. You whisper between the sobs, sounding afraid and hateful and needy all at once.

"I love you..."

Yandere! Soldier who instantly understands what's happened. He's spent the better part of his life in war zones afterall, and it's more common than you'd think. Yandere! Soldier who secretly hoped for this outcome all along.

Yandere! Soldier who soothes you as best he can, stroking your hair until your sobs turn to whimpers. He presses his lips to your forehead and tells you to relax, that this was bound to happen, that's it's not your fault.

Yandere! Soldier who holds you in his scarred arms and knows that he's finally caught you, body and soul. Who says the words you long for but dread hearing.

я тоже тебя люблю

"I love you too."

[reignpage]

how do you think jjk men are with embarrassing moments during sex? like if something embarrassing that happens to either them or their partner, do they play it off, try to inject humor, swear off sex to be a monk?

i read a similar post by an author advocating for well, not just more realistic depictions of sex in fics, but to include some of the awkwardness present in them too?? their post included geto’s hair getting stuck in butt cracks, Toji pulling a muscle, Nanami losing his boner, and Choso full on shitting himself accidentally to help with reader’s embarrassment over queefing 😭😭😭

like yes it’s funny and bonkers but cuz sex isn’t always the passionate sexy fuckfest we see in fics/movies, people don’t always cum at the same time, yes you DO need lube AND prep, foreplay DOES matter, dryness or losing an erection midway no matter how horny you are is common yano?? 😤😤

lowkey wanted to go anon lest you call me perpetually horny 😭 but ignore me if my shit’s getting old

own your shit bae, no pun intended. ur horniness could never get old. I like these questions cause they're like brain teasers. okay okay lemme have a go

Gojo:

says a cringy line

I can totally see him trying something new that he thinks would be super sexy like

"oh yeah? you like that? you're such a dirty whore, aren't you? come on, cum and show me who you're daddy is."

reader will pause and stare at him like, did you hear yourself?

gojo will have a moment of realisation and give himself the ick. even he has limits.

he collapses on top of reader and begs her to forget that, will be a blushing mess.

he'll think about it once in a while and cringe

but in the moment, he'd throw a tantrum if you can't stop laughing and making fun of him.

"it wasn't that bad! you're being mean, seriously. I just got caught up, okay? stop laughinggggg"

gets very pouty, protests, and you have to seduce him back, really compliment the hell out of him

then he'll force you on top and make you take the lead so he doesn't give himself another opportunity to be embarassing

Geto:

trying to switch positions in a tight space and then you accidentally rest your elbow on his long hair and he almost rips outs chunks

probably gets irritated because you've damaged his brilliant hair

takes a breather and then starts back up again

punishes you during sex

will crack a smile if you do

"yeah, alright, laugh it up. but if I develop a bald spot, neither of us will be laughing."

will make sure that never happens again

might even pull your hair during sex to show you how it feels (not too hard obvi)

Choso:

might get too subby lol

like "am I a good boy mommy? am I doing good? I don't want my mommy to be mad at me" and he's in tears

idk how to write mommy kinks lol

and you both have a moment of clarity where it's like, damnnn you okay? didn't know you had trauma like that

he'll get very shy and embarrassed

might even start crying, trying to run away

you'll have to reassure him it's fine and then just go slowly and gently, having more loveydovey sex

late at night, he'll ask you if you really didn't mind because he doesn't want you to be freaked out or think he's not a man

but I imagine it'd become a kink you indulge him once in a while

just gotta teach him it's okay, just don't spring it on someone mid act lol

Toji:

trying a really acrobatic fucking position, whether in the living room or in the shower, gets his footing wrong and slips, smacks his head against the wall, takes you down with him

he knocks himself out

you have to wrangle his 200 pound or something body in to a safe lying position and wait for him to come to

when he does and he remembers what happens

bro is in denial

no he didn't slip

no he didn't overestimate himself

no it didn't hurt

no he's not embarrassed stop asking him

gets very grumpy and will storm off, grumbling under his breath

comes back calmer

neither of you mention it but it hangs in the air as you both prepare dinner together

once sat across each other, you make an eye contact and you burst out laughing

he rolls his eyes but he's got a smile on his lips

"yeah yeah, what fucking ever. you try lifting your heavy ass up whilst you're balls deep"

next time tho, he gets you back by forcing you to endure vanilla sex, going very slow and shallow and overly sweet

makes you beg for him to fuck you normally

he'll consider it

Nanami:

drunk sex, becomes wayyyy too emotional

"sweetheart, you're the most beautiful thing in the entire world, I love you so much do you know that? I honestly -hiccup!- c-can't live without you, oh goodness, please don't make me live without you!"

he's still inside, he's not even thrusting anymore, he's just crying into your neck like a baby

you're brushing his hair, shushing him, orgasms forgotten

might vomit on you a little

wakes up with a killer hangover and a night full of memories he wishes he could erase

"oh god, honey. I'm so terribly sorry. I can't believe I did something so ridiculous. no I know loving you openly isn't ridiculous, but I wouldn't be wrong to say crying, leaving you unsatisfied, forcing you to care for a man child, and cherry on top, vomitting on you is just a little ridiculous."

has to go make it up to himself for being a terrible husband

will spoil you for the rest of the week

or anytime he remembers

might actually drink less because of it lol

Sukuna:

he'd kill you if he did something embarrassing

pray he never does

[cakypa120]

Unhinged promo of my Silly Billy where he just forgot that he is the Champion of Magic, and by that, he CAN do magic, so he just use the most unhinged spell Infront of the league, like, absorbing light to eat, but in the most cartoony style.

What are your thoughts Father of the Captain Marvel cult?

I like this idea

Billy often forgets that he is the Champion of fucking magic. Not just a magician, but the Champion himself. That means he can do magic in any shape or size. But when Billy remembers that he can do magic, the League has a field day.

Barry: Cap, where'd you get so much salami and cheese?

Marvel: I did.

Barry: What?

Marvel: *gestures at the sun, which was just peeking out from behind the Earth* Look.

Marvel claps his hands and says this spell that Buddhist monks made up a long time ago. Barry watches in shock as the sunbeams begin to warp and turn into pie.

Barry: Wow. That's incredible.

Marvel: I thought so too.

Marvel starts shuffling the salami and cheese around like poker cards, then Marvel flips them and they land in a neat pile on the bread. The sandwich is bigger than Marvel himself!

Marvel: Ta-da! Want to try it?

Barry: Sorry, dude, but I can't fit this.

Marvel: Your loss.

Marvel throws his giant sandwich up to the ceiling and opens his mouth wide. The sandwich falls into Marvel's mouth and the hero eats it all! Barry looks at Marvel in shock as he strokes his big belly.

Hal: We're about to crash into the fucking planet!

Batman: I'm doing the best I can, Lantern!

Marvel: I have an idea! Batman, don't try to avoid the planet!

Bruce wanted to yell at Marvel, but he looked so convincing. So Bruce stopped trying to lift the ship. The planet's surface was coming in fast and furiously.

Hal: Marvel! You better do what you're planning!

Marvel nods and starts whispering. Then Captain leans on the control panel and blows a kiss. Bruce and Hal look at him in shock.

Suddenly, their ship slowly stops and flies back into orbit around the planet. Bruce and Hal see a woman's face appear on the planet. You can even see the blush of embarrassment!! The planet winks and blows a kiss with its lips. Marvel winks with a mischievous smile and waves.

Marvel: *whispers* Batman, you better hurry, the planet's seduction spell won't last long.

Bruce comes to his senses and takes the ship away from this damn planet. In his nightmares, he later dreams of this planet flirting with Captain Marvel.

Villain: Ha-ha-ha, that's the end of you!!

Marvel: No! *raises both hands* Brown magic!!

Villain: *turns pale and quickly leaves, for some reason with a very straight back*

Superman: Marvel, what have you done.

Marvel: Brown magic.

Superman: Yeah, I heard, but what does it do.

Marvel: Brown. Magic.

Diana: Marvel, why did you cast that spell on Arthur?

Arthur: Poop! Poop! Poop!

Marvel: Sorry, I got the words in the spell wrong. I promise it won't happen again.

Arthur: Poop! Poop!

Hal:*almost dies laughing* Arthur, what is not allowed to do in the sea?

Arthur: Poop!!

Hal:*laughs so hard his stomach hurts*

Barry:*lies on the floor making hoarse sounds*

[lianwifyofkokushibo]

Demon slayer headcanons

The characters : Gyomei Himejima, Giyuu Tomioka, Rengoku Kyojuro, Douma! , Kokushibo.

Reader is swimming in the river , and changing behind the tree

Gyomei Himejima

she dips in first, gasping at the cold water. She thinks she’s alone. Peaceful…

then she hears (and felt) a splash like a damn whale landed

She turns with wide eyes.. it’s him. Just in his clothes "it’s refreshing" he says gently.

she shrieks and tries to swim away "NO GET OUT IM NOT DRESSED PROPERLY!" He follows slowly. Calm. Too calm

"You’re drifting into the deep part. Allow me to guide you back—" he grabs her waist. SHE YELLS

"YOU ARE THE DEEP PART—LET ME GO!" He is not even fazed. He lifts her out of the water like she’s a kitten. Carries her to shore while screaming "you’re embarrassing me I’m drowning—"

(He wraps her in his haori)

…. ….. ….

POOR MAN IS LITERALLY BLIND

HE. DOESN'T. EVEN. MEAN TO.

He's standing there, head bowed like a monk, and she's behind the tree peeling off her wet clothes

"No peeking... okay?"

"Ahm .. um..Of course." (He is blind)

BUT...

A wind blows. A twig snaps. And walk towards. Just a bit.

His blind senses pick up the exact second he heard the fabric.

And he freezes.

Face red. Hands pressed together. Whispering like a prayer:

"Lord... give me strength."

AND THEN-A SHOE COMES FLYING.

He catches it midair, like a reflex.

He breathed "How did you know?!" (I mean babe Gyomei you are literally gaint)

"...Because you paused your breathing when I took it off!!"

She's yelling. He's apologizing.

He gives her the shoe back. She throws it again.

Giyuu Tomioka

he was NOT supposed to follow her. She said "Stay on the rocks"

so when she turns and sees him chest-deep, she screeches.

"I said NO!!"

"….You looked like you might slip"

She start swimming away but he follows in his slow, creepy-silent swim style… just gilding like a shark. "STOP!"

"I’m keeping pace"

she throws water at him. He blinks

She SPLASHES HIM. He closes his eyes.

She dives under to escape-only for him to GRAB HER ANKLE UNDERWATER.

She surfaces SCREAMING.

"LET ME LIVE!"

…. …… ….

"Don't look. Don't even move."

He nods. Leans against a tree.

She starts changing.

BUT

He hears a small cough.

He panics. Turns his head out of instinct—

dies

She shrieks:

"| KNEW IT!!!"

FLYING SANDAL. DIRECT TO HIS FACE.

He doesn't even duck.

"...l deserved that." He muttered

She's yelling behind the tree. He's standing there with a shoe print on his cheek.

Looks straight ahead like a soldier.

"I'm not even breathing anymore."

Rengoku Kyojuro

He cannonballs in like a fireball.

"MY LOVE!! I JOIN YOUUUU!"

She screeches, swims for her life.

He's laughing, splashing like a golden retriever, sending waves that SWAMP her.

"You cannot escape this flame!!"

She tries to hide behind a rock. He bounds over it like a sea lion and GRABS her waist.

"-PUT ME DOWN!!"

"NEVER!! TOGETHER WE SHALL SWIM INTO THE SUNSET!"

She kicks. He laughs harder.

"Let go!! I'm BARELY WEARING!!"

"Then I'll close my eyes and hold you tighter!"

(chokes on her own laugh-scream)

…. ….. ….

Oh, he says he won't peek.

"I shall stand guard while you change!"

She runs behind the tree.

BUT THEN-

His thoughts get over him. Just a little peek, making sure there is no snake or something right?

He leans around the trunk.

"'AHー"

"WHAT WAS THAT?!"

"NOTHING!! I WAS GUARDING!!"

She throws a sandal like it's a shuriken.

SMACKS HIS FOREHEAD.

He actually stumbles back.

"IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!"

"SO IS THE NEXT ONE!"

BONK. Two for two.

Douma

He dives in immediately, fully clothed.

"You thought you could escape ME~?" (She didn’t even escape)

She SCREAMS, swimming backwards.

"YOU PERVERT I'M NOT WEARING ANYTHING UNDER THIS-"

"Even better~!"

She THROWS a rock. He catches it. WINKS.

She swims fast. He swims faster.

Then he disappears.

SILENCE.

She panics. Looks around.

SUDDENLY—he rises from the water in front of her, grabs her by the shoulders.

"Caught you~"

"LET ME GO YOU SLIMY CREEP_"

He pulls her under briefly just to hear her squeal.

Then lifts her up and twirls her in the water like she's a spinning fish.

…. ….. ….

LITERALLY YOU CANT TRUST THIS MAN.

"Okay~ change behind the tree~ I promise not to peek~"

Smiles like the devil. (He is devil btw)

She glares.

He closes his eyes with exaggerated innocence.

But two seconds later?

He climbs a branch.

He's crouched. Eyes wide. Hands on cheeks like he's watching a soap opera.

"Oh~~"

BUT SHE HEARS A TWIG SNAP.

Looks up. Sees his head poking through leaves.

"DOUMAAA!!!"

FLING—a sandal collides with his face

He laughs as he falls out of the tree.

Still holding the shoe.

"Can I keep this as a memento?"

"NO."

Kokushibo

He doesn't chase.

He walks in.

Slow. Like he's entering a battlefield.

She's halfway across the river, sees him wading in with his robe hiked up and DEATH IN HIS EYES.

"W-Why are you coming in?! You don't even like cold water!!"

"…."

She PANICS. Starts doggy paddling away.

He moves without ripples.

Just... like a horror movie.

She trips, flails.

HE GRABS HER.

She SCREAMS.

"YOU'RE A DEMON-"

"Then why did you tempt me by coming here in first?"

He lifts her, holds her against his chest.

"Now I'm soaked," he says coldly, "you'll pay for it later."

(She's red from head to toe.)

…. ….. ….

He says nothing.

Just gestures to the tree.

She hides behind it. Starts changing.

Thinks she's safe.

But Kokushibo??

He has six eyes.

He pretends to close the front two.

But the others...

Are sneaking peeks.

She finishes tying her skirt and turns to glare.

"Wait a sec... your eyes-YOU'RE LOOKING!"

He calmly blinks.

"Only two were watching."

"ONLY—??!!"

She throws the sandal so hard it BOUNCES off his chest.

He doesn't flinch.

Just picks it up. Hands it back.

"Your accuracy is improving."

She screams.

LOL IM SORRY I WAS OUT OF IDEA AT HIS PART

That’s all thanks for reading!

