#REM Cycles game

[alexis-royce]

.

#seemingly mindless figure that grabs you and it phases neatly through solid matter but you maybe don’t #trapped in a room but you know it’s in the one beneath you and it’s piling bodies and you can see bits of hair sticking up from the floor #any way it’s been a bit since I had a nightmare so visceral my body scared itself awake #I’d lay the blame on playing VR horror games yesterday but this horror wasn’t exploratory #very messed up the way you never get closure or an explanation in a dream #just your mind taking full advantage of an REM cycle to say #wouldn’t it be fucked up if this were real? #And the answer is yes #very fucked up #do not under any circumstances put me back in that room please #I had a moral imperative to try to rescue folks in the nightmare but now that I know they’re fake dream plot points #fuck ‘em #The other guy I was trapped with said the figure was ‘growing something’ out of the pile of living human bodies #haha yeah no #no thanks #not going back in there I think I’m getting a cup of coffee now thanks

[catboy-kakashi]

Rules: Tag 10 People You Want To Know Better

Tagged by @lux-requiem !

Relationship status: got a gf 😎

Favorite color: yellow, and sometimes orange! Like a candy corn

Favorite food: chicken pasta salad my beloved

Song stuck in my head: Machine by MisterWives

Last thing i googled: my fellow americans there is ebola in america cat

Time: 8:24 am 😭

Dream trip: honestly? I would love to see ireland

Something I want: to have things stop falling apart long enough for me to finish this damn chapter lmao

Tags: @aphelion-descent, @angelcloves, @kaiju-bone-moisturizer, @secretly-jason-todd, @sobsboy, @assmaster-satan, @goodgluework, @anmadraglas, @inndrid, @headgehug, and anyone else who wants to play along!

#my brain is SO scrambled rn i just woke up in the middle of a rem cycle #help help #​ camtankerous is whining #annsjdjd anyway hi jay thanks for tagging me :] #tag game

[cherry-cola-on-ice]

Slashers with a sleepwalking s/o

AN: totally based off my personal experiences sleepwalking lol asked my friends and family what their favorite sleepwalking episode was.

Jason Voorhees 🏕

Jason is already paranoid AF about you unknowingly wandering into a trap during the day.

But the first time he comes across you in the woods at night? When you should be asleep?

He is not a happy man. Many thoughts run through his mind. Are you trying to leave him? Trying to get yourself hurt? Would you rather die then be with him?

It takes him a good while and a lot of explaining for him to understand what's happening. That your not intentionally doing this. Science shit™️

He sets up a system. Maybe a bell or two. Something loud to let him know where you are. Maybe some trip wires.

Strangest thing he's seen you do: He watched you eat a entire sleeve of saltines while standing in the shower.

Michael Myers 🎃

Michael's seen some shit. So this is nothing. All those years in Smiths Grove have prepared him for this. So you sleepwalk? Cool, his neighbor at Smiths Grove used to eat cockroachs.

That being said, the closer you're relationship grows, the more worried he becomes. What if you fall down the stairs? What if you wander into the road? What if, what if, what if??

He doesn't have the foresight to set up traps, like Jason does.

Uses his fucked up sleep schedule to his advantage and often stands over your sleeping body. Jumpscare.

Will definitely tie a bell on you while you sleep. Totally not a collar what are you saying? Don't make it kinky.

The strangest thing he's seen you do: Put all of the remotes in the refrigerator because they needed batteries.

Thomas Hewitt 🥩

Poor sweet man. You're going to give him a heart attack one of these days.

However, he's probably one of the more better prepared of the lot. His house is set up to keep people in and out. So there isn't much danger you can get into.

Unless he forgets to lock up the basement. Which has happened once. And only once. You were fairly unharmed if not a little traumatized.

Has taken to locking your bedroom door. Also installs like 10 latches. AND puts a bell on the doorknob. And maybe sometimes you.

Look, he's already scared of losing you to somebody else, he doesn't want to have to worry him losing you to you.

Strangest thing he's seen you do: Him, Monty and Hoyt sat and watched you stand in front of the sink for a hour and a half. Just standing there. Menacingly

Brahms Heelshire 🐀

Oh, poor baby is confused. Especially at the start of your situation-ship. You don't know he's there, you just think you're babysitting a doll for a sad old couple. Not their grown ass son who lives in the walls.

The first time Brahms finds you sleepwalking, he's pissed. You trying to leave him, he knows you are. But... did you just snore?? Wait, you're asleep. He feels a little better about the situation.

Until you start walking towards the stairs. Boy's never moved so fast in his life. He knows if he wakes you up it's game over. So he gives you a gentle nudge back to your room.

Now after you find about the rat man in the walls, things are different. Brahms, even in the deepest REM cycle, will never let you go. Man is a koala and you are the tree he's clinging to for dear life. It's almost impossible to escape his arms at night.

Almost makes you sleep in the walls instead of the bedroom so you're safer. Like ain't no way you're getting out of those without him waking up.

Strangest thing he's seen you do: Sat up in bed, complaining about the maracas in your mouth??? He cried.

Billy Lenz 🎄

World's worst caretaker 👑

Especially before yall start dating because, at that point in time, he's still trying to decide if he wants to kill you. He won't lie, he very briefly thought about pushing you down the stairs.

But? After you win him over? Yeah still kinda sucks ass at keeping you from hurting yourself. He'll keep you alive, mind you, just a little worse for wear.

He asked you once if he could tie you down in bed. You didn't like the look in his eyes so you declined. Billy pouted for the next three days.

TBH he might do it anyways. Look he's just trying to keep your silly little self safe, S/O. Get your mind out of the gutter. Haha, jk...unless 😏?

The strangest thing he's seen you do is eat a entire bag of gummy bears while standing outside. He joined you.

Vincent Sinclair 🖌

Another prepared king 👑

His workshop is dangerous. Upstairs is dangerous. The whole town is health code violation. And bby cannot stand the idea of you hurting yourself.

But other then the constant anxiety that you'll some how end up falling off the stairs or falling into the wax or the any other number of things his brain comes up with, he's very level-headed.

Child safety locks. He buys that shit in bulk.

But hey, gives him a excuse to hold you at night. (Vincent, they're literally your s/o)

The strangest thing he's seen you do is stand over Bo's bed, chanting tomato. Bo almost cried.

Bo Sinclair 🔧

Definition of "Look at that idiot...oh wait that's my idiot!"

Honestly, probably the worst. Not like 'let's you just walk around' worst, but more like 'Imma gonna chain you to the bed' worst.

Dude's so scared of losing you, pretty much the best thing that ever happened to him, that his willing to go to drastic matters to keep you safe.

Don't try to explain the science behind it, you'll only give him a migraine. Just let him keep you safe. K, bby?

Bo's gonna lose sleep some nights, he's that scared. No doubt you will wake up to the feeling of someone watching you. Just comfort him, ok?

Strangest thing he's seen you do is sit up in bed and start singing 'Livin La Vida Loca'

Asa Emory 🪲

Number one prepared king™️

I'm not saying he may or may not, kinda sorta perhaps placed cameras around your living situation before you two even began dating. But yeah he did.

So he knows all about the crazy shenanigans you are up to at night.

He reads the books, watching online lectures 👏all👏the👏research. You can bet your sweet ass he knows exactly how to wake you up in case of emergency.

In the same breath, despite how much he does love you, science. Prepare to be studied like a bug under a microscope.

Strangest thing he's seen you do is standing with the refrigerator doors open, telling him how much you love this show.

Norman Bates 🚿

My poor sweet innocent murder bby. He doesn't know what to do.

Yeah, keep you safe, he's got that much down. But at what cost?

The hotel looks like a a daycare center now. Baby proofing everywhere (ask him about getting locked out of the bathroom, it's funny)

Suggested a collar once as a joke, wasn't expecting you to agree. Got flustered. Dropped his cup, maybe got a bone.

Another koala sleeper, so good luck escaping his embrace. Will go as far as following you to the bathroom to make sure you're actually awake.

Strangest thing he's seen you do is sit down in a fake potted plant in the living room and talk about dinosaurs.

#Michael Myers x reader #Jason Voorhees x reader #Thomas Hewitt x reader #Brahms Heelshire x reader #Billy Lenz x reader #Vincent Sinclair x reader #Bo Sinclair x reader #Asa Emory x reader #Slasher x reader #norman bates x reader

[ellecdc]

heyy Elle, could you please write poly!moonchaser × reader where Remus is hurting physically because of the full moon (either before and after) and reader and James take care of him and comfort him

our sweet moonchaser <333 thanks for your request lovie

please note: my requests are currently closed as I finish exams and work through the requests that I currently have.

poly!moonchaser x fem!reader who checks in on them after the moon

This was silly; what were you so afraid of?

Okay, perhaps afraid wasn’t the right word, but the way your hands were sweating and your heart was racing (and your thoughts were spiralling) would suggest otherwise.

You had been with Remus and James for about two months before Remus finally shared his secret with you.

You couldn’t deny that you had a hunch - you’d been friends with the boys for a few years now and were aware that Remus has some kind of affliction that caused him issues approximately once a month that James and the other two Marauders seemed to help him with. That, along with the fact that you were very good at astronomy and tracking moon cycles (which was also very useful in Herbology), it didn’t come as a complete surprise when he admitted to you that he was a werewolf. 

You were glad he had told you, and though he had given you the chance then to ask him any questions you may have had, you only told him you were glad he trusted you.

Now, though? Now you wished you had asked more questions.

Like what the hell were you supposed to do after full moons now?

Before he had told you, he would fall ill for about three days around the end of the moon cycle, and though you would see James in class the day after, he would scurry back to his room citing that he didn’t want you to get sick and was going to go check in on Remus. 

And that had been fine.

Because like you said, you had a hunch.

But now…

Now that you knew, it seemed rude not to check in on him, right?

It would be rude to wait around for your afflicted boyfriend to come and find you after going through relative hell and back, wouldn’t it?

So…you braved yourself to check in on the boys in the infirmary. 

Except Madame Pomfrey had informed you that Remus had been allowed to return to his dorm to rest.

And then you nearly lost your nerve again.

Get it together. You scolded yourself. Those boys would likely love a visit.

And even if they weren’t up for a visit, you had brought some chocolate for Rem; perhaps you could leave them with Sirius or Peter.

You crawled through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room to an unusually (and frankly disturbingly) quiet sight. 

Sirius was lounging sloppily on the three-seater sofa with a book in his hands as Peter sat on a cushion by the fire playing a game of exploding snap with Marlene.

“Hey Sirius.” You said quietly as you approached the long-haired boy. He looked up at your voice and his surprised expression turned into a salacious one.

“Hello there gorgeous, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Peter snorted, though he never moved his attention from his game. “You’re lucky Prongs and Moony aren’t down here; you’d have been walloped good for hitting on their girl.”

Sirius scoffed in faux derision. “That’s what they get for kicking me out of my own dorm, Wormy.”

You felt your face blanche at the fact that even Sirius wasn’t allowed upstairs. What would make you any different?

Stupid girl.

“Come to see your boys?” Sirius continued, unawares of your inner turmoil. 

“Erm,” You started awkwardly, looking down at the silly box of Honeydukes chocolates in your hand. “I just came to drop this off; maybe you can give it to Rem for me?” 

Sirius’ teasing expression softened when he looked down at the box you were holding out to him.

“Sorry doll. Like I said, I’ve been banished. You’d have better luck delivering them yourself.”

You tried (and failed) to hide your grimace as you looked towards the stairs to the boys dorm. “I wouldn’t want to bother them.” You admitted shyly. 

“You misunderstand, L/N.” Marlene commented. “He’s a bother.” She explained, pointing a manicured finger accusatively as Sirius. “They’d probably cream their pants if you walked in right now.”

“Ew.” You, Peter, and Sirius chorused.

“She’s right though.” Peter agreed, grimacing at Marlene for her rather uncouth comment before turning to look at you. “Pad’s is the only one who was thoroughly banished from the room; I’m only down here because I didn’t feel like third-wheeling.”

“Yeah, I wonder why he was banished.” Marlene muttered sarcastically as she returned to their card game.

“Why were you banished?” You queried, causing Sirius to roll his eyes.

