#he is the devil. he manipulates time. he has all the power | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moondirti · 2 months

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )

DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3

please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.

warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.

inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss

Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind.

But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling.

So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things…

He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.

Disgust. Terror. Reverence.

Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.

The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone–

Small.

Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.

But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely.

But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.

(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)

And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.

Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.

For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.

Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening.

The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay.

Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you.

Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you.

You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.

You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow.

You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.

“Under the couch.”

This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.

Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.

Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.

But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.

“Enough of tha’, now.”

Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–

Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.

But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.

Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.

“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”

“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.

“I don- I don’t–”

“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”

You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–

And then it comes flooding back to you.

(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)

“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.

(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)

“Or something.” It answers.

A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.

(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)

The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.

Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.

He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.

It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill.

“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.”

The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest.

So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow.

“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”

She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.

“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.

The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would.

Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.

Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.

In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.

Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss.

Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed.

That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.

The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”

She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn.

It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.

The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency?

Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone.

But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him.

What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space.

So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone.

Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy.

There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself.

It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it.

He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery.

The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation.

Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping.

Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.

When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon.

But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait.

Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form. Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.

(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)

It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight.

Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend.

She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks.

“What is this?” She asks in a small voice.

“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself.

“I didn’t tell you to do this.”

The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?”

“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”

“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.

“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!”

He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest.

“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit.

“Shut up.”

“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears.

It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing.

“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?”

When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement.

“Hm?”

“N-No.”

“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.”

He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap.

When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.

What comes instead is a deceptively simple question.

“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl.

He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–

“Ghost.”

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vspin · 7 months

Text

On Act 3 and the lack of companion reactivity and dialogue.

So, I officially hit 400 hours on BG3 yesterday (no lifing it lmao) and I've been thinking about some things I wish Larian would improve or wish that they had implemented. A big thing that comes to mind is how much companion reactivity and dialogue abruptly stops in Act 3.

Act 1 really shines with companion reactivity. They always have something to say to the MC, to NPCs, or even to each other! I love the interaction after you use your ilithid powers for the first time and it's a 4 way conversation between everyone.

Then we get to Act 3 and there's such huge drop-off. Some big offenses:

Very little reaction to quests and locations. When I killed Raphael I only got comments from Astarion and Gale! Seriously?? We just survived a trip to the Hells! This happens with multiple quests

Blank faces when Durge is killed by Bhaal.

Camp is lifeless. Everyone just stands in front of their bed, There are no interactions.

In my playthrough, the Emporer admitted to my Tav he was manipulating her and didn't really care. It was bummer I couldn't talk to the other tadpole gang about it.

I remember coming across a Druid in the city. He was trying to heal a tree. So I went back and grabbed Halsin because he was complaining no one in the city cared about nature or balance. So I thought surely, he would have an interaction here! Nope, nothing!

As soon as you finish a companion's personal quest that is basically the end of your interactions with them; even if you romance them.

What I'd like to see: (Disclaimer: Just my opinions. I have no expectation of any of this being added to the game)

More camp interaction between companions. Jahiera and Minsc had a great example of this. Let there be a quick cutscene of Minsc and Halsin arm wrestling. Shadowheart, Karlach, and Astarion drinking wine. Anything. DA:I did a great job at this. It seemed like anytime I approached someone for dialogue they were in the middle of an interaction with someone else. Or events like the card game. It brought a lot of life into the party.

More random city encounters. They did a good job with Karlach; she has interactions with the steel watcher and her friend Fitz. Would have been cool to have some of those with Wyll, maybe he meets another noble or a flaming fist and has to deal with their shock of seeing him as a devil. Or with Gale in Sorcerous Sundries (he is a famous wizard after all!). Astarion mentions he needs to keep a low profile in the taverns; what if someone called him out!

More reactions to story events.

Expand on romances a bit more. We don't need it to be a dating sim but if you finish your LI's quest early on get used to just asking for small pecks and that's it. I would like to see more romance-specific dialogue for quest reactions.

And Finally:

We needed all companions at the final battle. Everyone should have been at the main keep before confronting the brain. You should have had your final conversations with them before you all potentially die in battle. DA:O style. A passionate kiss with your LI (not a tiny little peck lmao). This was a huge exclusion.

Anyway, these are my thoughts on the matter. Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk.

#bg3 #bg3 spoilers #astarion #bg3 tav #baldur's gate 3 #astarion romance #shadowheart #lae'zel #wyll ravengard #gale of waterdeep #halsin #bg3 critical

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milkzoro · 7 months

Text

fuck around & find out

summary: y/n is curious to how aces devil fruit powers work

a/n: i wanted to do ace cuz first, uhmm that’s my man. and second!!! the vibes are sooo fall rn & i love the cold weather,,,, so enjoy <3

warnings: MDNI, pussy eating, backshots, cowgirl, soft!ace (i luv him)

☆彡

it’s the cold months on the ship that have you cravinggggg some warmth, whether that be from your heated blankets, your warm coffee in the mornings, or late night fires with the crew… you just loved the warmth, especially this time of year. the ocean was getting colder the more up north we sailed causing freezing mists to come up and hit the deck. you’ve been hanging around ace more often too, attracting to him like a moth to a lamp. while he was back on board, you took advantage of your friendly little flame~

you are laying together with ace all cuddled up and cozy in his bed, he has a campfire scented candle burning brightly in the corner of his room. admiring the man before you makes your tummy feel warm and nostalgic.

he has you so close, arms pressed side to side as you’re both laid against the pillows resting on the back of his headboard. one of his hands start to peak out of the blankets, he stretches his fingers before hyping you up, getting you ready for his next move. “mkay i call this,,,, wizard fingers.” you can never take him seriously, your cheeks are so sore from all the smiles he’s stolen from you. wizard fingers??? this can’t be real.

ace wiggles his fingers before you as you see each one of them ignite with small little flame. you giggle. “shouldn’t they be called lighter fingers? you literally look like you’re about to go burn a candle.” he groans next to you. “oh my god y/n. you didn’t let me finish!” you stare at his hands as he starts to manipulate each of the flames from his fingers.

he pulls four of them back into his fist leaving just his index finger ignited. the flame starts to form little letters. each flash was a letter from your name. flash. flash. flash. you smile even more, he’s such a dork.

“it’s pretty cool, i know.” he smirks “wasn’t like i was even practicing or anything.” you think he’s so full of himself but you can’t help but admire, he warms your heart. your cold hands are on his body as he still has you close. his powers are so interesting. all of this came from just eating a fruit? you can’t contain your thoughts as you think of all the possibilities, he’s so warm.

maybe it was the skin on skin that were feeding your delusions but you couldn’t stop yourself from thinking of what he feels like.

he tucks his hands back away under the covers moving to hold your hands in his. you still haven’t answered him, your mind was still deep in the clouds. “okay maybe i was practicing,, getting it legible was kinda hard.” he laughed and you felt his chest move against your arm. “hmm?” you recollect your thoughts. ace looks at you. “were you for real not listening, y/n. that was cool! right!?” he looks at you to make sure you are finding this entertaining. “ahh sorry just not thinking right haha-” you mumbled and he looked puzzled, he shifted under the blankets to wrap his arms around you and pull you in a hug. his chin rested on the top of your head. “what do you mean.” his body burned hotter trying to warm you up.

“jus thinking about you- err well your devil fruit powers.” you curse yourself. but glad that you’re faced with his chest instead so that he couldn’t see the embarrassment on your face right now. he laughed at you again. “what’s so special y/n. i just get warm. ‘m happy you like it though.” his arms tighten around you, squeezing you softly. your tummy was doing flips again, the way he had a grip on you sent shivers to your core. the feeling of his firm, scorching arms had you craving more from him. you knew he was teasing you though. he always would, he knew how much you loved his fiery touch and playful behaviors.

you’re face to face with him again, seeing red flames in his eyes. heat spreads to your face as his eyes lock on yours, waiting for any reaction from you. you’re lips hesitate to speak. “you- you get warm… everywhere?” your eyes avoid his. his hand gripped your thighs right below your ass, softly tugging on you to get your leg wrapped around his torso. you feel his hot fingers brushing away the stray hairs that were messily covering your face. it burned hot. his face proved that he found your embarrassment amusing.

“wanna find out?”

ace kisses you softly. his hot hand reaching up the softness of your shirt and leading themselves to your perked nipple. his hands are so rough, much different than the way his lips feel. he kisses the side of your mouth and whispers softly to you, “you’re still so cold?” he giggles as he watches you squirm at his touch.

“ace, your portholes are open. it’s fucking cold in here.” you whine trying to keep his heated fingers on you. his amused grin has you needy and irritated. you reach for his hands again. “just a second babe, let’s get ya shirt off.” ace helps to fully undress you with sturdy hands. a shiver leaves your body, covering you in goose bumps as the cool sea breeze hits your skin. “i’ll getcha all warmed up baby.”

he takes his hands and starts massaging the creases of your hips. kneading and pulling on your plush skin, slowly working his tepid hands all the way up your torso. the heaviness in his touch relieved so much within you, moaning at his warmth and his strength. he is manhandling you with you such softness and love.

hot palms come up to cup under your breasts tenderly, dipping his head down and sucking against your pretty nubs. his tongue swirls around each one leaving a string of warm saliva connecting from your buds to his lips. “are we gettin there, pretty? how do you feel?” wanting more, you pull him so that his chest meets yours. he buries his face into your neck and softly suckles. his breaths are hot there. “m still cold ace, wanna feel you” you whine for him.

his lips curl into a smile against your skin, he knew exactly what you craved. “how do you want it angel?” his clothed thigh pushes against your needy cunt, collecting many fifty whines from you. his fire ignited something warm inside of you, you need it to burn brighter.

his body shuffles down the bed, inching his face to be face to face with your sleep shorts. ace wants your juices dripping down his face, seeing you twitch for him has him starving. impatiently, he removes your shorts and panties, tossing them to the floor. he takes your hands with his own while he plays with you devilishly with his tongue, squeezing your palms slightly when he feels you try to move away.

his tongue attached to you like a magnet, chasing every move, he wouldn’t let you get away. he squeezes your hands again, “that’s it baby, such a good girl.” his tongue drawing little clouds on your swollen clit. “doin so good, can’t get enough of ya y/n~” he gulps all of your juices, sucking you clean. “haah- fuck acee. mm so close.” the tip of his nose brushed against the point of your clit as he slid his lips to your weeping hole, drinking even more of you.

he flicks back and forth from your hole to your clit with his tongue. removing one of his hands from yours, he reaches for the plump of your thigh. he squeezed harshly, assuring you to cum for him. his tongue moved swiftly with your slick allowing you to reach your orgasm. “ace! ‘m cuh- cumming!! shiiit right there haa-“ the sight of his glistening face sent an aftershock to your cunt, his smirk was so sexy while he was covered with your juices.

ace’s cock ached in his boxers, there were little dark spots littered across the fabric from his precum. “can ya do one more for me baby doll?” whimpers leave your lips while your head slightly nodded for him. “you did so good fa me y/a~ now you ready to feel this dick cupcake?”

your pussy was already sopping for him but still there was a little resistance when he slid into you. ace moaned breathily at the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him. “fuuu- shit y/n- feel so fuckin good mmmf~” his hot hands pushed down on your low back as your pussy was busy sucking around his cock.

your eyes watered at the shear width of him, he was spreading your sore cunt so deliciously. you felt your second orgasm start to form within your overstimulated core. he reached your cervix with one final slow push. once fully fitted around his length, you fucked back on him, slowly grinding your ass against his hard thighs.

ace tried to muffle his moans with his hand but you stripped them from him, he couldn’t be quiet. his deep moans echoed in his small cabin, ricocheting deep in your pulsating cunt. you throbbed for him, he curved upwards directly hitting your sensitive spot. ace gripped both sides of your ass to speed up his pace. pulling you hard against his reckless thrusts. he was getting sloppy. each thrust was met with the clapping of your cheeks on him, he groaned with each contact hit.

“wanna look atcha-“ he flipped you around to face him. you whined at the sudden emptiness but sighed as he soon filled you back up again. “don’t worry mama, wasn’t gonna take it from you.”

his voice was going blurry in your ears, dick so good you’re hearing auditory hallucinations. he took hold of your hips again while you sat on top of him, he rocks against you slowly.

you miss his mouth, his warmth~ wanna taste him again. your arms detach from his shoulders to hang loose around his neck, forehead rested against his while he fucks up into you. you’re ready, you wanna cum around him. pussy numb from feeling his tip abuse your cervix. “mm so close ace, please fuck me-” nonsense spilling from your lips, he is fucking you dumb.

your eyes are heavy as you try to line your lips up with his, drool sliding around both of your faces. he connects with you and sucks feverishly on your swollen lips. ace begins to pull you up and down on his veiny cock, bouncing you sporadically. the tightness in your eyes not helping you postpone your orgasm. “mmm ahh huhh- f-fuckk gonna- agh i’m cumming baby!!!!” the pleasure washes over you like a tsunami, it’s almost too much. your legs start to tremble as you effortlessly squeeze and clench around his width. “fuck cum in me ace- warm me up~” your wall’s are contracting around his poor, twitching cock while you milk him~ his breaths were shaky and irregular as he chased his own release.

“y/nnn-“ his husky voice filled your ears as you saw him cum inside of you. hips shuttering as his orgasm strikes him. pretty black hair sticking to the beads of sweat stuck to his forehead, his eyes tightened as he grunted out your name a few more times. glistening before you, he looked so ethereal..

