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ikemenomegas · 1 year

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Nightmare for Gojo? Because he's kind of a nightmare 😂

He is kind of a nightmare [affectionately] isn't he XD. Hmm how about in a nightmare?

You wake with a quiet gasp, alone in a room that is familiar but not yours.

Throat feeling too thick, you sit up and fumble for the cup of water on the bedside table. It is stale, but it forces you to hold your hands steady and you grip it just a little tighter than normal while you slowly cycle cursed energy through your body.

It warms your limbs and wakes you up. You're unsure whether to be disappointed about that. It's still dark outside and the dull white numbers of the clock in the bookshelf read some time late after one in the morning. Too late to be wandering but you shrug a thick oversized shirt over the clothes you had put on - too wary of being woken by more than your own mind to change into pajamas - and pad out the door, into the chill November night.

You can't sit still while images, real and imagined, tear around your mind. The path before you goes up and around the mountain the school is built around, and you start to climb, lungs tingling with cold.

No one stops you.

You weren't there in the barrier on Halloween. You're not on trial. You're not under arrest or even truly censured. You're just... remanded to the school. Waiting. While they decide whether or not you're enough trouble to execute outright.

Satoru has made enough of a nuisance of himself that you're fairly confident they'll ignore you in comparison. Especially once they won't be able to prove any binding connection. It makes you wonder for a moment how intentional it is the way he pushes away everyone but the college's dozen wayward teenagers, and how much is just his bad personality.

Children he can protect. The world of sorcerer's is a harsh one, but it has still learned to excuse youth and its inexperience.

It makes you wonder again why he has you.

Your nose is cold by the time you run out of road and end up at your destination. Night washes out color and it hasn't helped the constant replay in your head, like the pages of a book flipping back and forth: bodies surrounding a bed, moving the bare figure on it, dead to the world.

When you enter the infirmary, the familiar scent of antiseptic and medicine just makes you shudder. The lights are low, half of them turned off given the late hour, tiled walls and floors gleaming dully. You move deeper into the building, listening, but the only footsteps are yours.

At every corner, you're apprehensive of what you might find.

The infirmary is dim and gray as the vision that woke you where pooling light doesn't touch. You hesitate once, just the tip of your finger on the door to a room you have been in before, and then steel your nerves and slide it open.

The fact Shoko can't describe how to create or use reverse-cursed energy used to frustrate Satoru. You'd thought she was enigmatic, since then you've come to understand.

Even when you can lay out the rules of a technique in perfectly comprehensible terms, the feeling is not so easy to describe.

How does Gojo Satoru make something that literally shouldn't exist? The answer lies in mathematics. The way Shoko repairs the human body is based in biology and physiology. Your own technique is only an answer to certain laws of physics.

Even Suguru, whose power was the closest to the kind of pure and terrible magic that you used to think existed only in storybooks, who didn't want to explain himself...

You'd guessed over a decade ago that his physical form was acting as some kind of barrier but the truth is you still don't understand it.

Even knowing what you know, maybe you don't understand any of the people around you.

Just like how Shoko can't quite explain herself, she can't explain why Nobara hasn't woken up yet. The curse called Mahito should have rent her to ribbons like it had done to Nanami but sorcerers are good at subverting what should happen.

Instead, she like so many other things, is simply a secret here, her injury frozen while Shoko carefully tries to augment whatever technique Nobara discovered at the edge of death.

She'll be fine, that's the verdict, but with nothing else to do, you come here to see her, to remind yourself of what it is you're protecting.

You sit on a hospital's version of a some kind of padded bench, and rest your elbows on your thighs and drift into an uneasy sort of vigil.

ii.

"Nightmare?"

Megumi's voice jolts you out of your doze. You can't have been here long because you don't yet feel the chill, but you hadn't heard him approach the door. He doesn't look convinced when you try and smile at him.

"You always did know. Even as a child."

"You shouldn't try to hide it."

You just give him another smile and Megumi sighs, settling down next to you on the bench. It's familiar the same way you sat down was familiar. The heaviness is a mirror to your own. You've seen him here and have left him alone while he works out whatever he has to at his healing teammate's side, silencing your steps to give him privacy.

"I'm proud of you, you know."

Megumi starts. He's been different, since Shibuya. You all have been, the world has changed, but there's a weight to his steps that's just... different.

Megumi rests his head against the wall, disordered hair even messier at the back than usual. He must have been here before you and stepped out. You must really look worn down if he broke the unspoken rule you'd both been abiding by. Or maybe he just wanted to be around a familiar face for a while.

The light in Nobara's room is turned down, and it's like the scratch of discordant strings, the screech of a train, the way the grey false memory of your dream cuts through your chest.

There's no such thing as prophetic sorcery. Nothing is set that far in stone.

And yet.

"I know what you're trying to do. The strategy is good, but if it's a choice between your lives and accomplishing your mission--"

You trail off while Megumi looks curiously down at where you're still hunched over your folded hands. You have just enough courage to let your hands shake a little in exchange for meeting his eyes and seeing the guard there, and the trust.

You turn away before you can see that most precious thing break.

"Take your lives."

You can feel the way Megumi stiffens beside you. He's been raised by the Strongest sorcerer in the world and told more than once that he has potential to be that equal. He can be forgiven the hope and arrogance that one can win it all.

Although... they'll be with Hakari, so maybe not.

There's always a price to be paid though. If the kids don't come back, if this kid you've known since he was six and far too serious--

"Gojo-sensei has done a lot for everyone," Megumi says, voice dark and low.

He tries to keep you out of it, is what you don't say. There's lines he won't cross. The spirit possessing our old classmate's body found one of them.

Even though the kid's taken up the mantle, clan head at his age, it's still worlds cleaner than it could have been.

"The world needs him," Megumi adds, and you say nothing to the slightly desperate edge. The world needs a lot of adults to do more than they are and some adults to do less than they've done.

"The world might be able to rise to the occasion," you reply, and you're trying for dry but even to your ears you just sound tired.

"Don't you want him back?" Megumi finally asks, quieter. He doesn't talk about the thing between you and Satoru. It's been what he knows most of his life even when he hated the "lanky layabout teenage delinquent" that showed up in front of him like some kind of criminal. He's old enough now to assume what is still, for the time being, true.

"I think that Gojo is a little safer in there than the rest of us out here." It's stupid to be this emotional about it, it was just a dream. "Don't you think?" you try and joke.

He gives you the kind of look he sometimes give Satoru when he does something to try and derail a conversation in the worst way possible.

"Well whatever Megumi-kun is going to do, is what Megumi-kun is going to do," you say, leaning back so your head touches the wall too, the chill seeping through your skin as you speak blithely into the air.

Megumi leans back and sags a little sideways, sighing. "You shouldn't worry so much," he finally says.

I wouldn't worry so much if you valued your own life a little more, but how can he? A sorcerer's life is lived in the service of a world which barely knows they exist, fighting the kind of battles that barely hold the line against curses. Protecting people from their own creeping self destruction.

You had normal friends, once upon a time. Sometimes you still see those people. You make excuses for your absences and fend off well meaning attempts to get you to try and date someone, to come out drinking and catch up, to see them more often than middle school reunions.

Satoru doesn't get it. He's never had any of that. A normal life? It's pointless to try and you don't miss it. Being a sorcerer is what you can do. It's just a hard truth that you have to do it alone.

Satoru wants the students strong enough to be an indispensable threat, to fill the ranks and tip the balance of power. You want them strong enough to stand together.

Sometimes you think that makes you the worse of the two of you.

"You don't have to take it all on your own. I know I'm not around a lot, so it's okay if my words don't carry as much weight. If it makes you feel better though, you all are the plan, so you can't go around dying. Satoru knows you're important to changing the world so--" don't let him ask you to die for him.

The mark between your shoulder blades burns.

"I'll be careful," Megumi says, but his voice is weird, too close, and you know why a second later as his head lands on your shoulder, curling up a little into himself like when he was younger. "I'll make sure Itadori is careful too."

He's hidden his face in the high collar of his jacket but your own embarrassment is harder to hide up close. "Well," you settle in, moving the bare minimum so Megumi can rest a little more comfortably without being embarrassed into leaving completely. "I'll be here. Probably."

His elbow digs into your side hard enough to knock your breath out.

"Ouch. I think Nobara is rubbing off on you. You know she's going to be insufferable about the reverse cursed technique once she wakes up."

Megumi hummed, amused, but went quiet after that. You felt as his breath deepened and more of his weight dropped against you and he eventually fell sleep.

iii.

"You smell like him," Shoko says, leaning against the wall. She doesn't have to say who. You are wearing a piece of clothing you'd left in his room for far too long and your old classmate has always had a sharp nose.

"Hmm," you distracted yourself by checking on Megumi again. You want to smooth the unruly hair from his forehead like you had done when he was a mistrustful boy, tug the wrinkles from his collar like you had when he was an angry middle schooler.

Now he's a sorcerer, somewhere between a man and a child, steady and kind and tired. You can see the dark circles under his eyes and the way he slouches when he walks has to do with that new weight he carries.