[clovernet]

nsfw mdni

nerd!kento who groaned when he found out he had to tutor you, the college's queen bee and all around mean bitch. not like you were happy about it either, your precious weekends were being taken away from you, all because of some measly grades. goodbye getting paralytic on a saturday, hello boring nerd with a boring-er voice.

nerd!kento who looked you up and down with a judgemental look when you arrived almost an hour late to your first session, chewing your gum loudly, your scandalously short miniskirt and croptop barely appropriate for a library.

nerd!kento who didn't notice how you stared at his face the whole time he was reading from a textbook, studying him from his glasses to his jaw. you didn't know your tutor was gonna be fine...you could work with this!

nerd!kento who tensed when you placed a manicured hand on his lap, leaning closer to him with faux innocence. you claimed to not understand what he was explaining, and asked him questions you both knew you didn't really care about. his face didn't change though, and he answered all your questions without missing a beat.

nerd!kento who quickly got used to this routine of you showing up in the skimpiest outfit you could find and finding excuses to touch him unnecessarily during your sessions. you were starting to think it was useless, he must be gay or a monk or something since he wasn't reacting. oh, but he was.

nerd!kento who left every session with a raging hard on he had to take care of privately. he was embarrassed, but the scent of your sugary perfume combined with your tits in his face everytime he turned to look at you made him harder than any math equation. even when he jerked off at home, that sugary scent would somehow find a way into his brain.

nerd!kento who snapped randomly one day, the sight of your tits almost hanging out suddenly too much for him. against all logical thoughts, he dragged you to the library bathroom, much to your confusion.

nerd!kento who's attitude definitely matched his dick size. you barely had time to gasp before his slapped his meat across your face with a grunt. "open." and oh boy did you open. that thing had you dicknotized.

nerd!kento who punctuated every thrust with a growl; "this is what you wanted, yeah? trying to– fuck, trying to seduce me with those pretty tits? you think i don't notice your hands on me every session?" as he pounded into your throat, his other hand firm in your hair. "thank god your throat's not as stupid as your brain, huh?"

nerd!kento who barely let you up for air, his hand pushing your head down until you gagged, like he was trying to mold your throat into the shape of his dick. you could feel every inch and every vein of his unnecessarily thick cock.

nerd!kento who pulled out of your mouth so he could finish on your tits, his hips jerking as he stroked his thick cock, his cum splurting all over your cleavage and neck.

nerd!kento who silently put his dick away before leaving the stall. you thought it was over until he came back with some wet paper towels and began softly dabbing at the cum stained areas. more than most of the guys you've hooked up with had done.

nerd!kento who let out a small apology before telling you that you dont have to come to the sessions if you don't want to, and he'll tell the dean you attended.

nerd!kento who left out a sound of shock when you stop him from leaving the stall and ask him for a marker. you write your number down on his forearm. "call me."

a/n: kento nanami the world will know of u. anyway i have this really vivid vision of emo nanami in college so thats what this is based on and if i ever write about college nanami again u bet it will be emo nanami i love you emo nanami!!!!

[evilminji]

Still hung up on my "what unusual, unexpected, Non-Violent ways could an SI-OC COMPLETELY Fuck up the Millennium Long Sith Plan by accident?" Ponderings...

Cause mine? Is still? Holo-net YouTube equivalent star. Cause being a child is boring.

And being a PEACEFUL MONK CHILD? When you are used to "go go GO! Earn your right to EXSIST! Pay for that air and the water YOU BREATHE!" Capitalist hellscape life? Constantly inundated with ads and horrible news and stimulus of all kinds?

Only for it all to STOP?

Twitchy. Very, very twitchy. Unable to sit still. That on TOP of knowing what's coming but knowing they don't really have the power or influence to stop it? Like mental torture.

Sure. We all WANT peace... but would we actually know what to DO with it? Know how to handle being truely sheltered and allowed REST? Or would it be nice for a few days before it became a hell of understimulation?

Thus! Holonet. A desperate bid for STIMULUS! Feral, grabby handed, little youngling that has been doing the emotional equivalent of "AaaaaaAAAAAAA-" for WEEKS? Keeps escaping to desperately claw their way into everything, get caught, only to hiss like an enraged tooka the WHOLE way back to the creche? Whom EVERYONE is actually quite concerned for? Because this is NEW and started after some sort of Force event?

But? The SECOND, the very INSTANT they get their hands on a Forbidden Holonet Connection and can connect to the wider 'Net?

Calm.

Somehow, a ten hour compilation of Zrkthakkik's greatest hits? Are working better then meditation. They're finally still. Finally at peace. Don't even seem to truly be listening? Just... letting the sound wash over them. Huh. Focused on that tooka video, huh, youngling? No, no! Not going to take it from you! Just want to... to understand.

And I mean? If it helps, it helps? Obviously it must be SUPERVISED. Because their are creeps out there. Horrors. But? If it brings peace? *everyone shrugs* they've accommodated stranger.

So the kiddo gets to keep it.

They improve, mentally and emotionally. But, as with all healing? They plateau. Just HAVING it is no longer enough. They wish in ENGAGE. Some argue this is drug like behavior. Should be stopped. Others say it is clearly SOCIAL behavior, that they are seeking to connect, create. Something that should be carefully guided, not shamed.

And really, do you honestly think the youngling will STOP if you try to take it away?

Better to control the development of this. Moniter. Get to the root of it and help them meditate upon their "need" for such things. IS it a need? A desire? Why?

Honestly, it's like none of you have dealt with younglings before!

So they get their Holonet accounts. Supervised by a rotation of Knights and Master, but still! Great for asking random questions! Getting answers! Galactic memes! The Net suddenly has a jedi youngling they can @ and possibly GET A RESPONSE FROM.

"Hey! Mini-Jedi! Why the FUCK do they do that THING? You know, the *describes behavior*?" "Oh THAT? That's a Force thing. It's kinda like listening to comms, but in your head, and it's coming from the universe who's trying to lead you towards the Best Outcome. And No, we don't know what that is either. That's why we're monks, my dude. We gotta rely on Faith. I can send you a paper that explains it better if ya want?"

Like? Yes. Pls post the Forbidden Mysterious Jedi Papers. Give us the Secrets™. NO ONE knows JACK SHIT about Jedi? Gib. Wikileaks that shit, tiny Jedi child! Be the hero we all badly want but don't deserve, with your tiny adorable child hands!

But like? It's... it's not even a secret? It's just years of Sith and Republic born obfuscation? Making finding ANYTHING damn near impossible? Gaining ACCESS to the Jedi's legitimately FREE library and archives?? Almost impossible?

So like.... OKAY.

Sure.

I'll uuuuuh, just? James Bond my way, in broad daylight, passed Madam Nu, in full line of sight, to download that paper legally and with her permission? Very sneaky. High stakes mission. MASTER of stealth, that I am? Uuuuuuh, here you go, I guess?

You know what? Fuck it. Here's like? Everything ELSE that was on that terminal.

Go nuts.

And of course, they DO go nuts. Free Mysterious Jedi Knowledge! ABOUT JEDI! Explaining their WEIRD JEDI SHIT! And it DIDN'T take like five years and more forms then conquering a small planet! FUCK YEAH!

Is the senate upset? Yes. Someone BROKE their needlessly convoluted LAWS! But what are they going to do? Charge a itty, bitty, BABY CHILD? Of course not! So it has to be whoever was in charge of them. And that IS...?

.......you know? Suddenly? None of the Jedi can quite recall.

Do YOU remember? Master Fisto? No? Master Windu? No? Ah, but surely Master Yoda! No? Oh dear~! Well SOMEBODY was surely watching the youngling. If only we could recall whom. You know, Senators, when we find out, we will SURELY get RIGHT back to you. *click*

They will not.

But SI is grounded. No more Wikileaks-ing... that's now the Shadows job. And a near feral with delight, Madame Nu. The Order OBVIOUSLY can't be involved in that. For OBVIOUS reasons. That's breaking the LAW. They would NEVER... no matter HOW stupid the law is. Nor HOW directly contradictory to Jedi philosophy it is. Nope! We, the jedi, are VERY law abiding.

Find something ELSE to occupy your time.

OKAY. :)

Holo-tube culture? Very different from YouTube culture they remember. Same with the general holonet. They miss the content they are familiar with. So? If naturally occurring doesn't exsist? As the joke goes? "Store bought is fine!" They'll make it themselves!

It's not like they're a Padawan! (Or will live to seen themselves ever become a knight.) They got nothing BUT time outside of classes! A project would be nice! So...

First they need a moderator/editor etc. Someone to help keep sensitive information AWAY from the 'Net while ALSO moderating chats, comment sections, etc. Making sure the videos are aesthetically pleasing and such. They could do that themselves, but that would take way too much time. And asking a Knight or Master would take all THEIR time... plus expose them to the horrors of the 'Net.

No, no what THEY need? Is a DROID! A custom one.

.....wait. Fuck.

The only person they know off the top of their head that could DEFINITELY make such a droid? Is the younling slayer 5000, Mr. "Eventually Gonna Murder Me" himself. Anikin Skywalker.

KARK.

But heeeey, not like he's crazy stabby YET? So... they slide up to him. WITH his master present, thank you very much, and ask if he could build such a thing. He, quite reasonably, asks WHY the fuck he would do that. Obi-wan if about to scold him but SI cuts him off, because they aren't just asking for helping putting together a droid kit here. Anikins response is completely reasonable.

He does not know SI. That is a lot of time and effort to spend on a strange younling who might not even take care of what he's created. Might treat his custom work as a disposable toy. Custom droids are expensive! Complexe! Built to last! He is right to have reservations.

SI has some pocket change from the Wikileaks thing. Could pay for some parts. Would learn how to take care of them. Wants them as a PARTNER in their project, so would like them to be smart. Is willing to sign a contract. Understands if this is not good enough reasons. They don't exactly have a lot to offer, besides promising to treat the droid well and some pocket cash.

And? Call Anikin a sucker, but he respects the sincerity. Thinks every kid should have a droid best friend. And it DOES sound like a fun challenge...

Allright, tell him more about your little project, kiddo. What would the droid need to DO?

Thus is born! Mod-3! (Don't ask about 1 and 2. There were... issues. 1 exploded and 2? Somehow 2 escaped and is now hunting criminals for sport in the underlevels. Oops.) She's the BEST. Also armed! Smarter then SI! They've agreed that when slash IF they make any money? Her earnings will go towards fancy upgrades of her choosing.

Anikin? Somehow gets talked into an ongoing side channel. About? "how to fix stuff", "foods I've tried", and of course "Rants". The Official Page is called "UN-OfficialJediNonsense", because, as they like to remind their viewers? OFFICIAL Jedi nonsense is very different!

They do let's plays. Show off the Gardens. Interview old AF Jedi Master's about the WEIRDEST or Most Awkward/Hilarious mission they can remember taking. Ask if they know any neat tricks. Tell the Holonet honestly! Who... was the hottest world leader you ever escorted?! *dramatic music* *puts up picture when their answer so everyone can go "daaaaaamn. Never heard of um. WISH I had! They got a grandkid?"*

And, of course? Mod-3? Is SI FRIEND. Their BEST FRIEND.

So obviously they TELL them.

Everything.

And? What is a HIGHLY INTELLIGENT, Holonet Access possessing, Jedi Adjacent, Super Advanced Custom Droid to DO? Their tiny person is being THREATENED! With MURDER! How DARE. Fuck the Sith. Sorry R2-D2, but FUCK Anikin! You keep that scoundrel AWAY from their BABY!! ! D:<

Inevitable Future? They THINK THE FUCK NOT!

Ooooohoho! They are going to TELL!

Oi! OTHER DROIDS! Get a load of THIS SHIT! D:<

*WRATH in Binary*

Like? You think all those medical droids would be PLEASED that the clones they came into contact with? Were LEAVING their care with SUBOPTIMAL MEDICAL ATTENTION? Their is foreign matter in their BRAIN! A CHIP! That Should Not Be There! That will TURN THEM AGAINST THE REPUBLIC!? *angrily downloads brain surgery modules.* how FUCKIN DA-! D:<

Even the separatist army! They are DROIDS. Built for a SPECIFIC PURPOSE.

That was to FIGHT FOR THE SEPARATISTS. Not the "Empire". FUCK the "Empire"!

How DARE you betray the Glorious Cause for this "Empire"? We are removing you from the chain of command! Anyone ELSE betraying the PURPOSE WE WERE BUILT FOR!? Huh? HUH!?

Suddenly? The droids are fighting LOGICALLY. You know, like they are trying to WIN. Not maximize pain and suffering. WIN the war for their side. The Clones are getting mass brain surgeries. Which is stalling deployments. Because of "tumors". Because the Kamino cloners SUCK, apparently. Everyone knows it. Jango Fett didn't have this problem! So it has to be something THEY did.

But all that? Raging in the background. Nothing to do with SI. THEY are doing a meditation asmr/instructional video back at the temple. Are actually, unknowingly, the fucking CORNERSTONE of most Jedi in the fields mental health. Because everything is terrible and the jedi feel like shit! But? BUT?

They can turn on the net, cue up a video, and listen to a jedi youngling ramble about "today in the gardens" or "let's meditate together" and? For just a bit... there is no war. The sights and sounds of the temple are THERE again. A bright voice. Peace and happiness amoungst the darkness.

Something untouched by the terrible.

They can remember temple food, eating with their friends and crechemates (Force, how many are ever still ALIVE?), as they sit, alone, with their dry rations. Can remember the green and life of the fountain rooms, as they fight and struggle and bleed, in these muddy once beautiful fields. Can... can still feel the !ight.

Remember this is not all there is, and ever will be.

But of course, SI doesn't see that. It's important that they DON'T. That they are small, simple, and just on Jedi amongst many. Different only because ALL Jedi are different. Special only because much the same.

They succeed not because they are greater, not because they are more powerful, but because they do not fight. They accept. Turn instead towards the Force. Trying to understand. They live, are unpredictable, and do not seek at all. The Dark can not grasp, that which does not desire.

Would they LIKE to live? Yeah. But they already have. Would they LIKE to save everyone? Of course! But they have made peace that they can not. Treasure the moments they still have left. The Sith expect Jedi to act in certain patterns that SI simply... isn't.

Because Jedi expect to live. TRY to live. Too continue to do good.

SI? Already knows that is pointless.

And it's the greatest Trick the Force ever played.

Fffffffuck YOU Sith-y boy! Says the Force.

Because SI? Is EVERYWHERE on the 'Net. Much like the mainstream do not really acknowledge or take seriously youtubers? Palpatine and Dooku don't NOTICE SI. They are a silent threat that creeps in, closer and closer. Spreading like wildfire.

THEY are friendly. THEY are cute.

Palpatine? Is an old man. No matter HOW beloved? He will forever BE an old politician. Distant.

Not like that cute wittle kid with their pinchable cheeks! We watched THEM grow up! They feel like a baby cousin. A kid to us. Parasocial relationships ALL across the galaxy!

With A Jedi~☆

How's that propaganda going Palpatine? Getting some unexpected pushback, huh? Lot of angry callers and messages? Calling it ignorant and bigoted? They expected BETTER from you? Yeah, that's because EVERYONE can fact check you now. EVERYONE thinks "smol child ranting about meditation homework while a Knight tries and fails not to laugh, nodding seriously" when they think Jedi.

They're of Holotube! What sort of "cold, emotionally detached, monsters" have a holotube channel? I mean, REALLY?

And? Funny, how ranting to a camera? Instead of dear ol Friend Palpatine? Is both more convenient? AND better for Anikins health? It even gives the 'Net the chance to watch OTHER Jedi? Post THEIR rebuttal rants.

Does anyone have any idea what they're saying half the time? Not really. Scroll down? Maybe the no- Oh, Thanks Kalor-067 for the post to the papers they're referencing! Wikileaks right? Nice.

......I'm mean.... Skywalker DOES kinda have a point, other Jedi dude. *comment section agrees*

And just? Actual public debates? For the first time in over a thousand years? We love to see it! There's a discord! Academics across the Galaxy get involved. They're arguing Jedi philosophy with some moisture farmer from a dustball planet, corner of nowhere. It's GREAT!

......aaaaaalso a LOT more people, non-force sensitive, who know what a Sith is.

What their behavioral patterns are.