* we are cuddling and warm and soo in luv !!! *

#one piece smut #portgas d ace x reader #portgas ace x you #portgas d ace smut #ace smut #one piece x reader

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highpri3stess · 3 months

Text

Oh my god, they’re…

Monsters: Mikey Sano x Reader x Izana Kurokawa

“They ate me alive and left me for dead”

series summary: your grievous sin was Emma standing up for you to her brothers. And now you’re going to pay the heavy price for destroying their perfect family dynamic.

updates: wednesdays and fridays

Series masterlist

mood boards

series content warnings (read carefully): 18+, DARK CONTENT, Tokyo revengers AU, female reader, virgin reader, heavy smut, polyamory, Dark Impulse Mikey, Manipulative Izana, inaccurate/inconsistent university terminology, heavy angst with little comfort, betrayal, misogyny and sexism, emotional, physical and mental abuse, virginity loss, purity culture allusion, mental break, manipulation, gaslighting, sexual harrassment, dubious consent, noncon, drug, alcohol and substance misuse/abuse, extreme violence, use of weapons, torture, criminal activities, PTSD, paranoia, emotional incest, power imbalance, character death(s) (not reader), anal penetration, mention of self-harm, religious guilt and trauma, religious themes, vouyeurism, gangbang, masochism, sadism, hard kinks, strangulation (non sexual), psychological horror (more warnings to be added soon)

Chapter 1: Warning Signals

summary: being friends with emma sano is nice, until you get on the wrong side of the Sano brothers.

word count: 9k

cw: misogyny, alcohol mention, sex mention, rape mention, brief religious mention, reader is called a whore/slut, slutshaming, sexual assault, noncon to dubcon, public initimacy, fingering (fem recieving), dacriphilia, gaslighting, manipulation, mention of vomitting, victim blaming, destructive thoughts, mention of violence (towards reader)

Chapter 2: Shots Fired

summary: izana kurokawa decides he has to teach you a bitter lesson that you wouldn't forget any time soon

word count: 7.5k

cw: smoking, mention of drugs, brief description of child abuse, childhood trauma and sex work, violence (against both character and reader), emotional incest, night terrors, allusions to sex, mention and brief description of rape, asphyxiation (non sexual), manipulation, slut shaming, near death experience, sexual assault, noncon, oral (m.recieving), face and throat fucking, attempted murder

Chapter 3: The Lesser of Two Devils

summary: the two brothers realize that peace with emma is within their grasp, they just need your cooperation

word count: 12.3k

cw: character x character smut - cunnilingus, struggling with sexual attraction, angst, mention of assault, physical violence, slut shaming, misogyny, intrusive/dark impulsive thoughts of murder and rape, manipulation, gaslighting, objectification of reader, mental health struggles, masking, breaking and entering, smut -character x reader, reader is threatened with r*pe, dubious consent, making out, dry humping, cunnilingus (reader receiving), pussy job, terrible aftercare, religious themes and guilt, panty stealing.

Chapter 4: The Calm

summary: emma decided you needed a break from all the stress of life and takes you to her home for a vacation and for a moment, you forget that reality is often disappointing .

word count: 12.5k

cw: male masturbation, academic fatigue, misogyny, objectification, one mention of unwanted pregnacy, implied drugging, age gap relationship, fluff to heavy angst, minor character death, murder, mental break down, panic attack, gang related violence, gun violence, metions of drug related business (c*caine), dubious consent, slight manipulation, mutual masturbation, fingering (fem. receiving), jerking off, nipple sucking, praise kink, squirting, proper aftercare.

Chapter 5: Act on Dark Impulses

summary: you knew better than to trust mikey and izana. yet you fall for their plan hook, line and sinker and live through the worst night of your life.

word count:

cw: coming soon

Chapter 6: The Closest you’ll ever get to being in Love

summary: things get sicker and twisted with the two brothers and Emma is none the wiser.

word count:

cw: coming soon

Chapter 7: Trials and Tribulation

summary: You learn the hard way what happens when you refuse to be their stress relief because of your important exams.

word count:

cw: coming soon

Chapter 8: Divine Intervention

summary: You are called home to bury your mother and learn that nothing has changed since you left.

word count:

cw: coming soon

Chapter 9: Lead Me not into Temptation

summary: emma notices that something isn’t right with you when you come visit her in the sano residence.

word count:

cw: coming soon

Chapter 10: Deliver Me from All Evil

summary: you’ve finally broken the cycle, but at what cost?

word count:

cw: coming soon

notes from monica: I do not endorse any of these behaviors or any crime committed in this fic. This is purely for entertainment and introspection, please read the warnings for the series and each chapter and in case I missed anything, please dm me. If you are part of the taglist and you cannot read this fic because of your mental health, please, please and please alert me, I will take your name off. Your mental health first before my notes.

Thank you to my mutuals and all my followers who have supported me throughout and to those who will read this fic and support me. Since I began this account, I’ve made wonderful friends and I’ve been encouraged to write beyond my fears. Thank you, especially Zaya (@manjibunny) ! The mood boards turned out well because of you and all our discussions about the fic helped me a whole lot!

Anyways, enjoy. Asks, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated. PLEASE I LOVE TO HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS AND THEORIES. It goes a long way to know what people think about my fics.

This work belongs to monica. do not copy or steal my work, do not promote my work on tiktok or twitter and do not use my work in any AI or chatgpt program.

divider made by the lovely: @mikeykuns

banners, moodboards, gradient texts were all done by monica.

series taglist (special thanks to): @honeybleed @manjibunny @reiners-milkbiddies @izanaki707 @rukiaslvr @ilovetwodmen @bbykoo-7 @tenjikusstuff4 @cockonoi @koffeenoe2 @kodzukein @lostsomewhereinthegarden @cashout-princess @aliyxh-o @kay-bear200 @iluv-ace @vixensbrainrotts @missgab @urmomsksk @sweeytheart @charcoal-xl @uradveragewhore @wcayaw @blueberry3muffin @haikyuusboringassmanager @diana-005 @perilous-pasta @kokoscutie @kannaaa015 @abadonkori @datura-inoxia

General taglist: @anemptypuddingcup , @happygoluckyalexis , @mastermindenoshimaalicia , @haitaniwhor3 , @iheartamajiki , @pinksilk , @lostsomewhereinthegarden , @bontensbabygirl , @linn-a-a , @leilalago , @ranscutedoll, @lovelygeniegirl1012 , @crackheadwithtoes , @haziel13, @reiners-milkbiddies , @k3rrpii @jalepp , @dreamingofyourmoons, @aceredhairliberal, @ateezbabysitters, @eroscastle , @hvziers

Bolded can't be tagged. You can comment or send me an ask if you want to join the taglist.

#tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers #tokyo revengers smut #mikey x reader #izana x reader #tw. dark content #tw. dark themes #read the warnings #masterlist post #monsters ♡#updates: wednesdays and fridays #thank you to all my moots

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aspoonofsugar · 3 months

Note

Hi! Where do you think Alastor's arc is going? Redemption or villainy?

Hi!

Thank you for the ask, I loved watching Hazbin Hotel and I am happy I can write for the series :)

As for now, I think Alastor will spiral and hurt Charlie very badly, but he will eventually redeem himself (probably in a key moment). That is because Alastor is framed as Charlie's Jungian shadow.

What is the Jungian Shadow?

According to Jung, the shadow is what a person represses, both positive and negative. So, it can be one's violent tendencies, but also one's potential and energy. It really depends on the person.

So, why does Alastor fit the Shadow Archetype? Well, first of all:

Alastor's powers make use of shadows. Not only that, but Alastor's own shadow is very expressive and shows the demon's repressed feelings. In other words:

On the one hand Alastor embodies the shadow, in the sense he represents what Charlie refuses to face

On the other hand Alastor himself represses his emotions behind a smiling face:

Alastor: Just because you see a smile, don't think you know what is going on underneath. A smile is a valuable tool, my dear. It inspires your friends, keeps your enemies guessing and ensures tha no matter what comes your way, you're the one in control.

This is a good characterization for a jungian shadow because the shadow grows stronger and more dangerous, when it's ignored. So, the most one refuses to face their feelings, the most these feelings fester and grow powerful and dangerous. This fits Alastor both when it comes to others and to his own character:

He takes advantage of an emotional unstable and vulnerable Charlie to strike an abimguous deal with her. Similarly, he uses Husk's gambling addiction to steal his soul. He uses people's weaknesses an unsolved problems to take over.

He suffocates his feelings, which symbolically manifest in his powerful shadow-tentacles. His design and abilities are representative of his psychological coping mechanism, which is nothing, but repression.

As written above, though, the Jungian Shadow can be both negative and positive depending on what one hides. This duality is shown in Alastor's two roles in Charlie's arc:

He is a demonic archetype (even moreso than Lucifer, the titular devil), as he waits in the shadows for a chance to manipulate Charlie

He is an evil mentor, as he genuinelly likes Charlie, sees her potential and wants to guide her towards greatness:

She's filled with potential that I could guide

This isn't a contradiction, but complexity. Alastor is chaotic and mixes negative traits and intentions with positive ones. Just like what people repress can be both bad and good, usually at the same time.

This is clear when it comes to the Princess of Hell:

Charlie to Alastor: What's that you said about smiles?

Charlie is similar to Alastor in how she represses herself behind her pollyanna persona and her smile. This doesn't mean she is faking her altruism and generosity, but that she is using these traits to hide something else:

Lute: The only reason you're still here is that Daddy gave you and your Hellborn-kind a pardon from an exorcist's blade. How does that feel? To know how little you matter.

Deep down, Charlie invests herself in the Hazbin Hotel project because she wants to matter. She feels powerless and unimportant, as a result of her parents' neglects and of Hell's difficult situation.

So, our protagonist has strong self-issues that she refuses to face:

Husk: Princess is a bleedy heart who wants to solve everybod else's problems, 'cept her own.

That said, this isn't the only thing Charlie represses. The Princess of Hell hides:

Every negative emotions she feels, like her self-hate or her anger at Vaggie for hiding her true identity:

Rosie: How does that make you feel? Charlie: Just... angry? Because we share everything! Because she always supported me, and my ideas, and now I don't know whether or not that was just more of the lies... Oh no, that's a horrible thing to think! Do I think that? Yes! No? Kinda?

Her most violent and aggressive side, which makes so she is unable to make full use of her powers:

Vaggie: Well, I mean... You're the princess of Hell, but you don't really use the power that comes with that. Mybe you can, I don't know? Command a little more... authority. Charlie: But that's so mean.

In short, by repressing her negative feelings, she also represses her potential. It is only by facing herself as a whole, that she can fully grow and bloom into her most powerful and complete self:

This is made clear in Charlie's quest in Cannibal Town. There, our girl is at her lowest, but she is pushing herself forward for the sake of her loved ones. She is trying to imitate Alastor by smiling, even if she is sour inside. However, things do not go well and it is only through her heart to heart chat with Rosie, that Charlie is able to pull herself together and inspire her people. Symbolically, she gets through them not with a 100% optimistic song like "Inside of every demon is a rainbow". Rather she opens her speech, by showing vulnerability and honesty:

It's a feeling like a rumbling in your gut That you could finally be faced with A billion needy faces I guess what I mean to say is For the first time in my life I might have to be ready for this Ready to be the one who's leading from the front Gotta come into my own Gotta come into my throne Gotta take charge and defend my only home And although I kinda feel unsteady Now I need to be ready for this

She affirms who she is and her willingness to grow into herself:

For the first time in my life Maybe I can be ready for this I can be the marshal leading the parade I can come into my own And I think I've always known My destiny could never be postponed When Adam brings the battle here I must appear like I'm ready for this

So, it is only by tapping into her own shadow that Charlie can be successfull. It is through expression and not repression that she can reach her goals.

What about Alastor?

He is the same, but so far he has been refusing to open up to others:

Angel: He's been here a while and he's still a big, creepy mystery.

That said, his time at the Hazbin Hotel has had an impact on him. He is forced to deal with others without killing them:

Vaggie: Pentious's eggs are all over the place. I need you to get rid of them. (...) Humanely!

He is shown cutting ties with a poisonous friend:

He openly admits he likes the people of the hotel:

Alastor: Ah, an enjoyable collective to be around. I admit one could get accustomed.

However, he still refuses to openly show vulnerability and ends up like this:

Let's highlight that Charlie and Alastor are foiled in The Show Must Go On song.

Both stand in the ruins of their homes/dreams.

The Hotel:

I took a hotel, and I destroyed it I know I could have done better Better, instead of letting you down

The Radio Station:

This place reeks of death There's a chill in the air And I barely escaped being killed by a hair

And both decide not to give up and to keep pursuing their objectives. However, Charlie is framed positively, while Alastor negatively. Why?

Charlie sings about her feelings openly and is supported by her father and found family:

Alastor sings about his pain privately and even then he barely shows his desperation before going back to his villanious mask:

Symbolically the moment Alastor reunites with the Hotel Crew, he sings:

And we're doing it with a smile!

He is back in control of himself, ready to hide everything behind his neverchanging smile.

So, Alastor is both Charlie's negative foil and Jungian Shadow. As her negative foil, he is bound to spiral. As her Jungian Shadow he is bound to be saved. Why is that so? Two reasons.

The Jungian Shadow can't be killed, but needs to be integrated with.

The main themes of the series are redemption and love, so it is improbable that Charlie won't help the person, who co-founded the hotel with her.

If anything, it seems that our princess is progressively asked to forgive, inspire and see the good in more and more complex cases.

It starts with Angel, who willingly stays at the Hotel. It goes on with Pentious, who infiltrates the Hotel, but makes no real damage. Then Lucifer, whom Charlie loves, but that has been absent from the majority of her life. Finally, Vaggie, who breaks Charlie's trust.

Each conflict Charlie has challenges her in a different way and helps her discover herself and grow. She is bound to meet new struggles when Lilith becomes a broken pedestal and finally when Alastor betrays or hurts her. Still, she is going to forgive and to understand them.

Charlie is going to see the good in Alastor and to better understand herself as a result. As a matter of fact Charlie's journey is one where she is slowly discovering a world, which isn't black and white:

If Hell is forever, then Heaven must be a lie If angels can do whatever, and remain in the sky The rules are shades of gray when you don't do as you say When you make the wretched suffer just to kill them again

Just like people aren't black and white. Just like she herself isn't black and white. By saving Alastor, she is gonna save herself too. Together with the whole universe.