When you look up, Shoko is still looking at you. She hasn't given you a look like that since first year when none of you liked or trusted one another further than you had to.

You incline your head towards Nobara's bed anyways, giving her permission to enter the room. She doesn't need it. The infirmary sits squarely in your mind as part of Shoko's territory. When she's administering to her patients, she is the only one in charge.

Still, she gives you a wide berth on her way to check on Nobara and it gives you an odd sense of relief. You want to say it's because you came to talk to her as much as checking on the injured students, but begrudgingly you admit she's treating you like she would treat any Alpha guarding their pups. She comes close only to the one you've granted permission until you feel safe around her again.

They're not your kids, you remind yourself guiltily. You don't have that kind of right, no matter how protective you feel.

If I am ever incapacitated, look under the loose floorboard in his old room. You know the one where he kept Shoko's--

Cigarettes, yeah.

As if any of you could forget. It was so long ago, more years spent apart than together, but that year still haunts you like a ghost.

Earlier in the afternoon, you'd followed those instructions and found your own piece of Satoru's contingency plan. Then you'd watched it burn between your fingertips, turned to less than ash.

You wonder if Shoko is here for Nobara or for you.

She checks the girl's pulse and you watch her close her eyes in concentration, a golden glow filtering through Nobara's veins.

You're glad to see her chest rise and fall a little easier.

When Shoko finishes you use a tiny bit of your technique to draw her scent towards you on a breeze. She smells like smoke.

The scent flashes grey over those old memories of delinquent days.

What the hell are you two doing?

It's disconcerting to be left out of the loop, but as Satoru's letter proved, maybe it's the right thing to do. You do have your own part to play after all. It won't do to die yet.

You don't want to wake Megumi though. It's been a long time since the last time you've been able to take care of him. It's the only thing that's felt right since Satoru was sealed, since Nanami died.

It's not going to be yours much longer in any case. Maybe that's why Shoko quietly sits down at a desk in the corner and starts making notes in Nobara's chart.

He's not your kid. He's not even Satoru's kid, he was never adopted as a ward, the clans just didn't fight the sponsorship. And he's a few years too old to be able to pretend, which is probably a good thing. What kind of parent wants this kind of job for their child, for children to meet early deaths? Some of the students grew up being told there was honor in it, some that this was what they were born to do.

Megumi's smart, loyal. He could have found a way into the world of non-sorcerers and to a normal life. But he would never leave his sister behind or the promise he made. You don't think he's capable of leaving behind the people he's decided to care about. It would carve out his heart.

That more than anything reminds you you're not his Appa. He had a father and Satoru killed him.

"Megumi-kun" you say softly.

He stirs, but doesn't open his eyes. A muffled chuffing chirp is all you get as he turns his head into your arm.

Shoko's pen stills on the paper for a second before restarting. Still it's a second too long and it's probably the tension in your body that makes Megumi blink open his eyes before you call for him again.

"Sorry to wake you," you whisper.

Megumi sits up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You should go sleep in a bed. I'll come get you if anything changes."

He tips his head around your body to see Shoko, probably doodling nonsense right now to keep your instincts at bay.

Maybe he gets it because he nods sleepily and stretches when he stands.

You shrug off the oversized shirt, leaving you in your typical sorcerer blacks. The shirt is more like a jacket anyways, with a thick weave and heavy material, and it will help keep him warm on the walk back. "It'll be colder now, so don't linger, okay?"

He takes it with a little bit of red in his cheeks, but you already guessed he was leaning on you at least partly because it smelled like Satoru. Satoru who's always been there no matter how much Megumi didn't want to ask too much. He puts his nose in the collar as if he's cold.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

You hope your expression is a little more convincing this time. "I'll be fine. Get some rest."

When he leaves Shoko stays. She sits heavily beside you, her fingers tapping on her thighs like they want for something to do.

People don't look at Shoko. She is, like the school, a secret kept with silence. She keeps her own counsel the same way.

Once, you thought you would always know where to find her, but sitting here, in the pre-dawn dark, she is both familiar and a stranger.

The dream is fading, as dreams do. Already it has slowed so that it is no longer a familiar body, limp, spare, Hellenic muscle of his naked flank and thighs dimpling under some masked, gowned creature's handling. Turning your mate so that he lies lateral, faced away from you while horror yanks you back like a hook through your navel.

The scene turns to snapshots and the dull, ill feeling remaining to thrum through your body. It's a bitter match to your resolve.

"How's Toge?"

Shoko shrugs. "The wound is sealed but it's still resisting my technique. We have to wait for his blood supply to build back up before anyone tries again."

"I'll see him when he wakes up then."

"You're planning to stay the night?"

"You expect me to sleep after this?"

Shoko sighed, looking suddenly more tired. "You're really going through with it then? It's only been three days."

"They made the declaration this evening. Against any argument that this Getou isn't Suguru, the higher-ups have decided. Satoru's conditions have been met."

"Being his mate could still give you some pull," Shoko said, "even mated to the exiled clan head, you'll carry weight with some of the factions."

"They're already hunting Yaga. If I want to live long enough to make any difference at all, it has to be before they start sincerely going down the list and assigning bounties."

Her lips twist in distaste. She might be aware of sorcerer politics but you've always gotten the distinct impression she tries not to be.

"I didn't expect you to try talking me out of it." Aren't you in on whatever he's planning? Either way you're getting close to dangerous territory.

"It's not exactly a standard procedure but you should still know what your options are."

You carefully pressed the tips your fingers into into your left palm. You'd never thought of yourself as having pride exactly in the bond-mark. People in the non-sorcerer world could show theirs off but it meant something different in the sorcerer world.

Even though both of you typically had it covered, it's been there for almost four years, a constant reassurance of the promise you'd made to him. One hand comes up to grip your own shoulder.

Will he feel it?

"It's what has to be done," you say. You remember Satoru's wide hand coming to rest on your back, steering you clear of the Harajuku crowds. You remember brushing against the mark with the tip of your nose as you leaned over the back of the sofa, arms wrapped around his shoulders. You remember talking with him about it in the weeks before you'd bitten the mark bloody and deep at the very base of his neck. You remembered the way you own spine had bent when he placed his own mark on you.

"Ready?"

When could anybody who has made this choice be ready?

When you nod and Shoko's hand slips down the back of your neck and under the hem of your uniform to where your bond-mark hides.

The three steps of mating in the sorcery world are each a binding vow.

The bond vow is a less formal, more emotional tether, and the fear of loss makes one stronger. The emotional difficulty of leveraging that fear lending a sorcerer increased power. A marriage vow is a declaration, saying that this was someone important to you whom you would protect as family placed a target on each sorcerer in the bond and heightened the sense of risk. In the mating vow, the bond-mark that goes with it claims ownership and power, one over the other, sealing the other two bonds so that no one else could easily break them.

In return, its destruction destroys all physical evidence of the other two.

The bond-mark is a seal and can only be broken by the death contingency or by cursed and reverse-cursed energy being used on the seal at the same time. It's intentionally difficult, meant to protect the powers achieved by sorcerers entangled this way.

Shoko sets her fingers into the faint indented marking of the bond-mark bitten over where your heart chakra would be pierced through.

The mark resists her, but the crawling of your skin lets you know that the scar is already changing.

Better not to draw it out.

With your hand on the other side of your chest, you push cursed energy into the mark, swirling slowly around the elliptic shape. It feels hot and cold and like pins and needles as you break the muscle and collagen apart and Shoko knits it back together.

She presses her fingers into the smooth skin, checking on her work. But you can feel it. The bond-mark is gone.

As if it were never there at all.

It doesn't make any difference. You couldn't feel Satoru's presence before he was sealed or after.

It shouldn't make a difference, but you feel both lighter and heavier, like Gojo's gravity is still rooted somewhere in your body.

You drop your hand back to your knees.

Shoko doesn't leave.

You listen for Nobara, for her still-human breathing.

When you look over at her, Shoko is also looking down at the ground.

"I didn't think you'd do it."

You look back at the black and white pattern on the ground. You weren't sure you would either. It had felt too much like admitting defeat but then...

"I dreamt of him."

You shouldn't be saying anything. Shoko doesn't do this. But she's staying even though she should leave so you can make your confessions to a comatose fifteen year old who won't ever know you've been here.

"A bunch of scientists, rolling him on a table," you say, wry and feeling ridiculous. The dream doesn't sound terrible when you say it aloud. "Just... faceless people manipulating him while he just lies there." Unable to stop it. You, unable to stop it because you'd been as frozen as that day in the city, and then you'd woken up.

The dream might be fading but you feel like it's still happening.

Shoko straightens up and you know she's finally leaving. You know what she's thinking too because you made sure to say it that way, in the way that would make the dream a metaphor of what's happening right now. If you'd hinted at your simply literal horror, she'd be within her rights to laugh at you.

"So it's not like a vow will be useful anyways," you force your voice light and slightly self mocking. "He can't do anything from in there so why not pretend it never happened."