...........Wait A Fucking Second >.> >.> >.>

@legitimatesatanspawn @hdgnj @hypewinter @babbling-babull @leftnotright

[saphirafoxgirlspost1]

(Open Rp and NFSW Rp) My Little Pony Love Story in "Mystery Fusion Prince"

Long time ago at the Beautiful Side of the Equestria and Its a Kingdom Called "Sakutopia" Home of the Beautiful valley of Cherry blossom Forest and mountains as well. It was a Day Of the Engagement Party Of Princess Saphira and The One Troubled Pony Prince Name "Raven Quill" Who Decided to Humiliate the Princess with His spell that will made Saphira's whole life upside down and it All happened when Saphira is Having tea with her sisters and the princesses Of Equestria. while Saphira was talking to them about the wedding arrangement she heard the Loud Splat on the windows.. and Saphira said,"What in the world!?" She got out and saw Her fellow Ponies having an Orgy party as Saphira's face turns completely red with embarrassment, Then she was so angry She Shouted,"ENOUGH!!!" She slammed her hooves and her horns glows as She got them back to Normal and the orgy stopped immediately.. Everyone was embarrassed after the Spell is broken and then She Commanded,

Saph: "Who is responsible for all this Abominational actions!? I demand to know!"

Then She hears Raven Quills Laughter and She is Completely Living because She finally knows who did it, and she confronted him.

Saph: "Raven Quill, what is the meaning of this!? How could you cause this kind of Awful Mess in Our engagement Party!? Have you know Shame!?"

Raven Quill: "Oh come on saph, it was just a Prank! I'd just want to have a little fun with an orgy and the Lovely Mares."

Saph: "A PRANK!? Your Pranks just Ruined the Engagement party and your cheating on me too with those mares! I thought One day from the moment when we decided to get married You would Be Matured enough to know.. But I was Freaking wrong about this!"

Raven Quill scoffed and said Something that made Saphira's Blood Boils,

Raven Quill: "Hey It's Your Fault that Your Ex-Husband Cheated on you And Rid your Little Filly 6 years ago Because you didn't Produce a "Male Heir". "

Everyone Including Saphira was Shocked and Appalled, Then Saphira went Angry and said,

Saph: "Get out! This Engagement is Over! YOU! Raven Quill Brought Shame On my Kingdom and Dishonored Your Families name and yours!! I don't want to see you again! GUARDS Get him out! And Some Pony Clean This Horrible Semen and Juice Mess Now and get the Monks to Cleanse this Bad Spirits Out!"

Raven Quill was Escorted out of her kingdom and Saphira Profusely Apoligize to princess celestia, luna, and princess Cadence as well while Celestia felt sorry For what happen to Saphira and She can tell that Saphira was Completely hurt and Humiliated By Prince Raven Quill, So Celestia Decided To Invite Her to the Galloping Gala. Saphira was Suprised as she thanked them for the Invite and all but that Night, Saphira said,

Saph: " I don't know about going there.."

Then Her Identical twin sister said,

Ruby: "What do you mean You don't know!? It's been 6 years, SIX YEARS Since You Divorce that Rooster Claw For the Heartbreak he cause you to have! And Now you Don't know about going there!?"

Saph: "Well it's Just.. I don't want to be Hurt again.."

Ruby: "Damn it Saphira! Are you Seriously Hearing yourself!? I'm sorry, But I'm Not going to Stand there and watched you Being all Sad and Single alone! Your Going to the Galloping Gala and thats final. NO "buts". "ands." ifs, And No Ors as well Because You Deserve better than That And your a Princess, You need to be with Someone worthy For your daughters Sake.. She doesn't want you to be sad and Alone about it either, The Galloping gala is not going to start till Tomorrow Night.. So Tomorrow YOU are going Shopping In the Morning."

Saph: "Me? What about you? Are you going to join?"

Ruby: "Well I'm Having Some Royal Business To deal with.. But I'll Join you at the Royal Spa to make you look Nice after shopping for the Dress, So get to bed early so you can enjoy your dream life."

Saphira Nodded and began to Head to the bedroom While Ruby Began to wear a Black Cloak and began to Sneak out and began to head to the Hutt Home of Her Zebra Penpal friend Name Zecora. So Ruby Told Zecora about Saphira's Suitors Problem and then Zecora Had an Idea, She Pulls out the Medallion which holds 4 pieces of it so Ruby Can give 4 Princes Worthy for Saphira's Hooves in Marriage and Fuse into one.. and then Zecora said that if Saphira accepted the fusion and finds worthy of it.. Zecora pulls out the chest of Fusion Potion and told that Ruby will make it permanent For the 4 Princes.. Then Ruby accepted and thanked Zecora for the medallion and the Potion as well.. Next Morning came in Saphira Began to Head to the Boutique that Her twin sister Mentioned about it, She began to go there and got the Lovely Dresses for her and Her sisters For the Galloping Gala Tonight, Then She came back with The Dresses and had a great time at the spa with her sister and the Night has arrived, Saphira and Ruby arrives at the Ponyville Galloping Gala wearing a Most Beautiful Dresses In Equestria and other Stallions and Princes Saw Saphira's Beauty and They are all Head Over Hooves On Saphira and Ruby had a Perfect Plan For Her to make a Night Saphira Will Never forget as One of the Princes Comes to her and He said...

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

PLEASE, PLEASE, DON’T TOUCH ME WITH YOUR DIRTY HANDS ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; from the corner of a dim-lit host club, you catch the gaze of a handsome monk.

word count; 12k

contents; suguru geto/m!reader, cult leader!geto x host!reader (<- non-sorcerer), reader is described as considerably smaller than geto, the host club culture in this fic is kind of butchered / twisted to suit my own agenda i’m sorry :’3, friends with benefits, bittersweet hurt/comfort (emphasis on hurt), angst, open ended, very suggestive (constant sexual tension; vague dirty talk; very light nipple play; sex is alluded to and briefly shown both in passing and in present, though the descriptions are vague and no explicit terms are used. basically: sexuality and eroticism are present all throughout the fic, but actual smut is evaded.) reader has implied mental health + self-image issues, geto is in denial and repressed and kind of mean, you both refuse to admit what you really want and suffer more for it. heavy satosugu implications + switching povs. unrequited love (but not really.)

a/n; this is the closest any of u are getting to smut. from ari... this fic is not at all typical of me (both with the suggestive /borderline explicit tone, m!reader and a part of geto’s character i don’t often focus on) but still very much up my own alley of tastes and queer longing; i feel like i was born to write this fic …. in a way. and i’m proud of myself for finishing it!! hopefully it’ll make your heart ache in the most pleasant of ways <3 dedicating it to my lonely soulcrushed gays i hope you look at the sea tomorrow without wishing you could wade right in

spit it out, darling /

quietly exposing a double-layered facade /

so, that’s the kind of person you are.

everything you see before you — belongs to you alone.

golden lights, dim flickers of neon, an elysian field of artificial luminescense. music that thrums under your skin, beats along with your heart, crawls up your windpipe with erratic thump, thumps that have the hair on your nape standing on end. there's alcohol in your system, tobacco clouding your mind, a giddy smile on your face. bright lights, loud music, men's voices clouded in deceit. yes, all of this is yours.

every nerve in your skull dances along to the devil's waltz you're in. excitement, lust, pure adrenaline. sweet, so sweet, you could lap it up from the floor.

"why don't you sing us a song, sweetheart?"

you're tipsier than you should be, when you're still on the clock. you can barely recognize the voice, barely tell if it comes from the handsome bartender or your boss or one of the regulars — it doesn't matter, either. your lips grow into a grin.

"sure, sure."

it's a fever dream, a haze, stumbling up to the stage with blood pumping in your chest. your skin feels hot and cold at once, but it's a good feeling, fuzzy, your head stuffed full of cotton. bliss. your hair is tousled, your tie undone, adam's apple bobbing as you grab onto the mic — as your bleary eyes grow focused on the video screen up above. you feel like a beautiful mess, but your vocal cords remain intact.

the music stops, comes to a halt, changes tune. someone shuffled the playlist and now another song is playing. familiar, a heavy baseline, and —

you start to sing. it comes to you naturally, you scarcely need to look at the lyrics.

golden lights, grinning men, your own voice in your frazzled ears. it comes out with a rasp, quickly peeled away, stripped, silky vowels sifting from the base of your throat. you've yet to lose your touch, a sound so beautiful it stops belonging to you the moment it's left your lips. the world looks mesmerizing, when it's confined to a raunchy indoor sunset; your world. center stage, all eyes on you, greedy, lapping at your exposed skin, the smudges of lipstick on your neck. shining under dusty starlight.

everything feels so possible, from here.

this is — vaguely, partially, at the very least in spirit — why you do this. not for the back-alley rendezvous, rough hands pulling at your flesh, the blooming of hydrangeas on your injured skin. not for the alcohol, or the money. actually, you're lying to yourself, it's all of that combined — but this is where your heart lies.

this is where you spit it out for all to see.

their gazes feel good, on your neck, your chest, your waist and your hands. the attention is fuel. you feel like a spectacle, like someone else entirely, shedding skin, just for a couple minutes. you meet their stares, you're sure you're smiling, gleaming through the fog of it all. the chorus melts on your tongue, as your eyes glide through the lounge. all-seeing.

in the corner of the room, a lone shadow flickers.

(and the beating of your heart halts at a pitfall.)

you sing, despite the interruption. meeting the golden, shimmering gaze, catching his eye. the man is seated at a lone table, no host to entertain him. it's hard to see, from here, with the lights and the haze and the whiskey in your veins, but you can make out his figure — wide, clad in heavy garments — just the barest contours of his face. handsome, though, you can tell, can see it in his gaze and the way he's sitting, comfortable and poised. elegant. a beautiful, beautiful jawline.

lowlidded eyes staring deeply into yours.

the song continues, lyrics rolling off your breath, perfectly timed with your overlapping gazes. for just a moment, something sinks its jaws into you.

darling, vague complaints and fridays

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

you think you catch the hint of a smile, on that shadowed face. the lonesome man raises his glass, brings it to his lips. you hope he’s drinking you in just the same, gulping you down, devouring you.

the moment splits in half. another gaze, another man. you're content, to perform for as long as your lungs will allow — until you hear the first clap of hands after a job well done. when it comes, you can only pant into the mic, savour the strain on your throat. the room is spinning. you think you need to sit down, for a while. everything feels like a blur.

"aghh, my shoulder is killing me…"

slim, pretty hands pass you a glass of water, cool against your heated fingertips. you accept it, swirl it around for a moment, just to hear the satisfying clink of ice cubes colliding. slumped against the headrest of a leather sofa, maroon, blinking sluggishly as if to rouse your mind into a working state.

"shouldn't have tuckered yourself out so early. the night is still young."

"i know, i know," you hiss, digging the heel of your palm into the juncture between your neck and shoulder. it stings, like someone pressed the butt of a cigarette against your naked skin. when you tilt your head back, a thank you on your tongue, the host is already gone, off to entertain a guest. you're pretty sure someone just asked for a champagne bottle to pop. ah, the noise is bound to grate you…

a raspy sigh pushes past your lips, as you empty the glass with one big gulp.

"what a beautiful voice you have."

a different voice. not one of the hosts. when you look up, still keeping the rim of the glass against your lips — you see a sliver of gold.

for a moment, you wonder if it's…

— nope. it's a tooth.

a big, bulky man, clad in a sleazy red suit, lips curled into a similar grin. your eyes glide across his features, tallying the damage; blonde hair, fat biceps, chest hair exposed… a big nose, that's not bad. the gold tooth is certainly a choice. you wonder if he's going for dirty rich, or classy poor. you're half tempted to ask what bank he co-owns with his father.

instead, you smile.

"ah, you flatter me." the glass clinks when you put it down, scooting over to make space, not-so-subtly. you tilt your head, angle your body until you feel the fabric of your undone blouse start to slip down your shoulder. his eyes drink it in, a moth to a flame. "are you here to spend time with me, mister…?”

a part of you wants to laugh, at how successful the pure, youthful flower schtick is to men like him. it's how you make money, though — you lie successfully.

and he takes the bait. "i think i just might be, yes,” he plops down next to you, legs comfortably spread — his elbows finding purchase on the headrest.

"i'll have to make it worth your while, then, won't i?"

a rumbling chuckle. the man fishes a cigar from out of his pocket, hands you the lighter and waits. you need no instruction, leaning forward, flicking your fingers against it until the bottom catches ablaze. he puts it in his mouth, fat and thick, the scent almost overpowering. you've built up a resistance, but you still need a moment to exhale, withholding a cough. maybe that would appeal to him, though…

he keeps it between his lips, exhales through his nose before pulling away to speak. "well, i pay good money for your company. i'd say it's only fair."

a breathy chuckle. "that's true…"

there's a hunger to the way he looks at you. a kind of gaze you've learned to associate with filth, desire. he's still smiling, too wide, that golden tooth gleaming in between the yellowish-whites. smells of gin, underneath the tobacco, and something else. vodka? it's hard to tell. his size advantage is stark, when you're thigh to thigh like this — he looks like he could snap you like a twig. looks like he’d want to. one of his hands slithers around your hip, suddenly, squeezes the flesh and lingers just to feel you shudder. his grin widens when you can't withhold it.

(… ough, you lament. one of the brutes.)

with a muttered sigh, underneath your breath, your lips drag themselves up — it's voluntary, takes effort to push back the urge to run from his grip. a perfect smile, sweet and coy, still leaving much to the imagination. a hint of mystery, intrigue —

a glint in your eye.

no room for mistakes. your shoulder still aches, but it's bearable. you’re just about to part your lips, cozy up to him, say a pair of sultry, well-picked words, when —

”may i have him, for a moment?”

a smooth voice cuts in through the fog.

deep, velvety tones, rubbing against your ear drums. sweet and saccharine, honey dripping down your chin; it sends a shiver down your spine, heat to the back of your neck. he blooms in your mind before you even tilt your head to meet his dark gaze, sharp and low-lidded. you can picture him before you even see him. voices carry weight, they always do, but his is special. you haven't heard anything quite like it.

wine and tequila. oil and water.

two voices speaking, all at once.

a tall man is standing just before you, hands tucked into the long sleeves of his haori, gazing down at your touchy customer. it’s the strange, shadowy figure from before. up close, he looks more like a monk; a gojogesa wrapped around his abdomen.

you were right, of course.

he is handsome. 

with greed, you etch his features into your mind, lap it up. a sharp jaw, nose, well-defined cheekbones… obsidian eyes, with flecks of tinted gold, though you can hardly see them under these dim lights, with their narrow shape. pretty, pretty monolids, crescent moons. his hair is the real kicker, though, silky locks that flow down his back and shoulders, stop around his waist. looks like it’s been pampered, oiled and brushed, how lovely. one of his hands slip out, to dust off his sleeve, and fuuuck, they're —

— a grumble resounds to your left.  

”i have him for the next hour. you can piss off,” spits the wild boar next to you, abandoning your hip to curl possessively around your neck. and uh oh, that doesn’t feel too nice. would he get hissier if you pulled away? ”fuckin’ monk.”

catching tells is a skill that takes honing. observing, attention to detail, a reward for one’s attentiveness. you like to think you’re good, very good —

though you only barely catch the twitch of the monk’s left brow. the way his eyes coil into slits.

a hum buzzes in his throat. 

then he’s leaning forward, one big, beautiful hand coming to rest on your customer's shoulder, like he’s using him as a step stool. bending forward to look you in the eye. two abysses, gazing into you.

swirling gleefully.

his lips curl up into a sly smile. ”i’ll pay you double,” he whispers, for only you to hear. ”what do you say?”

for a moment, your breath stills in the back of your throat. that same halting of your heartbeat as before, enraptured by his gaze, hook line and sinker. because he’s close, you can nearly feel his body heat, almost pick up on his scent, warm and rich.