And what about Alastor? Well, he needs to work on himself, as well. He too must integrate with his shadow, who is embodied by a certain character:

Husk is a powerful overlord, who lost his soul to a demon. Just like Alastor:

Husk: Big talk for someone, who's also on a leash.

Alastor and Husk are both on a leash. Still, Husk admits it and starts working on his shortcoming:

Husk: You're a loser, just like me

Alastor instead affirms his willingness to be in control and to pull the strings:

Once I figure out how to unclip my wings Guess who will be pulling all the strings?

Alastor is a loser, just like Husk. Just like all the characters in hell. Sinners vs Winners. And yet, he refuses to admit it. This is why he makes no progress. Similarly, he wants freedom, but enslaves others. This isn't going to work out, which is why I am fairly certain he will eventually set Husk free. Probably by doing so, Alastor will make the first real step towards his own freedom. He will start integrating his own shadow.

Thank you for the ask!

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel meta #alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #charlie morningstar #my meta #asksfullofsugar #anonymous

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ataraxiaspainting · 4 months

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Montero.

Yan Gojo x F Reader.

Synopsis: It was easy to find you.

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, manipulation, and major power imbalance.

Word Count: 700.

*~*~*~*

Satoru left the door unlocked again. He also left the keys on the table and some money. It was so obviously a trap. But how could you resist such an offer to get away from a man who has taken control of your entire life and forced you to be his little stay-at-home girlfriend? When you think about it later, after you were caught a few weeks later, after emptying every ATM you come across, using Satoru's stolen credit and debit cards, after buying yourself a motel room and passing out drunk, after buying one train ticket after another with the aim of getting to Japan's border and either sneaking onto a boat or purchasing a pass to get on. You thought of how to divide your stolen money, whether to sneak onto the ship or buy a ticket to not be arrested and thrown back into Satoru's suffocating arms. Unfortunately for you, Satoru already knew where you were, what you were doing, everything. He was always one step ahead of you.

You never know what is going on inside his head. It is both a blessing and a curse. You never know what he is going to do to you. But you also are not broken because Satoru, ironically enough, still has enough self-control to let you have some independence. Emphasis on some. It is mostly shown through moments exactly like this. But the independence is still false, like a painting of a door on a wall.

It may look good from afar, but it is unusable. It is only good for looking at and hoping that whatever higher power there is will eventually turn into a real door because you are not God. You are not God, and you cannot create things, living or not. Satoru knows this. You come to know it. In this world, Satoru is the closest thing to a god, you think.

He expects you to worship him as one too.

You used to, long ago. How could you resist being captivated by him, with his radiant presence and gleaming white appearance, emanating a comforting warmth and possessing eyes as vast as the boundless sky? Though his teachings were cryptic and filled with bewildering references to cursed energy and haunting visions, you swallowed them like sacred doctrine, like the finest wine in all the land, embracing him as your rescuer. He had liberated you from darkness and vowed to keep you immersed in luminosity. Whatever his true nature, it was divine enough for your devotion.

But you don’t anymore. You don’t know whether Satoru misses your praising words or not. But you don’t see him as the devil either, anymore. You blame him for the bottles and bottles you drink and drink in those motel rooms, using abandoned restrooms infested with rats, and soon having nothing to eat because you used all of your money out of impulse, out of fear. But deep down, you blame yourself for being caught back in Satoru’s web. Because, against everything and everyone telling you not to, you tried to get past security and sneak onto a boat to South Korea.

It made finding you all the easier, Satoru told you. He knew what you were doing the whole time, when you bought enough beer to nearly give you lethal alcohol poisoning, when he came to rescue you from the nearest police station, from the police officers interrogating you and threatening violence and insulting you with every word in the book. As much as you want to blame him entirely, you know some of it was you. He didn’t force you to do anything. You could have just stayed where you were placed and waited for him to come back. You are human, not immune to sin indulgence, and selfishness. So is Satoru. Neither of you are God, and neither of you are Satan.

But oh how you wish that either of you were. No matter who gets the power, at least there is some difference between you.

Because Satoru and you are many things, but self-sacrificing isn’t one of them. Both of you know that, and you hate it. Satoru loves it.

#author aya #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere gojo #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru #yandere satoru gojo #yandere jujutsu kaisen #yandere gojo x reader #yandere gojo satoru #yandere jjk #jjk x reader #jjk #yandere jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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lucozadehulahoop · 5 months

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A question of time (Astarion x fem! tav/reader) part 1/?

Summary: Cazador gets his hands on the daughter (tav) of the Elven goddess Sehanine and a common mortal, hoping to manipulate the girl over time and obtain the favor of her protection while he prepares for his Ascension, during which he plans to sacrifice her to gain more power than any devil could ever promise him.

Unfortunately, as the plans for his Ascension become more and more concrete, his ward is summoned every night by the sweet cries of the most tortured out of all his slaves, and she cannot bear to leave his side.

Meanwhile, it has become increasingly obvious to Astarion that his Master does in fact have a weakness, a certain someone he keeps locked away and safe... there is nothing Astarion wants more than to snuff that little light out of Cazador's eyes, no matter if it's the last thing he ever does.

tags and TW pre-bg3! Astarion, slave!Astarion, mentions of torture and abuse, demi-goddess!tav, Cazador being all sorts of creepy, eventual NSFW (minors stay away kindly, thank you darlings)

Part 2 here ! Part 3 Part 4

I'll take you under my wing, Somebody should

-A Question of Time, Depeche Mode

Astarion had come to the conclusion that the excruciating torture Cazador imposed on him every night was becoming unbearable to the point he was now hallucinating.

It had happened three times now, always when he felt at his lowest. When he was so desperate and alone in his suffering, that he could only wish for someone to drag him out in the early dawn and leave him to burn alive, she would appear.

A clear figment of his imagination. A soul so ethereal yet warm, soft, and real. It made no sense for a creature like that to be down in the dungeons with the likes of him, her silk dress soaked from his own blood. Cazador was never really done with him until the entire floor was soaked in the thick red liquid.

Astarion had been afraid at first. He had never even seen her enter the room. She was just there, at his side. He'd made a feeble attempt to back away when she'd attempted to reach out for him. She had stopped herself in her tracks, and spoken to him softly. Astarion hadn't understood a word. He only knew this was another trick, another evil sent to punish him.

He'd passed out soon after.

The following night he'd realised he didn’t feel as weak as he usually did after a beating. He'd been healed. Somehow he'd even been granted a lavish pillow to rest his head on instead of the cold hard ground he was used to.

Alarmed, Astarion immediately did his best to hide it, using all of his strength to stuff the pillow behind a loose set of bricks in the walls of the dungeon. His master would not have been very forgiving if he thought one of his spawn had been stealing from him.

..☆..

A few weeks passed before the hallucination presented itself again.

It had been another terrible night and Cazador had decided Astarion needed to be sealed up in a coffin again.

Astarion cried like a babe. He begged his Master, promised to do anything for him, to give him anything he wanted. At some point he even attempted to convince Cazador to simply kill him once and for all. But it was no use, and soon he was sealed back into the darkness.

Astarion wondered how long he'd be left to rot this time. Another year? Two? What if this time Cazador simply... forgot about him? Left him to suffer his bloodlust and paranoia for all of eternity?

The world would move on, new cities would be built above his head and no one would be able to hear his cries—

Astarion almost jumped out of his bones in fear when the coffin was being opened up again. He was more than happy to take this little mercy from his Master in exchange of whatever other punishment he chose.

But it was not Cazador's face he ended up facing in the dark.

It was his angel, once again there to save him. Or more likely , as Astarion had been beginning to suspect, to lead him on to the next life.

This time he could see her more clearly. At first glance she might have been any other noble young lady from the city, the kind that had an array of suitors waiting outside her door. She looked like the type to make someone go mad from love or heartbreak, and Astarion was certain there were many out there already dedicating songs and sonnets to her beauty.

Yet her regal attire, while exquisite and fashionable, did not suit her. In fact, it seemed as if she were completely out of place wearing something so mundane. Something told him she wasn't exactly human, or elven for that matter. Her wide eyes were reading him like an open book, yet she did not say a word.

"Now, I don't know who you are..." Astarion warned, barely finding the strength to speak after an almost constant state of screaming and crying. "...or what you want with me... but I can tell you're not his. Because, if you were... you would know how dead we're both going to be when he catches you trying to get me out of here."

She attempted to speak, reaching out for a cut on Astarion's cheek. "You're —"

"You better get the fuck out of here, if you know what's good for you—" Astarion growled, snatching her wrist and squeezing it so tight, if she had been human it would have snapped in his hand like a twig. "And I trust you know how to board up this coffin again since you've been capable of roaming around a den of starving vampire spawn and making it out alive. Twice."

She gave out a wail of pain and Astarion finally let her go. He wasn't about to rot even longer than he had to in a coffin because of yet another reason that was completely out of his control.

The young woman stood there in front of him, undecided on what to do.

"I can't." She said, finally.

"But you will!" Astarion, roared, panicking about the very real possibility of Cazador assuming he'd managed to break out of his confinements himself. "By the hells! Put me back the way you found me and be on your way—"

"But you were crying—" She interjected.

"E-excuse you?" Astarion smiled uneasily, tilting his head to the side. What did this silly little girl think she knew about him?

"I heard you." The odd little thing in front of him answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "You were calling out for help. You said, anything but the dark-"

Astarion's eyes burned with rage and hot tears. Suddenly he was stumbling out of the coffin, grabbing the woman by her frilly bloodstained clothes, and pinning her up against a wall. "You're here to doom me, is that it? You're some kind of faerie pulling a cruel joke on me, are you? Trying to give him even more excuses to hurt me. Is that it?" He panted frantically, straining his ears to pick up any signs of Cazador's return. "Here to feed on my suffering, are you?" Astarion attempted to grill answers out of her.

The supposed faerie did not seem concerned with the fact an unstable bloodthirsty creature currently had her trapped with no way of escape. She slowly reached for a huge gaping wound on Astarion's abdomen, and for a few moments he was transfixed by how quickly the flesh healed itself back together under his very eyes.

"I do not wish to bring you harm." She explained calmly. "I thought you would enjoy the freedom. He is away. And I promise to put you back as you were before his return."

Astarion shook his head and laughed maniacally. Freedom. His prayers had somehow been answered but he didn't trust the situation one bit. "Is that right, princess?" He taunted her. "And who just might you be to know the comings and goings of the Master of this house better than his own spawn?"

"He calls me his daughter."

..☆..

The revelation never left Astarion's head, even in the days that followed. Cazador... his heartless captor, his psychotic jailor, had a weakness. Initially, he'd thought about what it would have been like to take the life of Cazador's precious daughter right there and then, damned by the consequences.

But that would have been too easy. No, Astarion had finally stumbled upon something that gave him an edge over his Master, and his revenge was going to be carefully thought out. Sweet as can be.

Cazador had never mentioned his daughter to any of them so Astarion had no rules or commandments looming over his head. She was the perfect way to get revenge after almost two centuries of suffering. He just needed to be clever about it. He could not squander an opportunity like this.

The prospect of hurting Cazador made the torture much more barerable during the coming weeks. In fact, Astarion didn't know whether he was delirious or if all of that suffering was just feeding the fire burning inside of him more and more.

Once he'd been finally freed to go out and bring a new victim for Cazador to feast on, his plan he been set into action. Going out on a limb, Astarion assumed Cazador had tucked his daughter in the highest room of the tallest tower of his castle, where none could get to her and where she could never see the true horror of who her father truly was.

Under the cover of night, he scaled the side of the castle walls with nothing but some climbing tools and his own blessed agility. And as he did so, his mind was flooded with the same questions he'd been plagued with since the last night he'd seen the young woman. How was it possible that Cazdor had sired a daughter? What was the nature of her powers? They did not seem to have sliver of relation between them. And why, oh why, was she so determined to care for Astarion of all people?

Had Cazador set her on it? Was it all some sick game? Only one thing was for sure. Cazador had hidden the girl from everything and everyone, so at some fundamental level he must have cared for her.

That was all that mattered to Astarion. It was worth risking Cazador's eternal wrath just to see even a tiny sliver of pain in his eyes. A crack in his armor. And there was no doubt in his mind that would soon be true, just as soon as he found his daughter's lifeless body and her blood splattered all across the castle walls on his return.

"Are you stuck?" Her voice called out to him from her bedroom window as she looked down at him. Yes, Astarion had been slightly stalled by his thoughts. He looked up at her. Well, there went the element of surprise. He certainly was not planning on underestimating her. The girl had true power coursing through her veins.

Yet, he had not anticipated the scenario and now he was at a loss for words. A first for him. "No I was just, well I was—"

"Just close the window when you come up, okay? It's getting cold in here." She admonished him, before disappearing back inside. Astarion was a little taken aback. Had she known he was coming?

When he finally stepped into her chambers, he got a full understanding of just how capable Cazador was of spoiling and pampering someone he cared about. The room was lavish and spacious, almost every single item worth more than the average working person in Baldur's Gate could make in their entire lifetimes.

She was there, simply brushing her hair in front of the fireplace, almost completely uncaring about the fact a stranger had just invaded her private quarters.

Astarion let a dagger slip out of his sleeve, and only then did she turn around to look at him. He hated it, wishing he could have gotten the chance to kill her in her sleep or with a stab to the back, so he wouldn't have had to stare into those mesmerizing pools again.

"You won't hurt me, Astarion." She simply stated.

Astarion ground his teeth in anger. It really wasn't fair how perfect his name sounded on her tongue.

"I see his brat is not only spoiled, but entitled too. What makes you think you'll get out of this?" Astarion marched over towards her. "What makes you think your life will be spared against the countless others I've dragged to the grave in your father's name?" He snarled drawing his blade up to her perfect neck.

The sound of her pulse was enchanting and exhilarating at the same time. If he only could have, he would have gorged himself with her blood, sunk his teeth into her perfect flesh.