You raise your head only meet Shoko's apprehensive expression and falter. There aren't a lot of people who know for certain that Satoru is your mate. Now your place by his name in the family tree will be burnt away. The sealing ink on the marriage documents will fade to nothing. The bond itself might still exist, but any promises intentionally attached to it are blown away like so much sound in a gale.

There's a pinched edge to Shoko's usually cool expression. It's too bad that even with this, you can't promise not to leave her all alone. "Let me know if you need anything for it," she says before spinning on her heels and clicking away down the hall.

iv.

You bury your face into your folded hands, thinking of that body, his body, knuckles pressed hard to your forehead, while the vision shifts slowly to Shoko, to the dead-limp body of the students, to Nanami's hellbent flesh, and back.

You hadn't told Shoko everything.

The only part you can't shake was the way that grayscale atrocity began - with Gojo Satoru torn open and bloody like that day, something bundled and birthed dead being taken from him, and how you knew even while he was turned away from you that he was back to being as pristine as he was when this began.

Megumi leaves again in the morning and you don't say goodbye from the window where you're watching. You didn't go back to sleep, there's too much to do. Your power courses like a livewire inside of you.

You started cycling it to see if your typical energy was still there. You should feel weaker without the vows and restrictions weighing you down, but for now you don't. Anger pours molten through you, fear slinks under it like ice. Grief lays over it all like it lays over everyone and the black and white terror of truly losing what Megumi really means when he talks about the world needing Gojo Satoru is both more stark and more abstract in the morning.

You've never thought of yourself as living in Satoru's shadow. Suffering that particular misconception was thankfully prevented by having a good insight into the reality. You hated that there were so many things he took care of alone.

Megumi doesn't think you have it in you to burn the world. You'd seen the faint disbelief in his eyes when you'd told him to give up on Satoru if it meant surviving. And maybe he's right.

But what he doesn't see, behind the mask Satoru wears and Shoko's distance and Suguru's death and your silence is that you all became monsters. Maybe Gojo Satoru chose to keep you close because for a while you were the only one left.

If the kids don't come back, you think it might just be enough.

Gojo Satoru isn't the only nightmare in the world after all.

#In case it wasn't clear because this isn't that good the implication is that mating marks between sorcerers are a binding vow #i'm aware vows between people aren't typically done. but it was explained that this is because it's difficult not impossible #the mating vow is particularly strong because of what is signifies and therefore leaves a physical mark that is connected to vow's existenc #mates don't have to take on the mark but Gojo has spent a lot of time implicating such to the world at large that you both have #as a binding vow the mating vow does two things #one: it prevents a bond and a marriage from being broken by outsiders #(this does not limit the number of people one can bond/mate/marry in the sorcerer world)#two: the binding vow gives each person an option of control over the others' power and actions #the risk of giving someone power over you in turn increases your own power like another layer to the first order bonding vow #which is another reason sorcerer's have the mating vow #it has been abused in the past of course. this is jjk. but because the bindings must all be “consensual” they're still used in modern times #satoru's instructions were for his mate to break the mating mark if he is ever implicated #because if they're “under his control” the elders won't hesitate to execute them along with him and if he's gone he can't prevent it #if it makes anyone feel better his mate doesn't actually thing satoru doesn't love them #but like everything in this world it's complicated.#jjk #gojo satoru x reader #prompt fill #a/b/o dynamics #omegaverse #mating bites #gojo satoru #reader insert #edited #shoko #i am so sorry #for some reason i convinced myself that ieri was her first name #what convinced me the boys were being so polite i have no idea #io.omegas

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shakestheclown · 3 months

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help today i found out the guy i like is also bisexual and ive been buzzing ever since

#[chanting] BI4BI BI4BI BI4BI B #a mutual friend told me this so i feel bad i didnt hear it from him directly 😭#nevertheless i Must figure out an organic way to bring this up #because he doesnt know im bi afaik and i think this could potentially increase the chances of literally anything happening #maybe #WHO KNOWS

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padfootastic · 2 years

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Remus is definitely the most woobified, sugar-coated marauder in fanon. He was so interesting in canon when he was portrayed as a character who was on the good side but with typical villain traits: charismatic manipulator, selfish, gaslighter, etc. His motivations were understandable too. What are your thoughts on him? How do you feel about him in fanon vs canon?

hello 💜 i absolutely agree with you! re remus: i have one super rambly answer here which i still fully stand by. also some more thoughts under a cut so remus fans can skip this one lol

honestly, fanon remus makes me so annoyed i don’t think i can even properly articulate it lol. it’s gotten so bad that people will completely forget how the man acted in the books and then have go and say ‘oh it was completely out of character for him to do x’ when like,,,,no? (i mean, if u don’t care about canon then great, just say that and we’re gucci) like i’ve literally seen people argue him trying to run out on his wife and unborn kid was ooc as if we didn’t get multiple examples of his cowardice (self admitted) and avoidance tactics. like, he was not a saint and he definitely was not a morally upstanding person. he often comes off so much more favourably compared to sirius and james when the man wasn’t any better. all his faults are whitewashed into ‘he was scared of losing the only friends he had’ which is such a shit excuse (even more than the ‘poor werewolf’ one). i once saw someone saying ‘how do you think remus would’ve reacted to harry’s illegal tournament entry’ as an aside to ‘how would sirius have reacted as a free man’ and i remember being completely baffled because…we know how he reacted? which is that he didn’t. the man didn’t even bother to send a letter to harry, didn’t show up before the task when everyone else’s families did, didn’t help him with any of the crises, wasn’t there post graveyard. like, there’s a theme here. remus has no interest in cultivating a relationship with harry (or if he does, he has a very shitty way of showing it). honestly, he’s kind of terrible at relationships in general imo.

i’ve mentioned this before, i think, but also the double standards with which he’s treated coupled with the complete lack of accountability is so frustrating. like, remus can mess up more than anyone else but it’ll never stick. for eg, you’ll have so many people saying sirius treated harry like a second coming of james (and i do blame the movies for that one) but remus’ repeated usage of james as a way to manipulate harry is completely ignored. like that scene in poa is actually cruel. sirius’ forced absence from harry’s life is thrown in his face, but remus is never once questioned. (it’s why him being called a second godfather is a pet peeve of mine tbh). he wasn’t a known werewolf until poa, what the fuck was he doing until then? that’s the thing right, there’s so many gaps in his storyline that u can fill it any way u want. fans will do it favourably, while people like me who don’t like him won’t.

there’s also the whole sirius aspect of it, for me. as far as fictional characters go, i think remus is terrible for sirius. like most people think the exact opposite, yeah? remus is out of sirius’ league, there’s a power dynamic that’s skewed in sirius’ favor, remus’ low self esteem, trust issues blah blah. but i genuinely believe it’ll be sirius who comes off worse in a r/s relationship. so ykno, that just adds to my bias lol.

editing to add: guess it’s the hallmark of a successful manipulative character, though, that he flies under the radar the way he does eh? like that’s the sign of success right there, that he can pull all the shit in the world without it sticking to him so good on him lol

#remus lupin critical #like that man literally tells a 13yo harry that he’s gambling his parents sacrifice away. fuck man. that’s heartless #and it’s not like he did anything to make harry understand why he must be careful. didn’t have one meaningful convo with him did he?#but feels the need to pass judgements like these #i’m sorry if u were expecting a more neutral/balanced answer lol #my dislike for him has exponentially increased in the past few months #i can accept he’s an interesting character bc of how utterly grey he is. but that doesn’t mean i rly like him lol #i think i could’ve? if the remus fandom wasn’t the way it was #clearly they like the fanon version of him better but i just can’t get behind it tbh #it’s just annoying how he’s constantly treated with baby gloves s’all #also!! the fanon view makes it so that the ooc tag is *never* used #so even if u want to escape it u can’t #like i’m sure someone would be like ‘well pen if u don’t like remus just stop reading & bitching?’#but that’s not possible when he’s *everywhere* and u can’t even filter it out lol #and i’m constantly living in the hope that it won’t be that way in a fic #which does happen ngl. just very rarely #pen’s asks

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dunmerdilfs · 2 years

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Hi hello Lilte is here and she’s judging you

#every time he asked me if her colors were good I was like I’m so sorry but you must increase the cheese. this bitch is YELLOW. banana ass #oc: lilte

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starbuck · 2 years

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my ONLY joy in life is tagging random posts of various levels of appropriateness with ‘john silver’… i save them up in my likes JUST to do that and it is DELIGHTFUL. highly recommend.

#i was thinking about Him just before my nap #well. more broadly i was thinking about 4x05 but that is His Episode - so #god. it’s insane how he really IS the main character of s4 #like. in a sense he always has been - we see a lot of scenes from his perspective right from the beginning #but the ratio of scenes shown from his perspective vs. Flint’s dramatically increases in s3 to the point that in s4? that’s ALL him babey!#The Narrative is his now and he HATES IT #‘my god… it must be awful being you’ HOW’S IT FEEL BELOVED??#*is overcome by thoughts about how s2 and s4 are functionally identical and passes out*

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loganlermanstanaccount · 11 months

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Can you write a college roommate head cannon for miguel O’Hara ( 18+ f!reader)

ik you asked for HCs but I have no self control... my bad, anon!