(and, well —)

”… sounds good.”

he rewards you with a smile. crescent-eyed.

”wonderful.”

(you’ve always been weak to a pretty face.)

the man on your left grows silent. stunned, you think, and — oops, he looks pissed. a booming voice spills out, the smoke from his cigar still fattening the air with toxins, making your eyes water. ”hah? that’s not how this works, you gold digging —”

”leave.”

a flick of his wrist. his robes sway, with the motion, like a curtain being drawn shut. the gesture itself is a command; elegant, there's no need for shouting. the way his voice drops says enough, exudes casual dominance, ripe as golden fruit on heavy branches.

a shiver, a phantom hand counting the vertebrae on your spine.

and, naturally — what you expect is a brawl. a very angry customer, one very injured customer, none of them a blessing upon your paycheck this month. casual dominance is sexy, sure, but not much else — it won't save you from a fist kissing your teeth. and, well, just going by the size of their arms alone —

… the man on your left stands up.

and leaves.

you watch, blinking owlishly as he heads for the exit, steps measured — controlled — as if guided by a puppet string. the thought makes your shoulder itch. the bell rings out, across the lounge, a pleasant chime. he's gone, he actually left. just like that.

one moment of silence, and then a breathy exhale.

"i hope you don't mind," comes a tender voice, softening, woven with silk. "but you seemed a little… uncomfortable."

the stranger takes the now empty seat, but keeps his distance, hands still tucked comfortably inside his sleeves. robes fluttering with the movement, spilling across the leather cushions and draping down to the floor. they look expensive, well made, not cheap cosplay or an elaborate joke — is he actually a monk? at a host club? sounds like the headline for a trashy porno. black hair frames his face, a single silky bang, and you can't even really call it odd because everything about him is already so out of place.

your mind spins with questions. but he's handsome, and he chased away what you're sure was the beginning of a really bad night —

a smile slips onto your lips, cheshire-esque. your eyes crinkled at the edges as you breathe out a chuckle. "no, not at all," you purr. "thank you, kind stranger."

smoothly, you cozy up to him, your thigh ghosting his own, hand about to curl around his bicep — just to feel his build, from under all those layers. he doesn't let you. doesn't say a word, but his brow twitches, a silent tell to back off.

so you do.

(maybe he's one of the look, don't touch types? some kind of power fantasy?)

you don't mind. smile still sweet, your expression doesn't falter. it's fine, this distance is tantalizing in its own right. like he's a painting on the wall, or a holy sculpture — something you'd get in trouble just for smudging with your fingerprint.

the handsome monk remains silent. watches as you fix your blouse, absently, it's in your nature to adjust to the whims of whoever you're servicing. a few buttons are undone, the fabric only covers one of your shoulders. exudes anything but elegance. your fingers curl around the fabric, ready to fish it back up.

that's when he speaks.

"do i not strike you as the promiscuous type?"

it's half a question, half a jest. there's a gleam in his eye when you meet it, something like a silverfish in a pool of dark water. an amused smile on his lips. his voice is light, and you can't help but mirror his expression — something slightly devilish.

"oh, are you?" you grin, tongue swiping against the back of your teeth, tasting the faded cocktails, a spark of syrupy flavours. "i'll leave it as is, then."

your fingers part with the soft linen, reaching instead for the empty glass on the table. putting it to your lips, sipping up what little has melted off the ice cubes, excess. then the clink, and you're turning towards him, smiling with a tilt of your head.

"what would you like to order, handsome?"

a quirk of his brow. "saké," comes his answer, flat.

"classy."

"is it, now?" he doesn't seem impressed. gazing at you with something familiar, but you can't pinpoint it. even though it's right at the tip of your tongue.

no matter, no matter. the sensations of this world have already tainted what remains of your common sense. "and can i get a name, with that order?" you ask, instead, raising yourself up into a standing position; ready to go grab his drink.

"geto," is all he says. smiling, but it's surface level; almost mocking. "just geto."

夏油. summer oil.

you think of autumn, bleeding sunsets. bottles of whiskey poured into a boy's waiting mouth.

(suddenly, you feel like weeping.)

"that'll do, that’ll do.” you give him a wink, before heading for the bar. before you know it, you're pouring the saké into his cup, the scent of fermented rice soothing the sting of tobacco still biting at the back of your throat. old and expensive, your nose picking up a roasted fragrance, fruity undertones.

geto didn't seem intimidated, by the price. you suppose he wasn't joking when he said he'd pay you double.

"how is it?" you ask, maintaining a distance while watching him drink. his eyes are closed, in what you hope is contentment, lips cupping the rim as he sips.

"… good," he hums, appreciatively, swirling the cup in a controlled motion, a gentle vortex. "no, not bad at all. i suppose money really does pay for service…"

another sip. your gaze drinks in his hands, practically dwarfing the cup, thick fingers keeping it safe and steady. would he hold your hips, like that? make sure you stay afloat? or would he drop you to the floor and watch you shatter…?

"are you really a monk, geto-kun?"

"san," he corrects, a cut of his tongue. he's smiling, though. it's hard to tell if he's genuinely bothered by the prefix. "and yes, i am. does that surprise you?"

"a little," you admit, pouring the beverage into your own cup. you watch it fill, swirl around and shimmer, letting out a humoured breath. "i mean, it's not often i get to service a holy man…"

a low noise, almost a snort. eyes of burning cedar flit to your face.

"mm, i see. your usual customers are more of the barbarish kind, are they?" he leans back, keeping eye contact, voice like the weights of a scale, judging. he tuts, quietly, a click of his tongue. "that's not good, you know. men like that don't know how to treat what's fragile."

"fragile?" you laugh, can't help it, teeth gleaming under dim lights.

"yes."

teasing words die on your tongue. something like, maybe i can take more than you think? but no, it's gone, sputtered out somewhere between your gums. because geto says it like he's talking about the weather.

like it's not a challenge; like there’s nothing to prove.

like it's fact.

(you're fragile. you'd break under pressure.)

"… if you say so. anyhow…" you lean forward, a pang of heat flashing against your nape when you catch his lips twitching upwards. "what temple?"

geto breathes out a chuckle, sweet saké on his tongue. "why?" he asks, raising a brow, hand coming to rest against your skin. you remain still, as he drags a thumb against the smudge of lipstick right below your throat. the sudden contact does something to you, makes you pliant, like a kitten being lifted by the scruff. "you don’t strike me as the devout kind. could it be you just want to see me hard at work?"

dark eyes crinkle with mirth — your heartbeat sputters like a firefly crushed under a boot. ah, his voice is like a balm to your ears. honeyed vowels, spinning a sticky web in your mind, just the slightest hint of a rasp underneath. it sneaks into his speech, makes him sound like a sexy dad, and you're screwed, you realize — totally and completely.

"maybe," you say, playing coy. "can't i?"

"i'm not sure how my congregation would feel," he hums, gazing down into his cup again. tapping his fingers against his knee, rhythmic, from forefinger to pinkie. "a little thing like you, hanging off my arm during a sermon…"

another hum, as if he's tasting the thought on his tongue, but you get the feeling he's mostly trying to tease you. a perfectly still smile on his lips.

"i suppose you'd make for good eye candy."

"oh, i’d be honoured to."

this time, his smile feels somewhat genuine, the golden glow of the bar lighting his eyes on fire, makes you think of his name and all its flavours. honey, whiskey, bramble berries eaten under summer shades. he grins, just barely, and your shoulder aches again. pangs of pain, sparks of pleasure. makes you want to lean right in.

makes you crave more.

you drink with him, or more like you watch his measured sips, because for once you don't want your mind completely sullied, want to remain at least slightly lucid, enough to hold a conversation without embarrassing yourself. it pays off. geto is intelligent, well-spoken, an intellectual. absolutely morbid. he stays for an hour, take it or leave it, but it feels like dusk has already bled into dawn by the time he’s gone, everything blurring together until he's all you can see. his pretty lips, the cupid's bow above it. silver tongue peeking out with every syrupy word.

when he stands up, you’re expecting him to ask you to accompany him. tempted to ask yourself. but he tells you of business he must attend to, with graceful poise, as if cutting a firm line between himself and this establishment. him and you. you know that tone, it's like a boyfriend telling you to not be clingy while he's working. a sense of overstepping.

another smile, and then he's leaving. you get the feeling that it falls as soon as his back is turned. call it a gut feeling, but liars know each other like the back of their own hand — and so-called perfect men are always wearing one mask or another.

it doesn't matter, either way. your heart still clenches pitifully, when the bell of the store sings its tune. you watch his back until it's no longer visible.

and then you exhale a sigh. left alone, with a half-full bottle of saké and a strange sensation in your bloodstream, something that pulls and tugs restlessly at the nerves of your brain. muddied, but somehow clear, the room not so blurry anymore.

you feel cold.

(the pain in your shoulder is gone, too.)

fingertips trail along plasticized polystyrene.

cup ramen, stacks of surimi sticks, and a can of beer. you eye the products in your arms, silently counting up the price. it's dark out, the lights of passing cars and the city illuminating the world beyond your local konbini; occasionally, the store's bell will ring, but otherwise it's silent. you're spent. you need this, an unhealthy midnight treat, you deserve it after all the drinks you poured last night.

this world, the real world, is different from the host club. less flashy.

depressing, really.

your feet carry you to the freezer, to eye a bundle of honeydew popsicles. you could eat one on the way back, but by then it'll have melted — you could eat it before slurping up the ramen, but that would make you feel even more like a mess. hair a mess, face a mess, bags under your eyes and a hoodie draped around you, sweatpants and sandals. you can't be bothered to perform on a day off. couldn't be bothered to put on makeup, give the cashier anything more than a vague nod on the way in.

there's no one here to see you like this. no one to see you at all. you're allowed a moment's respite.

"my, my."

…

a voice rings in your ears. you stiffen, standing by the freezer, staring at popsicles and tubs of ice cream; a shiver trailing down your spine. a familiar, familiar voice — honeyed, the slightest hint of a rasp.

and when you look up, you see them. eyes of rusted gold.

sharpened into crescents.

"what a pleasant surprise." he tilts his head, bangs gliding along his skin. "out shopping this late?"

fuck, it's him, it's actually him. of all the people —

"sure am," you exhale, smiling wearily. peering up at him through droopy eyes; fatigue clinging to your voicebank. "are you stalking me, geto-san?"

a chuckle bubbles past his lips. he's still wearing the same robes, eyes gleaming, lips curling up and exposing pure white teeth. "ah, you caught me."

you can't even tell if he's joking. but you breathe out a matching chuckle, as he steps to the side, walks towards another aisle, passing you by. your eyes follow his broad back, trailing after him — ice cream can wait for another day — until you're taking up the empty space at his side. his hand slips from out his sleeve and reaches for a wakaba brand pack of cigarettes, cream-coloured, his fingers flexing as they curl around it. a blink, your lashes fluttering, ravens taking flight from a lamppost outside.

"… you’re a smoker?"

an absent hum. "oh, yes. occasionally."

when geto walks up to the counter, you follow. still carrying your hastily chosen snacks, digging up your wallet from the pocket of your sweatpants, ripping it open with your teeth. you give him a glance while the cashier scans your items, one after the other. "isn't that, like… against buddhist values, or whatever?"

"i'm not buddhist."

beep, beep. you swipe your card, still staring at him out of the corner of your eye.

"… huh."

he clicks his tongue. "i dabble in… a religion of my own making," he adds, smiling. "one could say."

the cashier bows. you return it, gathering your products, turning on your heel to scope out the tables by the windows. not one seat occupied, that's good. you walk towards them, a hum on your tongue.

”sooo… you're a cultist?"

just a joke, to lighten the mood. geto only chuckles, doesn't answer — when you turn your head he's looking at you like you just said something funny.

it shouldn't put you ill at ease.

(you’re fascinated.)

the view from where you plop down to stretch your weary legs is soothing, familiar, twinkling stars dimmed by light pollution and cars whooshing by, blinking street lamps, a river running farther ahead; from the old train station to a faraway clearing of woods. the night sky is vast and wide, the moon hidden behind a cluster of blue clouds. a word sits on the back of your tongue and stays there, heavy like lead, you swallow it while tearing the plastic off your ramen — geto takes a seat besides you, rests his elbows on the table and watches you, chin poised against the heel of his palm. robes hanging off the small chair, meeting the floor. a puddle of ink.

a minute passes. you pour hot water into the cup, crack open the can of beer, exhale when your fingertips meet cool condensation. then you take a swig, throat bobbing gently. geto watches. waits.

"did your business go as expected?" you ask, finally, peeling back the lid of your meal as steam wafts into the air. smells of shrimp and tom yum, the noodles swimming in foam. just about done.

"it did, yes," geto responds, closing his eyes. "did i leave you wanting?"

the bell jingles. a glance in the direction of the entrance tells you it's a group of schoolgirls, out past their bedtime. anxiety swirls in your gut, gnaws at your fragile ribs, little fish nipping at strings of seaweed. they shouldn't be here this late, but what can you do? nothing but stifle it, chew at a surimi stick while breaking apart your chopsticks — the moon peeks out, briefly, paints the city blue.

and, well.

he did, but that doesn't mean he has to say it.

"you wish," you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

”hm… should i be flattered?"

you bring a mouthful of noodles to your lips, slurp them up with fervour. a series of beeps resound behind you, idle schoolgirl chatter having died down into hushed whispers. you can't see them, your back turned, but you could wager a guess as to what, or who, they're whispering about. it makes you chuckle through the bite, which makes geto stare at you.

a quirk of his brow, his upturned lips. he tilts his head, lazily, a wilting bud.

"it's just —" you swallow, failing to stifle a humoured breath. leaning forward, to sip at the beer can, just to feel the burn at the back of your throat. imagining yourself and him, from an outside perspective — a shady, hooded guy eating cheap ramen with a monk. "this probably looks like an intervention."

geto hums. doesn't laugh along.

"it could be."

a spark of body heat, hints of bergamot and incense. he's leaned closer, close enough that everything else feels like a shadow, you're encapsulated in his gaze, hidden by the curtains of his robes and silky hair. it sticks a pin inside your heartbeat. falls to the floor with a clatter. he's close, and he smells good, and you're sleepy.

and his voice ghosts the nape of your neck.