"Because... you're afraid the next time you call for help you'll be alone. For good." She answered honestly, seeing right through him as if he were made of glass.

The young woman had meant no offense, but Astarion took it nonetheless. In one swift move, he had a dagger to her throat, tears brimming in his eyes. He hated that she was right, but he was going to prove her wrong nonetheless.

"You think you're so smart, don't you love?" He sneered. "What? Were you so bored all couped up in your tower, you thought you could just have a little fun with one of your daddy's toys? That bastard's going to get what's coming to him—"

Suddenly, she was placing a hand over Astarion's mouth and cutting him off mid-speech. For the first time ever, Astarion saw the strange girl display concern in her features. No... it was genuine fear in her eyes.

"He's... he's down the hall." She whispered, more concerned with her father's arrival than the blade at her throat. Astarion dropped the weapon and froze, completely incapable of doing anything except await for his punishment in silence.

"What are you doing?" She fretted over him. "You need to leave!" The girl tried to put some sense into him but it was useless. Her attempts to drag him towards her closet were also fruitless.

Astarion was frozen, his eyes on the door and his ears keenly listening to Cazador's steps as they drew nearer.

___

AN: Let me know if you'd like part 2, comments are appreciated 🤧🥺

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion fic #astarion smut #astarion angst #astarion fluff #bg3 astarion #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav #bg3 x you #astarion x female reader #astarion x female tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!reader

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animentality · 7 months

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I got sad because I realized that the only good relationship that Dark Urge and Gortash had was with each other.

Gortash got sold by his parents, was abused in hell, barely escaped, and then spent the rest of his life plotting and scheming and refusing to get close to anyone, ultimately even selling another child he took in to the same nightmarish life he'd once escaped from.

Dark Urge was forced to kill their foster family by Bhaal, and then went to a Bhaal temple, where they might've been worshipped, but I highly doubt that the murder cult weirdos really thought of them as a person, and not just an object of worship. It is awful lonely up on that bloody pedestal. Plus the way they beg Bhaal for forgiveness for liking Gortash makes me suspect that it's never happened before.

And then I hold my little heart in my hands and weep for the two of them.

Because I know gortash is a piece of shit who refuses to break the cycle of abuse. And I know the dark urge has murdered a shit ton of people and enjoyed it too.

But...but...your honor ...I still feel sympathy.

I still felt sadness in the house of hope, when that asshole admitted he used to beat Gortash black and blue for fun.

I still felt grief when I read dark urge's letter to their god for ADMIRING someone.

For caring about a person.

And then I found out that dark urge had been living a normal life until they killed their foster parents.

You can say that dark urge enjoyed it, but I just don't think that's the case.

Baldur's Gate 3 has some laughably evil villains but there is nuance. There is humanity in most of the characters, good, evil, and morally gray. Even big baddies. Ketheric Thorm notably has a rather sad backstory full of grief, loneliness, and love turned to madness, Gortash was broken as a child by parents who shattered his ability to care for anyone but himself, and even Orin, if you confront her about Sarevok's relationship to her mother, can even be seen as a tragic figure. Like what the fuck, her own mom tried to kill her as an offering to bhaal.

Maybe all bhaalspawn are laughably one dimensional villains with absolutely no human traits to them, but that's just fucked.

One of my favorite themes is how everyone is a slave to the gods, their playthings, their disposal tools.

Poor Ketheric Thorm said it best when he said that we're just copper pieces to be traded, that we might have beaten him, but the gods beat him first.

He's so right, man. Most if not all the companions are slaves to Gods and devils.

Dark Urge was a slave to Bhaal, just a means to an end, a sharpened blade pressed against the world's throat, and Gortash was the plaything of devils, traded away by parents who didn't care about him, a powerless little boy who'd grow up to be a tyrannical power hungry despot.

I choose to believe they recognized each other. They worked together initially because they had their own agendas, and were doing their usual song and dance of manipulating others, but the more time they spent together, the more they actually liked each other.

They were genuinely friends, or lovers, and it's sickening and it's driving me mad, and it's all so sad.

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #ketheric thorm #dark urge #enver gortash #goretash #durgetash

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mllemaenad · 8 months

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Listening to Wyll's backstory in context of all the details we're acquiring on devil's contracts and soul selling is fascinating.

See - I listened to Lann Tarv's three tales to get my soul coins. I felt bad for making Karlach listen to that, obviously, but to be honest I didn't even want the coins that much. I actually wanted the stories. I wanted a better understanding of how this works.

And what I'm learning is - for the gods (and godlike beings) of this world, cruelty seems to be the point. I mean - it's possible there's a god in this world I wouldn't want to stab to death with a rusty fork, but if so I have not met them yet.

These beings have the power to save people and places, to change lives, to do anything. And when someone asks them to - they demand a terrible price. But they don't just demand a price. They subvert the original request in such a way that they utterly fail to deliver on the original promise.

An abused woman wishes to be loved - and her true love appears, but dies instantly. A man wishes to save his children from starvation, and ends up personally growing masses of meat on his own body - not only painful for him, but forcing his children into survival cannibalism, which they were trying to avoid.

Auntie Ethel works the same way. Every one of her customers is left in a tortured state, while Ethel still takes her payment.

The idea is that the person must come to regret their wish long before the payment comes due. Every cry for help must be met with a boot to the face. Or else the mortals will get uppity? Or something.

What is interesting is how consciously Wyll defies that. And how much Mizora is dancing around, trying to force him into that state of miserable regret.

Wyll was manipulated into selling his soul. He was a kid, and he was summoned into a terrible situation - and in that moment, he could see no other way to save the city. Mizora did need to save Baldur's Gate to serve her boss's purposes, so she couldn't take that victory from him - but she did everything she could to take the joy of it.

He didn't get respect, or admiration, or his father's pride for saving the city. He lost his home and his family. He was assumed to have done something monstrous because he was denied an opportunity to defend himself.

That was supposed to fill him with bitterness and regret - but he got to work building his own life instead. By the time you run into him, the Blade of Frontiers is a hero of some renown. He's remade himself, and found a way to enjoy what his powers can do, however he came by them.

So that didn't work.

Then Mizora sent him after Karlach, and that was a mission tailored to break him. Karlach is kind and heroic herself, and that the start she has been sold into slavery, mutilated and forced to fight in a war against her will. If Wyll killed her, and then found out who she really was, then he betrayed everything the Blade of Frontiers is supposed to stand for - and he would lose the life he made for himself.

But he didn't, and that didn't work either. He's got a friend, now, who at least knows part of what he's dealing with.

So Mizora gave him demonic features. That would destroy the life he's made for himself, because no one would trust him to help them.

Except now Wyll basically goes nowhere on his own, and a small army of people can attest that he got those horns and eyes as punishment for being a good man. Mizora might be able to shut his mouth, but she can't silence his friends - and the group absolutely have shouting sessions about everything. Wyll's horns become a battle scar, like his missing eye, and nothing more.

And beyond that, if you are playing as a heroic character, a significant throughline in the game's story is the journey of the tiefling refugees. The story makes it clear that these people experience a constant barrage of racism, due to their appearance and "demonic" heritage. It also makes it abundantly clear that this prejudice is entirely undeserved - they're just people, with virtues and flaws like everyone else, and what is happening to them is terrible. So Wyll turns up to assist a bunch of people whom he now at least somewhat resembles - and with Karlach along, you have two people in the group who technically count as "infernal", but haven't got an evil bone in either of their bodies.

Mizora created solidarity. Oops.

Wyll is deeply suspicious of gods and higher powers. He doesn't want to make more deals with devils. When Elminster arrives to tell Gale what Mystra demands of him, he explicitly says he does not do religion. When you get Mizora to agree to let his contract expire in six months, he starts by casually invoking the gods - but switches to thanking the player character instead, because he knows who helped, and who did not.

But he utterly refuses to regret the pact he made. That can be a struggle. He clearly misses his dad, and would like that relationship repaired. The fact that he was transformed very much against his will is clearly a source of distress from him.

But if he regrets, then Mizora wins. That's it. Game over. She gets what she wanted all along. So he doesn't.

The main companion characters all have this kind of problem, and naturally have different ways of dealing with it. You have characters like Shadowheart and Lae'zel, who were indoctrinated as children, or Gale, who was literally seduced by one of these nightmare deities - and with them you have to start out by convincing them they they were the wronged party in the first place.

But Wyll knows exactly what game he's playing, and he's been screaming defiance the whole time. It's just that, in his case, the "defiance" is grinning and carrying on every time Mizora inflicts some more bullshit on him.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 spoilers

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fridaypls · 28 days

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Scars & Secrets; diving into this Astarion & Raphael interaction

A deep dive into bravery and resilience in the face of humiliation and manipulation.

Hopping right in with the first interaction of this scene; Astarion stopping Raphael from leaving to open a negotiation of his own.

Astarion: “Wait! Before you go, I have a proposal of my own.”

And the snide response from Raphael: ”A proposal? If you’re hoping to taste my blood, little sampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whisky.”

First, Astarion's side:

I love the split-second emotions Larian feeds us in this game; this scene is no exception. Look at his face on those first couple frames as he says "Wait!"

It takes courage. For two hundred years under Cazador's compulsion, he had little choice other than to obey... to be passive. He's not being passive now; he's taking his courage in both hands and being proactive.

As we see Astarion start to wrestle with the meaning behind his scars in game, he's started his arc towards finding autonomy and his own identity. He's taking steps towards reclaiming his story - but he can't see the scars or read them. He needs help.

And he knows better than to ask Raphael outright for help. That is a dangerous proposition; he knows Raphael is every bit as dangerous as he is cunning—but he can be useful, if the game is played right. Our rogue is clever; he's meeting the cambion on his own playing field; bargaining.

"I have a proposal of my own.”

Look at the disdain and disgust on his face in the second two frames above as he speaks the words. He doesn't want to make a deal with the devil—but he recognizes that he has little choice.

Now look at how Raphael was leaning forward to listening while Astarion spoke, with the same seriousness an arrogant adult listens to a child. There are a few incredible layers in his response.

”A proposal? If you’re hoping to taste my blood, little sampling, think again. It burns hotter than Wyvern Whisky.”

Raphael’s response immediately asserts dominance. By deliberately and mockingly dismissing Astarion’s proposal as a potential ploy to taste his blood, Raphael positions himself as the one in control. He sets the power dynamic for the rest of the conversation with the ease of much, much practice.

With "little vampling" and "hotter than Wyvern Whisky" he simultaneously takes Astarion down two pegs ('you can't handle it, child') and himself up one, remind Astarion and the listening Tav of his own nature. He mocks and belittles Astarion while lightly lauding himself, all in a sentence.

And Astarion, understandably, does not enjoy that.

"This is serious business, devil!"

There is desperation and vulnerability for him in this entire conversation and they both know it. Despite that, he fires back with assertiveness, refusing to be dismissed or spoke down to.

"Little vampling" is met with "devil!" - a seemingly simple response that is a truly a beautiful parry. If Raphael's "hotter than Wyvern Whisky" jab about his blood being too hot for Astarion to handle was a reminder of his latent power, this is Astarion acknowledging that power head on - and refusing to back down.

He doesn't give Raphael a chance to bandy back, but launches into opening steps of the dance; what he needs out of this negotiation.

”My old- well, a long time ago, someone carved some runes into my back. I’d rather like to know what they say.”

His quest to translate the runes is a symbolic step of his broader journey to reclaim his life from Cazador; he stays true to that now by refusing to mention his abuser.

Raphael, of course, is eager in his own not-entirely-subtle to assure him that he already knows all about Cazador.

”It’s something of great importance to your master. But is it a love letter, a warning, or a deep of ownership? I can give you all the gory details.”

Raphael lives to tease and torment; he has absolutely no interest in negotiating cleanly here; knowledge is power and he has it all.

By dangling that lure, Raphael positions himself as the gatekeeper of truths Astarion desperately seeks, deliberately reinforcing the power imbalance between them.

”And I will - once the beast that lurks below is vanquished, and sent back to the Hells.”

The price for the knowledge Astarion seeks; the death of the Orthon.

Also, how many of you guys caught this;

One of many fourth-wall breaks in which Raphael glances at us. I like the ?theory? that original Raphael was supposed to have the hots for the player themselves, rather than their Tav. We're left with a handful of beautiful, deliberate glances like this one.

Hurt and powerless hate on Astarion's face. He's got no recourse other than to agree and it can't be a great feeling. Then, it gets worse...

Tav: "What are you talking about, Astarion? What scars?"

And Raphael is instantly delighted.

"You haven’t told them? And you’ve kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you… Why not let them see? Don’t be shy.”

Raphael's interactions with Astarion are not mere casual cruelty; they are calculated moves designed to exploit Astarion's vulnerabilities.

"You haven’t told them?" He's already demonstrated he knows about Cazador. With the new knowledge that Tav doesn't know about Astarion's past, he makes a two-fold attack.

"You’ve kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you..." He mocks Astarion's loss of autonomy and weaponizes his vulnerability with a comment designed to come across as slut shaming to Tav...

...but a reminder of his past humiliations to Astarion, one that deliberately insinuates that his struggle to maintain his privacy and dignity are futile, or out of character. It's a cruel and careful jab.

For Astarion, every moment he is allowed to decide for himself, to keep his clothes on or take them off, is a step away from his past and a step towards autonomy and recovery. Raphael deliberately belittles that, as he has belittled him this entire conversation.

"Why not let them see? Don’t be shy."

Raphael's flippant comment entirely dismisses the deep trauma carved into Astarion along with his scars—trauma that is both physical and emotional. The scars are physical markings that represent a bloody, dark history of abuse, subjugation, and exploitation... and Raphael knows that.

"Let them see?" implies a choice, but Astarion is given none. It's a specifically calculated reminder of his past, where his body was not his own. By exposing Astarion’s scars to his companions, Raphael not only forces him into a moment of vulnerability, but also subjects him to deliberate public humiliation. "Don’t be shy" is a taunt, a laughing mockery of the situation Raphael has orchestrated.