College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara Headcanons

(AO3 Mirror), Main Masterlist

pairing: College Roommate!Miguel O'Hara x f!reader

summary: Miguel is your roommate. And he’s hot. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

warnings: 18+ as fuuuck. F-receiving oral, using toys, masturbation, voyeurism (-ish), grinding, praise, service dom (idk?) Miguel, recreational drug use (reader and Miggy smoke a blunt). Minors DNI

a/n: I am a firm believer that modern day Miguel listens to 90s rnb, back when men were men: unabashedly, unashamedly down so fucking bad for their partners. he just gives me those vibes!!

edit: I'm writing a full fic for this! Rigor Mortis, college au fic, read here.

wc: 6k

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

I'm thinking you become roommates but he's your last choice.

Very last minute: you have a big falling out with your now ex-boyfriend, and the plans for flatsharing next semester goes right out the window.

So all the good places are taken, and you're going apartment-hunting, but everywhere's either too expensive, too dirty, or there's a predatory clause hidden in the lease: shitty landlords and blaring red flags in 9pt Times New Roman.

When you stumble upon Miguel O'Hara; a student in private accomodation who, lucky you, is in need of a roommate; it feels like a godsend.

Rent is affordable and he's nice enough; refusing to grunt more than a few words to you, but is clean, organised, and from what you can tell, is barely in the apartment.

You sign onto the lease, desperately, hoping you've just been lucky and trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You give a thousand mile stare at the blank document in front of you. A bullshit paper due in exactly 12 hours. Yes, you left it until the final stretch, and yes, it's 10k words. Very doable. You're not fucked. Nope.

You blame it on the banging from next door. Paper thin walls; obscene noises. Cries of Yes Miguel and Just like that, daddy have been plaguing you for almost an hour. His stamina must be superhuman, the way the woman in his bed has been howling. Howling may seem extreme, but she sounds like a dying cat: cock drunk and babbling over Miguel O'Hara?

Your new roommate had been nice enough. Quiet, unassuming, and seemed more than absorbed in his schoolwork. So you didn't expect him to unashamedly fuck the girl he's been tutoring for the past week. It all clicks. The "perfect roommate" turned out to have one teeny tiny little flaw: loud, obnoxious sex, well into the early hours of the morning.

On autopilot, you're clicking through tabs on your bed. Perhaps you're a prude, but the sex noises are abrasive, excessive, to the point of parody. Persistent, Miguel's low voice reverberates in the walls of your bedroom; making heat pool at the base of your stomach.

"You want it, hermosa? Tell me…. such a pretty girl… like that?" It's muffled, but his voice is unmistakable. Low, greedy, heavy with want. God, the last time someone's spoken to you like that was…

You shake your head free of cobwebs. No. You're not rewarding him. You can't . Your roommate is shameless, and inconsiderate, and really fucking annoying .

The smacking noises increase, coupled with banging on his side of the wall. Resolute, your face hardens. From where you perch on your bed, you slam the wall with the side of your fist.

"O'Hara! Keep it the fuck down!"

~~~

He's a biochem major, up to his ass in assignments and he still has time for societies, internships and tutoring.

The only times he'd be in the apartment really was an impromptu session, and you didn't notice at first, but it became more obvious as the semester went on.

As a so-called tutor, he only seemed to pick the prettiest girls - they would twirl their hair on your kitchen counter and bat their pretty lashes at him when they didn't understand. Favours for a couple of friends, is his only response when you ask.

It felt like you'd open the door to a new girl every week and you are baffled. Donned in makeup and short skirts, they'd waddle in asking for Miggy, or drop off half-finished assignments whilst craning their head through, trying to catch a glimpse of him.

The absurdity would make you laugh if it wasn't affecting your sleep.

Not that he's not absolutely gorgeous, but he's so quiet you would never have thought he had it in him: to have a revolving door of women lining up to lay underneath him.

This time, her name is Sarah: pretty little thing in Miguel's Advanced Math class. She perches on a stool, wearing a tight dress that is wholly not appropriate for a tutoring session. She's one of his regulars, if you can call it that, and has been failing for at least 2 semesters. You flash her a smile as you pad through the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a snack. God, she is gorgeous; dolled up for another long session with Miguel, no doubt.

"Where's he gone?" She asks politely.

You shrug. "I couldn't tell you, sorry."

"It's okay… I'm just a bit stuck." You almost snort and catch yourself. For some reason, you didn't think they actually did any work, merely a pretense for the… cardio later on in the day.

You glance at her sheet of paper, scribbles in purple pen with large swathes crossed out. Leaning over, you scan the page.

"Right here." You point and she follows with a manicured finger. "You fucked up with this integral and I think… yeah, I think that messes with the whole thing."

Her eyes light up as she follows you, explaining with a piece of cookie hanging out of your mouth. She's definitely smart, just a few little mistakes here and there that you're happy to point out. Thanking you fervently, she rushes to correct it.

"Ah, it's no problem. I get mixed up with it too." You smile and notice Miguel by the doorway, watching with a strange look in his face. You roll your eyes as you walk past. What a fucking weirdo.

"Thought I was the tutor?" He croons.

You raise an eyebrow, voice low as Sarah is engrossed in her work. "...I don't want to fuck her, Miggy , if that's what you're worried about."

A little cruelly you push past him, shoulders clashing against one another. Is he smiling ? For now, you blame your perpetual tiredness when you think you catch the hint of a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

~~~

You're a light sleeper, and it all makes for a tired, delirious combo. You sleepwalk through the day, scramble to finish assignments and whilst it's not all O'Hara's fault, you can't help but blame him for a lot of it.

After you successfully get through one long week, you decide to celebrate. That means a couple hours of mindless hedonism: your favourite movie, greasy food…. and your trusty dildo. Not at the same time, of course.

Miguel's not home, and he's not tearing down the walls with some other girl, for once, so you decide to treat yourself.

You've been going through a dry patch, and you'd hate to admit it, but he does sound good through the thin drywall.

It was a joke gift; given to you by a friend for your birthday. An obnoxiously purple dildo with a suction cup at its base. Aptly named Hugh, due to its - ahem - large stature. Standing tall at 7 or 8 inches, far bigger or thicker than any partner you've taken in the past. Sitting around a small diner booth with your friends and opening the bag to reveal him, had been quite the experience, for sure.

It wasn't your fault you had gone through a dry spell in the past few months. With work, with school, with relationship issues, you hadn't had the time or energy to sleep around. Not that you were desperate for drunk, lackluster sex, followed by an awkward dance of ubers and shitty coffee in the morning. Like many, you preferred to do it yourself.

Laptop open, you ease yourself onto the toy, already slick with lube. Prepping yourself with your fingers had been quite the task, tabs open to something on a lewd website. It's cheesy, but you didn't really like the bright lights and plastic of usual porn. The moans felt too fake, the sex devoid of any real passion. So you found a couple of independent creators; couples, mostly; carnal fucking with fervour only borne from real love . It's embarrassing to admit it, but your favourite parts are the little kisses and touches in between, or light laughter after a rough session. As if to say: it's okay and I'm still here.

On your screen now is a longtime favourite video, a broad man bullying his fat cock into his partner. You can't help but think he looks like Miguel, not as pretty but tan with strapping shoulders, and large hands that wrap around the neck of the girl in the video.

" F-Fuck," You breathe, sinking down onto your toy. You bet Miguel's palm on your throat would be deliciously rough, and you imagine how he'd fuck the brat out of you like the man on your screen.

What hadn't occurred to you, however, was that the thin walls went both ways. Whilst you were quieter than many of the girls Miguel brought home, you were fairly shameless with the moans and curses that fell from your lips. Headphones on, you were blissfully unaware that Miguel had slipped into the apartment some time ago. The slap of your thighs to the floor, the desperate whine as you roll your hips over the toy - he can hear it all.

Miguel has a conscience, so he does feel some amount of shame when he slips a hand down his trousers and presses an ear to your shared wall. He closes his eyes and bites down lusty groans, fisting his cock to your pretty noises. Noises he's been wanting to hear from you for months, now, imagining it was you underneath him instead of his usual partners.

He times it just right, squeezing around his tip in time with the steady slap just beyond the wall. Are you fucking yourself? On your knees, hands flat on the floor, churning up your insides with a toy… or maybe ass up, dildo attached to something…? He almost cums with that mental image, wondering what you'd look like on your knees for him. Is the dildo as big as him? He knows you, knows you'd want it to hurt - for his cock to stretch out your pretty pussy when he cums deep inside you.

All things he thinks about with a hand around his cock, and he's already close. But he wants to cum with you, listening intently for the signs.