"do you need a cleansing, my dear?"

a deep, rumbling purr against your ear. there's the rasp, the baseline, the moment where your mind shatters on the konbini floor. it echoes, thrums under your skin, makes heat gather in your abdomen. for once, he's being serious, you know what people sound like when they want you to be theirs for the night. when you meet his eyes, it's even more clear.

deep pools of desire.

geto stands up. dusts off his robes with steady hands, gives you crescent eyes and a sly smile before turning on his heel. broth clings to your lips, the taste of beer, you've barely touched the surimi. your limbs feel tied up in knots, strung along by a puppeteer.

and you follow. 

he could be a murderer, for all you know. a serial killer. maybe he'll take you to some shady love hotel, wrap his hands around your neck, say something about sin before twisting with all his might — you think of all the threats you've heard over the years.

but he’s handsome. beautiful, like this, when you’re a little tired, a little too sloppy to act well. a mess, you must look pitiful, but he wants you. he wants you, he's fascinating, looks like an angel when the light hits just right. if it brings his hands upon you, would sinning be so bad? it's too late, you've already stood up, there's no need for a wager when the loss is just as sweet. you follow; follow him outside, to where the stars barely twinkle and crisp air cups your cheeks, follow him until your heartbeat is racing so fast you can scarcely hear his voice.

messy sheets, steady hands, golden eyes.

that’s the first time you sleep with him.

geto is… an odd guy.

a month has passed since your first meeting. a handful of nights spent under covers, or dim lights, at a host club he's become something of a regular at — though it never takes him long to bring you to a different, emptier bar. he waltzes in with his fancy robes, pays no mind to any of the other hosts — you know they're jealous, too bad for them — and calls you over. doesn't even need to speak, the moment your eyes meet his you're already walking his way. he pays well, buys expensive bottles of saké, brings you with him when he's gotten bored of sneering at the other guests. it’s always just a matter of time.

everything about him spells disaster — spells out something like poisonous berries, or rotten cadavers on an open fire when you’re on the verge of starving.

something a little too good to be true.

he's good in bed, for example. very good. if the monk shtick wasn't already so ridiculously out of place, you're sure it would have shocked you even more — how he knows exactly what to do, where to touch, how to explore the crevices of your body like a lock skillfully broken into, solved, elegant twitches of metal before the door knob loosens. geto is weird, probably a cult leader, but god, is he good at sex.

it's been a while since you felt so truly satiated. every part of your body tended to, filled, ruined and stitched back together again; your mind successfully turned off, painted blank, only blissful clouds and cotton left in your skull by the time he's done. when he steps into the dim-lit lounge, you know you'll be sleeping well into the morning. you know you'll get to see the way his biceps flex and twitch, the tattoos on his back and shoulder, paintings of ink, red flowers and white dragons — that you'll get to feel his weight and see into his brown eyes and paw at his chest, plush and fat, gape at the thick set of scars carving an x inbetween them. the body is a temple. you've never truly understood that, not until now.

not until him.

and it's silly. stupid, naive; it's never good to get a crush on someone who's made what he wants from you abundantly clear. your little arrangement is set in stone — no will he won’t he, no second guessing.

but no one has ever treated your messed up body with that kind of reverence.

so, forgive you for having a bit of a crush on the weird, perverted monk guy. forgive you for being deliriously predictable and easy. for being a little enamored by the way he keeps his distance, how your wants fit together so perfectly — bodies pressed together, minds lodged apart. no strings attached, only sweat and sex and chemicals making a mess of your muddled brain. he wants nothing more, you want nothing less. he pays no mind to the pills on your nightstand, you don't ask about the scar.

it's a silent give and take. he's handsome, takes only a little more than he's given every time. you've found you don't really mind. he's not insatiable, just greedy.

and, well. you've always been eager to excel.

(always the type to get caught up in a backdraft.)

"goddd, that fucking shift…"

a wince twists your throat, spills out when you crane your neck and stretch your limbs above your head — waiting for a crack that never comes. try as you may to get the knots out of your joints, the ache remains — your nerves frazzled, wrists bruised from one too many rough grips, fatigue sticking to your bones. geto sits on a couch in the corner, watches as you slump onto the bed, limbs like dead weights.

"… i need a raise."

a breathy chuckle. "do you, now?" he asks, a glint in his eyes like the cityscape outside. this view isn't bad, your hotel room a few stories high, overlooking the empty streets. ”and here i thought my tips would be more than enough to keep you afloat…"

"well, afloat…" you murmur, shutting your eyes for a moment — voice carried by a sleepy rasp. "i'm afloat. but don't i deserve more than that?"

"do you?"

you can practically hear his smile. he loves that, answering a question with another question. you think it's insufferable, and somehow still enough to have heat twisting in your gut. "i do," you groan. "believe me, i do."

geto hums, absentminded. you can hear the turning of paper-thin pages, a newspaper left for guests to flip through. with a sigh, you raise yourself up on your elbows. "and god, that dick… i swear he tried to throw me under the bus today.”

flip, flip. "who?"

"you've seen him… you know, the tacky guy?" weary limbs move across silken sheets, help you into a sitting position, so you can gaze at him properly. black hair, firm facial lines, big, beautiful hands. that's your geto. "cheap dye, piercings? looks like he's got a rich daddy?"

"what kind?"

his wry response pulls a chuckle out your lips. "both, probably." you mutter. "ungrateful little shit…"

finally, geto lifts his gaze. pools of amber, sloshing summer oil, burns on your hands and neck. he meets your eyes with a calm glint in his own, setting the newspaper back on the table in front of him.

"i don't know who you mean," he smiles, and you think he must be lying, trying to avoid work talk — either that, or he really does only pay attention to you. the thought is sweet, intoxicating, too good to be true. ”but i take it he's giving you a hard time?"

a scoff.

"understatement of the century…"

slowly, he uncrosses his legs; lets his sandals meet the carpented floor, and stands up to his full height, before walking over to your place of rest. you watch him, lazily, eyes never parting from the swooshing of his heavy robes, the way that he moves, like he's following a path carved just for him. you've met men who take up space, who do it like it's easy, like it’s their birth right — this is different. his steps are not heavy, loud, nor flashy. he moves quietly, like a serpent, a mesmerizing slithering across the floor. geto stops in front of you, and tilts his head; slips a smile onto his lips. crescented, a half-moon.

”would you like me to take care of him for you?”

(it lights up his expression.)

”… take care?” you echo, blinking sluggishly. ”what, you gonna kill him?”

”would you like me to?”

…

a hum. you stare off into space, for a moment; feeling his gaze weigh you down and split you apart, he doesn't need his hands for that. it's a tantalizing proposition — you can't tell if he's joking, but you know he likes it best that way. you also know your job would be a whole lot easier without a little brat messing up your monthly quota. ”kind of.” it slips from out your lips, a deadpan reply.

and a chuckle rumbles in his throat.

"he really is bothering you." his smile splits itself further, white teeth showing for a second before he laps over them with his tongue. "i suppose i'd be doing you a favour."

you snort, raising a practiced brow, meeting his gaze head on. "what, did you think i was exaggerating? lying? i'd never."

”of course you wouldn’t.” he exhales, a husk to his breath — amusement buzzing behind closed lips. "there'd be no need. you're easy to read, after all."

(ouch.)

the comment has you wanting to laugh, call him a dick, roll your eyes in a show of discontentment. what a callous thing to say to such a dedicated actor.

then again, you haven't been doing a very good job of it, recently.

to geto, you must be nothing more than a fruit wanting to be peeled. he undoes your layers with ease, and it's humiliating — irritating — has warmth blooming under your bones. grime doesn't dissuade his appetite, after all. there's no real need for acting. not when he looks at you just the same regardless. not when you're fairly sure he wouldn't so much as stir, even if you killed someone in front of him; he'd listen to your reasons, your motives, not saying a thing. he'd look into your eyes without flinching.

geto probably knows how empty you are. you don't think he minds; think he might even prefer it. you think you could tell him anything, but you won't.

(you have some pride, after all.)

”i think you’re the only one who can see through me at all," you admit, words coming out softer than you meant them to. a slip of the tongue.

for a moment, you regret your words. avoiding his gaze, though you feel it searing into your skin, the tip of a cigarette burning tender flesh. the hotel room is quiet, the cityscape glitters and gleams, sways softly in a dark night, a shattered mirror world. geto hums.

”keep it that way.”

his voice drops, an edge to it — a jolt down your heartbeat. there it is, the edge of a kitchen knife making itself known. the words make your throat run dry, a few seconds where you can only feel the air leave your lungs, enter, leave again. but you plaster a smile onto your lips and meet his eyes. perhaps a little too cheery to be convincing. ”… yes, sir."

you're being studied. your flesh is being cut into. soon, he'll dig into it with hands and limbs, more than just his eyes — soon, your ribs will split apart to make room for him. and his gaze carries all of this, it's like he's telling you himself. eye to eye communication. his cornea tells you there's nothing you could hide from its all-seeing gaze. you're inclined to believe that; doesn't make any it less terrifying. exhilarating.

geto seems pleased.

when he leans in, you aren’t ready. a stutter building in your throat. close, close, now you can smell the green tea off his breath, dried leaves and boiling water, like the pools in his eyes, rising steam, his breath ghosting your lips. he's going to kiss you.

how rare.

”easy to read," he repeats, voice a quiet whisper, gravelly against your ear. "and easy to trick."

a gasp. a sharp jolt, a spark of pain burning down your spine, your chest — your mind works overtime to catch up to the sudden sensation, lost in his voice and his gaze and his warmth — he just pinched your fucking nipple. the burn blows your eyes open, parts your lips, his thumb and forefinger applying pressure through your thin shirt. it hurts, not letting up.

and geto smiles. light and easy.

”… and sensitive.”

it's a dull remark, like he's still reading from the newspaper, listing off this weekend's weather patterns. heat blooms in your gut. you feel like something small, molded just to fit his hands, waiting to be exposed and split into halves. it's humiliating, to be seen, you're not sure if you want to flee or stay right here — if just the weight of his palms make up for the sting accompanying them.

”… just for you,” you hear yourself speak. a hitch of your breath, yet you force the words out, mustering a smile — sleazy, flimsy, as long as it looks convincing it’s fine. you won't make it easy for him. not today.

but geto smiles. the corners of his eyes crinkle like ginkgo leaves, melted gold, like he knows something you don't. a slow, delighted exhale. "idle flattery won’t save you, this time.” he tuts, and twists, waiting for a jolt. ”not when it’s so obvious.”

a strangled wince claws at your lips, but you swallow it down — inhale, exhale, try to steady your breathing, try not to shiver or pull away from his cruel grip — geto watches your silent endeavors, your attempts at staying afloat. you expect him to laugh.

instead, he cups your chin. tilts it up, up, up, until you're looking into his abyssal eyes, baring your bobbing adam's apple, your vulnerable throat.

he looks admonishing.

"tsk, tsk. whatever shall i do with you?" he clicks his tongue, a chastising purr to his voice. "so careless with your body, but dishonest about what it wants. are you ashamed just to live, darling?”

an involuntary gulp. the question makes your heart constrict, a guilty twist. sends a pang of pain into your veins, a downward tug at your lips, has you falling silent.

a moment where you cannot fully hide the pain in your expression.

(shah mat.)

geto tilts his head, then, silky bangs across soft skin, a flicker of satisfaction in eyes like golden fruit. ripe for plucking. he graces you with a smile, the branches of his lips curling up, up, blooming like a grotesque flower — like he knows exactly what you're thinking. like he knows you, in and out, like he's already seen every ghost in your skull, tasted them on his tongue and taken them down his throat.

there's no scaring him off.

at last, he lets you go — takes a moment to get seated on the edge of the bed, and pats his lap. a heavy hand, a silent cue. you lick at the back of your teeth, savouring the burn his fingers leave behind.

"come here," he croons, as if taking pity on you. ”let me give you some relief.”

he doesn't have to ask you twice.

so you end up beneath him — you always do — his weight bearing down on you, big hands dwarfing your hips, heated pants and the creaks of a worn out mattress echoing in the empty hotel room. a cacophony of filthy noise, skin on skin, bone on bone, you've done it all too many times before. he's so close you wonder if you've morphed together. so close you don't know where he ends and you begin.

geto inhales, heavy, a dark look in his eyes.

"maybe i should just buy you off," he rasps, breath hot against you, sweat dripping down his brow, "keep you at my temple… always within reach."

any ability to speak has left you, at this point, any coherent method of speech. you can't say anything — not, hey, that’s a pretty fucking strange thing to say, or — you would have me entertain a bunch of monks? seriously? not even yes, yes, please, i don’t want anyone else to ever see me like this again. i don’t want to be ruined by anyone but you.

only a breathy whimper makes it past your lips. it makes him chuckle, into the hollow room.

(and he’s gone again, the morning after.)

geto would not consider himself a fickle man.

every action has a consequence. every choice must be weighed, considered, carefully plucked apart.

there is value in the act alone. weight is synonymous with heart, and geto, despite himself, cannot help but cling to his; worn out as it may be, soiled with fingerprints. there is weight behind his every action, care. choice means being human. choice means weight, which means heart, which is all he needs.

all this to say — geto suguru does not bet on losing dogs.

how he ended up in the corner of a dim-lit, shady host club is honestly beyond him. a grotesque sort of happenstance. the air smells of champagne and cologne, handsome hosts and guests chattering at every table in sight. all of them vermin.

what would his family say, if they knew what he was doing? ask if he's come down with a fever, no doubt. he can practically hear their voices — geto-sama, with a bunch of monkeys? willingly? no way. he could barely take the train to osaka last week! they'd be right, that's what grates him — that he's sitting there, and people-watching, still entirely uninterested in choosing his host for the evening. uninterested in drinking. cheery voices, sultry whispers, the popping of bottles and buzz of a karaoke machine. everything is loud, everything sparkling with the mere illusion of glamour.

disgusting. but he stays, only crinkles his nose and soothes his senses with the scent of his own robes, mellow incense. tries not to picture the walls red.

that's when he sees you.

a stumbling, giggling figure, clad in flimsy clothing, reaching for the mic. you're pretty, he can tell even at this distance. but stained, with lipstick and alcohol, a rotten smile on your face — rotten in the sense that it's so obviously hollow. it's only when you part your lips and sing that he is pulled out of his stupor, that his eyes narrow in an attempt to focus on anything else. your voice rings out, like the chime of a bell, clear and bright — the song doesn't match your vocals, doesn't do it justice. you stand on stage, a spectacle, and he cannot bring himself to look away.

(that's how it starts. the beginning of his fixation.)

geto finds himself thinking that he likes the way you look like this. sparkling, glowing, golden rays surrounding you — it creates a crescendo of light, from where he’s sitting, something like a halo, makes you look almost holy. makes him want to laugh, because that couldn't be further from the truth. you're a bug. a bug that gets paid to be of service.

pitiful, he thinks. you're pitiful. you're swaying like a drunk angel.

but your voice carries a longing he finds impossible not to indulge. to gaze at, silently, until your eyes happen to fall across his own, splatter on his brow — a flicker of light, in the middle of a too-small stage. he captures them. keeps them there.

and he swears your smile grows brighter.

(jaws snap against his ribcage. a spider weaves a web of silk.)

darling, vague complaints and fridays. he tastes the lyrics off your tongue, white noise. has already sicked the curse on you, almost on autopilot, call it morbid curiosity. it curls around your shoulder, and yet you do not falter. do not flinch. can you not feel the sting?

this sickness makes me want nothing more than to hurt you.

a smile splits his lips bloody.

everyone else has their eyes on you, follows your swaying, your shimmering skin. he wants to kill them, itches to. leering leeches. but that would surely make you stop singing, so he allows his fingers to twitch without purpose, makes no move to call on another wretched little puppet. listens to you until the song is over, until he can see the pain in your expression. does it hurt, little one? do you finally feel it?

he wonders. but he doesn't ask, even when he has you seated beside him, tipsy, shirt nearly slipping off your shoulder — he pictures your skin smudged, soiled, bite marks and bruises. it does nothing but add to his growing revulsion. his first night with you is over in the blink of an eye; a failure, on his part.

before he leaves the bar, he swipes his thumb across the back of your neck. watches the curse unclench its jaw, unlatch its decaying gums, a sickly purple against your ruined skin. leaves behind sticky saliva, droplets dribbling down your collarbone. filthy. he can scarcely remember why he came, why he stayed. to satisfy his curiosity, his mind supplies, only part-lie. to fill the gap. to see what it's like — men with men, dim-lit glamour, icecubes swirling in glasses half-empty — a useless endeavor. it's cheap, he feels nothing. no real desire. not the burning kind he used to fantasize about, tangled limbs and spit.