The movement itself is gentle, almost. Not a snap of fingers or casting of a spell... just an airy wafting of a hand. Astarion realizes what's happening quickly and recoils - he takes a step back and half turns as though he's considering running, then stops himself.

The abject sadness as he turns back, just the miserable 'why?' in his eyes as he turns back to confront his tormentor. He steps exactly back into where he was standing before - doesn't cover himself or cower, but stands tall and faces the humiliation Raphael is forcing on him with his head high and shoulders squared.

Watch his face change. He already knew Raphael was a devil and an untrustworthy bastard, but one he'd have to deal with to unlock the meaning behind his scars.

Now, he knows exactly what manner of person he's dealing with.

”Gods damn it.”

The slow glance over his shoulder at you/the camera is a stab in the heart. Tav's standing to the side of him, so this additional piece of artistry is just cinematic loveliness, a truly spectacular reveal.

But also symbolic. He turns from glaring at his tormentor to check Tav's reaction. The slow glance reads to me as a moment of profound vulnerability. After being forcibly exposed, both physically and emotionally, he's seeking connection—an understanding, or perhaps even solace in Tav's reaction.

Raphael doesn't give him even a moment.

”Don’t pout, spawn. Just destroy the beast and I’ll happily reveal your secrets instead of your skin.”

Every word is laced with manipulative intent; he belittles and exerts control, dangling the price in front of his face again. The directive "Don't pout" puts down Astarion's legitimate grievances of the moment, reducing his concerns and traumas to nothing more than childish sulking.

With "instead of your skin", Raphael (who has appeared several times at this point) reminds him that this sort of humiliation is on the table at any time. It serves as a pointed reminder of the control he holds over Astarion, as well as the potential for further humiliation in the future, a calculated move designed in a state of unease and subjugation.

Astarion, for his part, his exasperated and done.

”Yes, fine, we’ll kill this damn creature of yours.”

It’s a concession, but one that's loaded with frustration and a pragmatic recognition of the immediate need to comply with Raphael's demands to achieve his own ends.

Despite being spoken down to, belittled, intentionally reminded of his traumas, stripped naked, humilated and taunted, he faces his tormentor with head high still and shoulders squared.

He's used to a master that reveled in his humiliation and hurt; he's giving Raphael nothing.

Not content with this, Raphael moves to bring the interaction to a close, with a few last jabs.

”Then we have an understanding. I look forward to our next meeting. Scars often tell such wonderful stories - I think yours might be truly exquisite.”

Raphael sees Astarion’s scars not merely as physical remnants of past trauma but as narratives ripe for exploitation. By calling them “truly exquisite”, he intentionally objectifies Astarion's suffering, posing it as something to be utilized rather than empathized with.

His macabre fascination is not just creepy in its voyeuristic appreciation of another's trauma, but... deeply unsettling, intentionally so.

And then he's gone, until the next confrontation. But Astarion's confrontation with his own past isn't over.

Astarion turns to Tav with "Well. Now you know.”

Except... he doesn't actually turn to Tav. Can't seem to bring himself to turn all the way—he faced Raphael head on, but facing Tav? Whom he trusts and cares about? Look at how hard it is for him to drag his eyes to your/Tav's face—the way he checks your reaction before turning his face all the way towards you.

Even then, he starts turn away once more, to angle his nakedness away, but his eyes stay locked on your face. There's openness there; vulnerability heavily laden with resignation. His his carefully guarded secrets are now as exposed as he is.

Tav: "Gods… the carving must have been excruciating.”

The response is immediate and bluntly empathetic; it recognizes the severity of Astarion’s pain without needing a detailed explanation. Raphael belittled his trauma and reveled in his scars—Tav sees his suffering for what it is. It's a beautiful move to intentionally normalize emotional vulnerability between them.

"Cazador worked on it from dusk until dawn, all with an ancient blade he called his ‘needle’. Cutting and tearing, starting over it I screamed or winced too much."

Midway through, the genuine hurt we see in his face is replaced with a forced smile. A tiny, non-verbal declaration of resilience... but perhaps also a long-ingrained habit of trying to inject normalcy into any moment too weighty. In two hundred years under Cazador's thumb, he didn't pull a thousand marks by letting conversations get heavy.

But the smile can't hold. It simply hurts too much. It slips away and vulnerable hurt takes its place once more instead.

"An ancient blade he called his 'needle'" is such specific language... from the Astarion Origin play-through, we know he relives the carving in his memories, to the point of feeling the pain as though it's being carved again.

"Cutting and tearing, starting over it I screamed or winced too much" is something he remembers in excruciating, perfect detail.

”It was a rough night... But what’s done is done, so how about we stop discussing it and just kill this beast?”

The moment for emotional vulnerability is coming to a close for him; He's still standing there naked, the scars he has so carefully hidden on display and so much of his vigilantly guarded trauma poured out at your feet. He takes the moment to reclaim his agency, if only a little bit, by signaling that the conversation is over. It's time to go get the job done, instead.

The transition beautifully underscores a key aspect of his character and, I suspect, yours: the capacity to compartmentalize suffering in order to deal with the immediate demands of reality.

He's acknowledging the past, but not allowing it to wholly consume or immobilize him. And we're proud of him for that.

#and I'm proud of you ♡#scars tell the tales we dare not speak #beneath the bravado a vulnerable heart beats #the unseen scars carry the deepest stories #he silent strength of enduring spirits #the quiet courage of bearing one's past #scars as silent witnesses #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion #baldurs gate astarion #gif analysis #bg3 gif analysis #thanks larian #raphael the cambion #raphael bg3 #raphael

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bakugoushotwife · 7 months

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kinktober day two: blindfold kink

>>> day two has arrived! i hope everyone loved our debut piece with nanami yesterday! so i thought this section could be me explaining why i chose the character for the piece, but i feel like today is self-explanatory.

>>> starring: satoru gojo x curvy!fem!reader >>>cw: blindfolding duh, pervy and obsessive gojo, oral (fem receiving), pet names, begging, doggy. pining, friends to fuckers hehe >>>wc: 2.8k >>>event masterlist

it may have started out as an innocent act–something playful and charming. but unfortunately, satoru could never tolerate such innocence. not without wanting to bend it to his will, anyway, and you and your frisky antics were no exception. he’s been wanting to taint your virtue and unyielding reputation for years at this point. you’re the picture of righteousness, kind and forgiving, and oh so malleable. gojo knows you’ve been this way for years, since school, just angelic by nature. it gets on his nerves.

you banter with him, though, and he enjoys the little bit of wit you show, a sly mind cloaked behind a doll-like face, porcelain and made up to mask the little devil lurking beneath. he sees the real you, the cheeky teenager who accidentally flashed him your panties every time he complimented your hair, the cunning sorceress that uses her air of innocence and ethereal looks to manipulate your way through this wretched society. you impress him, you intrigue and confuse him. maybe he’s just another man under your spell, maybe this was your way of manipulating him, but he can’t help but think that you’ve remained close to him–or more so, kept him close to you, because he means more than anyone else. perhaps that’s just gojo’s ego acting up again, but most people agree that your continual spotlight on him had something more to it than simple friendship.

you hinted and toyed at crossing that line all the time, letting him hold your hand and buy you lunch and other gifts satoru deemed worthy of your ownership. he was powerless, simply praying for the day that you would finally release him from your spell or let him demolish this front you keep shielding the real you.

today was that day, when you stopped by his place to check on him after a mission. you frequent his home often enough that it’s no big deal, and you knew with his ability, he was unscathed as always. but still, it gave you a reason to go over. you were shocked that he hadn’t cornered you yet, pouncing on you in the confines and comfort of his own home. you enjoyed toying with him, giving him all the signs that you were interested and then feigning shock when he was overly forward. you could tell you were confusing him, and seeing the smartest and strongest and most arrogant man alive confounded by your mind games was intoxicating. but even you were getting tired of this song and dance, growing sick of only teasing. satoru was the most desirable man ever made, in your mind, and you were ready to push him so far that he couldn’t possibly keep his chivalrous and cordial facade up any longer. you knew the real him too, of course. the pervert lurking beneath the surface of the respectable sensei—the hungry eyes hidden behind the black fabric leashing that side of him to avoid detection.

the two of you were alone now, however, where the masks could come off. so when you lean up from your position on the couch a courteous distance away, folding your knees under yourself to reach for his blindfold, he lets it happen. you hear his infinity deactivate, allowing your graceful fingers to tug the black fabric loose with a giggle.

“you can really see through this with those six-eyes of yours, hm?” you hum with intrigue, dangling the eye protection from your thumb and forefinger. he smirks a bit, leaned against the arm of the couch, facing you now with his distracting gaze revealed to you. since his power wasn’t active, his eyes were a deep ocean of mysterious thoughts and emotions, swirling you around and dragging you to the dark bottom. you were lost at sea, his glossy lips pulled back in a grin. he knows you’re staring, and so do you, but he takes the opportunity to stare at you, your eyes just as bewildering to him.

he juts his chin to the blindfold, and reaches for it unceremoniously. you made it easier by sitting like that on the cushion next to him, really. he chuckles, and grabs your chin with a commanding yet gentle cup of his hand, fingers splayed across your jaw.

“sure can, lets me save some energy. i wanna see what you can see through it, yeah?” his smile is predatory, and you’re sure even total blindness would allow you to see that, but you had practically hand-crafted his feral need, succeeding in your mission to push him over the edge. he notices the way the corners of your lips twitch up in anticipation, and it only makes his grin stretch dimples in his cheeks. you nod, and his hands move quickly.

he secures the fabric around your head, and all you can see is pitch black. you reach up to feel the soft cloth, noting the scent of satoru’s lavender and cedarwood shampoo. you hear him chuckle fondly, and then you feel the cushions dip and shift, the presence of satoru gojo’s frame looming large above you, even on your knees. his breath fans across your face, and you can tell he’s still looking at you like a wolf eyes an unsuspecting deer. except he knows you’re no frail doe—no you’re a fellow wolf, playing amongst the rest of them. he can tell by your outfit that you’ve thrown in the towel, surrendering to his advances and finally letting him warp that shallow image of girlish innocence you show everyone else. a skimpy little dress, the fabric no thicker than the one wrapped around your face and definitely not enough to conceal your hardened nipples. he wonders where to start with you—admiring your anxious squirms of anticipation, the way your head is cocked up towards his, awaiting his touch.

he has half the mind to toy with you the way you’ve played with him over the years, but try as he might, he knows you hold all the power. you always have, and this is his only chance to prove that he deserves a promotion. you feel his cool fingers scrape against the skin of your shoulders, sliding the straps of your dress to dangle across your biceps. he hums pleasantly, tugging the front down. you hiss at the brisk air rushing across your chest, feeling your nipples tighten almost painfully so. you can hear the smile in his voice as his hands cup your tits, everything feeling so much more intense with one of your senses taken away from you.

“oh how sad it makes me to know you’ve kept these locked up this long…” he sighs, squeezing the mounds in his hands. he enjoys the way they fill his palms, jiggling so prettily he rewards you by brushing his calloused thumbs over your pebbled buds. he earns a whine from you in response, making him grin devilishly. he figured you were sensitive, even the slightest of touches resulted in the needy jolts of your body. it made his cock jump in his pants, painfully pressing against the zipper. he stares at you, groaning aloud just from the sight of your perky boobs. he doesn’t know if he can make it through this, countless loads have been blown in your honor over the years—he has millions of fantasies and no clue how to keep from cumming in his pants. he leans over, caressing his large hands down your sides as his mouth sucks a taut nipple into his warm mouth. his eyes momentarily flutter shut at the sweet gasp you give him, your hands feebly feeling around for something to hold onto. he guides your hands to his hair, humming against your chest to encourage you in pulling it.

you didn’t need to be told twice, tugging at the silky locks and arching your way deeper in his mouth. he chuckles at you, grazing your cute sensitive skin and letting his hands fall even further. you nod your approval at his new grip, his hands spanning the entire width of your ass. he loves the way the fat feels in his hold, and the way you desperately push yourself forward for more of him has him releasing your tit in favor of sucking a deep bruise in the skin, dick aching at the lewd squeals you make at the feeling of his teeth sinking into your flesh. you slide your hands down his back, huffing your displeasure at feeling his shirt under your fingertips. he chuckles at your neediness, releasing you to take his shirt off. you hear it fall to the floor, and then you feel a weight—satoru’s weight— shift off the couch. his chuckle seems far away, and you realize he’s walking away.

“i figure we’ll need more space, no? i can’t fuck you over the couch like i want, ‘s too low. follow me.” he smirks, leaning against the door of his bedroom down the hallway. even from here, he could see your features screw up in displeasure, and he doesn’t repress the laugh that follows. he knows if he could see those captivating eyes of yours, they’d be ripping him apart. he shoved the coffee table out of your way, making sure you had a straight shot to him, for whatever points that earns him. “just follow the sound of my voice.” he sings.

you huff your frustration, but push yourself off the couch. your dress falls to your waist, the shelf of your curves keeping it from dropping completely. he smirks at the way you swing your hips, stomping towards him with the clear confidence that he wouldn’t allow you to hurt yourself. you’re stopped by the brick wall that is satoru, and he takes your hands. “good girl. do you trust me?”

it was a little late for that, but you nod. he squeezes your hands, dropping them to pull your dress over your hips and into the floor with a woosh. “fuck, you are so beautiful,” he groans, running his hands over the dips of your body, stare locked on your leaking pussy. he smiles at this, he had hardly touched you. “dripping already, baby?” he teases, dropping to his knees to taste you. he just couldn’t help himself, not with your dopey unsuspecting grin and your arousal for him so obviously running down your thighs.

he could do anything he wanted to you, and you’d have no choice but to allow it. you’re lucky he worships you, or he’d leave you in the room by yourself, only coming in to use you as a cocksleeve and leave again, rendering you a sloppy cum-filled mess. maybe another time, you do look sexy in the blindfold after all.