“They accused me of being a menace.” He drawled; the end of his sentence punctuated by a small explosion on the opposite side of the common room which covered a few third year Gryffindor’s in a fluorescent blue powder. 

Sirius - gods love him - didn’t even flinch as he held your eye contact “I never said the accusations were unfounded.”

“Go on; check on your lover boys.” Marlene encouraged, shooting you a wink.

You took in a shaky breath and offered them all a smile before making your way upstairs. 

Trying to be as quiet as possible, you knocked gently on the door alerting the boys to your presence before pushing the door open and stepping inside.

You could make out two forms curled up on Remus’ bed. James’ back was turned towards you as his slightly wider frame curled protectively around Remus’.

James turned to look over his shoulder at the disruption with an expression far more stern than you think you’ve ever seen on him, but it softened astronomically when he realised who had entered.

“Hi there!” He whispered brightly, causing Remus to stir. “I was just about to tell Pads to get fucked; this is a nice surprise.” He said as he extricated himself from Remus’ bed and began to make for you. 

“Who is it?” Remus’ voice could be heard muffled through the blankets he was holding over his head. 

“It’s your dovey, Moons.” James said as he pulled you into his chest and pressed a kiss into your hair. 

Remus sat up - likely too quickly in his current state - to see for himself.

“Hi lovie.” He whispered in awe; as if seeing you was some miraculous feat.

“Hi Rem. I’m sorry to bug you, I just wanted to-”

“No!” Both boys interrupted you, causing James to laugh.

“No, you’re no bother; of course not. Com’ere.” He said as he threw his legs over the side of the bed and opened his arms as an invitation for you.

Not needing to be told twice, you accepted his embrace and he pulled you into his lap.

“I won’t stay long.” You whispered up at him as James joined him beside the bed to look down at you.

“Please do.” He whispered back. He looked okay, if not extremely tired; he didn’t seem to have any new scars from what you could see, and he was clearly in good enough spirits to entertain you.

“He’s likely getting tired of spending time with just me.” James explained solemnly.

“He’s a coddler.”

“Are you really?” You asked James. 

James rolled his eyes and shook his head good-naturedly. “Listen, once a month I get to fuss over this sweet man; you best believe I take full advantage.”

You hummed in understanding and looked back at Remus. “You’re always so busy taking care of everyone else; it makes sense you wouldn’t know what to do when someone returns the favour.” You explained, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. 

“Is that why you’re here, Angel?” James said as he tickled your neck teasingly. “You here to take care of him?”

You pushed his hand away and handed Remus the box of chocolates. “I was just bringing you chocolate.”

Remus looked as though you had just handed him a key to the city and not a measly box of chocolates.

“Thank you dovey.” He said earnestly as he pressed a gentle yet lingering kiss to your lips. 

You broke apart at the sound of James snorting. 

“‘Just bringing him chocolate’ she says. You’ll be lucky if you see the outside of this dorm room in the foreseeable future.” He proclaimed as he picked you up bridal style out of Remus’ lap eliciting a squeal from your lips and he fell backwards onto the bed, situating the two of you there as Remus shifted back into the bed and curled himself around you.

“Your new job every month is cuddles from now on, ‘kay?” Remus whispered into your ear as James pulled the blankets up around the three of you. You couldn’t help but breathe out a laugh through your nose as you nuzzled further into him.

“Sounds good to me.” You agreed readily, accepting another kiss from James as he settled beside you.

You’d take away Remus’ pain in a heartbeat if you could, but if this was all you could do for him instead, well…there were certainly worse ways to spend your time.

#marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfiction #reader insert #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter #james potter x reader #james potter x you #remus lupin x james potter #moonchaser #poly!moonchaser #poly!moonchaser x you #poly!moonchaser x reader #hurt/comfort #fluff #ellecdc fics

[lovebvni]

shifting isn’t a relay race. it’s a fun run

reality shifting is the act of moving your mind (soul, spirit, whatever you call it) into a different realm or plane of existence.

similar — astral projection. but it is astral projection to a different city, state or country. places we have in this world. reality shifting is not just projecting from canada to france. reality shifting can take place during astral projection.

similar — lucid dreaming. being conscious of your dreams when the body is asleep. you are still in your body, but your mind is also awake. you (usually) cannot travel to a new world with new laws and stay there even after your body wakes up. this only takes place during the REM cycle of sleep. reality can take place during lucid dreaming.

and, nowhere in the definition of reality shifting does it say you have to shift before someone else, you have to be at point c before this person gets to point b, etc. it just has to do with you.

shifting isn’t a competition. it’s a fun game that you get to choose. level up on your own time. do your own thing to get to where you want to be.

shifting isn’t a sprint relay that you see in the olympic games. shifting is a fun run. it doesn’t matter what place you’re in, or how much time you take, all that matters is you do it.

nobody is going to be mad at you or make you train harder because some kid in england beat you by .89 seconds.

you get to do this at your own pace on your own time. it’s your fun run. you complete it when you can. you can take years, months, weeks, days or hours. it all depends on your prior knowledge and training.

and if you don’t have that prior knowledge or training, WHO GIVES A FUCK? not everyone starts knowing everything you know. those could be lessons they grew up learning. someone could’ve forced that into their brain from a young age.

and if you’re just learning what witchcraft really is at 49, good for you. you’re still learning and growing. but that doesn’t mean you’re bad for not knowing last year or yesterday.

it doesn’t matter when training starts, or how much prior knowledge one has, it just matters that you’re willing to do it.

i hope this helps someone. i have no idea where this came from lmfao. blessings from me and the universe <3

love, abyss

#abyss .speaks #reality shifting #shiftblr #reality shift #shifting #shifting community #desired reality #black shifters #shifting motivation #shifter #shift #shifters #shifting advice #shifting blog #shifting journey #shifttok #shifttwt #shiftingrealities #shiftinconsciousness #shifting consciousness #reality shifter #mcu shifting #experienced shifters #quantum shifting #shifting realities #shifting tips #shifting stories

[addisonstars]

“painted in gold, drawn in ink”

written for day 8 of august for @jegulus-microfic with the prompt “tattoo”

269 words!

The early morning was James’ favorite time of day. It gave him the opportunity to stare unashamedly at his beautiful, handsome husband's body. The way the light reflected off of his peaceful sleeping face, the golden glow it cast on his tattoo covered body, the way it contrasted against his soft ink colored locks.

The tattoos were one of his favorite parts of Reggie’s body. It showed just how much he cared about people, his friends, the world, enough to put them on his body.

His favorites consisted of the little antlers sitting on his ring finger, with a “J” at the crest of the two pairs. James had a matching one with a star and a “R.” Another one that he really liked was the “J.F.P.” underneath his collarbone.

There was the orion constellation for Sirius that he had tattooed on his forearm, and the moon cycle on his other arm for Moony. There were a bunch of other ones scattered across, like a line of poetry sitting vertically on his left side, from his favorite poetry book.

He had a quidditch broom and snitch too, a reminder of his favorite childhood game. They still bought tickets to go see the Quidditch Cup every year, and they loved to go with Sirius and Remus too.

And of course, he had a couple others in other less visible places, including another for James and him together and one entirely for laughs.

The sun perfectly highlighted his body and it made James smile so brightly at the picture-esk image that was his husband. His beautiful husband. His Regulus.

fin. i hc sirius with the most tattoos, then reg, then rem, then james. i stared at numerous fanarts for an embarrassingly large amount of time for inspo for this lol, but i can’t say i regret it ;) have a wonderful tuesday!!

-a.s.

#jegulus #jeggy #james potter #regulus black #james x regulus #jegulus fluff #jegulus fic #jegulus mircofic #tattoos

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 197: Evening

Draco loved Harry all the time. Harry was the love of his life and there was never a time (even when he was driving him spare) that he didn't love the other man.

He loved him, even in the wee hours of the morning, when he inevitably got up to go use the loo and disrupted Draco's REM cycle. It didn't matter how late they'd stayed up, when he'd gone to the bathroom last; Harry got up to use the loo every single night somewhere between the hours of 2:00 and 3:00 am. Every. Night. Still, Draco loved him. He loved the way Harry would curl up around him when he climbed back into bed, press a kiss to the back of Draco's neck, and murmur a sleepy 'love you' before immediately dropping back off to sleep.

Draco loved Harry in the morning, at 5:30 am on the weekdays when his alarm went off and he hit snooze three times before actually getting out of bed. Actually, he felt quite grouchy about it, he hated waking up early, but he loved Harry and if that was what it took for Harry to feel ready to get out of bed, he wouldn't begrudge him that. And Harry always snuggled him extra close in between his alarm going off, like Draco was a good dream he wanted to hold onto just a little while longer.

He loved him a little later in the morning too, when he got back from his workout, just after 7:00 am. Harry knew that Draco wasn't a morning person, so he always came into their room on his way to the shower, and brought Draco a perfectly made cup of coffee. "Time to wake up," he murmured, everyday, pressing his lips to Draco's forehead before leaving him to wake up on his own with his coffee.

He loved him at 8:00 am after Draco had finished his coffee, taken a shower, and gotten dressed for the day. He loved the way Harry hummed to himself while he made them breakfast at the hob. And that love always had Draco packing their lunches while Harry finished their eggs. Breakfast was always a quiet affair, Draco took a while to feel ready to face the rest of the world and its noise, but Harry never made a fuss. He just sat next to Draco and smiled at him, like he was content just to be in his presence, even when Draco was as grumpy as a mountain troll.

Draco loved him at 12:00 pm when Harry came to his office, three floors down at the Ministry, so they could share lunchtime. He loved the way Harry talked about his job and his cases, loved the way Harry asked about his day and listened intently. The warm laughter, the shared frustration, and occasionally a few shed tears, made Draco feel immeasurably lucky and unworthy all at once.

He loved Harry at 5:00 pm when he swung by his office to pick him up at the end of the day. Their fingers entwined as they left the Ministry and their duties to anything but one another behind. He loved arriving at home together and changing into different clothes; either comfortable clothes to lounge about the house in or clothes for going out to meals and seeing friends. Harry always processed his day while they prepared food or prepared themselves to leave for the evening, and Draco loved the sound of his voice. He loved being the reason that Harry felt safe, and heard, and cared for.

He loved Harry at dinner. It didn't matter where they ate, if they were at a restaurant, or a friend's house, or in their own kitchen, he loved the way Harry saw food. Food was a way of bringing people together, of sharing time with someone, and for Harry it was an act of love.

But the time that Draco loved him most of all was in the evenings before bed. He loved the time that Harry intentionally set aside just for him, for them. Time where they might play games together, or watch telly, or read, or have sex, or just sit and talk over a glass of wine or cup of tea. There was always a chunk of time at night when Harry devoted himself utterly to Draco and Draco loved him most in those moments. It was here, in the sacred space of their home, that they chose one another over and over.

Love was a choice, it was work, and it was sacrifice but it had been the most worthy pursuit of Draco's life.

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

read more of my drabbles

#the truth about love #drarry #love #fluff #soft #romantic #tender #100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #no dialogue #that never happens #but apparently we're trying something new #gently

[embossross]

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 3 >> Chapter 4 >> masterlist

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: stalking, throwaway reference to child abuse and murder, dirty talk (masturbation, exhibitionism, degradation) and just general nsfw

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; smut (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, stalking, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of trauma and abuse, drug use, and more

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~10k

You wake up to a cold bed.

Sometime before the sun rose, your boyfriend – Amari Takashi – must have woken, dressed, and left your shared apartment. The rigidity of his schedule always impresses you. Short of a fever, Takashi rises before the sun to greet the work of the day. Takashi is leading a major project for his firm, something he can’t discuss with you, so his hours are more severe than ever.

For the past month, you could set your watch by Takashi’s habits. He wakes around 4 AM to an alarm that doesn’t pierce through your heavy REM cycle; he spends no more than half an hour preparing for the day before braving the commute to the office. He will be seated at his desk by 6 AM. You receive one text update around lunchtime and a five-minute phone call at 6 PM. Next you hear from your boyfriend is no sooner than 10 PM, when he stumbles exhausted into the apartment, eats leftovers standing over the kitchen sink, and then collapses into bed. Rinse and repeat.

If you had a confidante, you might confess that your current lifestyle is rather lonely.

Loneliness is not the worst of your problems by a longshot.