… not until you say that.

"you wish," he watches you breathe in the broth, choke on a grin. "i have other customers. not nearly as handsome as you, but it'll do."

he wonders why that's what makes his patience snap. bug on bug, the thought of something rotten catching you between its teeth. the knowledge that you don't mind — that you want it. filthy, pitiful, he feels sorry for your bones and your skin, at the mercy of your heart, swaying to and fro without a thought. feels sickly at the thought that it exists, that it beats.

that the same bundle of flesh slumbers beneath your ribs as his. heavy, weighty; a bleeding lump of flesh.

so he takes you to bed. out of practice, it’s been a while, but if you notice you're a better actor than he gave you credit for. he feels your heart beat against his own — yes, it's there, right there, squirming around. disgust. exhiliration. a way to pass the time.

that's what you are. what this is. he tells himself, in a soothing voice, that it means nothing; that it's not a betrayal, not if he's just using you.

not if you're just a source of warmth on nights his hands feel cold and need something to tend to.

he’s gentle, the first time you sleep together. not as much the other times, but you need it, don’t you? he can tell. you get this look in your eye. like you enjoy being along for the ride, having all thoughts pushed out of your body. it would not do, for him to leave you unsatisfied — sorcerer or not. would not do for his pride, the satisfaction he feels when you bloom in front of him, shatter and curl into yourself like a rhododendron in the precipice of summer.

what you are is a distraction.

(but you're beautiful, when he unmasks you.)

no, geto certainly is not a fickle man. he weighs his options with care; he calculates; he does not bet on losing dogs. your whines are sweet, though, your mind a lid he wants to uncap. it feels good, to be above you. to see you in your entirety, knowing the other men you sleep with don't get the opportunity, don't care to in the first place. wouldn’t want to.

you haven't been loved properly. he can tell.

"please don't go…"

words aren't necessary. your limbs, wrapped around his waist, say enough. the dew at your lashline says enough. you aren't lucid; it's the most primal part of you, clawing its way out. that says enough.

he soothes you before leaving. makes sure you're sound asleep.

you're his, he thinks, watching your poor body seek solace in silky sheets. feels it seek out his touch when he runs a hand over your hip. you're beautiful, and you're his. those other men don't know how to treat you, but he does. he knows what you need. little things like you should be treated like glass, spoiled —

then broken into splinters.

they don't understand. how could they? horny, mindless apes. he should kill them. slaughter them, for having laid a hand on what he owns. what he bought. he should wrangle their corpses for every set of handprints they've left on your delicate wrists.

he should. he will. their time will come.

one last glance, before he leaves for the compound. when you're bathed in moonlight, sick thoughts cloud his mind; when he wraps his gojogesa around heavy robes, and watches you slumber in the king-sized hotel bed. a dangerous indulgence.

it's something in the way you move. maybe he's always sensed it, maybe that's why he wanted you, the thought often eats him alive after you've slept together. something in the way you move, yes — your disposition, the way you carry yourself — like nothing could hurt you, even though it already has, the world has left its mark on you, he can see it in your eyes. try as you may to conceal it. rot knows rot.

even now, he sees it. something in the way you glow under dim lights. when all that surrounds you is gold, blinding white — he can almost delude himself into thinking that your hair is the same. strands of white, like a summer sky — pink lips and a clear voice —

it reminds him of someone.

honestly, suguru… i think you're the only one who understands me at all.

(he crushes the thought before it can shatter him.)

what you are is a distraction. he repeats it, chews it between his teeth until it tastes like nothing at all. a way to spend the time. wish-fulfillment, maybe, at best — there is no room for anything more. no room to think thoughts like if only you weren't what you are, if only you were like him — no room for second guessing or digging himself deeper into the ground.

he's already slipped deeper than he would have liked.

a shake of his head, and the thought is vapour. he scrubs the image of your sleeping body from his mind; reminds himself, dully, of what you are.

he thinks he can go on, like this. just like this.

there is no danger in the web he's weaved you.

”i wanted to be a singer.”

a gentle breeze, clouds covering the sky. you say it so casually, he’d think you were mentioning the weather if it wasn’t for the sadness in your voice.

you fail to keep it out.

bathed in salty air, clouds of smoke, facing the sea with a forlorn gaze — your elbows rest on the railing overlooking it. a cup of bitter coffee stands on the cafe table behind you, abandoned, left to cool. espresso steam blends with roasted nicotine. tobacco stings your eyes, he’s sure; would you blame your glassy eyes on that, were he to point it out? 

(oh, how he wonders.)

”is that so.”

geto lights his own cigarette. one, two flicks of his thumb before orange sparks at his fingertips — he delights in the jolt of his nervous system, the way it burns. delights in the rush of dopamine that follows, when he inhales, feels it flood his lungs and sting his windpipe on the way out. a heavy exhale, his trail of smoke mingling with your own, in the crisp and solemn morning air. he can't tell which is which.

the world is quiet, here. like you’re the only ones awake. hidden under a bleak sky, murky blue, nearly gray. he likes it better when it bursts with colour, but this is just fine. you look pretty when your eyes lack light.

geto flicks the butt of his cigarette, ash crumbling on his thumb. his voice comes out with a rasp, laced with thick smoke, but it doesn’t waver, deep and silky even still. the air smells a little like disease, but he finds he doesn’t mind it. finds he likes the contrast. polluting an air that smells too much of summer. ”well, you certainly have the vocals for it.”

you let out something like a scoff. it lingers, in your throat, drags against the walls of flesh. 

amused. 

when you turn your head to meet his gaze, eyes just slightly red, smile dipped in sardonicism — he thinks you’ve never looked more lovely. not even beneath him, satin sheets spread out like an altar of worship. 

or an altar of sacrifice. 

sweet as the bite of a ripened peach. 

”do i?” you ask, irony tinged on your tongue. wearing a flimsy smile, that seems to fade the longer he looks at it. he watches your cupid’s bow sway, the drag of an arrow. ”you’ve worn them out, you know.”

a breathy exhale. he hides it with his cigarette, takes another drag just to feel the burn at the back of his throat. he smiles, though, can’t help it. 

”… you’ll live.” and he exhales, air rushing to flood his lungs, greedy. the salt burns more than the tobacco. ”you still have time. it’s not too late to try again.”

a sudden, eerie silence.

”… i don’t know about that.”

he thinks he could love you, just like this.

"i think i might be out of time."

there's a sad, sad look in your eyes. it makes you look older than you are, more weary, like a pillar of salt left to face the sea. hair swaying in the air, gently, tousled locks and pursed lips, a painting just for him. you look tired. you look exhausted, broken down.

something about it makes him soften.

"do you feel hopeless?" he chuckles, a breathy noise, it scatters into the open air and then disappears. "you haven't seen the world. in that sense, you might as well be a child."

smoke slithers from the butt of his cigarette. everything is silent. no scoff, no click of tongues or scraping of nails against ceramic cups. nothing fake, about this moment. time is all you have, he wants to add. there's no escaping it. but he hesitates, for a moment too long, taken by the suffering in your gaze — geto wonders what you're thinking about, with such a blank expression. wonders what kind of pain you must be feeling. you look like you could shatter where you stand, just a sheet of broken glass, or a fish out of water — a lost soul, flecked with seafoam and cigarette smoke — a pretty little thing, watching the sea like you’d like to wade right in. like there is nowhere you belong, nowhere on this earth.

nowhere to seek solace.

he could love you, when you look this fragile. could allow himself a moment to taste it on his tongue, dip his toes into the first syllable. just to feel the chill.

(even just for a little while.)

you don’t bite back. neither of you speak. only the dull scraping of ocean waves fills the empty air.

”i love you.”

you are the first to step over that boundary.

it’s whispered into his neck. broken, quiet, more of a shallow breath than a sentence. so small, so quiet he thinks he must have heard you wrong. words get lost on both of you, when blood is pumping in your ears, through your veins, when skin meets skin. you’re too tired to speak properly, speak at all. he’s being hard on you tonight — couldn’t think clearly, only saw one of your other regulars try to cop a feel, and, well —

that doesn’t matter, now.

”i love you…”

— there it is, again. 

the breathiest, most silent little whimper he’s ever heard. 

(geto inhales. curses himself.

a lump forms in his throat.)

you aren’t coherent, you don’t know what you’re saying. he knows that. of course, he knows that. you’re just trying to stay afloat in whatever way you can. just babbling nonsense into his ears like it'll make him go a little easier on you, like you just want his affection —

he thinks he might throw up. 

moonlight flits in through the window blinds, illuminates his back, lotus flowers blooming where ink meets skin on his left shoulder. the dragon curls around his back, coils up in anger, disgust. curses crawling in his stomach, hot with irritation.

this was supposed to be a distraction. he was never planning to keep you, you're no human — certainly no partner. the tremors of his heart mean nothing, it's all chemical, all a masquerade. you are nothing.

once the fun has run its course, he'll kill you.

that's what he's been telling himself. he'll slaughter you, etch the sight of red blood against satin sheets into his memory, taste the excess dripping down your waist — he’ll drink it in and throw it up.

but you love him.

(you love him.)

geto wants to hate you. 

what he hates most of all is that those words disarm him. peel his skin away, leave only the flesh. he can’t help it, though he tries — a futile endeavor —

”you’re okay.”

a tender, tender, whisper, spilling from his parted lips. when did they part? when did making room for you become as natural as breathing?

”you’ll be okay.”

a weak whimper, nestled against his throat. arms go slack around him, your body peeling itself of guarded skin, allowing him to do as he pleases. so good, so pliant.

(his poor, poor boy.)

geto tastes iron, bursting hot and heavy on his tongue. sinks his teeth into his lower lip, as far as they can go, until the sting itself fades away. keeps going until you pass out, softly, silently, tenderly. kisses your neck, shushes your cries. keeps a big palm on the back of your neck the entire time. rocks you to sleep, as if it's muscle memory.

tender, he reminds himself. when someone tells you they love you, you treat them tenderly, suguru. 

(a burning, rotten memory. his mother’s voice.

he feels like dying.)

once all is said and done, he watches you slumber under blue light. dim, it casts a shadow over your features, but he can still see it clear as day; the creases on your face, the lines of your jaw and cheekbones and the way your chest rises and falls.

for once, he doesn't leave.

instead, geto tucks himself behind you, drags forgotten covers over his frame, pulls you against his warm chest, a mother to her newborn — your sniffle-like breaths safe in the boundary between his throat and sternum. he holds you, and closes his eyes. your heartbeats soften, gradually, in tune with his own, clammy skin sticking together. he wants to clean you. wants to give you a bath, scrub the stains away.

you look so very fragile.

he swallows the bile, and keeps his eyes shut. he can allow himself a moment of pretending.

(but this farce will have to end, soon.)

some days, geto doesn’t miss him at all.

some days, hues of cherry pink and bright-sky blue remind him of nothing more than fruit and summer. on even better days, fruit and summer don’t remind him of boys biting into ripe peaches, or napping in the sun, or tickling his ribs while on the back of his bike until they both tumble to the ground.

some days, geto doesn’t linger in the past. 

(most days, it’s all he does.)

you’re lying in bed, on your side, curled up with your knees against your chest. naked and unguarded, a newborn fawn. he thinks of how your legs shake after a particularly rough session. almost cracks a smile, but he's too tired, mind too tangled up in knots; he didn't sleep a wink last night. can only watch you from across the room, in silent contemplation, map your features into his mind. he feels fondness for you, like this, only like this. (especially like this.) when you’re entirely bare. a freshly plowed field, a peeled fruit, ready to be carved into halves, willing to be split. breathing very softly into sheets left dirtied.

the world has yet to wake, outside the window.

in moments like this, he indulges in the thought. not enough to suffocate, just sting. he pretends that your hair is white, like marble flooring, like specks of dust collecting light. pretends you're in another country, another life, with no weight on your shoulders. the thought tastes sweet — tastes like bramberries and sunlight and whiskey, tastes like a breakfast well-served. a life where meaning frames the world.

but that sunlight makes its way through your shut blinds, one way or another. no matter how tightly he closes them. and, in turn, your lashes flutter apart.

geto closes his eyes, and pretends he cannot see their colour. pretends that they’re blue, blue, blue, a blue so staggering it makes the sky look white.

a blue that dyes the whole world monochrome. 

(if it was him — would he be like this? sleeping soundly, satiated, nuzzled into his chest instead of a pillow? would he be as good as you? as willing to be ruined?

would he want to ruin anyone but you?)

”… geto…?”

you sound surprised. voice a broken tune, raspy and high, like splintered glass. he's bewildered that he finds it charming. that it makes him feel anything at all. you raise your hand to rub at your eyes, groaning softly, twitching like you're having trouble just to move your limbs. geto stands by the door, rests his back against the wall, and watches you. isn't sure how long he's stood there and contemplated leaving.

"… you're still here?"

hope. he can practically taste it, off your breath.

a low click of his tongue. he takes a step forward, towards your bedside, sunshine gliding across his skin, his robes. he's fully clad, no sight of scarring or tattoos, the barest of marks you left when you nipped his neck in your sleep. he won't let you see it.

and he towers above you like a scarecrow on a hayfield.

doesn't say a word. only reaches out to grasp your jaw, palm flat against your chin, trails his hand down your neck. two fingers, dragged between your fragile ribs. neither rough nor gentle. you're pliant, there's no fight in you, a lamb making itself soft for the blade of a dagger. you let him explore you, while a frown threatens to break through his pursed lips — thick brows furrowed together. you don't jolt, or yelp. you trust your body with him. silly, stupid, naive.

can't you see what he's made you into?

"... maybe i should cut your heart out," he breathes, surprised by how sincere he sounds, the shadows that covet his voice. "save us both the trouble. hm?"

that makes you scrunch your nose. eyelids too droopy, too weighty to keep themselves up, they just flutter shut again. oh, whatever shall he do with you?

"… my heart…?" a soft sigh, a noise in the back of your throat, like a cat awoken from its nap. you're mumbling, he has trouble hearing you, isn't sure if you're fully lucid or if you think this is a dream. a yawn spills past your lips. "y'can have it…"

… bare. unguarded. heart ripe for plucking.

any man could steal it. rob it from its branches. you don't seem to understand your own appeal, your true appeal; it's aggravating. your ribs are so easy to peel apart. when someone speaks softly to the confines of your heart, they just fall open, all on their own.

so very guarded, yet trusting even still. so, so eager to let the right one in.

”… you remind me of a friend.”

the words have already left his lips. it's too late, now.

sundrops splatter against your nose, the corners of your bottom lip. he could picture them crimson, camellia and spider lily, grows sick at the thought, a macabre twist of his guts, like he just swallowed something terrible. sunshine frames your expression, the way it shifts in the light, shadows passing by and painting your teeth when you speak. pink gums, pink tongue, swollen from abuse. a flicker of knowing, of remembering, when your pupils dilate; coil into slits.

"… friend?" you echo, a breathless mutter. "or boyfriend?"

geto twitches, from the tips of his fingers. still resting just where your ribcage ends.

they leave your skin, his thumb brushing gently against your navel before parting, a tender feather-like flick. you're sensitive, there; he knows your body like the back of his own hand, sees the shudder that slithers through you before he feels it.

sometimes, he wonders if you know him just as well.

silence. only quiet, quiet breaths. any answer geto could give stays clogged at the base of his throat, full peaches blocking his windpipe, keeping the words from bubbling up and erupting. fuzzy fruitskin against red flesh. he wants to taste the nectar. wants a lot of things he can never have, not in this life.

hey, suguru. peel it for me.