“of course, sato. been waiting for you to make a move for years.” you giggle softly, teasing him still. you know you’ve dangled the promised fruit and taken it away before he had the chance to take a bite. so he does that now, grabbing the thick sides of your thighs to pull them apart. he scrapes his teeth against your plush skin, groaning at the scent of your sopping pussy so close. you gasp softly, back colliding against the wood paneling of his door. he doesn’t give you time to adjust, sliding his tongue through your cute lower lips, sighing contently at the taste of you. he knew he wouldn’t be able to control himself past this, never again would he be able to play the perfect gentleman. you stabilize yourself with a grip on his shoulders, the room filled with slurps and moans from a man receiving his own type of pleasure from giving you yours. he grips himself over his pants, willing himself to be strong enough to wait for your sweet cunt. he licks and nibbles on the sensitive bundle hidden by your hood, relishing in how easy it is to make your legs shake around his face. he moans happily, wanting you to know how much he enjoys feasting on your box. you’re clawing at his freckled shoulders, unable to resist mewling and panting, grinding your hips down on his nose as his tongue slips in your hole. it’s the perfect storm, making your legs feel so wobbly you trust only his grip on your dimpled thighs to hold you upright.

“oh wow–gon’ cum soon, sato, can i?” you whimper, hands cupping your chest to try to replicate the sensation his mouth gave you there. he hums his approval, squeezing your thighs so tightly he knows there will be gojo sized handprints there tomorrow. your moan is so sweet when you release on his face, he has to fight cumming in his jeans again. it’s so like him to not give you any recovery time, picking you up over his shoulder and carrying you to the bed.

“apologies for the roughness, sweetheart. just fighting a losing battle here, you have no idea what you do to me.” he growls, laying you over the mattress and turning you to your stomach. he was throwing you around like a ragdoll, dragging you to all fours before you hear the sound of his belt unbuckling. you’re shaking with anticipation, arching your back to make it as easy as possible. your cunt is glistening, making him drool with excitement as he steps out of his pants. his length is pressing through your folds, sliding through your wetness to bump his tip against your clit. you cry out your impatience, to which he chuckles his amusement. “need something, gorgeous?” he pouts on your behalf.

you nod eagerly, reduced to begging as your eyes sting with tears. his cock sliding against you told you he was huge, like you suspected, the strokes of lightning coursing through your body just from his tip nudging your clit was borderline pathetic, you needed more before you lost your mind, already feeling the torture of not being able to see him take you for the first time. “please, fuck, satoru—i need you so bad im gonna start cryin’ soon! pleasepleaseplease–”

he shoves in with a mischievous giggle, another bruising handle made of your hips. your messy cunt sucked him in greedily, satin walls hugging him so tight his mouth dropped open. “fuck, angel, you feel so good—better ‘n i imagined.” he sighs out, his hips flush against the fat of your ass—filling you to the brim. you’re on your tiptoes as he starts to slam into you flat footed, nothing but his own force plowing into your cunt, his curved cock bumping against your womb with every slap of his balls.

you’re a lost cause, your brain scrambled as your fist the covers below you. you wish you could respond with something more than wails of pleasure, but you can’t gather any thoughts to speak of. all you could feel was his dick rearranging your guts, his hands searing their brand on your body. he loves the way you crumble, unable to see and now speak. it makes his cock jump against your spongy need. he knew he couldn’t last much longer, especially at this punishing pace, but it was worth it to see you rendered dumb on his bed, spread wide with your ass rippling on his shaft. it was glorious, the pride he felt in claiming you as his spread warmth through his body, and his release was near.

“gonna make me cum, princess. gonna let me cum in you? make you mine for good, yeah?” he purrs, his hands reaching up to fist your hair so he could get some sort of response from you. he pulls you into a prettier arch, your pliable body too jelly to hold the position yourself. “hm? answer please.”

you do your best to nod, making some strangled sound of approval. you clench down around him, keeping him trapped in you anyway. it sends him reeling, with a high-pitched grunt he paints your walls with his seed, letting himself cover your body with his. he kisses your shoulder blade, the two of you in sync as you heave for breath. you’re smiling softly, and he pulls the blindfold off you to reveal his beaming and sweaty form looking down on you with such fondness your heart and pussy throb. he leans up to give you a proper kiss now, looking absolutely heaven-sent. some of the longer pieces of his hair stuck to his forehead and cheekbones and his lower lip was swollen and red, where he had no doubt been gnawing at it. you kiss him hungrily, and you feel him harden within you again.

“you did so good, baby girl.” he says once he pulls away, grinning at the softness of your kisses. he wanted to spoil you too, praise your body for the pleasure you bring him—now that you’ve finally let yourself be his. “now that was fucking…let me make love to you this time.” he coos, making you both giggle as he turns you to your back for yet another demonstration of his undying love–and insatiable desire.

#kylee's kinktober event #kinktober 2023 #kinktober #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #kyleewritesjjk #satoru gojo #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojou satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #blindfolding kink #gojo x blindfolding

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nunalastor · 2 months

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When Alastor first met the King of Hell, he was to put it lightly... a bit disappointed. Not to be that guy, but as he said, he had expected someone... more. That's the big part of why he had challenged Lucifer the way he had, well, that and his own threat to to plans for Charlie and inherent Daddy Issues Alasot has spent the past hundred years suppressing himself. Now, what he hadn't realized was that during that initial meeting of his he made a tiny, miniscule blunder in unde r estimating the most powerful being in Hell and antagonizing him so blatantly.

He caught Lucifer's attention.

Lucifer, he's not used to a challenge. Most sinners become faint and fearful at his very name. Not even the most powerful and ancient overlord or the Seven Sins are immune to his reputation as the Devil. This upstart little brat of a deer demon just... casually picking a fight with HIM of all people!? KNOWING who he is!? Well... Lucifer hasn't been this entertained in literal centuries, and if rising to the bait gives him the chance to reconnect with Charlie, all the better.

Now Alastor doesn't realize this mistake quite yet, but he will. He most certainly will. And by the time he realizes it'll be too late, Lucifer won't let him go now. Not when he's so entertaining to toy with! It's like a lion playing with his food, Lucifer could easily kill Alastor, but he won't. And he won't let him retreat either. Alastor made the challenge, and he's going to see it through till the end, no matter the consequence.

This is just my way of saying we really need to see some manipulative and possessive Lucifer who develops a crush on Alastor, but don't worry, once he manages to convince Alastor to relax around him he's jsut the sweetest thing. Lucifer isn't like Adam or the Vees. He's a sweet, respectful lover who is completely devoted to anyone who catches his eye. He just likes to toy with the people he courts a bit.

👀

#hazbin hotel #radioapple #appleradio #lucifer #radio apple #alastor #apple radio #nunalastor asks #headcanon

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asuyaka · 3 months

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Worst Gen. trio (+ Ace) with a transmasc reader!

★ - Absolutely frothin at the mouth ab Corazon n Law guys,,

☆ - Trafalgar D. Water Law, Eustass "Captain" Kidd, Monkey D. Luffy, and Portgas D. Ace x TM! Reader.

♡ - Reader has space-manipulation devil fruit powers! (❁´◡`❁) (only brought up like,, twice... oopsie!!)

— TRAFALGAR D. WATER LAW.

Law is a doctor, so of course he knows what to do when it comes to his boyfriend!

Always reminds you ta take off your binder if he notices that you've had it on for too long, and makes sure you take your T-shots on time!

If you've already had top surgery, your scars are somethin he's absolutely smitten over.

Genuinely, when you two getting ready for bed he always prefers you with your shirt off because something about your scars (or your body in general) s'so attractive ta him ??

Bein a doctor, he's always available ta do any surgery you want him to, as long as he knows the safest way to do it so you don't get hurt!

Law sat at his desk, a cup of coffee next to a pile of books with a lamp close by to illuminate what he was reading. He grumbles slightly, rubbing his eyes and taking a sip of his coffee.

You walk out of the bathroom with one of Law's button-ups and shorts, lazily rubbing your eyes and walking up to where your boyfriend is.

"You're a doctor and still won't go to sleep early?" You mumble into his neck as your arms wrap around his shoulder. He takes a deep sigh and lets his book down, bringing his hands up to rub against your arms.

Before you know it you've switched places with the book he was reading, now on his desk with a slightly confused expression, slowly turning into one of worry when you're finally able to see your boyfriend's face.

His eye bags have gotten worse and his posture makes him look like he's a shrimp. "Law..." You mumble worrily. He interrupts you with a hug, burying his head right underneath your surgery scars (that he did for you).

With a sigh, you pull him closer and rub his hair gently, feeling all the stress leaving his body. Law has always been one to overwork himself and not know when to stop, especially before letting go of his ties to Doflamingo.

"Do you want me to ask the others to get you tea?" You ask tentatively, keeping your voice soft just in case he's close to falling asleep.

He just grumbles and squeezes you closer, his tattooed fingers drawing air images on your pecs. "...warm..."

Giggling at Law's words, you press a kiss on his head and wrap your legs around his torso. The two of you stay together in comfortable silence until you feel his hands slowly fall from your chest and his breathing even out.

With a tiny smile, you use your devil fruit abilities to gently move the two of you onto the bed, situating yourselves so you don't wake Law up.

As you place the blankets over your bodies, you hear Law mumble something about a person named 'Corazon' and how the person was meeting his boyfriend—you— for the first time.

You place a soft kiss on his forehead, letting out a small giggle as he instantly squeezes you closer and buries his face in your chest.

No one would've thought the 'Surgeon of Death' Trafalgar D. Law was a cuddle bug at night.

Except you, of course.

— EUSTASS "CAPTAIN" KIDD. | DISCLAIMER: mentions of periods/mainly about gettin your period unexpectedly 'round Kidd, might be triggers f'some transmascs !! ヾ(＠⌒︶⌒＠)ノ

He genuinely doesn't care/didn't know that you're trans,,?

Tha first time he saw you with a binder on/saw your top surgery scars he didn't think much of it, genuinely thought they were battle scars.

It was only when he told Killer about them that his first mate told him in the most deadpanned and serious tone that they weren't battle scars.

n'he's so confused like ??? what are they then ???

After Killer explains what those scars mean he just,, doesn't care ?? All he came up with was that they're still battle scars, just not the same kind of battle.

His view of you doesn't change in the slightest, in his eyes you're still his boyfriend just with added customizations.

"Bath's fuckin hot," Eustass grumbled behind you, his metal arm wrapped around your waist as the scent of marshmallows wafted through the bathroom.

You relax into Eustass' boobs chest with a content sigh, letting all the tension in your body wash away with the bath. Through your daze, you hear Eustass grumble about how he forgot to bring his nail polish close so he could do his nails while resting.

With small movements of your finger, the bottle drops on your boyfriend's head, causing him to wince. "Fuck you." He mutters under his breath as he splashes some water in your direction, narrowly avoiding your face. "Love you too, captain."

You're sure Eustass rolls his eyes at that, mumbling something about how insufferable you were as he no doubt made a metal structure to help paint his nails as his other hand was occupied with holding his boyfriend.

Either you blacked out or took a small nap because before you knew what was happening, Eustass was shaking you awake with slight anger in his eyes, though you can easily make it it's all a facade because that's how he looks when you're hurt during missions. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt? You're fuckin bleeding everywhere."

Not all the way there yet, you look around trying to find the spot you're bleeding from because you don't remember getting any injuries that could cause bleeding to worry Eustass. He's gotten and seen his fair share of wounds anyway.

That's when you notice the blood is coming from between your legs, staining your previously relaxing shower with red. Embarrassment floods your mind as you shift away from him so the blood doesn't get everywhere.

""[Name]? You alright? If it hurts that bad I could call Killer or somethin—"

"No!" You say instinctively as your mind wracks to figure out a way to sort this out. "I'm okay, can you just... leave me alone for a few minutes?"

Eustass stares at you as if you've got two heads. "While you're bleedin' out? Just tell me what's wrong, maybe I can help, yanno?"

Your lips stay shut as more wetness flows down your thigh. You've dated Eustass for a while now, it's just the first time you've openly had your period around him—which shouldn't have happened in the first place since it's two days early.

Kidd is a naturally perceptive person around you. He likes knowing what things to avoid and never bring up, and what things you could talk about for hours, so he's made sort of a guess as to what's happening, but he doesn't want to bring it up in case you were uncomfortable.

Either way, though, you looked as if you were going to explode even if he left, so he decided to take the gamble anyway. "Is it that thing where you're like,, shedding?"

You turn to stare at Eustass with a blank face. "...Shedding?"

"You know! Like the thing where like you're ready to get pregnant and shit— I don't fuckin know what it's called!" The man grumbles, trying his best to push aside his embarrassment to make sure you're okay. "Still, don't you gotta get cleaned up and shit? Not sure it's healthy to stay in a bath of your own blood."

"All the more reason you should leave, Eustass." You mumble under your breath, yelping slightly when he lifts you up and lets all the water drain out, turning on the shower to help you get clean. "Naw, think I'm good here. Wouldn't be a very good boyfriend if I left, would I?"

Realizing nothing you'd do or say was going to let him leave, you let him do whatever it was he needed to do that made him a 'good boyfriend'.

He took a shower with you, practically not letting you move a muscle until he was sure all the blood was off you. When you two were done, he tossed an extra big towel on your head before leaving to go get a few things from the kitchen.

You quickly got situated, putting on your clothes and other needed accessories before landing on Eustass' bed, hands over your tummy as pain surged from your lower half.

You hoped that sleep would get its grubby hands on you quickly so you wouldn't have to deal with it alone. As if it was mocking you, a harsher tingle worked its way up your body, eliciting a small whimper out of you.

A few minutes later, Eustass walks in with a cup of hot tea and other snacks. "Dunno what you wanted so I grabbed anythin'. You alright?"

You nod, even though you know you aren't; and by the look on your captain's face, he knows you're lying too. He doesn't pry though, only sets your body between his legs and your head on his chest, handing you the cup. "Careful, s'hot."