In the days since you last saw Hanma, you have obsessively replayed the events of your session. Everything from the gruesome murder to the street race to when he pressed his body tantalizingly close. It is the latter that is ruining your life.

You are ten percent woman and 90 percent desire at this point, pent up from a month of sexual neglect. Before Hanma, you didn’t much mind the dry spell, turning to your vibrator in times of trouble. But now…every time you are about to cum, Hanma ruins it for you. His smirking face will appear right at the critical moment and your hand will freeze even as your body begs to continue. The line remains uncrossed, your orgasm remains denied, and you have run out of good will towards your patient.

A week of edging changes the way you walk, the way you interact with the world. You wear only skirts because the press of pants is distracting. You are nibbling the tips of pens, unthinkingly caressing your inner arms, seeing innuendo in every skyline.

Today is the day of your third session with Hanma, in-office this time, and you admit you need a game plan. On the train ride to your office, you stare out the window and reflect on your situation. You do what you would recommend to your clients and create a mental safe space, free of judgment and repression, where everything is on the table.

Truth #1 – You want to fuck Hanma. There is something cliché about the danger that draws you in, yes, but it is the back-and-forth that your mind summons in your dirty dreams, the way he banters back that leaves you hyper-present in your body.

Truth #2 – Repressing your desire is not working. Your swollen, edged cunt is evidence enough.

Truth #3 – You are terrified. You are terrified of the professional consequences of exploring this desire. Terrified of the power exchange if Hanma sniffs out the intensity of your desire and weaponizes it against you. Terrified of the moral implications of seeing a man commit murder and wanting to jump him hours later.

You sigh so loudly that a passenger beside you sends a concerned look your way. The hypocrisy surprises even you. You are supposed to help Hanma learn to control his impulses and consider the long-term consequences of his actions. Meanwhile, you are suffering an out of character risk-taking streak.

To jump or not to jump…

You arrive before your receptionist, flipping on the lights to the four-room office your rent for your practice: waiting area, bathroom, storage closet, and office. The rent is exorbitant given the size of the leased space because of its proximity to Ueno Station, but that’s why you chose it. You figured the moneyed elite and overworked masses alike would look for convenience and find your practice. That investment has paid off four-fold. After paying your overhead, you bring home more than you would make working in someone else’s practice.

The waiting area is cramped, but you have always found your office spacious. A twelve-tatami mat room, which is plenty for one-on-one talk therapy. When you want to create closeness with patients, you draw their chair nearer your desk. When you want to enforce boundaries, you sit behind your desk and allow its imposing weight to shield you.

The tacky yellow sofa now taking up the east half of the room makes the room feel significantly smaller.

Three days earlier, two non-descript men barged into your office, arms loaded with boxes. They demanded to know which room you used to see patients, and when answered, set to work unboxing and building the sofa then and there. They wouldn’t answer your questions, but something in the width of their shoulders warned you shouldn’t try to stop them.

You know damn well who is behind the unwanted gift. Like Hanma’s face floating before your mind’s eye before you can cum, it is an intrusion. An unwanted one.

The hours pass swiftly as you debate how to present yourself to Hanma when he arrives. You decide the most important thing is to conceal your conflict of interest. You cannot let him suspect what plagues you.

Would forced casualness throw him off the scent of your desire? Going on the aggressive? What if he baits you with sexual overtures again? What would an unaffected person do in response?

At the exact strike of 4 PM, your receptionist informs you that Hanma has arrived for his appointment. He walks into your office, and you can’t resist a quick glance up and down to take in the full breadth of him. He is breathtakingly tall.

Hanma confirms every one of your suspicions when he disregards the chair reserved for patients and lays down on the sofa. Annoyed, you momentarily forget why you find him attractive in the first place.

“You really don’t have to lay down, Hanma-san. It makes no difference,” you say.

“It makes every difference. It’s helping me get into the mood. And hello to you, too, Doc,” Hanma purrs.

“Well, your comfort is most important,” you grit out.

“Exactly!”

In just a few words, Hanma twists your entire life’s work into a big joke that exists for his pleasure. Years of self-restraint are all that prevent you from scowling at him, from chasing him from the room under a hail of paper cuts.

The session kicks off easily at first with the typical exchange of pleasantries. He is playing nice, and you almost wish he wouldn’t, so you had an excuse to take your temper out on him.

After some thought and research, you have concluded that cognitive behavioral therapy is the best fit for Hanma’s issues. Common to address struggles with depression and anxiety, there is research that suggests it can also be effective for patients with ASPD. The general concept is that problems can be traced back to inciting patterns of behavior. If the patient can learn to recognize those patterns as they are occurring, the patient will be able to write new patterns over time that are more helpful to daily life.

To start, you instruct Hanma to walk you through his day so far with a focus on any times he was atypically bored or engaged.

“Got up at six, went to the gym and then the dojo for a bit. No one was there to spar, but I kept myself busy. I’m never bored really when I’m exercising or fighting, even if I do wish for a better opponent. Took a shower, got dressed, ate breakfast. Standard stuff. Boring, but didn’t want to blow my brains out,” Hanma explains.

Not so different from how you would answer the same question.

You follow up, “What do you think about while getting ready?”

“Well, I jerked off in the shower,” Hanma sneers, and you visibly recoil. All your mental coaching did not prepare you for the brutal impact of hearing those words said aloud, “But then mostly the itinerary for the day.”

“Do you think to yourself, ‘this is going to be a boring day,’ as you think through your plains?” you ask.

“How could I not? Though I did have some hopes for a problem I went out to address in Ginza.”

“Tell me about it.”

The joke of lounging on the couch like a talk-therapy patient in the movies does not last long. Hanma is a surprisingly engaged conversationalist. With each question and answer, he slowly angles his body more towards you, liking to make eye contact as he speaks. By the time he begins to tell his story about Ginza, he is seated upright and leant towards you with his elbows balanced on sharp knees.

“First thing is to understand that we have the racket all over the city, including Ginza, but it’s trickier there. Too many billion-dollar multinationals: Balenciaga, Louis Vuitton, Nike. Even the local stores get a better-than-thou attitude, so sometimes they resent paying for protection, think they can handle themselves without paying their mikajimeryo, and we have to remind them of the dangers of going it alone in this hard world.”

“So, you needed to threaten some shop owners,” you summarize.

“Not quite. You’ve gotten be patient,” Hanma scolds. “The last few years, we’ve run into fewer problems in Ginza because of the gaijin swarming the district. Used to be Ginza was a classy place, but the foreigners bring money, and the money brings out the touts. You can’t spit at night without hitting one tout or another. The business owners in the area don’t care for that, so many have started paying extra for us to take care of the problem and keep their clientele to a high standard.”

“Businesses pay you to scare away people they don’t consider good enough?” you ask, surprised you can be surprised.

“Oh yeah, big global names. See, the police can’t do anything because it’s not a crime to stand on the sidewalk. We do everyone a favor and keep the streets clean.”

“Wouldn’t a squad of yakuza enforcers be worse than the touts?” you ask skeptically.

“Some of our guys clean up nice. Anyway, Doc, stay on topic. I know the criminal underbelly is interesting to your virgin ears, but this is my therapy.”

Chastened, you gesture for Hanma to continue.

“Last few weeks, some of the touts have been organizing. We’re getting reports that they’re armed and putting up a fight when our guys try to send them packing. There’s a new generation of kids coming up in Shinjuku, probably one percent our size, but they’ve got promise and have yet to bend the knee. Thought this might be an early power grab from them and wanted to investigate. So, I went out to Ginza to crack some heads,” Hanma says.

“And?”

“And nothing. Just some drunk idiots trying to make a dollar and not realizing who they were messing with. No evidence that the Shinjuku brats are involved, let alone making a play against us.”

“Smart of them to not challenge the Tokyo Manji gang,” you comment.

“Smart but dull. There was a time in the early days, when we were vying for the crown, where there was a new contender every month: Terano, the Haitanis, Senju, not to mention all the older families we had to displace to carve out our spot. It’s probably been three years since there was any real challenge domestically,” Hanma says.

“When you realized that the Shinjuku gang wasn’t involved, did you do anything in frustration? What happened to the touts you were interrogating?”

Hanma has unsettling eyes. A light brown that almost looks yellow through the reflection of his glasses. Right now, they are equal parts predatory and playful, almost feline as he sizes you up.

“There was a moment, when I contemplated making my turf war happen. I could head to Shinjuku, find some of their upper-mid-level guys and break their spines. Send a message. Get them angry enough that they forget caution and come at us with everything they have. I was halfway to my car when I decided against it,” Hanma says.

“What stopped you?”

“I would have missed our appointment.”

You can hear the drip of the fountain in your waiting room. There are high school boys walking on strong legs, unparalyzed today, because Hanma wanted to see you. There is an awful power that thrums through your veins. You uncross your legs because the slight pressure against your pubis is suddenly overpowering.

“And the touts? Are they still walking free?” you ask to diffuse the tension.

“They’re all on Toman’s payroll now. Did us the favor of unionizing, so an easy matter to swoop in and take ownership.”

“So what? You’ll put them to use in another part of town?”

There is no professional basis for this question. You are speaking to Hanma like this is a casual chat between friends. Your curiosity is pinged, and now you simply want to know what comes next.

“You’re very innocent, you know that?” Hanma says, and he sounds both amused and disdainful. “No, they’ll keep working in Ginza. Send people through to our establishments.”

“But the stores are paying you to keep the touts out,” you protest.

“And they’ll keep paying. The touts become a double revenue stream. They drive business to our businesses. Then, we pretend to drive them out just enough to collect our fee. Millions of yen go to Koko, and the yakuza keeps on turning,” Hanma explains.

Always so strange to consider the second world that operated just below the surface. How often do you visit a bar or walk down a street and the signs of the yakuza are plain to see for someone in the know, yet you continue on none the wiser? When your time with Hanma inevitably comes to a permanent end, will you be able to go back to your previous ignorance? Or will you always see the stain of organized crime on your city? Maybe you should move to Kyoto.

“I’ve asked you to walk me through a time you were bored before, what you felt, what you did. Because my hypothesis is that you react impulsively when bored, you…lash out for a lack of a better term. I want to narrow in on what exactly triggers you, but I’d also like to better understand what ‘lashing out’ looks like for you. What’s something you do that you later regret?”

Hanma folds his hands in front of his chin, crossing the fingers together and sliding them back and forth. The movement draws attention to those terrible tattoos.

“Depends on what you mean by ‘lashing out.’ If it’s by my standards, by Kisaki’s, or by society’s.”

“Your entire lifestyle is unacceptable by society’s standards, and I’ve spoken to Kisaki-san at length,” you say dryly. Perversely, Kisaki is largely unbothered by Hanma’s violent outbursts so long as he punches down in their organization or against civilians. He is most bothered by Hanma’s tardiness from important meetings and sloppiness with crime scenes. You continue, “I know his concerns. I want to know yours.”

“See, that’s the thing, doc. I don’t regret anything I do. Yeah, I don’t always think a thing through before I do it, but I never feel guilty about it afterward. It’s just something I did.”

You narrow your eyes in displeasure. It’s a straightforward answer in line with the research, yes, but you think he ought to feel a tad guilty for what he has reduced you to. A little shame for ruining your nights. So, a hint of malice colors your professionalism at the next question.

“Have you ever wanted to learn a skill? Something that you can’t learn in a few hours, something you have to actually study for?”

“I learned to fight.”

“As an adult.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting I learn to code. Hoping I switch careers?”

“I wonder if you could learn to code, even if you wanted to,” you say, too combative. “It requires that you sit down and focus on one thing for hours at a time, that you have the discipline to return to it day after day, even if it gets boring. Do you think you could do that?”

The hollows of Hanma’s cheeks grow stark as his face sours. His mouth twists and then opens, teeth bared. The mien of an animal.

“Think you’re smarter than me? Got yourself a degree and a second-rate office, and you think that makes you any more than one of a hundred other prissy graduates just like you?”

Dry enough to hurt, you try to will saliva back into your mouth. The insults bounce right off, but the intensity! Hanma’s body arcs from the couch, primed as if to lunge for your throat at any moment. Those white teeth are menacing when on display, when focused on you. A slight misstep, and you think he might actually hurt you.