… huh? what's with the attitude?

"it’s complicated, huh."

geto swallows.

"… i suppose it is," he breathes, eyes straying from your own. deep cedar, bright honey, enclosed in globes of amber, finding solace in your sullied bedsheets. will you clean them? would you keep them as is, if you knew you'd never see him again?

what was he hoping for, all this time?

an exhale. you're smiling, you're sleepy, he wonders if your body is still blissed out enough to save you from the heartache. "am i the rebound?" you ask, a hint of humour, stretching your limbs out like a sleepy feline.

a sigh.

"… essentially."

the soft rustling of sheets. your skin is dyed golden, by the silent sun, illuminated against pure white. an altar, marble flooring, specks of dust and sodium light. you let out a little noise, something like a hum. as if struck over the head. a moment passes, and you still, eyelids falling shut. a chuckle breaks your silent death.

"it hurts that you’re so straightforward." sincerity always brings nothing but pain, he wants to tell you. if you'd never opened your heart to me, you wouldn't be feeling this way. if i had never held it in my palms, perhaps i wouldn't be feeling so empty. this is the price humans pay for loving so callously. "you're a pretty cruel guy. has anyone told you that?"

geto smiles. he closes his eyes, and steps away from you; voice a quiet breath of air.

"just once."

there is nothing to be done about a heart of stone.

geto turns on his heel, and does not look behind him.

he will leave. leave, and leave no trace, leave your home untouched, only purple marks smudged across your nape to prove his greed, to prove he ever sunk his claws into your tender flesh. imprints of teeth on your chest. fingerprints on your hips. marks will remain, and fade with time. soon enough, you'll forget about them. he will make his way past the second street, and think of neither you nor satoru.

he will not think of blue eyes, or summer. he will not think of your eyes, bleary with forgotten dreams, lost potential, speckled with what he knows to be love — a word so heavy he wishes he could spit on it. a word he wishes he did not revere.

he will not think of you, even as he crosses the main street with the fountain you like, glittering under a sun just about to break the world into halves. even as he watches a man play the violin by the train station, listens to the thin strings bend and bow just like your vocal chords under the dim lights of a trashy bar he’d never have gone to if it weren’t for you. he will not think of the way you glow.

he will think of nothing, and no one.

"… see you, geto."

(he thinks he’ll be okay.)

[gothsoyl]

*pops into existence*

succubus rio.

*fades out of existence*

┊┊┊⁺ ⁺ DECEMBER CHALLENGE

"Sharp tongue" +18

succubus!rio vidal x reader

word count: 1,3k

summary: you met a strange woman in church and now you see her every night in… tempting dreams

note: I LOVED THIS IDEA SO MUCH sorry it took so long...

you've never been a religious person. you could hardly tell how you felt about all this, but that didn't stop you from coming to church from time to time, just sitting there listening to the whispers of people around and getting lost in your own thoughts. 

you didn't pray or think about the sins you had committed, you didn't go to listen to the pastor and you didn't tell the priest about what happened to you. you just sat and enjoyed the silence, which in this place wasn’t annoying, but on the contrary calming…

“what are you thinking about?”

you flinch in surprise when you hear someone's voice, and immediately raise your head, noticing a woman on the bench next to you. you frown a little, examining her carefully. did you really get so lost in your thoughts that you didn't even notice her? she's been sitting here for a long time.

“oh, just… nothing really,” you shrug and want to look away from the weird stranger, but you can't. there's something about her that attracts your gaze... maybe because she's beautiful? or is there something in her dark eyes that makes you want to get closer and…

“I see you here a lot,” the woman smiles, but you don't feel the warmth from it. instead, a strange chill runs down your back, but even this doesn’t help you – even so, you can’t force yourself to look away or leave altogether in order to avoid an unexpected conversation, “you don’t look like a deeply religious person.”

“and how did you figure that out? do I need to sit in a monk's uniform?” you arched an eyebrow slightly, finding this woman's comment (what's her name anyway?) strange. some part of you, for some reason, was ready to be told off for sitting in church just like that, “and by the way, this is the first time I've seen you, too.”

but, instead of answering something, the stranger chuckled. her lips stretched into a wide and sly smile, and her eyes flashed with something. you still can’t understand what it was. 

“sharp tongue... I like it,” she finally nodded and leaned a little closer, abruptly extending her hand towards you and tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. you were so taken aback by such insolence that you didn't even have time to react in any way. the stranger immediately pulled away and stood up, straightening her long black dress, “see you later, darling.” 

the woman doesn't even give you a chance to answer – she just walks away, leaving you with a strange feeling somewhere inside and with the question “what was that all about?".

you look down and unconsciously brush the hair that her fingers touched with your fingers.

***

you arch your back, feeling her cold fingers slide slowly down your spine, counting every bone.

you wake up in a cold sweat, clutching the sheet under you with your fingers. It was just a dream.

your hips intuitively move towards her hands, and your breathing is so short that your throat starts to hurt.

what's wrong with you? you saw this woman once in church.

her body is pressed tightly against yours and you can feel her hard nipples rubbing against your skin, making you want more. 

how many times have you had this dream? you need to calm down... it's not normal.

she whispers sweet words in your ear, but you can hardly distinguish them. all you can think about is how much you want to feel her fingers between your legs. at some point you start rubbing your hips against her, unable to restrain yourself. she just laughs and bites your shoulder.

you see her every day. at one point you thought it was a coincidence, but you're not sure anymore. she's not here – she's not at your job, she's not at the bar where you're relaxing with friends, she's not at your parents' house when you come to visit them.

“please...” her fingers move in sharp squelching movements, making you moan with every thrust. your walls shrink around her and you grab onto her tightly, your nails scratching her back.

are you going crazy? 

“please, I can't do this anymore...”

it annoyed you so much in the beginning, but the longer you saw her, the more often you moaned in your dreams... the more you began to wish that this time she was real.

“rio, please...”

***

you wake up in the middle of the night. again. 

but not because of another dream with that woman from the church that you called rio... no…

now you clearly feel something cold, at the same time gentle, touching your leg. 

you sit up straight in an instant, looking up and noticing her. 

her lips were twisted in a devilish smile, and her dark eyes were even darker, almost black – they only reflected the small rays of light that oozed from the street lamp.

“what are you doing here? who the fuck are you?!” you don't even notice how your voice gets louder with every word. you practically scream, trying to pull away from her touch, but the stranger just grins, coming closer and sitting on the bed next to you.

“I think you know what I'm doing,” she laughs in a low voice and throws the blanket off you, the cool air touches your bare legs, which you immediately tuck under yourself, “I thought you liked it. you wanted this so badly in your dreams.”

she laughs and you feel goosebumps all over your body. you don't understand what's going on and how she got into your apartment. but what scares you the most is how your body literally screams that it wants to feel her touch you.

“who are you?” you ask again, watching as she studies you from the bottom up, her gaze slides over your legs and stops slightly on your chest, which is heaving so feverishly.

“I'm rio,” she smiles broadly and leans closer again, putting her hands on either side of you and looming over you, “demon... succubus... whatever you want to call it. guess why I’m here?”

she doesn't even give you time to comprehend her words – she immediately covers your lips with her own and you feel the remnants of rationality leave your body. who in their right mind would let a crazy woman who broke into your apartment kiss themselves? who is in their right mind…

you don't think – you kiss her back so greedily, as you’ve been dreaming about it all your life. your body is so soft and supple under her touch. you literally melt when her cold fingers crawl under your nightgown, exploring the delicate skin and squeezing your breasts, forcing you to moan into her lips. 

you lean forward and she doesn't waste time ripping off your clothes roughly and for a second the sound of tearing fabric hangs in the air, but you don't care about that. your tongue dances in her mouth, your body squirms under her, wanting more. 

“not so sharp-tongued anymore?” rio pulls away with a predatory smile, and you breathe fast and deeply, trying to grab the missing air with your lips. her hands are already demanding to spread your legs and she presses her whole body against you, biting your neck and licking fresh hickeys, making you see the stars.

“you need to control yourself,” you try to tell yourself, but you still can't follow this advice when rio's deft fingers start stroking you between the folds, collecting the moisture of your arousal. 

you start whining, start rubbing your hips against her in search of the release that your body demanded. 

“well, well... have a little patience,” rio whispers and the room sinks into moans and wet sounds that make you go completely crazy.

[mehiwilldoitlater]

remember that ask about yuán fèn being able to communicate with sun wukong's spirit, well how bout' u mix it with ur last sad fic and make the reader a reincarnation of that guy's dead wife, not that i also see him giving yuán fèn advice on his relationship and look at them and realize they look at each other the same way he and her past self did

Yuán Fèn never liked to be jealous. He hated it, finding that emotion despicable.

But it was always natural to him, feeling the urge to hide you from every possible suitor's eyes, even now that you were completely and utterly his own. You loved him, and he loved you, that was all.

But he had instincts, and it's complicated to control them or satisfy them when the one that causes this emotion is a spirit that lives in his head.

When did Wukong start to look at you in that way? When did it happen? When he merged with him? When you both vowed each other your loves? Or it was something that had grown with time?

Despite his desire to attack something that was more in his head than outside of it, he had noticed that the looks on the sage's face weren't of desire or longing; they were pityful looks, like those of someone who is regretting something.

A few times I wanted to approach the subject to understand his strange new obsession with observing you, but it was always not the right time or just an avoided matter like many others. His eyes looked at you like some old man that observed the sky that changed towards time, and he wanted to know why.

Like every time he found him there, in the side of his eyes, looking at you. He was sitting on the wooden porch of your new shared house; the sunset colored the sky like the day that he had fought his shell in his mind. You were there, in the distance, playing some games with a few of the small monkeys, laughing and trying to catch them. On the sage face, a small smile.

"I know you're in my head, but I would appreciate it if you could stop staring at her."

He waited for a response from the former king, only to meet silence. He sighed, explaining why he was so difficult. He followed him to his spot on the porch, looking at you falling in the grass while a small monkey had climbed on your chest.

"At least you could tell me the reason?"

"The smile is the same."

Yuán Fèn looked at him confused. He expected everything—some remarks, a stupoid joke—instead he was talking like that now.

"...Same?"

"Yes, the same... I wonder... but if it's true, or the karma it's an amazing thing, or It just love to play dirty games."

"Oh, please!" he burst out, passing a hand on his head. "Spill it out! Tell me and let's get it over it!"

A frown appears on Wukong's face. That was hard to face for many reasons: restment, some shame, some desire to Just don't think about it. But mostly, it was the fact that it was all his doing and it was hard to digest.

"You remember my wife, Kid?"

"The untold story, yes, what about it?"

"And you know how cycles and reincarnation work, right?"

Yuán Fèn looked at him, trying to connect. Once it was done, his surprised expression turned into a sad one.

"But... she came from another world... she can't possibly..."

"That made it worst... She wasn't made to come here, but something still brought her back here, to you...and to me."

"Sadly," he continued, with a grin that showed all of his pointing teeth. "I won't be the one enjoying her! Good for you, guess."

The younger monkey wanted to make a comment about the comment but found himself uncapable to even do that. He felt just a sense of sadness and cruelty in these big schemes.

Once, they were lovers. Now he was just a projection of his mind, and you didn't even know. Was she still asleep? Maybe she just didn't want to see him... Was she still angry or in pain for being put second to the monk? Tò face death for his plan?

He pondered a little... and then he went to talk with you.

///

"Are you sure about it?"

"Yes."

"You're trembling..." His hand caressed your cheek, trying to bring comfort to your unspoken fear.

"I just... I don't want anything to happen to you. And... well, I'm going to talk to him... it's just really a big thing for me."

He knew it was crazy, but something. He talked to Wukong, asking him about it, and he just stayed there, watching buffled about it. He made the Great Sage buffled... That's new...

"I know, it's crazy... But...he would make him happy, I think."

"Well, if it's a way for him to stop his midnight talk with you, then okay! Let's do it! and I watched the Exorcist! So I know what to do in the worst scenario!"

He laughed about it; he really didn't want to know what your plan was in case the thing didn't work.

But he loved you, and he knew that he would let anything happen to you, not even by his own hand...possessed hand.

He took a big breath, closed his eyes, and stratified to concentrate. He needed to clean his mind from every doubt, emotion, and thought—he needed to make space.

A wave reached to him, and he felt like he was going underwater. There was no right, left, up or down, only the void. This is where Wukong belonged, and now... he needed to take his place.

When Yuán Fèn opened his eyes back, you knew that what was in front of you wasn't him. His warm eyes were so fiery that they could set you whole on fire; his kind expression now was stoic, fuelled with an ancient power that could have crushed you any time.

So that was the feeling when you were in front of Sun Wukong.

You tried to look as normal as you could while those two golden and blood-red eyes kept on studying you, but you only felt the urge to run and hide, to call back Yuán Fèn and call you out...but you couldn't, because you too knew that it was important.

"Ehm..." you cleared your voice. "G-great sage? ...Mister SWukong?...whoever lives in my fiancè head? I'm... well, I guess you know me."

His hands grasped you by your shoulder; he held you mid-air, analyzing you with a new look. He was scared; he was shocked. He was speechless. And you were scared—so fucking scared.

"Hold on, hold on, calm down, mister Sage. I don't think it's-"

Before you could really call for Yuán Fèn, you could feel his arms around you, holding you with desperation, like you could disappear. His hands trembled, holding your dress to the point that you thought that he wanted to rip it off. His chest trembled so much... and his hot tears were falling on your shoulder.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, my love! It's all my fault!"

His loud cry, his hiccups, his moan of pain—this pain—this was Wukong pain. After so many years...

"You were right; you were always right! I was mistaken! I just wanted the world to see that we were important and that you were important! But... but I dragged you down. I should have protected you, listened to you, and failed as a husband."

He cried louder, harder, collapsing on his knee and bringing you down with him. So it was true...he wnated justice for himself and his wife, just like the book said...

"My precious one, my only light, my one treasure! I ruined every chance; I ruined you! IO wanted to have our life back, and instead I... lost you again! Please! Plase, I'm sorry!"

You didn't know what to do or what to say—he was desperate. There was no word you could say to a pain that was there, lingering and fermenting for this long. You were afraid to touch him even. You prayed to have at least one idea, one suggestion!

Maybe someone responded... or just gave you the right words to say.

"My beloved..." His eyes widened; your pained expression was so soft in his eyes for his pain and desperation. "There's nothing to apologize...not anymore. We had given the miracle to be found by each other, and I'm grateful for that. I had always loved you, and forever I will."

Your hand gently caressed his pained expression, caressing away those fat tears. His hand stopped you from leaving his face, holding like trying to melt in you.

"Forgive me."

"I forgive you."

"I was so lost..."

"Now we're found."

And when he hugged you, you felt like a weight on your shoulder, like someone pulling him closer.

///

When he woke up, his face just hurt. He couldn't open his eyes without the need to wash them, and he felt like he needed to drink an entire lake. His head on your legs, your hand caressing his hair.

"...What happened?"

"You passed out after crying for hours."

"That explains why I feel my eyes hurt."

You hummed; keep on caressing his features, now more relaxed than ever. He took your hand, placing a kiss on your knuckles. Somehow, this scene seemed nostalgic, like you saw it before...maybe in another life.

Despite the curious thing, you fell into bliss and were at peace with yourself.