" Fuck," Your voice comes out muffled, but it makes him buck up into his fist all the same. " Need it… oh God, I-"

He speeds up, wondering what it would be like to have your thighs shake underneath him, what it would take to have you babbling and begging for more. How would he break you? Maybe on his cock, where he'd watch you squirm as you take his length. Or on your knees, choking around him and licking up his cum. Or, God, thighs wrapped around his head, riding out your high with his mouth sealed on your clit, crying for him slow down, for him to-

" H-Harder, Miguel, please."

He releases, sudden and intense, spilling white ropes into his boxers.

" Fuck, Miguel…"

He fucks his fist through it, overstimulated from the way you say his name. It feels like the only way it should be said; spilling from your mouth, haphazard and desperate. Like honey, like treacle; sweet things he didn't know he had the capacity for. He lets that feeling wash over him, panting, bringing his forehead to rest on cool wall.

~~~

He's hot. He's smart. He's a whore.

A total blindspot for you, and no matter how much you can't stand him; you still find yourself stealing glances whenever he's home.

And he does seem to be home a lot more, often choosing to study on the dining table rather than his room. It's like he does it on purpose, using the warmer weather as an excuse to wear tiny tank tops and loose gray sweats - showing off the muscles of his broad back and arms perfectly.

Funnily enough, when he's not around those girls, he's bearable - seems to have grown a couple of brain cells in those short few days between sessions.

You laugh and joke, sometimes, and he surprises you by suggesting a movie one quiet night.

He offers you his sweater to snuggle into, you eat your weight in greasy takeout, and your roommate seems like an actually decent guy??

You had fallen into an easy routine: O'Hara leaves a flask of coffee for you to snatch up in the morning, hair damp from the shower and all, and you meet him with netflix and instant noodles in the evening. A push and pull that works in the little space - much smoother than your rocky beginnings.

After a truly shitty day, you come home to a quiet apartment. Almost sleeping through an exam, forgetting lunch, missing the bus home, and having to trek back through pouring rain in a thin coat. Everything that could go wrong, did, and you are left with the pieces. You trudge through the living room into the kitchen, the wet squelch of socks on laminate floor haunting every step. Shedding your limp outerwear, you lay the contents of your backpack onto the kitchen counter: clumps of loose paper, the damp leftovers of a textbook, bleeding ink. Your main concern, however, is your laptop slick with rain water.

With baited breath, you put it on the slab, and press the power button. A click, a stuttering whir, and the screen flickers on. Then, just as strained, it putters off. Dead. Completely dead. Your legs almost give out, and you lean on the counter to steady yourself. Half of your life was there; including the final project that would make up a good chunk of your grade. It takes you everything not to collapse onto the floor right then and there.

"How was it?" You hear the click of a door and Miguel calls out from the hallway.

You wince."...F-Fine?"

You hear footsteps, as he gets closer. "Are you asking or telling me?"

You clear your throat, desperately trying to keep your voice steady. "Fine. It was fine. I'm just… it was fine."

Back still turned, you fumble around with the wet contents of your bag, hoping he doesn't notice.

"Long day?" He says warmly, head poking into the kitchen. Haphazardly, you spare him a glance from behind your shoulder. He's dressed in a sweater that fits snug around his chest, rolled up to expose his forearms, and loose sweats. In his hands, he drinks from a cheesy mug - your mug, donning a stupid pun. He looks warm. Cosy. Domestic. For some, reason it makes your heart sink even further.

Long day? "Something like that." You manage to squeeze out. There's a pregnant pause as he comes closer. Rummaging blindly through a cupboard, you try to hide behind its door. If he sees you like this, now, you don't know if you'll be able to hold it together.

You close the door, and all of a sudden he's there, mug in hand.

" Fuck, man- " It makes you jump, as he squints and takes a sip of his coffee.

"You look… wet."

"That's because it rained, Miguel." Snapping at him, your tone is biting. You're tired, stressed and in desperate need of a cry, but he is unrelenting in his gaze.

"Are you ok?" He asks, unfazed.

There's a lump in your throat and all you can do is nod with a tight expression. His eyes flicker towards the counter and you shuffle, trying to cover up the mess. And then you watch it happen; initial confusion, a flash of realisation, and then worry; all in the space of a couple seconds.

Gently, he pulls you aside to inspect the damage. "Mierda. This is pretty bad. You sure you're ok?"

He's got a hand on your arm now, The dam breaks and you crumple into tears in the kitchen floor. Of course, he comes with you, rubbing your back as you blubber through the details.

" Nothing's going right for me… and I've got my final project on there… I'm barely keeping up as it is…" All he does is nod, face tight with something you can't quite name. It must seem pathetic to him, you think, shamelessly crying on the kitchen floor, complaining to your poor roommate. He can't leave you like this, because he's a decent person - but internally, he must think you're going crazy.

It helps, having him there: a steady presence by your side. Slowly but surely, your tears subside.

"You could've asked me to pick you up." He hands you some tissues off the counter, and watches as you mop up the tears. "I would've come, if you called."

"I didn't… I didn't think we were…" You search for the right word.

"...friends?" He offers, with a small smile. "You think I let just anyone steal my sweaters?"

"First of all," It makes you laugh, despite yourself. "You offered. And second, I've seen what you do with your friends, and I don't know if I have the energy for it."

"Ouch." Bashful, he rubs his chest like it aches. He sits a little close to you, knocking your shoulders with his own. "I know this girl who's crazy good with computers. I could ask her to take a look, if you'd like? Might not be able to save it but maybe we could recover the files?"

"...I'd like that, to be honest."

"Muy bien ." He leaps to his feet, palm stretched towards you to help you up. "I'll run you a warm bath or something. You're creating a puddle and it's going to ruin my floor."

"Our floor, asshole. I pay rent here, too."

~~~

You find that you enjoy being around him, and he feels the same.

You can't help but compare him to your shitty ex who you were planning to move in with: and even with his quirks, Miguel is better in every way.

There is harmony in your household, for a while, and you almost look forward to coming home to him after class. Almost.

It doesn't last long, because of course it doesn't. You'd thought you'd come to a tentative ceasefire, able to casually rib and joke with each other - takeout and B-roll movies aside. He leaves you leftovers from food he makes, you turn down your music when he's studying, and he even woke you up the other day when you had slept through your alarm.

Beyond the wall, his music is loud: a playlist you recognise as the one he puts on to (unsuccessfully) mask the noise of his usual late night adventures. Cheesy love ballads, heady RnB that leaks into your own room. You'd rather die than admit his taste in music isn't horrible, but it usually means a long, long night for everyone around. With finals around the corner, there's no way you can let this stand.

What kind of person does that? Lull you into a false sense of security with Snakes on a Plane and pepperoni pizza?

Absorbed in your own work, you hadn't even realised he had someone over; let alone was gearing up for obnoxious sex. You'd bang on the wall, but you feel like you guys are past that: crossed a threshold of intimacy that means you can shout at him up close and personal.

So you stomp over to the hallway, banging at the door to his room. In the short trip there, you've worked yourself into a frenzy. How many times have you told him to keep it down? That it was rude and inconsiderate to flaunt his sex life in your face; to fuck other women so loud you were practically involved? There was something about the little smile he would give you afterwards, when you catch him shepherding his latest out the door in the morning - like he gets off on it, enjoys it, when you react. Even when you think you're over it, he still manages to drive you absolutely crazy.

“Miguel? Open the fuck up!"

You're still fuming when the door opens with a click, and Miguel appears in the sliver of the doorway. He opens it so that his frame is half swallowed by the door, top half peeking through with a lazy hand in his hair. And of his top half, he's bare from the waist up, black band of his boxers sitting low on his v-line and loose sweats.

All the wind is knocked from your sails, and you lose your train of thought.

"Yeah?"

"I…" You clear your throat. "I don't care who you fuck, but when I'm doing work-"

"-I'm not." He chuckles. "There's no one here, hermosa. Just me. And you, I guess…"

There's something about the way he says it, lazily, as if it's his first time saying those words - wrapping his tongue around your name to see how it fits. If it fits, how it tastes. His relaxed posture, the way his hair falls…

"You're high." Your brow shoots up. "... you're high!"

With a finger pressed to his lips, he grabs your hand and pulls you into his room, eyes darting around the hallway.

"Shhh! You can't-" Now, he gets close, whispering like he's saying something he shouldn't. "You can't tell anyone. "

"I won't." You breathe. His face is serious at first, and then you're both giggling. You've never seen him so carefree, and it's nice to see Miguel walking around without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

He's still holding your hand, pressed close, and you see him drag his eyes up and down your figure. "You want do something you'll regret…?"

"...I've got a 9am, tomorrow, I really-"

"-shouldn't?" He finishes, dragging his hand up your bare arm, pupils blown. He gets up to your shoulders, tucking your hair behind your ear. It's sinful, the way his touch is gentle but gaze heavy - violent in the way he practically eyefucks you. You feel bare, in little sleep shorts and a t-shirt.

He steps back, lounging on his bed, and makes for a half finished blunt by the adjacent window sill. Sighing, you sit by him, sinking into the mattress. He pats you closer, dangerously close, and you comply. One arm curled by your waist, the other brings the blunt up close and you wrap your lips around it. When Miguel brings a lighter to the blunt, you lean into it, knuckles brushing your lips.