He might actually want to hurt you.

Fear seizes you up, and you forget why you felt bitter towards him in the first place.

“I’m not trying to insult you, Hanma-san. I only want to help you reflect on what limitations you may experience because of the symptoms we’ve discussed,” you say.

It is a feat of self-control, the way you meet his amber eyes, almost yellow like a serpent. One by one, the coiled muscles unlock and sink back into the waiting couch. You are not relieved. His relaxation appears unnatural and forced. You know how quickly he can move.

“Contrary to how it may sound, I don’t think you have no self-control. I suspect that you actually exercise a great deal every single day. How many times a day are you bored or frustrated or want something and yet manage to stop yourself from ‘lashing out?’ Dozens? Hundreds? That doesn’t suggest someone with low self-control.”

Each word lands carefully, chosen so as not to provoke him further. Someone honks twice on the street below. It’s the only sound over the hum of the air conditioner and your forced steady breathing. The stubborn silence reminds you of your first session with him.

Gingerly, you attempt a return to questions. “All the times you do manage to stop yourself, how do you do it? What do you feel or think to yourself in those moments?”

“I’m done answering questions for nothing, doc. I’ll answer if you agree to play a game with me.”

Moments before you contemplated if Hanma would strange you where you sat. Alone in the office, it would be hours before your corpse was discovered. You should not be entertaining games.

“What kind of game?”

“Oh, a game you’ll like. I promise,” Hanma grins, too many teeth like a shark. “It’ll be a game of truth and deceit.”

You were a lonely child. Isolated from your neighbors by your mother’s erratic behavior and too studious to be popular in school. When the other children gathered to play oni gokko or juggle otedama, you typically sat out on the sidelines and watched. Your world was too cruel to embrace such light-hearted children’s games.

To this day, the prospect of a game makes your heart clench a little. That age old insecurity that you would not know the rules.

You nod your agreement.

“Yeah, I think about ‘lashing out’ all the time – cute term, by the way. Very euphemistic. When I don’t, well it could be for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes I’m tired or hungry, and I just can’t summon up the energy. Other times, it’s because I want something else more. I can play the long game when the prize is good enough,” Hanma says.

“Like when you spared those touts because you didn’t want to miss our session,” you say. A mistake.

Hanma purrs, “Exactly.”

You cross your legs at the ankle. Then, recross them at the knee. The band of your stocking pinches into your thigh. The long game sounds ominous.

“It gets boring for me, just answering your questions. I need a bit more of a challenge. So, here’s the game. It’s called two truths and a lie. Heard of it?” You nod, and Hanma continues. “I’m going to give you three answers to every question. One will be a lie, but you won’t know which one.”

“That’s not very conducive to your therapy,” you say.

“No, but it’s very conducive to my fun. Besides, we’ll both enjoy watching you struggle to sort fact from fiction. Maybe you’ll learn all my tells!”

When you interviewed Hakkai, he told you Hanma was one of the best gamblers in Toman. He excelled at poker, games where concealing your emotions and reading others’ were advantages. You know he’ll make it near impossible to read him. What he doesn’t know is that you are an excellent poker player yourself.”

“Alright, I’m sure you’ll make this interesting.” You are rewarded by Hanma’s smile, a little less mercenary than the last. Only now, with this concession of power, do you feel the threat of imminent harm fade away. “Are there any long-term goals that you would like to work toward but have struggled with because of your impulsivity?”

“Yes…no…I don’t know.”

Right, then.

“I’d like to know more about your attention span to things that you might find boring, and I have an idea. Kind of homework. Would be open to that if I gave you some?”

Hanma groans, the game temporarily forgotten. “Fuck, I’m still barely surviving the sexy doctor thing. You can’t go adding sexy teacher to the list, too. I’ll rub my dick raw.

Raw clit, tensed thighs, unsatiated need. You know exactly what he means.

“We’ll save the homework for before you leave…Why don’t you miss our sessions? Why aren’t they boring to you?”

“One, they are boring to me. Two, because I think you can make me better. Three, because I want to fuck you on that desk.”

The worst part of this game is that you can’t afford to take your eyes off him for a moment, no matter what degrading, ugly, exhilarating words drawl from that red mouth. The lie is there, and you must study him as he studies you in turn. You should be flattered, either he thinks you’re excellent at your job, or he thinks you’re attractive. You are not so delusionally flattered as to believe the former.

You decide questions with brief answers are a waste of the game format.

“Share with me your two happiest memories from the past year that don’t involve any fighting, violence, drugs, or sex.”

A silver tongue may lie but concocting complete memories out of thin air is a stretch. Hanma’s brows pinch together as he thinks through this challenge, searching for truths and lies that can dupe you. You tell him to take his time, take out your phone, and pretend to scroll through your messages instead.

Your mid-day message from Takashi sits unread. He says his clients have finally confirmed when they’ll fly in to meet, a few months from now, but he wants to clear that he’ll have to stay at a hotel with them ahead of time. He is so considerate of your schedule.

“I went to the Sumida River Fireworks festival this year. Or, I didn’t go to the festival itself, didn’t even remember it was happening. I was on a boat out on the river. Sometimes we do business on boats because it’s easier to sweep for bugs. I was the last one onboard, just standing up on the deck, and then boom. The first firework took me completely by surprise. I thought it was a gunshot. I remember it was gold and purple. The colors of god’s power and a samurai’s strength. I used to pickpocket at the festival as a kid, but I never much enjoyed the fireworks. Too crowded. Out on the boat, the only person for miles, and I felt the meaning of the festival for the first time ever.”

“What meaning?”

Hanma bends closer again, avid. His voice as he describes the night is gentle, so deep you strain to hear the words. “It’s a celebration of death, isn’t it? All those fireworks to send off those that have passed. The magnitude of it! It’s how it feels to kill someone. I imagine it’s how it feels to die. And, we all stand looking death in the face by the million, celebrating it. I was…touched.”

The precursor to the Sumida River Fireworks festival, or the first depending on your perspective, was held to memorialize the victims of the Kyōhō famine. You attended the festival in July as well, though actively mingling among the street vendors, lovers, and gaping children. Takashi bought you dango like you were a little girl – not that your mother ever spoiled you with sweets – and you marveled at the pretty pyrotechnics in the sky. The connection to death and remembrance felt far away as life swirled all around you in the crowd.

A pretty idea, an even prettier picture: him in the boat, alone at night. A man drifting on a river lit up by fireworks. You want to believe it’s true, which makes you instantly doubt him.

“Or maybe, I’m lying,” Hanma says in a frank tone, and the pretty spell is broken altogether. “Who can really say?”

“Give me another story, Hanma-san,” you order.

“Hmm, well there is another great memory…I was indicted, what was that, eleven months ago now? Judge said I represented an exceptional circumstance and might destroy evidence or intimidate witnesses – no idea where he got that idea – and didn’t grant me bail. I spent the full twenty-three confinement period in jail. You want to talk about boring? There are only so many fights I could pick in the prison yard before even that lost its shine.”

Hanma’s voice sails above the story like the whole ordeal is beneath him, emphasizing a word here or there to play up some inside joke or humor about his situation. What strikes you is the distance between this voice and the one he used to describe the fireworks. Even his speech patterns have changed.

“It was a bullshit charge, and the prosecutors knew it. I mean, you can lock me up, but I have plenty of friends to destroy evidence and intimidate witnesses for me, so they had to drop the indictment. The best day was when they let me out. Doing all that boring old shit on the outside felt like rediscovering religion. Or pussy. Actually, I literally rediscovered pussy that day. But it was also the city, the bars, my own fucking bed. It was a damn fine day.”

You flip through your mental rolodex of interviews about Hanma. Kisaki vaguely mentioned that Hanma had been arrested while opining on how Hanma’s sloppiness was going to take down the lot of them. All before jumping to assure you that you needn’t fear criminal prosecution for your participation as they were more than proficient at making such nasty business disappear.

Once again, Hanma’s story paints him as an almost romantic figure.

“What was your charge?”

“Oh, DUI.”

“…A DUI?”

“Not easy to get a top Toman exec, so when they could put some bullshit on me, they did. I learned my lesson not to drink and motorbike, cross my heart and hope to die.”

There is something brown and dusty stuck to the bottom of Hanma’s shoe. The sole is flipped up toward you, and you can see it clinging there. Maybe it’s dog shit, just like what he is trying to sell you.

“Last one,” you venture.

“Last one,” Hanma agrees.

This time, his voice is almost flat, conversational by a normal person’s standards versus his typical goading. An actor who can take the shape of any character at a moment’s notice.

“Hakkai’s birthday is in September. Can’t remember the exact day, but he convinced a few of us to celebrate. His sister owns a hot spring up in Hokkaido, so we all traveled there for a few days to get away. I like a hot spring in theory, but there’s not much to actually do when you’re soaking. But, I like Hakkai well enough. He’s funny. And, his sister is exactly like him but tougher. It was the rainy season, so we had torrential rains most days and didn’t use the hot springs as often. But the air tasted like autumn itself, and we would stand under the umbrellas and look out at the town below, just talking for hours. What made it really special was when dinner came around though. I’ve never tasted such fatty salmon in my life. Every bite tasted better than the last: ikura, sashimi, grilled, mountains and mountains of delicious salmon. I plan to go back every September until I die.”

A sting and you realize you have been worrying your lip without realizing, such a rare tell for you. Meanwhile, Hanma remains inscrutable. His body language, posture, and voice transformed between each memory, but none read as falser than the other. He constantly shifts around during conversation, playacting different identities and abandoning them a moment later. The truest moments with him have felt defined by their intensity rather than any specific behaviors on his part.

Unsettling to realize even those moments with him where reality came into sharp relief may have been nothing but illusions.

“Well, what do you say? Did you spot the lie?” Hanma asks.

Guarded, you drink slowly from your water bottle. Your lips are still dry from the abrupt terror you experienced earlier. Hanma watches you, but you look elsewhere, not so obvious as to signal your discomfort, just to the blank patch of plaster above his right ear. It is a welcome break to be able to look at something other than him for a few moments. When you watch him closely, it feels like the world shrinks around you until he encompasses the entirety of the universe.

And, just like the universe itself, he is unfathomable.

“I never agreed to share my guesses,” you say.

Hanma tuts. “That’s no fun. I put so much thought and effort into our game. You should reward me for it.”

“You should reward yourself by just telling me the real answer. Your treatment will be helped by honesty.”

There isn’t much time left in your session if your internal clock is to be believed, and you shouldn’t waste these final minutes arguing. Yet, you hesitate to just answer the damn question.

“How about we make one more deal?” Hanma offers. You doubt there will ever be an end to deals and bets and games and tricks with him. “You tell me your guess, and you agree to give me two truths and a lie to a question of my choice. In exchange, I’ll tell you honestly if you’re right or wrong.”

Another timewaster, but he wants it badly. You can see the kinetic energy in his hands as they gesture around the room. Those long arms sweeping stale air in your direction.

You suppose there isn’t much time left if he’s going to insist on this dramatic two truths and a lie format anyway.

“The first one. You’re lying about the first one.”

“Interesting. Why do you think that?”

Because a sick romantic part of you wants the first to be true.

“Because it doesn’t make sense that you’re the only one on the boat. Why didn’t you get off with your colleagues? Whose boat is it? Why are you driving? Too many unanswered questions.”

“Technicalities,” Hanma waves off.

“Does that mean I’m wrong?” you insist.

“’Fraid you lost. Try again next time,” Hanma says.

Talking to Hanma always sends your limbic system into a tailspin. Often accompanied by twinges throughout your body. A pain in your chest when he threatens you. A swirl of nausea when he hurts someone else. A shameful, secret pulse between your legs when he…well, it doesn’t take much. This is the first time you feel something around your heart, light and airy.

Your eyes are open to the office in front of you, yet your brain focuses on the imagined image of Hanma on that boat. Hair windswept to the side. Sky lit up by falling stars. Black water lapping the edges of the boat. Awe on his face? No, tenderness. So much tenderness.

“Tell me the three dirtiest, kinkiest, nastiest things you’ve ever done in the history of your prissy sex life.”

You were delusional to ever think the words ‘tenderness’ and ‘Hanma’ together.

“Absolutely not!”

