#condescending fucking parasites
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Really don't appreciate getting threatening "Your Rent is Due Today" emails when I already paid that shit this morning
#throws my anxiety through the roof#I KNOW when the fucking rent is due I've lived here 7 1/2 years and never been late on a payment#so anyway I guess I hate the new property management company big surprise#condescending fucking parasites
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There's one convo with Astarion that's one of my favorites that I haven't seen mentioned or discussed yet happens (I assume) if you have high approval with him but play a good-aligned character. (This is at 60+ approval, start of Act 2.) It's probably because it's not a romantic cutscene so it doesn't get mentioned as much as the others (or because he's racist in it and some of y'all don't like to acknowledge that he has character flaws), but I think it's vital to his character and to explain his early relationship with a good-aligned Tav.
I would like to break it down a little, step by step. Because we are all cringe here.
First, he claims to feel a connection between Tav and himself, and the reason for this is because he believes he's identified "ambition" in Tav (and I'll explain why he's wrong later, but that's mostly headcanon territory, so we'll ignore it for now).
But, there's also clearly something holding Tav back from realizing their full potential, which is their naivete.
"Just that you ... have a big heart. You like doing what's right."
(The animations and voice acting here make him look and sound so fucking condescending, 10/10.)
However, Astarion doesn't tell them this is wrong, or that he disagrees. He implies it's a flaw, but doesn't state it outright. That's dangerous territory, see, and might predispose them to get defensive and reject what he has to say next.
No, he tries (and fails in my case, but it's cute that he tries, bless him) to manipulate Tav by appealing to that big heart of theirs.
"So I was thinking, what would be the right thing to do when we get to Moonrise Towers? When we come face-to-face with whoever is controlling the parasites in our heads."
"I'm just saying there's an opportunity here. If we can control the tadpoles, we can keep ourselves safe and liberate the world from this evil."
See what he's doing? You like doing what's right, so what would be the right thing to do? We can keep ourselves safe. Liberate the world from evil.
It's very blatant, but he's trying to appeal to Tav's good nature by framing his questionable ideas as something that will benefit the greater good, something that's morally righteous that they would agree with.
And of course, it's incredibly funny when you ask how he thinks you'll do that, and he fumbles and admits he's not a "details person," but it's also revealing.
He thinks he's found in Tav ambition, when all he's actually found is ability. Tav exercises power proficiently, while Astarion does not. If he had the authority they have, he'd let ambition drive his actions, which is why he assumes that's what drives Tav when they exercise their power. A good-aligned Tav has very little ambition, I'd argue, but they have plenty of opportunity to exercise their power, which they do when their hand is forced.
So what Astarion is saying is, in effect, hey, you have power, I have ambition. Will you please use your authority/ability to do what I want? Here's how it'll totally be for the greater good, I prommy.
This is brilliant writing, and I really applaud Larian for managing to walk that fine line of making Astarion so sympathetic while he's literally trying to manipulate the player character. Because when I first got this convo, my thought was both "wow, I adore how blatant and terrible his manipulation attempts are, it's kind of endearing" and "he's so terrified, it's genuinely quite tragic."
If we control the tadpoles, we can keep ourselves safe. This works only somewhat as an appeal to good-aligned Tav, because it could also potentially sound very selfish, especially if Tav is the self-sacrificing sort. So notice how, when he says "liberate the world from evil", it sounds kinda tacked-on, an afterthought designed to bury his main goal, which is keep "ourselves" (i.e. himself) safe. Like, yes, this will keep us/me safe, but if you're not into that, then it'll totally help the world, too! It doesn't quite work, because he still sounds ironic and like he doesn't believe they'd be liberating anything from any evil (work that 10 Charisma, boy), but that's the intent, I think.
Does he want power for power's sake? Yes. Is he gleefully powerhungry? Absolutely. But he's also fucking terrified, and that slips through just a little bit, even behind the smug and confident facade.
He's trying to get Tav, whom he's seen exercise their power over others, to lend some of it to him, so that he may never fear anything ever again.
All of this from a short, smug convo where he admits he's too stupid to figure out how to fulfill his dreams of world domination.
God tier characterization, 10/10.
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Realm of Light Pt. 4...
I don't hate it. Its definitely a step down from Pt. 3 but its a step up from the first two parts. The Guardian of the Forest's take actually feels, like, well thought out and taking into account nuance as opposed to Orphion's "I'm a god, I'm above your petty morals and better than you therefor I'm right" take and Dula's emotionally and trauma driven take (which in itself is still more convincing than Orphion).
The parkour segments are pure evil and I hate them.
I emphasize with Lari because I too do not want me too be here. But I'm also a completionist so, ah well.