You take a drag, long, heavy, eyes closed. And when they open, you're met with his own. Maybe it's the weed, maybe it's the heady atmosphere, but you swear his eyes are low and deep with lust.

"Good girl." He rumbles, cupping your chin and tracing a thumb to your lips. He separates, bringin the blunt to his own lips before leaning back to pass it to you. As quick as he gets close, he pulls away; leaning back into the expanse of his large bed. And he looks good, head drawn back and the curve of his tan arm drawn upwards. Tufts of hair from his chest, the trail that leads down suggestively - and without inhibition, you basically drool over him. God, there it is. You feel it kick in and let it wash over you.

His music, long forgotten, blends into your downy haze. You want to sit in his lap, rest your head on his chest. You get it now: if this is the view all those women he tutors get to have, then you finally understand.

"Come closer, hermosa ." You barely register the nickname, only focused on the way he says it, the delicious way it rolls off of his tongue. You nod, and shuffle closer. His siren song sounds sweeter, somehow, up close.

You pass the blunt between you both, and watch it dwindle to the last dregs. Lying down next to him, he clutches your hand and takes the butt between his fingers, letting its flames die as you watch. You giggle and his gaze softens.

"I didn't expect this from you." You look up to see an upside-down Miguel, hiding a smile.

"Expect what?" He drags himself downwards, to rest his head by your side.

"All…" You gesture vaguely. "This. Don't even think I've been in your room for this long, before."

His room looks exactly how you'd expect it: tidy and modest, a row of trophies neatly lined up on a shelf, a telescope pointing out towards a window. There are posters by his bed; science related, mostly. You tilt your head in the direction of one of them.

"Is this what they see?" You mumble to no one in particular.

He manages to catch it, sluggish in his response. "...Is this what who sees?"

"All the girls you fuck." It tumbles your of your mouth, before you can help it.

He tilts his head too, looking at the poster and you watch the sharp lines of his jaw besides you. Even at this angle, he's so pretty.

"Huh. I guess they do."

"It's not very romantic, is it?" You blink, oblivious. Your question is met with a noncommittal shrug. "What was her name last time? Cassie, Clara-something…"

"Katie." He hums.

"Katie." Ignoring the twinge of disappointment at his quick response, you hope it's the weed and not jealousy that made you pretend to forget her name.

You sit up on your haunches, tracing the valleys and mountains of his bare chest with a leisurely finger. You try not to notice the way he shivers at your touch.

"I could hear everything. Every, 'Yes daddy'," You feign a moan by curling your lips into an O-shape. You bring your other hand to your hair, head tilted back with exaggerated movement. "And 'right there, Miggy, right fuckin' there' ."

Technically, you're making fun of him and laughing, expecting him to follow. But he doesn't, head back and eyes boring into you - only bringing a hand to press yours at his chest.

"Thin walls, Miguel." You clear your throat, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Too far, probably. "Sorry, shit. I didn't mean-"

"I hear you too." He says softly. "I heard you, the other day."

Head filled with cotton, it takes a moment for his words to really click. So he elaborates, lacing his fingers with your own.

"Fucking yourself, hermosa ." He says it lazily, like the vulgarity of the act doesn't register.

Your eyes widen in horror. How much exactly did he hear?

"...and I heard you say my name."

"It was…. i-it wasn't like that-" Fuck. You can't think straight as it is: and his voice is low and silky, rubbing circles on your hand close to his chest. Even now, he oozes confidence, the steady thump-thump of his heart giving away nothing.

"Hmmm? Then what is it like?" You blink at him, unable to answer. "You're a hypocrite. You complain about all these women I supposedly fuck, but then-"

He pulls you closer, so that your lips almost touch his. "-you lock yourself in your room, touching yourself and thinking about your poor roommate. What am I meant to do with you?"

A pause, and in your daze, you can't breathe. For all your theatrics, it's too easy for him - to prod and tease, and for you to chase after him. You move to kiss him, but he grabs your chin at the last second. "Not quite. I want to hear you say it."

"Fuck- " You crumple, hiding your head in the crook of his shoulder. Even in your haze, the nerves bubble up from the base of your stomach. "Fuck me, please , Miguel."

He places a hand on your thigh, leading you to straddle his middle, other hand wrapped around your waist. He grinds your lower half into his, leaning up to bring your lips together.

He tastes sweet, greedily lapping up your moans in the clash. You're not thinking, not really, lost in the heat of his body, desperate and eager when you kiss. To contrast, Miguel cups your chin, pulling you away for air whenever you sink too deep. Somehow, he still manages to look smug, taunting you with a flash of his little fangs whenever you separate. If you weren't feeling the effects of that blunt, you may have had the means to be embarrassed at how much you want him - needily grinding against him and pawing at his chest.

It's too slow, too leisurely, like a punishment; and he refuses to give you what he knows you want. Your whines betray you when he finally slips a hand down your shorts.

"��Paciencia, hmm?" He grabs a handful of your ass, clothed cock catching on your clit. It rips another moan from you, which he happily swallows with another kiss. "Patience, princesa."

You hump against one another like teenagers, your hands planted by his head for purchase. Hips moving of their own accord, you chase the relief Miguel provides: with his hands kneading your ass, length catching at your clit, and teeth nipping at your bare neck.

He licks a stripe up your collarbone, soothing the blossoming hickeys with a hum.

Fuck, how can he be so casual ? You don't know if it's the weed or something else, but he is in his element, hand dipping down your back to graze at your pussy from behind. He hisses when he realises how wet you are, swiping his fingers down your slit and taking them out to pop them in his mouth.

Now, flushed and face hot with embarrassment, you look up at him with big doe eyes. It makes Miguel feel guilty for stopping you so close to your climax. Beautiful : lower lip hooked under your teeth, plump and swollen and kissable. He'll make up for it later: a promise he whispers into skin.

"You're soaked." He cups your cheek to press a kiss to your forehead, and all you can do is whine. His gaze dips down, to the swell of your tits in that thin shirt..

"What did you think about when you touched yourself?" It's soft, said in the warm press of your bodies; hook-shaped and hazy and you fit like you were made for one another. The thought lingers, plants a dangerous seed that makes you forget that the man underneath you is your roommate : unrepentant whore, Miguel O'Hara.

"You." You've seen it first hand, he eats hearts for breakfast; and yours is on a platter for him to devour.

He laughs, deep and rumbling, hands resting on your waist. "I know that, baby. You don't have fantasies? Fuck yourself to the thought of someone touchin' you just right?"

Not just someone, him, you think. Your voice dies in your throat at the way he looks at you. "Just… n-nothing really-"

He hums, grinding your hips onto his. "Speechless, I can't believe it. Is this what I need to do to get some fucking peace around here?"

You roll your eyes, "Don't be a dick, Miguel. When I shout, it's because you deserve it."

"...there it is." Eyes shining, his face stretches into a shit-eating grin. Wide, unabashed, unambiguous. "You back with the living, sweetheart?"

It makes you laugh, even though you hate to give him the satisfaction.

"What do you want?" He kneads your thigh and pleasure pools at the base of your stomach.

You mumble something begrudgingly.

"Hmm? Can't hear you, baby."

Louder, now. "...want to sit on your face, Miguel."

Lowly, he groans, shaking his head. "Mierda… of course you do."

Expertly, he helps you take your shorts off, dragging the thin material down your thighs. You clambers upwards, wrapping them around his shoulders, watching intently as he kneads the soft skin. It's tentative, at first, and you place your hands on the headboard to perch just above his mouth.

He licks, diving in with the flat of his tongue: a long upwards stroke that ends with him sucking your clit. Moaning, your hips jump and he chases your pretty pussy up, large palms pushing you back down. He concentrates on your bundle of nerves, lips around your clit like a man on a mission.

And, God, does it feel good; he watches and learns from your every movement, committing your body to memory. His moans vibrate deliciously, tension building at that spot faster than your mind can register it. Then, you clench around nothing, gushing into his mouth whilst he eases you through it. The noises he makes are obscene; one leg off the bed and a hand snaked under his boxers. He's getting off on it; watching you crumple and sob around his tongue.

And when you begin to move off, thighs sore, he doesn't relent, sealing his mouth on your pretty little hole.

"Miguel.. fuck-" After your first orgasm, it surprises you when he continues, tongue fucking you with fervour. He presses you close, impossibly close, and your body fights against his ministrations. Heat, everywhere, and it's too much. The haze of the blunt begins to wear off and you are left with biting clarity. You want more of him, deeper; drunk off of just his tongue.

You card your hands in his hair, and he moans: deep and wanton, with his eyes fluttering shut. He wants to look, to watch you when you cum on his tongue for a second time. Back arched, the curve of your tits peeking through a tiny top, fucking yourself on his face. He wants it hard , wants you to take control and use him to get off.