“You know it’s getting boring, reminding you every time that you have to play fair. I’ve kept my end of the bargain, and now you need to keep yours,” Hanma goads.

“Why does my end of the bargain always cost my dignity? “you snap back.

Hanma appears to really think about it for a moment, and then, “Learn to negotiate better.”

“Learn to take no for an answer,” you shoot back.

“You know, I like this part. The part where you put up a little fight, like you don’t want to follow my orders like a good girl –”. Shame, hot cunt, and swollen pride – “It’s adorable. But you know, doc, I don’t think you’re strong when you put up a fight. Nothing strong about resisting what you want. The weak cower. The strong take.”

A couple hours on transference in a seminar your fourth year of school did not prepare you for this moment. The guidebooks did not detail so sophisticated a trap. To play along would be to submit to his whims, to cede professional distance. To deny now would be to accept the label of weakness, to cede power. (And yes, to deny what you yourself want.) You don’t think you could convince him otherwise.

Less than a quarter hour left in your session. In half an hour, you will be locking up and boarding the train home. You might stop in at a bar a few blocks from your apartment. The clientele is friendly, and you always feel a little less lonely after drinking up the conversation around you for an hour. Then, it will be an empty apartment, a few papers on recent medical studies, cooking an elaborate meal that will go mostly uneaten just to fill the time. There will be no distracting you from replaying this session with Hanma on repeat until the moment your brain slows to a sleep tonight.

Usually straight-backed, you make a show of slumping into your own seat, matching his posture – minus, naturally, the spread legs – and smile.

“Right out of university, I had a roommate, a year older than me. She had this boyfriend, who was constantly coming over. Sometimes I caught him looking at me, and I liked it. I encouraged it a little. It felt dangerous but turns out they both liked it, too. They would invite me to join them sometimes, and I would,” you say.

Hanma smiles so big you could drown in it. “Oh yeah, and what would you do? Kiss your little girlfriend all over?” You nod. “Hmm, and then you’d let her boyfriend take turns on your pussies, too?” Again, you nod. “Now, that’s a damn good girlfriend. Think most girls would be too jealous to share a pretty slut like you. Too worried that he wouldn’t be able to give that pussy up.”

You blink rapidly. You cling to your conviction, pretending that you are offended even as your body is on fire. It is criminal that Hanma is gifted with a voice deep enough to penetrate every barrier you erect, foul enough to wilt your self-control.

Pretty little slut.

“Then, during university, money was so tight. My mom didn’t have any savings left, so I was responsible for rent, food, prescriptions, and tuition. I had a job working as a receptionist at the campus clinic, but that wasn’t enough to cover everything. And, I needed something with evening hours to work around my school schedule,” you say, voice dipped low as if the struggles of a student were something forbidden. “I got lucky with a job as a phone sex operator. A couple hours a night, and the calls weren’t nonstop, so I was able to study in between them. Then, just fifteen minutes telling a lonely man on the other line how bad I wanted him, how hot he sounds through the phone, how hot he makes me. The money was good.”

“Oh, that I could see – hear. You have the voice for it alright, all husky and slow. Bet you still have a mouth on you. Did you like hearing all those men touching themselves just to the sound of you? Did you ever play cutesy for them, little girl voice and ‘oh daddy, I want it?’”

The questions come fast, stream of conscious. But, you are more focused on Hanma’s hand. It grips his left thigh, only a few centimeters above the knee. The fingers are spread wide and press into the stiff fabric of his suit. Subtly, you place your palm on your own thigh in the same spot, dig in just a little like his hands might when they grip you. The position is low enough, not too unprofessional to give you away, but the feeling! Your nipples harden, almost sore with the desire to be plucked.

There is a hard bar just visible along his left thigh. The tailored pants work well to conceal it, but you can tell it’s long.

“The money was good,” you repeat just a little breathless. “Lastly, I sometimes go out with my boyfriend for dinner. He likes fancy places. I’ll dress up a little for it, and I’ll put a…a little vibrator in my panties before we leave. He’ll take the remote at the restaurant and just tease me with it all through dinner. Get me worked up, so that I can’t wait to get home.”

Hanma whistles, and for the first time you understand why it’s called a ‘wolf whistle’ in English. “You can’t be that worked up if you wait to get home. Never gets you so hot that you can’t wait. You could sit on the same side of the table, lead his fingers under your skirt, or take him to the bathroom and get railed then and there. Give me that remote, baby, and I’d make you cum three times there at the table for anyone to see. When you can’t take it anymore, I’d have your small hand on me under the table, my fingers stretching you open. Mmhmm, yeah, I can just picture it.”

You can picture it, too. This is nearly the hottest you have ever been in your life. You blame the week of edging. Just the idea of cumming three times makes your cunt clench, a sorely missed pleasure. He’s surely all bluster, but what if…

“That’s a…quite the imagination you have, Hanma-san. But now you have to tell me the lie,” you manage, and your voice is a thousand times stronger than your treacherous body.

It is Hanma’s turn to consider you at length, eyes affixed to your body and expressions. His attention is far less clinical, far more lecherous. Resisting the urge to squirm, you pretend to check the time on your phone.

“The last one,” Hanma says. “Your boring boyfriend who gets you off sometimes but not always? No fucking way.”

Ah, and here is the moment you hoped for before your libido spiked and took over your mental faculties. A cruel little smirk twists your lips.

“Wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“That’s not the lie.”

Only a moment or two passes before Hanma is laughing and smacking his knee like you are the funniest joke he has ever heard. “Not the lie! Oh, you naughty little cheater!”

Your smirk deepens. It feels like a victory even if he did make you in only a moment. And that victory feels just as good as the slick that collected in your panties.

“Three lies just to get me hard as a rock. Where did you learn to be such a sneaky liar? Such a bad sport?”

“You shouldn’t overstep a lady’s boundaries,” you say.

If you had to guess – and after his performance earlier, you realize all you have are guesses – you would warrant Hanma is delighted at your deceit. He repeatedly shakes his head like he can’t believe your gall, but the smile is only thirty percent shark now, and the rest appears to be genuine humor.

“I get it. I get it. You like to top, too, doc,” Hanma giggles. “But cheaters do need to be punished. Can’t have you lying to me. Therapy is built on trust after all.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Ah, I don’t need luck because you may like being a disobedient brat to rile me up, but you love being told what to do even more.” Hanma’s voice deepens, that unhinged giggle replaced by pure man, and you no longer remember what was funny in the first place. “I’ll forgive you, baby. All you gotta do is rub that little pussy for me every night. Want you to think about me taking you out to dinner with a vibrator taped to your clit, just like you fantasized. Want you to know I’d be merciless with it, until you’re crying and shaking at the table. You can picture whatever you like from there. If I take you to a secluded corner and use your mouth, or I bounce you on my cock right there for all those scandalized eyes, drinking up your ruined little body. Mmmm, whatever makes you cum for me, baby. Do that every night until our next session, and I’ll call us even, okay?”

Goosebumps rise on your arms, and for one moment, you forget yourself, clutching at your own elbows for warmth. The room is so cold, but your body is a furnace. The conflicting feelings suffocate all reason. He is giving you permission to do what you have wanted all week. To cum. To cum to the thought of him and his unpredictable, powerful, menacing, masculine presence.

In that moment you know you are lost.

“Good luck with that,” you say, so coldly but only because your chest is pinched tight. You won’t be able to stop. You won’t be able to stop. You won’t be able to stop. “That’s a good reminder though that I promised you homework.”

He smirks, so confident that he has you.

Happy for the excuse to escape that knowing look, you search your desk. Returning to your seat, you present Hanma with a translated copy of Crime and Punishment. At an intimidating 600+ pages, the book is heavy with crinkled, curling pages, the result of being turned time and again in your own rereads.

“Try to read this before our next session. It’s good practice at sticking to something for a long period, even if it bores you. And, I think you’ll enjoy the subject matter. It might spark some interesting ideas for discussion,” you explain.

Hanma opens the front cover and wrinkles his nose at the first several pages of tiny type. “What the fuck?”

“I told you it would be homework.”

Those yellow eyes drift up and down your body, considering. Maybe weighing if you will complete your own special homework if he does the same. They are not the same at all.

“Got anything a bit shorter?” Hanma finally asks.

You shake your head. “I thought you’d be interested given your tattoos.”

“What?”

“Your hands,” you say, gesturing to the over-sized kanji inked on both hands. The choice of sin and punishment struck you as unexpectedly literary, a piece of dramatic irony for Hanma to snicker over as he beats his victims, like Hisao.

Eyes filled with pus. The mournful death gurgle. That smell of iron and sick. And no no no no no no no.

You don’t think of Hisao.

The almost panic attack passes unobserved as you deploy your best techniques for disassociating from ugly things. The tried-and-true tricks that helped you survive your mother’s house. There, Hanma is in front of you, studying his own hands, and there is no danger here. None at all.

“Huh? I’m a dropout but not a complete idiot. I’ve heard of Dostoyevsky. But these,” Hanma gestures at his tattoos, “I got these because of that Nintendo game.”

“A video game?”

“Yeah, one of those shoot-em-up games, player versus alien. Used to play it in elementary school. I was really good at it. It was called Sin & Punishment,” Hanma laughs.

“So, you aren’t tatted up for one of the Russian literary giants?” you tease.

“Maybe if I like the book, I’ll start saying that’s what it’s for,” Hanma banters back.

Your evening will go much as you expected after this session ends. The train ride back will be cramped and miserable as rush hour strikes. The press of the crowd will sweep you up into that sense of community that comes with living in a city. Hopefully no one will grope you, a marked success.

At the bar near your apartment, it will be busy and you’ll sit at the counter nursing a bottle of beer for the better part of an hour. There will be another football game on TV, and you will join in the chatter about the Tokyo Blues’ success so far this season and speculate about how hosting the 2020 Olympics will impact the city, weigh the cons of increased foreign direct investment versus the frustration of tourists flooding the city.

At home, you will make soba noodles and fry a few bowls of veggies, hungry for salt. The ritual will be steadying, and you will almost manage not to think about Hanma – the voice, the eyes, the hands that promise discipline and pleasure in turn – but he will be there in the back of your mind as you move between stove burners, as you plate your side dishes, as you pour a glass of wine.

The game you are playing is a dangerous one. You are manipulating him as surely as he is you. For profit or sexual gratification, it does not matter. There is something sick inside you, broken, for you to even entertain this quid pro quo.

And what awaits you at the end? Because surely there is an end. Something violent or humiliating to greet you when you make your inevitable fall.

Those considerations feel close yet small in the face of Hanma’s words. He is going to read the book. He is going to read the book because you asked him, and that makes you feel more alive than the last thirty years of your life combined.

Maybe once the dishes are done, and the night stretches long before you, you will download the ebook for Crime and Punishment onto your phone. You are overdue for a reread.

You wonder what Hanma will think of it. Wonder if he’ll tell you.

 ---

When he was a young boy, Hanma would stare up at the sun, like a test. He would count how many seconds he could stand to keep his eyes wide against the blinding glare. His longest count was thirty-six seconds before the burning was so intense his body betrayed him. Afterward, he would close his eyes tight, watch the little ball of cloned light that remained behind his eyelid. There is a pleasure in discomfort, almost as sweet as the pleasure in pain if you know how to look for it.

The discomfort of an oak and projector board room, however, yields no pleasure.

Hanma takes up two seats in the stuffy board room of Toman execs, ankles propped on the second. Anything to bring a little impropriety into the monotonous affair. Inupi sits opposite him, looking for all the world, like he belongs in this environment, scar be damned.

Seated around the long table, only Hakkai looks out of place. Something about his too long neck and perpetually stupid face. Kokonoi, Kisaki, Inupi, Muto, they all look born for it. Mikey would strain and buck against the pretend civility if he were here, too.

Damn, does he miss Mikey some days.

In the last six months, all the last vestiges of Mikey’s Toman have been eliminated. Gone are the little boys playing at gangsters that clung to Toman’s coattails for a decade. Draken and Hayashida are in prison with no hope of a release in this lifetime. They’ll join in death Mitsuya, Kawata, Matsuno, and Hayashi. The only relic of the old admin is Muto, and then only because his viciousness proved an inspiration even to Kisaki.