"Killer said I'm supposed to make sure you're well hydrated and shit, so you don't die."

You sip down the tea gingerly, stifling a giggle. "I'm not sure I'll die from cramps, Kidd."

"It's what he said! I don't know how this shit works." Eustass rolls his eyes and pulls you closer, using all the metal in his room to make a miniature version of himself and you for entertainment.

With a small content smile, you relax against your boyfriend, holding the arm he had on the lower half of your stomach. "I think whatever it is you're doing is working just fine, Kidd. Thank you."

His cheeks turn as red as his signature lipstick, rolling his eyes and trying to play it off. "Whatever, it's the least I could do for you. Even if you're annoying."

"Mhmm, I love you too Eustass."

— MONKEY D. LUFFY.

Almost like Eustass, but 10x worse.

If you wear a binder and he sees it, he's like "why do you have two shirts on ????"

And if you have surgery scars, he thinks it's the best thing ever that you two have matching (not really) torso scars!

When he asks Chopper why you suddenly get sick every month, the doctor looks at him with wide eyes,, he doesn't know ???

Chopper, just tells him to ask Robin, who tells him with a kind face to ask someone else.

Ends up asking the entire crew as his frown slowly gets deeper because why is everyone keeping a secret about you—his husband (you two aren't engaged at all)— from him ?!?!?

Demands Sanji to tell him after running around the Sunny for the tenth time, and he's just like... "Ohhhhh! Wait, why was everyone hiding that from me?????"

He just realizes you're like Yamato but the only difference s'that you two are dating!

The place smelled like a hospital, your brain foggy as you try to feel your surroundings.

Your eyes slowly open as you try to sit up—a stinging pain from your chest sending electricity through your body. "Oh, you're awake! Has everything settled down yet?" A voice asks from a chair nearby, though all you can make out from the shape is a comically large blue hat and a pair of antlers, right beside another comically large hat with black spots dotted around it.

Groggily, your eyes trail down to look at yourself, trying to find the source of the pain flowing through your body. That's when you see the bandages around your chest with tubes underneath them.

The realization hits you like a brick. Your surgery, the days spent stressing as the date got closer, the surgery. "Chopper? Is it— did the surgery go okay?"

The reindeer smiles and it feels contagious. Law stands up with a huff, throwing a mask in the bin and using his devil fruit to replace himself with Luffy.

Luffy looks a bit disoriented for a bit, relaxing when he realizes where he is. Then, he locks eyes with you and you think he cracked the biggest smile you've ever seen on his face. "[Name]!"

Before he gets the chance to throw his body at you, Chopper switches to Human Point to punch him in the head, quickly reverting back to look at you with serious eyes. "Yes, the surgery went well, but there are some things you can't do for a while."

You nod your head feverishly, gripping the sheets as you try not to squeal from excitement.

Chopper explains how you should avoid doing any strenuous activity, like fighting and training. Making an extra point to tell you not to let Luffy drag you into dangerous situations. He says that you still have to do mild exercising, i.e moving around and maybe going on slight jogs but nothing too over the top like Zoro's training.

Finally, he gives you and Luffy time alone; excusing himself to go talk with Law about some doctor-thing you couldn't give two shits about.

When the door clicks shut, Luffy sits in front of you— his expression blank but his eyes focused on the bandages around your chest. "This means you don't have to do the binding thing anymore, right?"

You nod.

"And, you're happy about it?"

You nod again.

Luffy stares at it for a bit longer, raising up a finger to poke it slightly. A small wince forces its way out of your mouth. The wounds were still fresh after all, it hurt like a bitch. Luffy apologizes with a small peck as his usual happy-go-lucky expression forms on his face. "Wanna know what I just thought of?"

You can't help the grin that forms on your face, cocking your head playfully. "What did you think of, Luffy?"

"We have matching scars now! Shishishishi!" Luffy smiles even wider (if that's possible) and grabs your hands to hold it against his. You notice that he isn't as hyper as he is normally, and in the back of your mind, a fondness spreads through you when you realize it's because of Chopper's warnings.

"You're still so pretty, you know?" Luffy whispers, as he cautiously climbs on top of your body, stating himself so he stays clear of your chest, as much as he wants to lie down and rest his head there.

A warm flush spreads across your face as your fingers comb through Luffy's hair. He shifts up and presses a quick peck on your lips, giggling as he does it again but on your cheek. "My husband is soo handsome!"

"Lu.." You trail on, giggling as you rest your hands on top of his. "We aren't even married—"

"Yet!" He interrupts sharply. "We aren't married yet! And when we do, we'll have a big wedding and invite everyone! Oh, oh, and we'll have Sanji cook meat! With a meat cake, and meat wedding rings, and meat desserts, and meat—"

You interrupt him with a kiss, running your hand through the back of his head as your fingers slightly brush against the straws of his hat. You pull away with a dopey grin on your face and Luffy stares back at you with one equally as dorky. "Just promise you'll marry me soon, okay, Luffy?"

"Shishishi, of course, I will!"

—PORTGAS D. ACE. | DISCLAIMER: mentions of period cramps and [NAME] thinking that period cramps doesn't make him a man anymore ! (>'-'<)

He's surprisingly quick to figure it out!

From the random getting "sick" moments every month, to the refusal to let him hug you from behind, he pieced everything together easily.

After all, he grew up around Izo and a very supporting crew!

The first person he asked about it was his pops. He didn't know if he was supposed ta tell you up front or let you tell him yourself!

Dunno what he thought was gunna happen, Whitebeard jus sent him off to Marco or fuckin Blackbeard. Whitebeard might be good at a buncha things, but anything romantic was not his strong suit.

After a bunch of nothing from Marco, and actual advice from Izo, he figured out how he'd do it.

Ace had his hat resting on his nape, yawning as he walked into the room he shared with his boyfriend. "Love? Are you in here?"

He notices the top of your head from under the covers but you're hunched up, curled into the sheets, and cuddling a pillow for dear life. Worrily, he climbs into the bed with you and holds your shoulder. "Love? Are you sick again?"

Meekly, you nod. Trying to keep your discomfort under wraps. Ace already had things to deal with trying to become 2nd Division Commander, he didn't need his boyfriend annoying him about cramps.

Not that Ace knew you were trans—or at least you hoped he didn't know. You don't even know if he would accept you. After all, men don't get period cramps.

You sniffle, trying to keep those thoughts out of your head, but you can't help it. What if Ace finds out and decides you're too disgusting to be near him? What if he doesn't think you're a real man? Would he be angry that you deceived him? That you made him live a lie for the past three years?

The thoughts don't feel like they're stopping now—it's already gone out of hand. What if he told Whitebeard and he decided to throw you overboard for making a lie out of his son?

Not that Whitebeard would ever call you that, you aren't even sure if you are a man.

"...Love, love can you look at me? You're hyperventilating right now, do I need to call Marco?"

You quickly shake your head, trying to stop the tears from flowing but everything feels like it's too much, or like you're overstimulated. The cramps hurt and your mind won't shut up about lying to Ace about three years, three years of hurt, love, and everything in between, wasted because you couldn't tell him something with your chest.

"I'm sorry— I'm sorry Ace!" You sob, instinctively curling into his warm chest and trying to stop being a crybaby. Ace has dealt with more serious things, having been the son of Gol D. Roger and struggling to find out if he deserves to live.

You being whiny over something that was entirely your fault wasn't something you wanted to bother him with, but it doesn't look like you have much of a choice. "What is it? C'mon love, deep breaths okay? Breathe with me, inhale..."

Your lungs expand as you take a deep breath in, following Ace's instructions. You try to focus on something else, the warmth of his body, how his hands are slightly dry from his devil fruit, the soft waves hitting the ship in a soft ambiance, anything to stop thinking of those unsavory thoughts.

When Ace notices you've calmed down, he places you in the middle of his legs, his hands resting on the lower half of your tummy as he rubs gently; the heat adds an extra layer of comfort, even if he wasn't aware of it. "Do you wanna talk about it, Love? We can just go to sleep and cuddle, if you want."

Ace is worried, obviously so. You rarely have breakdowns like that and a part of him thinks it's his fault. "I'm not a man..." He hears you coarsely whisper as your bloodshot eyes stare into the bedsheets.

"What do you mean, love?"

He watches you sniffle, trying to recollect yourself before you start speaking again. "I was, born a woman. And as much as I tell myself, real men don't get periods, they don't have breasts and they don't have—"

"But... you think of yourself as a man, do you not?" The man behind you asks softly as he spreads his fingers against your tummy.

A nod.

"Then that's what you are. No more of this 'real man' shit, if you say you're a man, then that's who you are. Izo's a man, and he had periods before... well, before doing whatever it was Marco did to him, but no one out and started calling him a girl anytime he did get them, right?"

You feel your chest start to tighten again, but you nod. Albeit shakily.

Ace intertwines one of your hands together, lifting you up so you're resting in his lap and pressing his cheek against yours. "Then why would I not love you, even if you were trans? I fell in love with you, because you're you. For fucks sake, you could be a cat and I'd still love you; but then I'd have to be a cat too so we could be cat boyfriends... Yeah, we'd definitely be boyfriends in every universe— imagine it!" He says excitedly as stars practically shine in his eyes.

"We could be um... birds, cats, dogs, the sun, and the moon! Ooo, we could be food too! Like salt and pepper, or—"

"You'd still... love me? No matter what I was?" You ask shyly, craning your neck so you could look him in the eyes.

He cocks his head. "Did you not just hear me say I'd love you even if you were a pepper shaker? Dummy, you've gotta get your hearing checked!" He presses a plethora of kisses on your cheek, only pulling away when you've been turned into a blushing and giggling mess.

"Yes, I'd love you no matter what you were. You'll be my boyfriend forever, you know? Never gettin' rid of me, love!"

You giggle, letting Ace continue his kiss attack on your face. "Like anyone could get rid of the infamous 'fire-fist Ace'."

He grins, one so bright it makes you remember why you fell in love with him in the first place. "Got that right! Now c'mon, let's cuddle and think about each other as cat boyfriends in our dreams, I've gotta fight Marco tomorrow to decide who's the better fire user!"

You shake your head. "Ace, love of my life, Marco is a phoenix, not a fire user."

"Ah, tomato, tomatoe, who cares!" He blows a raspberry, taking off his hat and placing it on the bedside table, not letting go of his hold on you once. He shifts the position so he's spooning you, his warm hand still on the spot your cramps hurt the most.

He presses a kiss to the back of your head. "Night, Love."

And before you can say goodnight back, Ace is already snoring asleep beside you.

271 notes · View notes

turtletaubwrites · 2 months

Text

Misty Eyes ~ Part 2

Thank you so much @pinejayyfor this delicious request!!

Pairings: Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader, Doflamingo x Fem!Reader (Past)

Word Count: 3377

Misty Eyes Masterlist

Ao3 Link

Summary: Law can't trust you yet, so you do everything you can to prove yourself. Will your memories help or hurt you?

Author's Note: I'm really enjoying writing Law in multiple fics, so I can slap different vibes on him like he's trying on different shades of eyeliner 😅

THIS FIC CONTAINS DARK CONTENT.

Rating/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Devil Fruit User Reader, Swearing, Eventual Smut, Angst, Pet Names, Degradation, Punishment, Emotional Abuse, DARK CONTENT, DUBCON, Grooming, Trauma, Past Sexual Abuse, Manipulation, Power Imbalance, Dubious Consent, Donquixote Doflamingo is His Own Warning, Bondage, Other Additional Tags to be Added, Dissociation, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers

!!! SPOILERS !!! This story begins during the 2 year timeskip before the Punk Hazard Arc, and there will also be spoilers for the Dressrosa Arc for backstory lore

~🦩🦩🦩~

“Do you love me?”

“Of course I do, young master! You–”

“Now, now, Y/N. What did I tell you? You’re my pretty little thing now, so you get to call me Doffy, alright?”

His large hand cupped your face, warming your cheek that was already warm from his attention.

He’s smiling at me now. I’m special to him. I mean something to him, finally.

“Well? Are you going to answer my question properly?”

Doffy’s hand traveled down to your neck, long fingers circling your vulnerable flesh as he waited for you to obey him.

“Yes. I love you, Doffy.”

~🦩🦩🦩~

“Y/N?”

Law repeated your name softly until you returned, finding yourself in that metal room, a shrine dedicated to his hatred and rage.

“I’m sorry to have to ask you this,” Law rasped, dipping his face to meet your eyes. “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through all these years…”

His brows pinched together when he caught your grimace, and his shoulders slumped.

Guilt pulled at his features, while you tried to understand which of the emotions inside you were worth focusing on.

“I shouldn’t have asked you that–”

“I don’t know,” you confessed. Your voice was empty, as if a machine were spilling truths instead of your own lips.

“I did love him. I know I did,” you continued, staring a hole through Law’s wooden desk. “I’ve been… feeling guilty for a while. Why am I not feeling that anymore?”

Your misty eyes looked up, almost pleading with him for an answer.

“Loving Doffy is the only thing I’m good at. The only reason he needs me. What use am I–”

“You are worth more than what he takes from you,” he growled, your eyes widening until the mist turned to tears.

Law relaxed his shoulders again, releasing a breath. Those tattooed hands cupped your cheeks, and you sighed as his thumbs wiped away your show of weakness.

“Y/N,” he soothed, his lips quirking before he continued. He dropped his hands away, and you missed their warmth, especially as those golden eyes hardened again.

“I don’t want to keep you prisoner, but as much as I'd like to, I can’t trust you yet.”

Nodding, you tried not to shake as fear rolled back over you.

“I can’t risk this mission. It’s not safe for me to leave you somewhere on your own. But if I let you roam the Polar Tang, interact with my crew… Especially when you can sneak into any room you like–”

“I would never,” you choked out, reaching for one of his hands on the desk. “Please, Law. I won’t betray you, I swear.”

He squeezed your hand in return, but shook his head.