"Right there, fuck… "

Like you can hear his thoughts, you press yourself down harder, riding the deep ridge of his nose for relief. Miguel complies and leans into it. He eats you out like a man starved and the carnality of it all brings you to a second peak. You cum once again, legs wrapped tight around his face. Head back, he laps it up readily.

You separate with a wet pop, and Miguel looks blissful : fucked out and panting, wiping the slick off of his face with a forearm. Exhausted, you lean back onto the mattress beside him.

"That was…" He searches for the right word, and it's your turn to finish for him.

"... good. " Scarily good. So good you won't be able to see him around the apartment without remembering what he looks like trapped between your thighs.

Gently, he turns to cup your cheek and bring your lips to his. It starts off sweet and deepens rapidly, making that thread at the pit of your stomach tighten, again. He grabs your thigh, bringing it closer, and you feel his length poking your stomach. Fuck.

"You haven't…?" Your hand makes for his trousers, and he stops you. "I want to, Miguel. Want you to feel good too."

His head sinks into your shoulder. "I know, baby, I know. Not like this. Not yet."

You nod, still wrapped up in his arms. You haven't even fucked, and it feels more intimate than it should.

"You've got a 9am tomorrow." He smiles with a hand underneath his head.

"I've got a 9am tomorrow," You repeat, sighing. "...and my life is falling apart. I'm failing half of my classes as it is."

He turns to you, lazily.

"I could tutor you, if you'd like."

…

"That's not fucking funny, Miguel."

Miguel taglist: @d1lf-loverrr, @afro-hispwriter @ilovemiguelohara @weedxgirlx420 @ladydovahkiin180 @aaliyuh3 @sweetanimebakery @vvitcxen @rosecoloredlenses708 @daikondal @magikmina @impettywhenyouare @alonelygirlsuicidenote @plushyplants @javi0ca @rheeves @starrfruit @nikirikii @marsbars09 @foxglove-grove @mimooyi @crosshairclown @dead-by-light @kynamitedessert @naarra @wanderlustingcastaway @sagejin @cookielovesbook-akie @tangerineloverrr @gobblegluckgluckgod @wolfiepirate @jxxey3 @ebrysteria @elliemm @manchuria @youngghostpeachslime @weasleybuns @ilovemuppets @vauriz @bonbyon @aimno256 @ancientbeing10 @tvije @venus1224idkpleaze @neteyamsbulletwound @chickenjefferson-blog @maki-z @jasjasthings

edit: the full fic xx

#i am very very close to making this a full fic #(implying that this isn't alr basically a full fic lmfao)#miguel o hara x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #kat_writes😼#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara headcanons #spiderman 2099 masterlist #spiderman 2099 x reader

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kaijutegu · 8 months

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I'm trying to come up with something clever to say here but I feel like I've been hit by a truck. In a good way. I never thought anything like this would pass in the Midwest, not even in a blue state like IL, because it's simply not the kind of thing anybody campaigns on or even talks about at the gubernatorial level.

This is honestly the perfect legal addendum to NAGPRA, and I'm thrilled it's at the state level. This type of legislation would be way too complex at the federal level, but the individual state responsibilities are manageable, and more importantly, doable.

Here's some of the highlights of what the law does:

It is now the state's responsibility to help return ancestral remains, funerary objects and other important cultural items to tribal nations

The state must follow the lead of tribal nations throughout the repatriation process.

Money must be allocated as part of the state Repatriation and Reinterment Fund to help with the costs of reburial, tribal consultation and the repair of any damage to burial sites, remains or sacred items.

Criminal penalties for the looting and desecration of gravesites are increased, and the law adds a ban on profiteering from human remains and funerary objects through their sale, purchase or exhibition.

Tribal nations must be consulted as soon as possible when Indigenous gravesites are unintentionally disturbed or unearthed — such as during construction projects. (We already had kind of a version of this, but it wasn't strong enough.)

IDNR must set aside and maintain land solely for the reburial of repatriated Native American ancestors and their belongings, as tribal nations have pointed to the lack of protected places for reburial in Illinois as among the highest barriers to repatriation.

Institutions that display human remains that are Native American and any items that were originally buried with those individuals (funerary items) cannot charge admission. You want to display looted grave goods? No money for you. (This is specifically targeting the Dickinson Mounds Museum, which is... well, it started as a guy's private display of Native American skeletons he personally looted. The state took it over in the 90s, but they didn't rebury any of the 230~ human skeletons.)

My favorite comment is this: When asked about what he would say to museums that may push back against the law, Illinois State Rep. Mark L. Walker said: “Too bad.”

#anthropology #archaeology #NAGPRA

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loriache · 17 days

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"I've been waiting for ages for somebody to unmask them."

This moment tends to elicit negative reactions in a first read through, and I've got some opinions about why where Kabru is coming from here actually makes a lot of logical sense. So I thought I'd elaborate on that.

I think people hear this and go, "He thinks they must be hiding something because they gave money to someone? What a cynic." Or "he dislikes them because they did charity?? What's wrong with this guy!". And obviously, a lot, a lot is wrong with him. But I think this makes more sense than it seems at first glance! What people evaluating this judgement miss is why Kabru is paying attention to Laios and co to begin with.

Kabru knows of the Touden siblings because (he's a little bit of a stalker-) he is keeping an eye on all the relevant parties in events developing on the island, in order to be able to guide them to his preferred outcome. This includes adventurers because they are the ones actually exploring the dungeon! He's well aware that something as minor as internal tensions between party members could be key to the historical events that are developing. (He would love the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand.)

His desired outcome is that whatever the rewards are of breaking the dungeon's curse, whether that's kingship or the ancient elven secrets of dungeons, are claimed by:

A) a short lived person

B) Someone who will be a good, effective leader and/or use those secrets and the power they carry wisely, with foresight, and to establish a political bloc for short lived people.

The person he can best trust to do this is, of course, himself. But due to his PTSD regarding dungeons and monsters, he's not able to develop the necessary skills to conquer the dungeon. Once he realises this, he starts looking for someone else who he can support to that end.

But most of the adventurers don't have any intentions of conquering the dungeon, don't have the skills, or are unsuitable in other ways. In fact, it seems like some potentially suitable people are the Toudens. There are a lot of good rumours about them going around - they actually seem to have a very positive reputation! That's what Kabru means when he says "unmask".

So when Kabru is observing something like them giving money to an old comrade from their gold-peeling days, he doesn't consider it a problem because "they're giving money to this person who doesn't actually need it" or because they must have some dark secret if they act superficially nice. I think he actually understands this situation and what it implies about Laios (in particular) perfectly well.

Laios and Falin gave money to an old comrade who got injured and couldn't work. That person then healed up but kept taking their money. Then he used the money to start smuggling illicit goods to the island.

The key is that for Kabru, the problem here is the same as with the corpse retrievers - people using the dungeon's resources to fuel dangerous, selfish, or violent pursuits cause problems for the island, attract more criminals and people with motives other than breaking the curse, and increase the chances of the whole situation ending in tragedy.

Kabru is willing to work with the Shadow Lord of the island if it gets him to his goal - he isn't scrupulous - but the criminal element of the island increasing is something he sees as a major issue.

Also, when you're evaluating someone as a candidate for power, riches, secrets, potentially kingship - then being curious about how the money you give to people is going to be used is kind of a relevant trait!

Interpersonally, Kabru's actually very easygoing - I mean, Mickbell isn't exactly an upstanding guy, is he! But Kabru likes him and they get along well. These traits wouldn't be a problem at all in a friend, or a comrade, or someone Kabru was confident he could use. But he can't get a handle on Laios, and Laios is someone who has the potential to be a major player!

On Laios' end, this is the same as with the marriage seeker who joined their party. She kept asking for things and he gave them to her, because he tries to be nice to others. He even gives her money! It's the exact same thing.

That's fine, but it became a problem because he basically wasn't interested in her motives, didn't notice she was trying to manipulate him, and it also didn't occur to him that the other party members would notice or be affected. We can assume the situation with the gold peeler is the same. When Kabru says that "It's not that they're bad people, they just aren't interested in humans," he isn't wrong.

The extent to which this is true of Laios is linked to his autism imo, (because it isn't just disinterest - he genuinely isn't able to notice nonverbal cues that people are lying to him or have ulterior motives) but to a greater or lesser extent I think it's a very common trait. Most people aren't actually that interested in other people who aren't close to them. Kabru is the weird one here. It isn't an issue except as a leader - which is why we see an immediate comparison to the Island's Lord, because that's how Kabru is evaluating them.

And disinterest in/lack of ability with people to the extent Laios exhibits it, it does, actually, make him a worse leader... it's just that as we see in the story, people can help him out. The rest of the party tell him the marriage seeker is taking advantage of him so he tells her he can't give her special treatment anymore. They're pissed and it's a crisis point - he couldn't have recovered their trust without Marcille and Falin - but that's exactly the point. With Marcille and Falin, he was able to recover their trust.

And he has other good traits that make up for it, such as his intelligence, strategic knowledge, open-mindedness and sense of fairplay.