“We have confirmation that the Kagns will be sending an envoy on December 7th. We’ll be hosting them for the final negotiations. Every detail should be decided beforehand, but we’ll need to concede at least one point for them to feel they’ve gotten a good deal,” Kisaki says to the table of men.

“And they’ll need to give us two concessions in turn,” Kokonoi laughs.

“Exactly,” Kisaki says with the dark pride that practically oozes off his skin at any reminder of his successes. “They are sending their number two, Kang On Sing, so their security is going to be immense. We cannot afford to let anything happen to our honored guests in our territory.”

“Any signs yet of how they’re going to try to screw us?” Inupi asks.

Kisaki shakes his head. “Hanma is interrogating any potential leaks but no evidence that the HJK have infiltrated us so far.”

“Only a matter of time,” Inupi says, sounding far too pleased at the prospect.

“We’re going to need a few new fronts. That money is going to be hot and lots of it. I have a few ideas,” Kokonoi chimes in.

Hanma tries to listen as Kokonoi begins to drone on about crypto and offshore accounts, but it’s like his brain can’t hook onto the words enough to retain them. The flick of a switch blade between his fingers grounds him, and he swings the knife leisurely between his knuckles as the others plot.

Hanma thinks back to his disappointment after your session. He so hoped that you would be unable to resist dropping your panties and petting that pretty pussy after all his teasing. Immediately after he had exited your office, he had pulled up the app on his phone connected to the listening device hidden in that hideous yellow couch – how naïve of you not to check for bugs, sweet girl you are – and listened as you puttered around the office.

Maybe you are the quietest masturbator in history, but Hanma pegs you as a loud bitch when really riled. You are too quiet in your professional guise for anything else.

There had been nothing, and now, he berates himself for not pushing just a bit further until you broke into a wet puddle for him. Maybe if he had stroked your cheek all soft and tender, like you are something precious to him? He bets you would gag for someone to treat you softly between slaps.

Maybe you waited to get home?

Hanma texts Sendo instructions to stake out your office tomorrow, find your address. He needs to bug your apartment, too. Hearing your bland boyfriend sex won’t be good for more than a laugh, but he wants to know if you are following his orders.

“The Kangs suggested we host them in the Ritz Carlton in Roppongi,” Muto says. “Need to make sure we can secure that building down before we accept. It’s tall, which is a bitch, and the Haitanis still have a grip on that part of the city, so we should be extra cautious.”

Mention of the Haitanis gets Hanma’s attention.

“The Haitanis are a relic. They’re not a threat to us,” Inupi snorts.

“The Haitanis alone, yeah, they’re losers. But the Haitanis plus the HJK? That’s what I’m worried about,” Muto insists.

“Hanma and Hakkai will look into it and make a recommendation,” Kisaki interrupts, always with the seemingly snap judgments that conceal he has thought long and hard about the issue before you even broached it.

Now, that’s an assignment Hanma won’t reject. The little Haitani is a decent martial artist in his own right, and the two together can put up a fight worthy of him. If they need to be neutralized to ensure business goes smoothly, Hanma is more than happy to oblige.

Another hour of discussion follows as they discuss revenue streams, liabilities, and personnel decisions. Except for when Kokonoi blathers on, Hanma manages to follow all of it without drowning himself in a pit of boredom. He is almost proud of himself when the meeting wraps up.

“Hanma, stay back,” Kisaki orders.

As the other execs file by in an unofficial runway of Prada and Comme des Garçons, they shoot him sympathetic or vindictive looks. Like he’s a child held back for a scolding by the teacher.

Tetta – his oldest but never quite friend – pours two fingers of whiskey into a glass and pushes it across the table in Hanma’s direction. He pours himself a much smaller portion and sips at it daintily. Time has not been kind to Kisaki, but he doesn’t realize it yet. While maturity smoothed out his awkwardness, all that youthful intensity streamlined into sleek elegance, there is already something of the old man in his face. A squint and Hanma can see how Kisaki will look in thirty years. How sad to live that long.

“This deal with the HJK is big for us. Very big,” Kisaki tells him, like they haven’t discussed nothing else for the past six months. “We finalize this, and we will have a complete monopoly on all drugs smuggled not just into Tokyo but Japan. And, we’ll have it on the cheap. We can’t afford anything to go wrong.”

“Sure, sure,” Hanma says agreeably.

“You’ve been going to therapy for what, three weeks now? How’s your progress?”

Hanma just wouldn’t be Hanma if he didn’t play a little. “Major progress. Hypnosis has helped me remember all those times the babysitter gave me the bad touch. I feel myself becoming stronger every day.”

“You fuck this up for me, and it will be a bullet in the back of the head,” Kisaki says.

Not the first time Kisaki has threatened to kill him, probably not the last. Hanma pretends to care because people get upset when they confront how little he values his own life. Nods along. The whiskey is too smooth, pleasant oak dripping down his throat. He prefers the cheaper selections that burn.

“A war with the HJK would be painful for Toman. While we would have home field advantage, they are in every way our equal in power. I know the…temptation this presents for you. If you stay my loyal dog for just a little longer, just until this deal passes, I’ll give you the gift of a lifetime. You just need to control yourself until then. That’s why I want you seeing that woman. Need you to be able to look out for your own best interests,” Kisaki says.

“Woof woof.”

Kisaki offers him a cigar, real chummy like a couple of regular gentleman. Hanma prefers being his dog but accepts the cigar anyway. It tastes better than the whiskey. The smell clogs up the room, black pepper and cinnamon seeping into the wooden table to linger for hours to come.

“Don’t fuck around with me on this one. Is the woman helping you or not?” Kisaki demands.

A long drag on the Padrón as Hanma considers if you have “helped” him so far. He thinks of your little game today, how you had looked shell shocked at his happy memories, like you couldn’t believe him to be so sentimental. Yet you had still fallen for his act. Silly bitch. It had never occurred to you that he could lie about all of his memories just as easily as you did. You acted so cautious, but you were too trusting despite yourself.

Fucking around during your sessions is one of his favorite pastimes of the moment, a real highlight of his week. He delights in watching you maneuver around the obstacles he throws at you, how your brain spins behind that cold exterior to keep up with. Somehow you repeatedly surprise him, and somehow you repeatedly play directly into his hands. The unpredictability is fun.

Staying on schedule and following orders is always easiest on the days before your sessions. He doesn’t want to risk missing your little dates. Hanma supposes that counts as improvement.

He started on your homework already, too. Just twenty-four pages into the behemoth you call a classic. The main guy is a pussy, and Hanma is already sick of being trapped in his miserable head, but he thinks the way the city is described is interesting, the poverty, the whores and drunks and screaming kids, the smell. All of it could describe the slums of Tokyo today as well as the St. Petersburg of the 1860s.

He is a little embarrassed that he found himself checking his phone every other minute – scrolling internet porn and downloading music – as if you were right about his attention span. Still, he is reading. Maybe that counts for something.

He isn’t going to tell Kisaki that though.

“I’ve gone to three sessions now. That’s two more sessions than you thought, right?” Hanma says instead.

Kisaki’s eyes narrow a little in understanding. “She did have nice legs.”

“And nice tits, too. What does it matter? It’s a distraction to keep me busy, and so far, it’s working,” Hanma counters.

“A distraction to keep you busy…” Kisaki murmurs the words.

Hanma figures Kisaki should understand. After all, he dedicated his entire life to a skinny little girl on a pedestal of his own making. Women have a way of wrapping a man’s brain up in knots that can only be untied by a taste of their cunt. So long as you keep him thirsty and wanting, he’ll keep coming back for more.

The glass is empty, Hanma realizes as he tips it back again. He wishes he had more, eyes the decanter by Kisaki’s briefcase.

“Do your job and play with your distraction because, Shuji, if you can do this, if you can stick with us and not betray me one last time…”

Hanma’s stomach flips before Kisaki can finish the sentence. Whiskey sloshes around in his belly. Somehow, he knows that whatever he hears next will change everything.

“Stick with me this one last time, and I’ll tell you where you can find Mikey-kun.”

Peals of celebratory laughter echo down the halls to the elevators as Hanma embraces this last wonderful promise of fun. Yes, yes, yes! Find Mikey. Kill Mikey. Die by Mikey’s hand. Oh, how wonderful.

Kisaki did always promise to keep him entertained.

#hanma shuji #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #hanma x reader #hanma smut #tokyo rev smut #from his mind to hers #please heed the warnings #embossross masterlist

[skaruresonic]

spicy meatballs SH takes Parallel worlds theory is bullshit. There is only one reality which gets overwritten by the Otherworld; Harry says as much in SH1. He faints during Otherworld shifts because reality is literally changing right before his eyes and his mind shuts down trying to process it. Furthermore, a 1999 SH1 strategy guide likens the cycle of the Otherworld to the stages of REM sleep. Full circle theory is bullshit. Silent Hill doesn't want to punish or rehabilitate people. Silent Hill doesn't want anything. Whatever you think you deserve is what you'll see. Silent Hill is also capable of giving people what they want, if only briefly. Eddie, a pizza; James, a healthy "wife"; Angela, to see her mother again. The cult calls themselves "the Organization." Outsiders call it "the Order." At this point, the "muh trauma and guilt" stuff outnumbers the cult stuff by a wide margin. It's beyond moot to complain about cult stuff. The cult is actually pretty interesting; it's just that the later games tack on nonsensical additions. Silent Hill's horror encompasses a lot more than just themes of personal trauma and guilt. Pigeonholing it into those themes over and over again does the franchise a disservice. "Samael" is some demonic-sounding bullshit Dahlia made up in order to scare Harry. It's not an actual being in the mythos except as a derogatory name the Order's opponents call their God. Silent Hill is not sentient. It merely gives people the impression that it is. SH3 deserves better than to be labeled as just "women's horror" on the basis of its pregnancy and menstruation motifs. It's also a coming-of-age tale that tackles themes of suffering, abuse, religious trauma, growing up, sin, and responsibility. SH3 would probably have been as good as SH2 had it had more time to bake in the oven. Silent Hill does not automatically lure the guilty. In fact, I could make an extremely faint case that kindness draws one to Silent Hill as well, seeing as how many of the innocents that go there do so through a combination of bad luck and kindness ex. Eileen offering Walter her doll; Harry and his wife taking Cheryl home; Douglas taking up Claudia's case to find a kidnapped girl, later compelled to help Heather It's not ash. It's snow. Kaufmann remarks that "it's snowing. This time of year." In Water was probably not the developers' intended ending; the narrative explicitly condemns suicide via James' dialogue, probably hinting at the team's own views. This is bolstered by the fact that the game's programming leans the most away from In Water whenever you start fresh on SH2, giving it the lowest initial score of the three endings.

[touchtranscendslanguage]

what about 5?

also i was thinking about how much virgil and remy would consume in caffine, its def not a healthy amount like id imagine its an equivelant to like 5 monsters. probably wouldnt help virge with his anxiety either.

side note virgil would probably call remy remington when hes annoyed at him-🕸

Lol, I was wondering if you guys would remember five.

5 for the ask game: Truly, a number of fae and monsters will have profound regrets when they sober up.

So, driders and human-driders don't metabolize caffine the same way human do. They got basically all of the 'good' stuff from their human side and none of the 'bad' stuff. Why? Because I said so.

I actually had to dig through my notesto refresh my memory on this but the notes say: Fortunately, coffee's most adverse effects don't really show up much in driders. Virgil's insomnia and anxiety are unrelated. No fast heartbeat, irritability, digestive issues, headaches, fatigue, dehydration, or any of that stuff.

Because I like making my boy suffer but not like that, apparently.

Funny story about Remy's name! His real name is not Remington but it is his legal name on Earth. Remy found it was easier to live on Earth if he had all the legal doccuments with a fake name. He orignally just used Sleep, but that came with some problems as it was obivously a fake name.

Around the time the REM sleep cycle was name a human friend nicknamed him Remy because it fits and sounds more like a legit name. Remy started using it as his moniker on Earth. Later, another friend started calling him Remington as a joke. Both friends are long dead now and Remy still uses the nicknames they gave him in their memory.

#ttl #touch transcends language #bluewic answers #character info #history #spider web anon

[nanakibh]

Type 0 runs on cycles as you've mentioned. Do you think that Type Next was a part of those cycles (from what we saw in the Rise From the Ashes cinematic) or something else entirely that Tabata had planned?