“I want to believe you, Y/N. But we both know the power he has over people. You might not think you’d betray me now, but he’s been in your head your whole life.”

The weight of loneliness pressed your body down, your hand going limp in his. He squeezed it a few more times until you looked up again.

“If you're willing to trust me,” he started, his eyes a bit wide, “I have a way to make sure that I can trust you. It won’t hurt–”

“Hurt,” you whispered, wetting your dry lips as you waited for whatever he wanted to do to you.

“I can remove your heart,” he explained, pulling a key from his pocket to unlock the large bottom drawer of his desk.

With all of the gruesome things you’d seen in your life, you were surprised at the gasp you let out. Law had pulled something from the drawer, holding it up so that you could take a look.

It was a strange cube, almost glowing with blueish pink light. It looked squishy, and you reached out to touch it before you noticed the steady pulse. It was a beating heart.

“So that story is true,” you breathed as you watched it in fascination, “you really did steal all of those pirate’s hearts.”

“I did,” he nodded grimly, tucking that heart back into the drawer. “I’ve done a lot of things to prepare for this goal.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? You–”

“Take my heart. It’s not helping me out anyway, it might be good to have a break,” you laughed, trying to cover the hollow sound in your words.

Law stood, and you followed suit, his powerful voice vibrating through you.

“Room.”

You watched in awe as he created a blue sphere of light to fill the space before coming toward you with his sword.

“This is just a precaution,” he explained, his breath going heavy. “I won’t hurt you, Y/N. I'll protect you.”

“I trust you,” you admitted before you held your breath.

You couldn’t follow all of the emotions that crossed his face, until he drained them all away. He looked at you as if you were just a problem to be solved. A loose end to tie up to make sure his plan would succeed.

His sunny eyes were as cold and distant as the vacuum of space when he held the tip of his blade to your chest.

“Scalpel.”

You couldn’t remember the last time a weapon had hurt you. There was no need to worry about being injured in battle when you hadn’t left the castle in so long.

Doffy was the only one that could hurt you, besides the sea and its stone.

Nothing could cut through mist.

Law was so confident in his ability that you hadn’t questioned him. Instead, you tried to cooperate, somehow willing your body to stay solid so he could rip you open.

But the blade at your chest seemed as weak as your own abilities.

Until it pierced your flesh.

“You’re okay,” Law assured you as he pressed further, your gasping breaths slowing as you realized there was no pain.

“Would you like to hold it?”

Such a strange feeling, gazing at your own beating heart. The very core of your being, the thing that keeps you alive.

Sitting in the palm of your hand like a piece of fruit.

“What happens if I squeeze it?”

“It would hurt very– Y/N, stop!”

Law pulled your heart from your grasp as you fell to your knees. The pain was indescribable, radiating from your chest through your whole body, as if your veins were on fire. Nausea came as the pain burned through you, and you leaned your forehead against his desk as he knelt beside you.

“Why would you do that,” he questioned, almost scolding you like he would when you were kids.

“Most things can’t hurt me,” you choked out, tilting your head up to see his grumpy face. “I was just curious.”

He frowned before sitting on the floor beside you, pushing the chair out of his way as he looked you over.

“How are you feeling, Y/N? Have you been having thoughts of harming yourself?”

“What? No,” you exclaimed, sitting straight as the pain started to fade. “I promise, I just… I don’t know. I’ve never been handed my own fucking heart before. It was like an impulse.”

“You’ll tell me if you start having thoughts like that,” he requested after a pause, making you squirm with embarrassment.

“I promise, I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

Law helped you to your feet, then gripped your shoulder until you were caught in his serious glare.

“That was a stupid thing to do, but you are not stupid.”

You scrunched your face up, and sat down, itching to forget everything that happened in the last hour.

“This is just a precaution,” he repeated, locking your heart in that bottom drawer. You tried not to stare as he tucked the key into his pocket, but a sick taste of guilt hit your tongue.

I wouldn't need a key to steal my heart back. I could just mist into the drawer, and absorb it.

You gulped down the pressure to confess, to tell him to hide it somewhere else.

I’m not gonna steal it back, but I don’t know him anymore. I should be careful.

“Now,” Law cleared his throat, picking up his notepad again, “do you know anything about Doflamingo’s dealings with Kaidou?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to tell him. Everything just felt blank.

“I don’t… I’m not important enough to know anything,” you explained, the words burning your throat on the way out. “I’m sorry, I probably won’t be able to help much.”

Law sat back in his chair, tapping his pen against his lips while he assessed you.

I’m still fucking useless.

‘Can’t do anything on your own, huh? Just listen to Doffy, you’ll be the perfect little doll for me, alright?’

“Were you with him a lot?”

“What,” you coughed, your skin flushing to the tips of your ears.

“No, I– that’s not what I…” Law sighed, shaking his head to clear his own words away. “Did he have you with him throughout the day? During meals, maybe while he took calls or meetings?”

“Oh,” you said softly, noticing yourself going fuzzy again, staring into nothing as you tried to recall.

~🦩🦩🦩~

“I mean no offense, Joker, but shouldn’t we be discussing this in private?”

“Oh, don’t mind her, Caesar,” Doffy laughed, rubbing his hand over your back as you lounged in his lap. “She can’t do any harm.”

The scientist frowned at you for a moment. You couldn’t tell if he was wearing makeup, or if his skin really was that pale, his lips almost purple. He met your eyes before shifting his own away from you, and away from Doffy’s fingers that trailed over your thighs, your neck.

Doffy always touched you so gently when visitors were around, and you melted into him.

If not for Caesar’s grating laugh, you might have drifted off. Instead, you jolted now and then, Doffy’s hands clutching a little tighter.

~🦩🦩🦩~

“Are you al–”

“I remember something. Doffy sent Monet with a scientist, this weird guy with–”

“Caesar Clown,” he prompted, his brow arching a bit.

“Yeah. And I guess you wouldn’t know Monet, she joined after you…”

Law pointed to a picture on the wall, your gaze slow in following the gesture.

“I know of her.”

Your eyes were drawn to a shot of Monet, her wings curled around her as she read a book with those odd, hypnotizing glasses of hers. Memories of her disapproval hit you, a sigh escaping your lips as you tried to rid yourself of her judgments.

“She’s even more loyal to Doffy than the rest of– than everyone else. She’s almost obsessive. That’s probably why he sent her.”

Law’s body had gone taut, like electricity was running through him as he set his pen to the paper.

“Please, Y/N, tell me everything you can remember. Even if it doesn’t seem important.”

Your brain felt like a wet rag, with Law wringing out every detail of every call or meeting you could think of.

It seemed strange how much you could recall from your quiet perch on his lap. You were always so bored, but had to fight yourself not to space out or yawn.

Doffy’s possessive fingers along your skin were wonderful, your revealing clothing giving him so much access. As bored as you could get, those teasing touches in front of visitors prepared your body for what came later.

It was a relief to wet his thigh with slick before he dismissed the guests. He rarely had the patience to prep you any other way.

You’d spaced out on those memories, Law’s face pinching in concern as he watched your nails digging into your arms.

“Are you hungry? We can continue tomorrow.”

Groaning at the thought, you followed Law back to the galley. He didn’t have much luck in calming his crew this time. They surrounded the two of you until Law begrudgingly introduced you, and your hand was shaken by many greasy, steamy hands pulled out of gloves, and one bear’s paw that you were very hesitant to touch.

“I’m sorry about what I said before,” Bepo drawled, true sadness seeming to drip from his voice. “I just really love our cap–”

“Bepo,” Law scolded, and you turned to scold him back as the bear scurried off.

“How could you be so mean, did you see his–”

“Don’t fall for his sad bear eyes,” Law bristled, and you held in your smile at his discomfort.

“Is that something you’ve learned from experience,” you teased, earning you a scowl.

Law tucked into his meal, not meeting your eyes as he replied.

“I know my crew.”

“Oh yeah? They all seem to think you’re the most wonderful man in the world. Could the Surgeon of Death be a big softie?”

If looks could kill.

“Okay, sorry,” you teased between bites, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“You do realize that I could take away your tongue if I wanted to,” he threatened, with what looked like the barest touch of pink gracing his cheeks.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d enjoy some alone time with it.”

Law raised his brows as you clamped your hand over your mouth, your face going hot. He looked too smug, his lips curling as if trying not to laugh.

“Shut up,” you choked out, putting your misty hands in your lap.

“I’m not the one whose tongue keeps wagging,” he taunted, somehow keeping that stoic air about him, just a hint of playfulness showing through.

You stuck that tongue out at him before focusing on your meal, and the low chuckle he let escape was hardly noticeable over the nearby conversations of his crew.

But you noticed it.

Warmth tingled through your body, and your face was still burning by the time he led you to your room.

“Will you be alright in here,” he checked in, standing outside the door to the small room he’d set up for you in the barracks. “The crew are on rotating shifts, so there will always be someone sleeping or getting ready nearby if you need anything.”

“Okay,” you said in a small voice. The realization that you were about to be alone in a cramped, metal room made your skin crawl.

“Are you o—“

“I’ll be fine. Thank you,” you lied with a smile. You were good at lying with smiles.

“Okay,” he nodded, clearing his throat. “I’ll, uh… I’ll come wake you in the morning, alright? We can have breakfast before we continue going over what you remember.”

“Sounds good,” you chirped. Your cheeks started to hurt as you waved him out, letting your muscles relax after he’d closed that heavy door.

Quiet.

Not completely. Clanging sounds of the sub interrupted the stillness. Soft voices floated in the hallway beyond that door.

But now that you were alone…

Thoughts. Memories. Fear. Shame. Guilt.

Falling back on the single bed, you choked out silent sobs, the flood of emotions slamming into you. You had left your world, dove off the edge of a waterfall, but now you were caught beneath the crashing water, drowning while your body was ripped apart.

What have I done? How could I leave the family? How could I betray Doffy?

I’m nothing but scum. Useless my whole life, and now I’m a traitor.

Your mind went in endless loops. Gratitude for Law taking you away. Guilt for betraying the family. Relief that you weren’t stuck in that mindless existence anymore. Terror that Doffy would find and kill you both slowly.

It hurt. Your whole body hurt, your head pounding like the clanging metal of the submarine.

And you couldn’t understand how you could feel your heart breaking and burning in your chest when it was locked up in Law’s office.

“Y/N, can I come in?”

His knock had sent you to the ceiling, your body spread into cowardly mist while you tried to calm down.

“Y/N,” he checked again, concern staining his voice.

“Just a second,” you stalled, going solid in front of the door. You shook yourself, wiped your tears, and took a few quiet breaths before opening the door with another beaming smile.

“What’s up?”

Law didn’t look at you like an old friend, an enemy, or a captain on a mission.

He looked at you like a doctor, and you tried not to squirm.

“What’s that,” you pointed to the lump of shiny fabric he held under one arm.

He coughed, looking down at his shoes before returning your gaze, seeming to rebuild that doctor persona.

“You’ve been through an intense amount of trauma, and the shock of… If you would feel comfortable, I’d like to sleep on the floor in here tonight, just to make sure you’re okay. I could sleep outside the door if you prefer, I just—“

He glanced down at your clenched fists, and you tried to relax them as he continued.

“I want you to feel safe.”

I’ll never be safe. I’m a traitor. I’m weak. I’ll be tortured before they kill me.

Doffy will…

The lump in your throat burned, and you filled the room with thick mist so he wouldn’t see you shatter, sinking to the floor as you clawed at your empty chest.

Law closed the door, calling your name as he moved blindly toward you. You could feel him in your mist, and you could have avoided him. You could have let yourself expand into tiny droplets of water, keeping yourself away from any care or comfort he could try to provide.

But you couldn’t think. Just heave silent sobs, and struggle through breaths that took in more mist than oxygen.

“Y/N– fuck,” he cursed, stubbing his toe on the bed as he waved his arms around slowly.

The mist told you that he’d gone to his knees, crawling close to you in the small space, but you couldn’t do anything with that knowledge.

Warm fingers found your arm, pressing lightly along to figure out what he was feeling.

“I’m sorry I’m touching you, I just need to make sure you’re alright,” he breathed, tracing along your shaking body until he found your neck. His fingers almost burned your clammy skin as he took your pulse before gripping your shoulder gently.

The way that you could see through your eyes was different than how you could see as mist, or through the mist you create, but you had no way to describe the difference. Through the mist, you saw him lean close, his head above yours as if he could see through the mist too.

“I’m here. I’m right here with you, Y/N.”

Time was impossible to track as you alternated between crying and dissociating, Law’s calm presence never wavering. Eventually, your mist cleared up, from exhaustion instead of choice.

He lifted your limp body, tucking you into the small bed before rolling out his sleeping bag.

“You don’t have to sta–”

Law interrupted your slurred words with a harsh glare, but sighed as he sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’m not going anywhere, Y/N.”

His eyes seemed brighter in this dim room, his voice too soft, yet firm.

Staring into nothing, you felt numbness trying to take you again, but words jumped out of you before you drifted away.

“Why does it still hurt,” you accused, tapping against your chest with angry fingers, desperate to rip these feelings out. “You took my heart, Law. Why does it still hurt so bad?”

Somehow, more hot tears fell, your body too weak to keep tearing at the hole inside.

Law’s eyes trailed away, gone to some other time, some other place. When he came back to you, he took your hand in his, running his thumb over your knuckles.

“If I could cure a broken heart, I wouldn’t be able to complete my mission.”

His words felt as hollow as your chest. You managed to squeeze his hand, pulling in his distant eyes.

“So we can be broken together then,” you asked, your voice still hoarse as your lips lifted into a weak smile.

Law huffed a laugh, lifting your fingers to his lips before kissing his promise onto your skin.

“Broken together.”

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you so much!

a/n: I knew I was going to go crazy when I started writing for Law, and I was correct. I'm obsessed with this emotionally wrecked man 🖤

Tag List: @shewrites02 | @jadeddangel | @nothing-but-brass

Part 3

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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