Kabru doesn't disqualify Laios as a candidate based on what he sees about him from afar, though - he still tries very hard to get close to him, obviously hoping that if he manages he can steer Laios to defeat the dungeon and make up for his lack of people-skills in the aftermath. (Which... he does eventually achieve that goal!) He completely fails until the events of the story, so... definitely I think "They just aren't interested in humans" could also partially be a stung reaction to Laios' complete disinterest in him.

Anyway, that's my read on what exactly Kabru's "issue" with Laios is. Obviously, once he does find out what Laios' true nature is like - about his love for monsters - he develops an entirely new set of fears about Laios' priorities. But since Laios kept that a secret until the start of the story, he has no idea of that yet.

Given all that, I think it's interesting that he says that he doesn't think that the Toudens are suitable to defeat the dungeon, and that he's hoping they'll turn out to be the thieves. As some of his few potential candidates, people who he thinks may play a big role in the island's future, you'd think he'd hope they would be good people!

I suppose it's better, in his eyes, because it means that he's involved in something "interesting". They haven't just had their stuff stolen by regular criminals (boring, puts them further away from his goal) - they've been caught up in the beginning stages of "a historic event". The desperate and dwindling group forgetting morals in their quest to retrieve their lost comrade probably appeals to his sense of melodrama. Because he also just... loves drama.

Despite it being "uglier than anything he was expecting", he still pursues Laios as the person he wants to conquer the dungeon pretty much as soon as it becomes clear that he won't be able to do it himself and they are out of time. That's because... well, to be fair, there aren't any other options. And he fits standard A: he's short-lived!

and Kabru still hopes he can fit standard B, too, and be persuaded to use the power he wins for good. No matter how many nightmares he has about Laios, or whether he thinks about killing him. He doubts him, but ultimately he puts his faith in him and seems happy after the manga's ending that he made the right decision.

#dungeon meshi #dungeon meshi manga spoilers #dungeon meshi meta #kabru of utaya #laios touden #labru #laios x kabru #dunmeshi #og post #kabru is such a big picture thinker. and he evaluates people more than he judges them imo #the hater jokes are funny but the people he judges most harshly arent laios and co. they're people like the island's lord.#but you don't see that as clearly because he isn't interested in the island's lord. he understands him. finds him contemptible but useful.#whereas laios lives in his brain rent free because he WANTS to understand him but doesnt quite.#even though he sees the elves as a major threat to his ultimate goals and dislikes the way they treat short lived races #he still understands and evaluates mithrun as an individual based on his own merits #he's one of the characters who is least judgemental in that sense because while he's always making judgements and evaluations #he's also constantly revising them whenever he gets more information #my beautiful machiavellian prince <3 #it's genuinely a really laudable way of understanding others imo.#the only problem is that because he's driven towards his goals by his PTSD and survivors guilt #he pushes himself into situations (the dungeon and also interpersonally) that trigger him or even just upset him #without regard for what he authentically wants or his own wellbeing.

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hoshigray · 6 months

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𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐨𝐦 | ryōmen sukuna

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: totally not writing this to compensate for the fact I haven't posted the Gojo fic yet, hahaha–sorry...Anywhooo, happy jjk Thursday, a lil something for the sukuna devotees~☆ okay, i go suffer irl now, && ty for 3.7k, loves, mwah!

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: true form! Sukuna x afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - double penetration (he got 2 dicks) - cowgirl dp position - scratching - cervix fucking - choking - clitoral play (pinch) - tiny praise - he lets you ride him, but still in control (it's Sukuna, cmon now) - pet names (brat, human, pet) - mention of tears and drool.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.2k

When it comes to dominance, Ryōmen Sukuna knows he radiates that role. As long as there’s air in his lungs, he’ll ensure that dominance never leaves his side. Anything outside of that is practically unfathomable to the King of Curses. He expects everyone to kneel before him and turn his way. Anything that happens outside of that will be dealt with expeditiously.

His aura is suffocating to those around him, humans and curses alike. Every step this large, brawlic creature takes in his path must be noticed within three seconds max. Bowed heads of his subjects meet the ground he walks on — he expects nothing less than that. The smell of fear suffocates them, yet it fuels him. It’s what subjects him from everything and everyone else; that’s what he wants.

Sukuna is a dominant man in every aspect. And you are not subtracted from this at all. You may be the thing that he sees precious value in and holds you up on a pedestal higher than all — for him to look at and him alone.��

So, when it comes to you, Sukuna is the dominant role, in and outside his chambers…However, on the rare days he lets you be confident and take control, he lies on his back on the futon with a devilish grin. “Don’t disappoint me, brat.”

Here you are, straddling on top of the four-armed creature, with both the tips of his cock harboring inside your holes before you gradually descend. Your body trembles as it takes every inch of the girth limbs, feeling full despite not reaching halfway down the bases. You use slow breaths to keep you steady, your hands on his stomach where the large tongue teasingly licks your wrists.

You’re allowed ten seconds to adjust to his lengths merged with your body, and that’s it. Any more than that and Sukuna’ll wrap this up himself, wasting this opportunity to show what you’re made of. He’s immensely impatient, and you know this as a fact. So, with a few breaths, you start moving your hips and propel yourself in up and down motions.

The overwhelming feeling of both his cocks bullying your insides is efficient to have you teeter off sanity, the tips grazing the gummy walls of your cunt and anus. With trenched brows and chewed lips, you try to find a rhythm that satisfies the both of you — more so him than you, even if you’re in a position centric to you. “Ahhhh, hahhhh, ‘kuna…You feel ‘o good…Mmmmh…”

“Hmph, you think I’m lying here to satisfy yourself, human? Mmmph…“ Sukuna grunts at the way you sway your hips around, his dicks contracted by your holes perfectly. Good, you’re doing what you’re supposed to. He brings two of his hands to your wrists to keep them on him while the other two rest on your hips. “Shit, pick up the pace, pet. Show me you really want me.”

You do as you’re told for your sake, your ass increasing the speed of your motions. Hushed pants become louder and louder when the cock in your chasm brushes your cervix with precision. The jabs get more and more accurate, and tears well up in your eyes from the contact with your tender canal.

And Sukuna watches you with all fours of his eyes, taking in the entire image of you becoming a mess on top of him. He can see the drool from the corner of your lip stream down, and he knows you want to wipe that down, not wanting the King of Curses to see such indecencies. However, he absolutely doesn’t care. If anything, it amuses him. Your nails digging into his pecs, your stomach trying to shy away from the tongue from his abdomen every time he teases it with licks, and the tears rolling down your cute cheeks. It all makes him snicker, and a flame inside him ignites a carnal feeling he’ll indulge in later on.

Your tempo dials up, grinding your hips down, making him purr. Not moan — purr. You can feel it vibrate within his body through the tip of your fingers. Your body jolts when your clit brushes up against his pelvis. Oh, that felt so good, holy shit. You lean your body down and grind it more; the electrifying sensations from the motion deepen your haze. “Ahhnn, ohhooo—Nnngh!!”

“You only attend to yourself in front of me, huh?” Suddenly, Sukuna brings a large hand to your neck, his thumb, fore, and middle thinner big enough to wrap your neck and clog your breathing. The action has your anus and cunt clench around him desperately. And he sneers. “Dare cum before me, and you’ll be lucky to be alive when I’m through with you tonight.”

That is no threat to be taken kindly — even if you are his little dove, you are no fool to disregard the orders from the King of Curses himself. You’re quick to deescalate the tension, controlling the speed and angles of his cocks to churn your insides further. The constant pokes to your cervix prompt you to keep going — your wails fill the space of his traditional-style chambers when Sukuna’s dark nails pinch and pierce the skin of your hips. The constriction around your neck turns your erotic bliss into high stakes, and your mission now is to bring the behemoth below you to climax. You take the reins be damned; you do as you’re told when you’re told, no matter what.

More purrs and groans from Sukuna result in your appeasement, throwing his head back to the pillow with eyes sewn shut to concentrate on both your holes. The tighter you clench on his cocks, the more his orgasm climbs up. “Hnngh!! Fuck…Take it, brat.” He grips your hips as he bucks to your leaky entrances, his balls smacking up to the sweaty skin of your ass. It takes you aback, your screams only making him rut harsher into you for his dicks to explode their loads into you. White, milky jizz fill your velvety texture and spill down to the hilt of his nether limbs.

Sukuna finally removes his hand from your throat — your silent permission to chase your own high as he experiences his. Thank God, because yours hits you in seconds when the hand he removed travels down to your clit to pinch, and you come instantly. The fluttering agitation from your puckered chasms clamping around his pulsing girths has him his, and your shaky arms do what they can to keep you upright despite your climax.

He watches your trembling figure during the fleeting moments of his climax – his intense red eyes examine you like a piece of art. And when your orbs finally open to look at his, he greets you with another wicked chortle. “That’s a good pet,” he brings one finger to attend to the tears from your eye. And you smile at him with breathless satisfaction.

Sukuna is always and forever will be a dominant man. But on those rare occasions when he allows you to take the reins, he expects nothing but a good job. If so, he’s not opposed to having the change again.

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