Orphion continues to suck. I wish he wasn't only a Raid Boss so that I could beat him up (I have no friends and really suck at Raids so I don't do them). I know, I know, he's supposed to be "above morals" cause he's a god or whatever but people (and gods) like him who condescend and act like they're above everyone rub me the wrong way. If he wasn't essential to the world's continued survival I'd just let the Parasite eat his brain. Also still made about Pt. 2. Fuck you and your fake choice.
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I’m so sorry but I think Tav is so much stronger then durge.
no because imagine you wake up on a Mindflayer ship and get a fucking parasite to the eye and then meet a bunch of people who have the same affliction so you all agree to work together right? BUT THEN it’s turns out almost every single one of the people you met have some kind of odd connection to the cult that implanted said parasite in your brain and now you’re responsible for everyone’s soul journey to escaping their past abuse while you’re just…a guy who happened to survive the crash and meet the right people.
like by the time you reach act 3 you’ve managed to piss off two gods, a lich queen, two archdevils, and a vampire with 7000 people in his basement. Everyone around is either preparing to fucking die on you, ascend to some kind of godhood, fight a horde of fucking people from their past or release their dad from the most irritating prison of all fucking time!
AND ON TOP OF IT ALL YOU HAVE THE MOST GRATING IRRITATING ASS BITCH CONSTANT YAPPING IN YOUR FUCKING EAR BEING CONDESCENDING ABOUT WHAT YOU HAVE TO DO WHO HAPPENS TO BE MIND FLAYER THAT WAS ONCE THE CITYS FOUNDER AND ALSO WANTS TO FUCK YOU I GUESS?
I would’ve had no choice but to rip all the hair off my scalp I don’t care! At least with durge half the shit that’s going on is your fault in the first place so like the least you can do help out the people you’ve so utterly inconvenienced, but Tavs done doing to deserve this!
Justice for Tav
#I apologize everyone the emperor got mouthy with me after I tried to lie to him about the Raphael thing and it was my last straw#baldur's gate 3#bg3#bg3 spoilers#bg3 tav#the emperor
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Well, I recently watched episodes 1-3 of Madoka Magica so here are my thoughts on the series. From episodes 1-3 I mean.
There's gonna be spoilers, by the way.
My thoughts on Madoka Magica: Episodes 1-3!
Episode 1
So, right from the get-go, I am absolutely in love with the setting design of this series. Madoka, the protagonist, runs through checkerboard corridors and Escheresque halls in the dream sequence that kicks off the show, and it's absolutely gorgeous.
Of course, everything then gets kicked up to 11 when Madoka walks through a door and fucking
MEETS GOD.
Okay, that's not actually God, or even an Angel, but something called a Witch, which I'll get to later. (heheh, witch which)
Anyways, after that whole kerfuffle she wakes up and brushes her teeth, boring life stuff, we're introduced to her friends Sayaka and who the fuck cares, yada yada. And then, this bitch (named Homura) shows up.
Holy fuck I hate this bitch. She is so mean and rude and condescending and emotionless as she does it. She feels like a caricature of autistic people. She either needs to show some actual fucking humanity and stop being a cold-hearted cunt, or just fuck off and get killed. Mind you, I've only seen up to Episode 3. So, she might get better, and I have no idea if she does.
Anyways, she lowkey threatens Madoka, time passes, and then kind of just straight up tries to kill a main character (Kyubey, this weird cat thing). Now, this is where the fun begins.
The four main characters at this point- Madoka, Sayaka, Kyubey, and Homura- Are all pulled into this thing called a "Labyrinth." Labyrinths are pocket-dimensions created by entities called "Witches" as a way to keep themselves safe and protected from the outside world while they do their... Witch things. Whatever those are. Sending people "kys" over Discord dms or something, I don't know.
Either way, they look fantastic.
Putting these traditionally animated chatacters within this photorealistic hellscape just really conveys how completely alien the Witches are, so much so that they and their domains appear as if on a completely different level of reality.
This is the witch of what I'm calling the Butterfly Gardens Labyrinth, because... Those are the main motifs of the Labyrinth. Her name is Gertude, by the way.
Anyways, this girl named Mami shows up and shoots everything with her magic shotguns, the Witch escapes, and Mami asks Madoka and Sayaka to become Magical Girls like her. Well, Kyubey does the asking, but whatever.
Episode 2
Blah blah blah boring exposition. Shit barely happens. We find out that witches drop loot when they die, called "Grief Seeds". Which is pretty cool actually. It's explained that a girl becomes a Magical Girl when they make a contract with Kyubey and create a soul gem or whatever. Creating the aforementioned contract also means that you get a WISH. Like, ANY WISH. NO RULES. AT ALL. Which pisses me off because these idiots could wish for
1. The extinction of all Witches.
2. More wishes.
3. The power to warp reality in whatever way they want.
And Kyubey could theoretically grant them!!! What the fuck!!!!!