I'm really not sure what was going on there. lol

I don't think it was another cycle... We see Ace get resurrected by some sort of fire spirit (?), which is different from how they would usually be resurrected by Arecia.

I saw speculation that it takes place in the future, after Orience was rebuilt by Machina and Rem, so that could be why the setting looks very different. There's also some concept art which included a yellow dragon, the fifth Chinese celestial beast, potentially representing that the four nations had been united.

I'm not sure if/how the mobile game was going to factor into it.

Personally, I like the theory that Class Zero became like "legendary heroes" (perhaps after becoming Agito together with the player) who are summoned throughout history when they're needed.

#ask

[headingalaxys-spicy]

German bros + Russia reacting to a reader begging them to buy an axolotl

⭐️Enjoy ⭐️

🇩🇪Germany🇩🇪

“Ludwig looks there is the sea creature section! Let’s go!” There was an added pep in your step when you saw the blue green multicolored glass that had a mythical glow to it. The beloved animal close to your heart was a mere few feet away from you. You watched ten maybe fifteen axolotls glinde through the water like aqua born angels that had their feathers as their ears. Other axolotls were nestled behind some of the fake seaweed and hollow rocks having an afternoon siesta. They peaked out at you with their beady eyes as some of their faces took on a form of delighted surprise. These faces were that of what you’d imagine that cherubs would have when playing under the water. You were in awe and off into the whimsical aquatic world of your own. You didn't realize that your German best friend had left your side to handle some business.

‘Y/N really likes them so I’ll acquire some and they’ll want to be over at my place more often.’

“Excuse me, clerk. I’d like to buy four axolotls please.”

“Of course sir let me grab some from the case and they’ll be about thirty five Euros each.”

“No problem.” He gets out his wallet as the clerk and her coworker grab some of the small salamanders from one of the tanks. As he saw them gently place the aquatic angels into a portable aquarium. “We can deliver the full home aquarium for them by 9pm tonight. Thank you for your purchase.” A small smile forms on the stony Germans face. He was thinking about all the ways that you and him could bond over simple beings. He went back to where he left you and sure enough you were still there mesmerized by the scene before you.

“Y/N let's go home now so we can make dinner and you can become more acquainted with your new friends.” There was an abnormal hint of glee in his voice so you turned around to see why he was so excited. You eyes met with his blue ones then they wandered down to the rectangular miniature aquarium.

“You bought axolotls WHAT?!?!?!”

“I wanted us to have something we could bond over together.”

“Aw Ludwig.” You wander over and give him a kiss on the cheek. “Well I’m game if you are.”

Prussia

“Vhat are you doing? It's almost 3am and you're still up? Vile also has a presentation tomorrow that is worth 40% of your grade. Are you crazy? What are you giggling about late into the night?” The albino man that had bags under his eyes from being awoken from his REM sleep cycle due to a rapturous laughter that broke out in your room that was next to his whenever you stayed the night in his home. His eyes were slightly bloodshot and irritated. You didn’t answer him because you had on your noise canceling headphones and your eyes were glued to the screen that was on Youtube. It was playing one of the many videos you had fell into when you began to explore the axolotl rabbithole. The current video you were consuming was that of an axolotl jumping at the person holding the camera when they told a bad pun that it didn’t like a-lotl.

“Sup bro.” Was the only think you could think to say when you saw your sleep deprived Prussian friend. He shakes your chair violently because he can be an asshole at times. He cares about you but has a really strange way of showing it.

“Ahhhh Gilbert no!” You couldn’t help but laugh at his dumb attempt to dominate, scare, or show power over you or whatever.

“Y/N have you seen zhe time? You’re going to look like shit tomorrow if you don’t get any sleep. Not to mention you won’t give a compelling argument if you’re just mumbling your words.” Concerned but he needed to be pushy if he wanted you to listen.

“But they're so cute! I just need to watch one more and-”

“NEIN! IN DEIN BETT JETZT! SCHLAFEN JETZT!” You knew he was angry when he began to only use German. He cares about you as a good friend but thinks you don’t make the best decisions sometimes. He sees the frown manifest itself on your face and feels a pang of guilt in his gut. After a few moments of thinking he came up with a solution that would make you less irritated about having to go to bed and having to be an adult.

“If you get a B+ or higher I’ll get you some and help you raise some axolotls but ONLY if you hit the sheets now.”

Nothing in your life has ever gotten you into bed faster.

🇷🇺 Russia 🇷🇺

While he was scouring your house for more information about you he needed more cannon fodder to do so. He needed some dirt he could throw at you in order to stop you from winning the debates that were coming in the next couple of weeks. He wanted that newly vacated seat in the World Government and he didn’t want to let you have it because you were from a micronation that only had a miniscule amount of power that he held in one finger compared to your entire nation. Which was daunting but didn’t faze you in any capacity. You seemed infallible and he hated that.

He needed to find ways to tarnish your reputation quickly. He knew well enough that you possessed all the abilities that were required to become a head diplomat: agility, quick as a whip, compassionate, and you knew all the rules and regulations of the United Government (UG). Your track record of maintaining peace in trying times that could have led to war as one of the seven lead delegates to the prime minister in your nation made you the most qualified candidate with the most accolades to your name. Not to mention you were second in your class at an Ivy League school. Magna Cum Laude.

You were a thorn in his side. And he needed to get rid of you. You were the more popular delegare for the coveted position and you were luring in the tougher to reach demographics that Ivan had a great deal of trouble relating to. And he hates losing so he really wanted to rid the world of you. He continued to delicately rummage through your study until he opened one of your drawers that held your journal in it.

“Jackpot.” Overly excited he opened it right away without too much regard for being caught at that moment. To his surprise it wasn’t the information he was hoping for. The “journal” he stumbled upon was more like a scrapbook filled with numerous pictures of pale pink salamanders that was decorated with glitter, ribbons, and streamers.

“What the hell?” Confused and wondering what he stumbled upon. Regardless, he took the book with him and had his advisors devise a plan to use the book against you. Let’s just say a few weeks later he showed up at you house with 10 Aloxoltols trying to threaten you by sating that he was going to murder each and everyone of them in your face. When you opened the door to greet him he was surprised to be pummeled by you and all of your affectionate kisses on the cheek and forehead that you did to him. He was in essence a pile of snow that could only give you one word answers while you praised him for giving you your new companions.

“Ivan, I didn't know you could be this thoughtful.” You beamed sunshine at his soul. Making him unable to speak intelligible words. “I’ll become one with you or whatever.” Not really caring what that actually meant but you knew he said it a loud a lot at international meetings.

Needless to say you still became the new United Government delegate with a Russian boyfriend that was really docile when he was around you.

#hetalia #hetalia fandom #hws america #headingalaxys writes stuff #hws #headingalaxys #yandere hetalia #hetalia fanfic writers #hetalia headcanons #hetalia fanfiction writers #aph russia #aph prussia #aph germany #axis powers ヘタリア #ヘタリア

[lost-technology]

Writ of Passage

Trigun Fanfiction Trigun Stampede Universe (could be seen as Trimax, too, if you want)  Gen PG, Spoilers Rem, Vash, Nai  Summary: Rem entered one of the records rooms stretching her hands above her head and penting her fingers.  Oh, yeah, it was time to do crime.   A story about things that Rem will do for her boys with a bit of details-worldbuilding. 

Writ of Passage She’d told the boys to go touch grass.   The twins were laughing and chasing each other in a classic game of Tag beneath the blue of an artificial sky lit by a false sun.  They were often here, but Rem did think they’d been getting too much screen-time lately.  They’d been watching a lot of movies – particularly ancient “Westerns” – Nai’s choice - while Vash complained that he wanted to watch cartoons.   And then there was their hacking-hobby, which was getting disturbing.  Their intellect, comprehension and aptitude was growing by leaps and bounds and she did not know how much longer she could keep pace… … in order to keep certain secrets locked up. She suppressed a shiver when she thought about her…the one she could not save.  This is exactly why she gave the boys a quick excuse that there was some work that she needed to do that was really, really boring.  She made it sound like she’d needed to go scrub some toilets. (It wasn’t like she hadn’t, every once in a while.  Being the single “bone” in a skeleton-crew meant that one had to take care of one’s own business).  In truth, the computers on the ship and the Plants could run themselves, but there needed to be at least one person on duty per ship-cycle to account for any unforeseen error and to boot up the wake-up sequence for the cycles in which a full-crew was to be staffed for necessary scientific surveys of deep-space and other studies.   It was easier this way – to have minimal crew most of the time – on and off full staff interspersed with a one-to-three years of a singleton.  It minimized the use of resources and kept the Plants from being overtaxed.  Most parts of the ship did not even need oxygen and were shut-out from the living and general maintenance areas.  With more crew, more areas needed to be opened up.    Anyone on-roster for doing single-crew work was given a battery of vetting and tests to assess how well they handled isolation.   Rem had always been an introvert.   She’d once had a silly (very silly) dream about just running off with Alex to some kind of off-the grid homesteading project in one of the few remaining wild places back on Earth, but that had long been rendered impossible.   Now her previously unexpected life consisted of sleeping in frozen suspended animation for twenty-five years at a time and being alternating crew on a colonization-ship that might be a shot in the dark for a dwindling apex-species from a dying world.  There were some promising solar systems with planets in the Goldilocks-zone registered by the SEEDS ships’ navigation that would be within investigative-probe range within the next year, but space was big, bigger than any one human being could imagine.  Each and every one of the intrepid travelers could well be destined to be simply lost in the Void.   The Plants seemed hopeful, at least (in so much as Rem could “speak” Plant).  The ones she’d worked with registered occasional energy-spikes – the kind that did not interfere at all with their functioning and seemed to her (if she wasn’t supposed to “know better”) to be expressions excitement, like they could sense something on the horizon.   The last time she’d worked with a full-crew, she had been warned not to anthropomorphize or get too attached to the livestock.   Vash and Nai – her boys.  These were unusual names for children to be sure.  “Vash” was an actual name, although a rare one and had some relation to a world in one of the nearly-dead old Earth languages to cows, animals that had been raised for milk and meat and only existed anymore (here in space) via cloned-tissues.  (There were some animals on the ships, but there were limits to space and resources and things that were large and produced a lot of methane were best kept as genetic-sample only stock, meat without the beast).  Nai, or “Kni” as an alternate spelling went, was a little stranger – something of a negative-notion in another old Earth language, and it also rhymed with “love” in that same language.   There was a rhyme to the reason and a reason to the rhyme when Rem had named her boys.  Their names together were her own symbolic way of saying that they were “Not Cattle.”   As she walked down a corridor headed to her “work,” Rem thought about the amazing stroke of luck that had her finding them – as infants – mere months ago.  It had happened when she’d been on Single Duty.  If there had been a full crew, she did not know if she could have kept history from repeating itself and her guts clenched as she walked.   Not now, not now… not the thing to think about.  At least the freezing kept her unconscious – although that was difficult to know for certain, given the species.   Being a single parent is tough – especially when your kids grow up like weeds.  It wasn’t yet a year and the twins exhibited roughly the maturity-rate of growing kittens – newborn to ready to hit puberty in roughly a year’s time. That was how it had been with the other one and then she had stopped the maturation-rate.  This meant that when the next full-crew cycle hit, they were “out of the woods,” so to speak.  No more weed-sprouting, nothing to distinguish them from normal human beings.

Well, at least as long she kept them away from close proximity to direct Plant-light. She would also make sure that she would be in charge of their medical examinations and care.

Rem entered one of records rooms stretching her hands above her head and penting her fingers.  Ah, yeah, it was time to do crime.  

If caught, she could definitely be put into an indefinite freeze for this – pending the construction of more punitive prison-facilities.  Given the nature of it, perhaps she would even be executed, deemed a “danger to mankind’s future.”  It made it all the more exciting.  These potential consequences paled in comparison to what her children would face if she didn’t do it.  

Falsifying records was one of the most egregious offences in the codes, conduct and law of Project SEEDS.  

As her fingertips flew over two pairs of consoles at once, swiping, typing and bypassing locks (there were reasons she could stay just one jump ahead of her kids’ hacking-hobby), she mused upon the incredible stroke of luck – both good and bad – that had made this possible.  