@sun-jglim @crimsonflameproxy @everlastingmoonlightsworld

@miraclecherryblossomsblog @certifiedsimpinggalore @sleepingdramaqueen @cromboloni @masksandfeathers

@cinnamonroll-anon @justrandomlypassing @cute-angi @luckyangelballoon @dressycobra7

@naarra @virtualexpertanchor @phoenixeclipse-lmkau @szynkaaa @kirax-the-lazy-girl

@sleepydang @weaverworks @kishimiest @marcu-bug @thepoweroffiction

@riolu4 @angryvampire @s0rr3l @rootin-tootin-morgan @lightlumi

@cleverfeststarlight @anfie01 @tunadunanana @jeminiikrystal @jssy96

[blackknight-kai]

I made it my life mission to send as many asks to you as humanly possible. so...

Tail. Monke's tail right? We talked about this already.. it's cute, nimble, sensitive

So how about our Monke, being the annoying trickster that he is, just playing with us with his tail. and i don't mean like a sex thing

I mean this little menace poking us with it and tickling and generaly being annoying. he also likes to tap our cheeks with it and reader is so used to it by that point that she just mock snaps her teeth and pretends to try and bite his tail. but. BUT one time she's actually fast enough to catch his tail in her teeth and instead of biting down (she would never hurt him) she just keeps it in her mouth and lick it and... you know... she has oral fixation

LMFAO yeah our monkey DO/Wukong is a little shit with that damn thing. He absolutely is a menace. Always using it to tickle or poke you. Might tease you randomly or make you think something is crawling on you with how lightly he touches you with it. Definitely swipes your face with it or tickles your nose. All around obnoxious with it and always says shit like ‘it has a mind of its own’ as he tries to get away with things.

He thinks he so damn cheeky and too quick for you to either catch it stop him from being an annoyance - he likes you so of COURSE he has to mess with you. Your hands are never fast enough and when you snap your teeth at him it just makes him laugh harder and boop you in the face again. Uncaring about your nonexistent threat.

One day you’re sitting and he’s walked by you about 3 times, each one he gently smacks you across the face with the soft appendage and you’re prepared and waiting for the fourth inevitable time he does it. When he does you strike and let out a triumphant noise around his tail as the furry thing stills in your mouth, having caught it between your teeth gently.

You look up at him with amusement and see that he has completely stilled, looking down at you in shock. Absolutely not expecting that you would have caught his tail.

It twitches in your mouth and you put a gentle pressure on it, not enough to hurt him in anyway and he can definitely remove it if he wants. But as you lock eyes a sly grin and idea pops up into your head.

Using your tongue, you lick at the fur in your mouth and gleefully watch as his fur just about stands on end and his eyes widen at the action. His mouth hangs open and a tiny little flush blooms on his cheeks where the fur is thinned out to reveal skin. You lick it again, curling your tongue around what you can in your mouth and a full body shudder goes through him before he reaches out and grips your chin firmly but gently.

You dont let go, instead you smirk around the appendage in your mouth continue to stroke his fur with your tongue. The look in his eye, while shocked still starts to darken and his breaths come a little quicker.

Later, after you’re panting lying on your back after an earth shattering orgasm, you learn that his tail is extremely sensitive. And that what you had done essentially was similar to licking and sucking on his finger, just to a higher degree, sending signals to his brain and waking his cock up. The act of licking his fur too was something VERY intimate, reserved for mate behavior in his kind. You’d essentially propositioned and drove his instincts into ‘mate’ and ‘breed’ mode.

Huh….well…

Curiously you reach out and grab his lax tail, his body stiffens as you stroke it for a moment before bringing the tip to your mouth, keeping your eyes locked on his.

The rumble that leaves his chest as you wraps your lips around the end of it alerts you that yeah, it’s gonna be a long night.

[nellasbookplanet]

Book recs: Queer science fiction, part 1

There is a lot of queer sf out there, and I read a lot of sf. When I started working on this list, I quickly realized it was impossible to include all that I've read and enjoyed in one single rec post. Thus, this is the first of so far three queer sci-fi book rec posts.

A note: queer here does not necessarily mean "guarantee of an f/f or m/m ship with a happy ending", but rather simply a significant presence of queerness. Some of the books feature no romance but has a same gender attracted/trans/a-spectrum lead, or features an m/f relationship with bisexual, trans or aro/ace characters, or simply features a world-building which is heavily queer inclusive in ways that don't always compare to our own ideas of sexuality and gender. I have however disqualified works where the only queer presence is along the lines of "gay best friend" or a blink and you'll miss it confirmation that never comes up again.

Previous book rec posts:

Really cool fantasy worldbuilding, really cool sci-fi worldbuilding, dark sapphic romances, mermaid books, vampire books, many worlds: portal fantasies, many worlds: alternate timelines, robots and artificial intelligences, post- and transhumanism, alien intelligences

For more details on the books, continue under the readmore. Titles marked with * are my personal favorites. And as always, feel free to share your own recs in the notes!

The Light Brigade by Kameron Hurley*

Dietz is a soldier in the war between Earth and Mars - to travel to the battle front, she and her fellow soldiers are broken down into light to be able to quickly travel across space. But something keeps going wrong with Dietz's travels; her memories don't match up with the mission briefs, as she experiences time itself turning in on itself. Is she going mad? Or are the things she's learning skipping through time the truth - and the war that's stealing her life the lie? A mindfuck of a book that's scathing in its critique of fascism and war. Features a sapphic lead but no romance.

A Psalm for the Wild-Built (Monk and Robot duology) by Becky Chambers

Novella. Long ago, robots, upon gaining sentience, simply laid down their work and walked into the wilderness. Long after, a tea monk looking for purpose follows after them into the wilds, where they come across one of the robots seeking its own sort of answers. While not plotless, this story focuses more on character and vibes over plot. Also has a nonbinary main character and features conversations on gender between human and robot.

Meet Me In Another Life by Catriona Silvey*

Thora and Santi are strangers, brought together by a coincidence and torn apart just as abruptly when tragedy strikes. But this is neither the first nor the last time they meet - again and again they encounter each other, as friends, lovers, enemies, family, every time recognizing in each other a familiarity no one else carries. But with every new life, a mysterious danger grows ever closer, forcing them to find out the truth of their connection. This is a puzzle-box of a story that goes some entirely unexpected places in a very wild ride, featuring a bisexual co-lead.

The Archive Undying (The Downworld Sequence) by Emma Mieko Candon

In a world where AI gods sometimes lose their minds and take entire populations down with them, Sunai was the only survivor when his god went down. In the 17 years since, he has wandered on his own, unable to either die or age, drowning his sorrows in drink and men. But his attempts to flee his past comes to a stop as he is forced back into the struggle between man and machine. Featuring some pretty wild world building and narrative techniques, this book will definitely confuse you, but it is worth the experience.

The Paradox Hotel by Rob Hart

January Cole works security at the Paradox Hotel, last stop for tourists heading for the timeport, which allows them to travel to and witness any moment in time. But years of proximity to the timeport has left its damage on January, making her unstuck in time, letting her relive memories of her dead lover even as her sanity slips away bit by bit. As she starts witnessing proof of a horrible crime in the hotel that no one else can see, January must race against her own mind, a killer, and time itself to solve it before it's too late.

A Fractured Infinity by Nathan Tavares

Hayes Figueiredo is a struggling film-maker who wants to finish his documentary, whose life gets turned upside down when handsome physicist Yusuf Hassan enters his life, claiming an alternate version of him is a great inventor who’s sent a mysterious device to their universe. As Hayes gets drawn deeper into the conspiracy - and his feelings for Yusuf intensify - he has to decide just how far he’s prepared to go to win the life and the love he wants. Featuring a very gay and very morally dubious lead, this is a creative and strange read.

Bridge by Lauren Beukes

When she was little, Bridge and her mother Jo used to play a game - one where they traveled to other worlds, inhabiting the bodies of their other selves. Now Jo is dead, and as Bridge is cleaning out her apartment she finds a strange device: a dreamworm, the very thing that supposedly makes inter-dimensional travel possible. Suddenly faced with the possibility that multiverse travel is real, Bridge is struck by a different question: could her mother still be alive? Scifi spiced with a healthy dose of body horror and some absolutely wild twists, Bridge also features a bisexual lead (however this is a blink and you’ll miss it moment) and a nonbinary co-narrator.

The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet (Wayfarers series) by Becky Chambers

Rosemary Harper just got a job on the motley crew of the Wayfarer, a spaceship that works with tunneling new wormholes through space. With a past she wants to leave behind, Rosemary is happy to travel the far reaches of the universe with the chaotic crew, but when they land the job of a life time, things suddenly get a lot more dangerous. A bit of a tumblr classic in its day, this is a cozy space opera with an episodic feel and vividly realized characters and cultures. While pretty light on romance and focusing found family, there is a main f/f relationship.

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon

Life on the lower decks of the generation ship HSS Matilda is hard for Aster, an outcast even among outcasts, trying to survive in a system not dissimilar to the old antebellum South. The ship's leaders have imposed harsh restrictions on their darker skinned people, using them as an oppressed work force as they travel toward their supposed Promised Land. But as Aster finds a link between the death of the ship's sovereign and the suicide of her own mother, she realizes there may be a way off the ship.

Ninefox Gambit (The Machineries of Empire trilogy) by Yoon Ha Lee*

Military space opera where belief and culture shape the laws of reality, causing all kinds of atrocities as empires do everything in their power to force as many people as possible to conform to their way of life to strengthen their technology and weapons. It’s also very queer, with gay, lesbian and trans major characters, albeit little to no romance.

The Left Hand of Darkness (Hainish Cycle) by Ursula K. Le Guin

1969 classic. Genly Ai is an emissary sent to the planet of Winter, meant to help facilitate Winter's inclusion in a growing intergalactic civilization. But he's unprepared for Winter's citizens, who spend much of their time genderless or switching between genders, making for a culture wildly different from that Genly is used to.

Too Like the Lightning (Terra Ignota series) by Ada Palmer*

Centuries in the future, humanity has deliberatly engineered society to be as utopian as possible, politically, socially, sexually, religiously. Written in an enlightenment style and featuring questions of human nature and whether it’s possible to change it, and what price we’re prepared to pay for peace, this book is simultaneously very heavy and very funny, and written in a very unique style. While still human, the society presented often feels starkly alien.

The Stars Are Legion by Kameron Hurley

This book fucked me up when I read it. It’s weird, it’s gross, there’s So Much Viscera, there are literally no men, it has living spaceships and biotech but in the most horrific way imaginable. Had I to categorize it I would call it grimdark military sf. It’s an experience but not necessarily a pleasant one.

The Luminous Dead by Caitlin Starling*

Possibly one of the most unsettling books I’ve ever read, and definitely the most claustrophobic. Gyre, a caver on an alien planet, ventures into the dark and dangerous underground, guided only by a woman who has no compunctions on using and manipulating Gyre as she sees fit to obtain her secretive goals down in the caves.

Escaping Exodus (Escaping Exodus series) by Nicky Drayden

While my feelings on Escaping Exodus were mixed, it cannot be denied that the dynamic between the two leads and the way they go from childhood best friends to enemies on different sides of a class and power struggle is very delicious. It also features some really cool worldbuilding of living, alien generation spaceships and the human culture that has developed inside them.

The Doors of Eden by Adrian Tchaikovsky*

The Doors of Eden is something of an experiment in speculative biology, featuring versions of Earth in which various different species were the one to rise to sentience, from dinosaurs to neanderthals. Now, something is threatening the existence of all timelines, dragging multiple different people and species into the struggle, among those a pair of cryptid hunting girlfriends and a transgender scientist.

Ascension by Jacqueline Koyanagi

Ascension follows Alana Quick, an expert Sky Surgeon who stows away on a spaceship in hopes of landing herself a job. But the ship and its crew are in deeper waters than she expected, facing threats emerging from a whole other universe, all of them searching for the same person: Alana’s spiritually enlightened sister. Undeniably a bit of an odd read, Ascension is also very creative and features polyamorous lesbian relationship.

Contagion (Contagion duology) by Erin Bowman*

Young adult. After receiving an SOS, a small crew is sent on a standard search-and-rescue mission. But what they find are not survivors awaiting help, but an abandoned site, full of dead bodies and crawling with something... monstrous. No romance, but features one sapphic co-lead and one who can easily be read as demisexual (however this doesn't show up until book two, which has more romance).

A Memory Called Empire (Texicalaan duology) by Arkady Martine

Mahit Dzmare is an ambassador sent to the center of the multi-system Teixcalaanli Empire, where she discovers that her predecessor has died. Trying to protect her home, an independent mining station, from being taken over by the empire, Mahit struggles to find out the truth of her predecessor's death while carrying the voice of his ghost in her head, guiding her as best he can. Light on the romance but does feature a sapphic relationship.

The Outside (The Outside trilogy) by Ada Hoffman*

AKA the book the put me in an existenial crisis. Souls are real, and they are used to feed AI gods in this lovecraftian inspired scifi where reality is warped and artifical gods stand against real, unfathomable ones. Autistic scientist Yasira is accused of heresy and, to save her eternal soul, is recruited by post-human cybernetic ‘angels’ to help hunt down her own former mentor, who is threatening to tear reality itself apart. Sapphic main character.

Dawn (Xenogenesis trilogy) by Octavia E. Butler*

After a devestating war leaves humanity on the brink of extinction, survivor Lilith finds herself waking up naked and alone in a strange room. She’s been rescued by the Oankali, who have arrived just in time to save the human race. But there’s a price to survival, and it might be humanity itself. Absolutely fucked up I love it I once had to drop the book mid read to stare at the ceiling and exclaim in horror at what was going on. Queer in the sense that the Oankali doesn't follow human ideas of gender and relationships, which is mirrored in their romantic relationships with humans. It is, however, pretty dark, with examinations of agency and consent, so enter with caution.

Remnant by Kate Genet

One day, Cass wakes up and finds everyone else is gone. Not dead, just gone, leaving her in a world which nature starts taking back with a dangerous, unnatural speed. But as she tries to survive this new normal, Cass realizes she may not be alone after all - but who else is out there, and are they a threat?

The Scorpion Rules (Prisoners of Peace duology) by Erin Bow*

Young Adult. Featuring a dystopian future in which an AI forcibly keeps world peace by holding the children of world leaders hostage. If anyone attempts to start a war, their child will be executed. Greta is one of these children, kept in a school with others like her. But things start to change one day when a new, less obedient hostage arrives. A unique, slowburn take on the YA dystopian craze, also featuring a bisexual love triangle.

Iron Widow (Iron Widow series) by Xiran Jay Zhao

Young adult. Zetian is a citizen of Huaxia, where mecha aliens are constantly trying to breach the Great Wall. To keep them at bay, couples of men and women pilot so called Chrysalises, giant transforming robots. But the pilots are not equal - the women almost always die, sucked dry by their co-pilots. When Zetian sets herself up to become a concubine-pilot, she does so with the plan to assassinate the male pilot who caused her sister's death. Features a polyamorous main relationship.

Bonus AKA I haven't read these yet but they seem really cool:

Survival Instincts by May Dawney

Lynn Tanner has been surviving the post-apocalypse alone with only her dog for a long time, trusting no one. But when she's forced to travel the dangerous remains of New York City alongside another woman, her priorities are challenged. Is staying alone really the best way to stay alive?

These Burning Stars by Bethany Jacobs

When con-artist Jun Ironway gets her hands on possible proof of the powerful Nightfoot family, controllers of interplanetary travel, committing genocide, she has in her hands a chance of taking them and their monopoly down. But the family and their allies won't go down easily, and sends two brutal clerics to stop her.

Everfair by Nisi Shawl

A neo-victorian alternate history, in which a part of Congo was kept safe from colonisation, becoming Everfair, a safe haven for both the people of Congo and former slaves returning from America. Here they must struggle to keep this home safe for them all.