Cryogenic-failures were uncommon upon the SEEDS-ships, but a few had happened.  They happened for many reasons: an overtaxed Plant whose input-output levels had not been monitored properly by their engineer-on-duty, computer-errors and sometimes even simple hardware failures – aging hoses and pipes, a screw or a lug nut improperly tightened, damage to the outer ship by interstellar debris that caused some of the outer-ring chambers to form hairline cracks from getting a good jostle… all of these could spell potential doom for the sleepers inside.  

Sometimes, it was even a mysterious medical hiccup with the passengers themselves that presented a problem – a small warming taking them partially out of cold-sleep or an improperly-formed ice-node in the wrong artery or vein…

Rem, herself, had almost died from a cryogenic-failure once, at least on-record.  She did not remember it.  

In the entire journey of SEEDS Ship-5, there had only been six cryogenic-failure deaths and seven near-misses (Rem’s included).  Considering the many hundreds that rested within the massive vessel and the duration of travel, this was an excellent record, statistically-speaking.  

Ah! Yes!  Here was the incident that Rem was looking for on display now.  It had happened three years, five months, a week and a day ago, but such a record was very simple to alter and she got to work.  The skeleton-crewer that the specific failure had happened under was slated to sleep for another twenty-two years and so he would not be around to remember the event and to blow her cover.  She would have to stay one step ahead of the game concocting computational locks so that when his time was up she and her boys would not be found out – provided that they didn’t luck out and make a planet-landing in that duration.  In any case, she had time.  

Three pods with a hardware failure at the same time – a break in their pipes. The damage had been irreparable.  They’d leaked their nitrogen, re-warmed too quickly for the human body to take and their occupants had been lost.  Rem had not ever met them and had been in cryosleep at the time.  She absolutely was nowhere near where her creatively concocted bullshit-story would have her, but she had studied everything about these broken pods before committing to her records-fraud.  

She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer for each of the souls lost that day.  She committed their photographs to memory and breathed their names. “Phillip Frai.” “Nate and Nora Lerher.”

And just like that, with a stroke of a key, they had never boarded Project SEEDS Ship-5.  With several more strokes, the photograph of Nate Lerher rested above data for a person who had never existed – a certain “Joseph Bridges,” a single-father who had boarded the ship with his young twin sons, Vash and Nai Bridges.   The date of the cryogenics-failure was falsified to a date of nine and one half months ago from the present time.  The dead and unsuable pods were in an intact enough state to make this plausible.  The fictional “Joseph Bridges” was registered as deceased while Vash and Nai were registered as survivors.  

There were no bodies.  When death happened aboard Project SEEDS, a brief funeral was held among anyone awake and present, the record had been set, with medical details of the death, if necessary. After that, the deceased were cremated by one of the thermal-Plants with the remains being ejected into space to become one, once again, with the stardust from which all Life had derived. It was something that everyone who had signed up to board acknowledged and consented to.  Carting around dead bodies, even in the cryo-chambers, was a waste of resources that were precious on the limited confines of an interstellar colony-ship.  

Rem had concocted some of the most beautiful malarkey regarding coming across the cryo-failure via the alert-system. According to her story – along with a dry scientific report – she had flown into boot-up sequence mode but poor Joseph had died in warm-up.  The children were more resilient and had responded to emergency medical measures. Being orphaned – with no other relatives aboard any of the SEEDS vessels, Rem had adopted them.  

At least that part wasn’t a lie…

For good measure; she entered a request to remain on-duty beyond normal bounds for the sake of this emergency.  These children’s pods had been broken and there were no working spares.  If they were to enter coldsleep, it could only be a temporary condition in cycle with crew.  To tell the truth, Rem did not know how Independent Plants would react to the conditions of coldsleep and so needed every excuse she could come up with to keep them awake and to stay awake with them.  

She even wrote up a detailed record of medical care that Vash and Nai had never received in regards to their coldsleep-failure. Proximity to the energy of the Plants in the infirmary had left them with a “lasting energy-signature.”  (This could explain any sighting of Plant-specific markings under reader-lights for some time – as long as she could keep up the bullshit game).  Occasionally humans that had received intensive Plant-derived emergency medical care developed the marks temporarily, although never as abundantly.  A few glowing-line “freckles” on the face under the right lighting could remain for months at a time.  

Rem started weeping as she entered her fictional account of both of the twins hovering near-death.  Comatose for weeks, in danger of developing a vegetative-state. It was fake, a fiction – perhaps the stuff worthy of a novel should she ever think to write one, but couched in scientific specifics, numbers and chemicals that would make it a dry read. In her mind’s eye, she kept imagining the two boys, pale and frail, thinning by the day laid out in hospital beds, herself keeping them clean and moving their limp bodies around to keep them from developing sores, hoping and praying that they would wake up.  

Her guts clenched and her heart felt like it had stopped, but she pressed on.  It wasn’t real.  It had not happened.  Far worse would if she did not pretend that it had and was able to give a convincing performance.  

She had thought about giving this story to Vash and Nai – telling them to make up little details about their “father” and to get in on the creativity of concocting a fictional past.  She decided against it in case the twins contradicted each other.  Also, she did not want to introduce the concept of grief to these young, tender souls who had yet to experience it.  The thought of telling them to perform for other humans by pretending that this man that had never existed was like her and to “imagine if I died” broke her. She kept picturing little Vash demanding “Why?” and Nai sobbing, inconsolable.  

No, at this rate, she decided that their back-story involved that old storytelling chestnut of amnesia.  She had done her research on the specific kind she’d needed.  And as her luck would have it, such amnesia was not at all uncommon in people who had survived cryogenic-failures.  Memories could begin to come back in the space of months or years.  Occasionally, it had been permanent.  Most people who’d had such emergencies when the coldsleep was being developed remembered their lives but a high enough number had suffered sufficient memory-loss to make this part of the story feasible.  

Vash and Nai did not know their “father.” They only knew Rem.

Just like reality.  

She had double-checked the extensive entries. She prayed to whatever God might exist in deep-space that the entries would convince everyone that they needed to convince.  

As she wandered through the cold corridor back the way she had come, she thought she could sense some Plantish-trill.

“They’re our babies,” she said to no one in particular (to Vash and Nai’s mother-Plant, actually).  “You want to protect them, too.”  

She felt something in the sterilized, artificial air that buzzed with “acknowledgement.”  

And, with that, she took a detour into her crew-quarters to retrieve a small plastic disc.  

She and the boys hadn’t played Frisbee in a while.  It was about time to rectify that.  She pressed the opening-pad on a door and walked out into sunshine, the smell of grass, red flowers and children’s laughter carried on a generated breeze.  

#trigun #trigun stampede #trigun stampede spoilers #trigun fanfic #trigun stampede fanfic #rem #vash #nai #young vash #young nai #rem is a good mom #rem does crime #go touch grass

[dullweapons]

sleep meme / ray cadell ❪ repost from old blog ❫

gernal note before going into details. ray follows the uberman sleep cycle during times of war or high stress . 20-minute naps are spaced evenly throughout the day, totaling two hours of sleep per day . when hyrule is at peace he will follow the everyman sleep cycle : 3.5 to 4 hours of sleep & three 20-minute naps spread out across the day .

type of bed. anything available is fine by him . being a soldier there are times where the only thing he had was a cot or even just a blanket on the ground . as long as he can lay down or even sit , leaning against a tree or large enough rock he can sleep . if he can , he would prefer a bed or at least something soft when following the everyman sleep cycle . when dawn & ray are traveling / camping they usually sleep together . sometimes they go to inns & they will just sleep in the same bed to save money . anacanoa will sleep through the whole night whereas ray will get up after 4 hours . in some games they have a house & each have their respective beds .

number of blankets. again , during war , whatever is available to him is fine . there were times where he would have none & would just cross his arms & nuzzle his head further down into his clothes . in peace he still finds it hard to accept the comfort of blankets & claims he only desires a thin sheet but in reality ⸻ he wants a heavy blanket that weighs down on him . the added pressures relaxes him & helps him sleep .

number of pillows. one . too many & he will toss them onto the floor & pick them up in the morning . ( secret : he has a little cow plushie . he hides it under his pillow so no one sees it ...... don't tell anyone . )

type of clothing. his armor during time of war . rather be ready than in comfort . otherwise ; he wears very little . just his undershirt & underwear . sometimes just underwear if it's really hot . if him & anacanoa are sleeping together he will borrow a pair of her pants .

does it matter where they sleep ? nope . as long as he can stay still somewhere long enough he can take his naps . being said , if it's around his usual nap time & you're sitting with him there is a high possibility that he will close his eye & go out like a light . very grandpa of him .

what do they do if they cannot fall asleep ? go outside & work out . push ups , sits ups , jogging . anything in hopes of getting his body tired enough to sleep . otherwise he will oil & sharpen his weapons or repair other gear . in war ; he simply stands guard .

frequent dreams, nightmares. ray had nightmares every time he sleeps not matter what he does . they are of the same thing with slight changes in details . the main focus of the nightmares is his late wife , sahar . usually it starts very sweet but turns dark , ending with her killing him . he's used to them now , no longer waking with a start but a smile . its the only time he gets to see her .

deep slumber or naps ? naps . even when he is taking his longer sleep of ~4 hours it's a light sleep . it's very easy to wake him . a soft sound & his eye will snap open . but he can easily sleep back into REM sleep .

when do they sleep ? 20-minute nap every 4 hours with the uberman sleep style . he doesn't care when he gets his nap times but as long as he gets them . in peace he does sleep 4 hours . usually towards the end of dawns sleep . dawn sleeps at 10 ~ 12 am , so he will crawl into bed around 2 ~ 4am to awake around 6 ~ 8 am with dawn in time to help her with breakfast & morning chores .

what could wake them up ? anything . a light touch , a loud enough noise . his eternal clock is sleep is less of a clock & more of a timer . he knows exactly when 20 minutes are up & he wakes up .

#⸻ RAY : about ✦ remember me i ask . remember me i sing ˎˊ˗ #⸻ RAY : dash games ✦ lets gamble ˎˊ˗ #queue .

[skaruresonic]

Stuff like this is what fascinates me about early installment weirdness and obscure games. Unlike the original, which introduces Cybil with an air of mystery, the Play Novel instead makes Cybil and Harry kindred spirits in the madness by offering an explanation as to what she was doing before meeting Harry in the cafe.

By the sounds of it, she likely suffered the same mental shutdown he did during the Otherworld shift.

The first game heavily implies that the cycles of the Otherworld resemble the stages of REM sleep. The 1999 strategy guide furthermore makes the comparison explicit.

It then stands to reason that the reason Harry keeps "fainting" during these shifts isn't because he's passing out from fright, as Christophe Gans once implied, but rather, reality is changing so rapidly that his mind shuts down in an attempt to protect him.

Just like how dreams can only occur during the deepest part of REM sleep, the most lurid of Alessa's monstrous nightmares only come alive within the sheer darkness of the Otherworld. I believe as I continue to play this game, we'll see the comparison be referenced more often.

This is also why TwinPerfect's "parallel dimensions" theory of the Otherworld doesn't hold any water. The Otherworld is altering reality, rather than the characters being transported to different dimensions.

#silent hill #silent hill play novel

[melissa-titanium]

I FEEL LIKE IF DIRKEVER PLAYED RAIN WORLD (WITH THE REST OF THE ALPHA KIDS) HE'D BE LIKR. HE WOULD CALCULATE INTERNALLY HOW THE REM,AINDER OF THE CYCLE WOULD GO AND BE LIKE Okay so when we enter Shaded Citadel I'll go with Jake to trade with the Scavenger Merchant for a lantern and Jane and Roxy will both focus on finding food. We'll spend extra time gathering arena unlocks, then we'll go south and everyone with a free stomach space will gather bubble fruit for later. We'll cross Memory Crypts and sleep in The Leg's shelter just before the rain timer goes off. AND THEN HE GETS EATEN BY A WOLF SPIDER. HE SMASHES HIS MONITOR IN AND ONEOF THE OTHER KIDS MESAGES HIM LIKE ? Dirk you jsut left the game is everything alrighjt :( AND HES JUST LIEK I think we should play another game.

#mel roars