They also say that "Witches are born from curses like Magical Girls are born from wishes", whatever the fuck that means. Are they implying that witches are just... Cursed humans? Like, they are the victims of a curse? And you're just killing them without mercy? Instead of trying to rehabilitate them?? What the fuck is wrong with these motherfuckers. Seriously.
Also, it feels like a good time to mention that I don't trust this fucker at all.
I see through you, Kyubey. You're a fucking parasite, aren't you.
Also, WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL THE MAGICAL BOYS??? PUT SOME DUDES ON THE TEAM YOU WEIRD CAT. THIS JUST SEEMS FETISHY IF THERE ARE JUST LITTLE GIRLS WORKING FOR YOU.
NOT A GOOD LOOK.
Side-Tangent: Intro
As if I wasn't already on a side-tangent complaining about the yet-unexplained holes in the worldbuilding and how much I despise Kyubey, I'm just gonna take a moment to talk really quick about the intro.
*Ahem.*
WHAT THE FUCK, PEOPLE.
That girl is an EIGHTH GRADER. SHE IS NOT ONLY A MINOR, BUT A VERY YOUNG ONE AS WELL.
AND HERE SHE FUCKING IS. IN A REVEALING, FETISHISTIC, SWIMSUIT. IF THAT'S WHAT THAT EVEN IS.
AND DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THIS WHOLE FUCKING SCENE. WHY DID THEY MAKE THEM SQUISH THEIR CHESTS TOGETHER??? WHAT THE FUCK!!! THESE ARE NAKED 13 YEAR OLDS WHAT THE FUCK WHY IS THIS IN MY INTRO SEQUENCE WHO THE FUCK SAID THIS WAS OKAY TO PUT ON TV???????????????
Anyways rant over. I hate pedophiles
Episode 3
Oooh, a hospital-based Labyrinth!! This looks so cool!
You know, now that I think about it, Mami is actually a pretty fun character, and I like her a lot! She has some depth to her that wasn't visible before, but now I'm able to really appreciate it!
Heck, even her vicious slaughter of innocent inhabitants of the Witches Labyrinths is kind of cool now!
Oh hey, look, the Witch is a funny doll!! lmao
...Hey, hol up, what's that
Hey wait what's it doing
oh no. oh no no no no no
What are you doing miss funny candy clown snake please don't do tha-
...
. . .
it hurts.
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you can just taste the salt pouring from this man lmao. I only dismissed an entire medium as never being able to be art, why are you all whining
1.) Myst released in 1993, the same year as Sonic CD. Calling it an example of games "from the infancy of the form" following the video game market crash of the '80s is laughable
2.) "I particularly didn't want to play one right now, this moment, on demand" - uwu I just shittalked this entire-ass medium and now people are saying I should try to know what I'm talking about before I talk about it and I don't wannaaaaa
This is just. Rude? Idk how else to put it. Your friend goes to the trouble of offering to fetch a game and a console for you, installing everything necessary to set it up - even offering to send the console back to Sony when you're done so you don't have to spend a single dime - and your response is to make some excuse as to why you can't do it.
You could have just said "no," Roger.
yeah it's almost like talking out of your ass "purely on theoretical grounds" without engaging with the thing you're slagging off makes you seem too ignorant to hold a valid view on the thing you're slagging off. or something.
also "This is the gratitude you get for responding to comments at all" lol these salt levels could dry out the Dead Sea
my man has never heard of video games with linear narratives before
Billy cracked dick jokes, Ebert. Billy wrote his plays to appeal to the common people's interests, Ebert.
then why are you talking about video games if you don't want to be told to play one? real "I'm a Sonic fan who hasn't played the games, stop telling me to play the games you're picking on me" energy
The fuck is up with this weird capitalistic pitting of one art form against another? This isn't some zero-sum game where literature loses if video games win. Gamers read too, Ebert.
In fact, many games take inspiration from literature, such as SH2 drawing inspiration from the themes of Crime and Punishment; The Witcher being based on Andrzej Sapkowski's book; and Metro 2033 springing from the self-published book of the same name.
I could name more. I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream (Harlan Ellison even voiced AM!). Classic RPG Parasite Eve is a spiritual successor to Hideaki Sena's 1995 sci-fi horror novel. Beev will probably want me to add Castlevania as an example as well, taking the titular character from Bram Stoker's Dracula.
Category:Video games based on novels - Wikipedia
Acting like games and literature are two disparate mediums with no overlap is... frankly, deeply disingenuous. You spoke with fucking Clive Barker, Roger, you should know this. FFS.
Besides, anti-intellectualism runs a lot deeper than New Medium Bad. It has more fascist roots than simply "The kids want to play Fortnite all day and don't want to crack open a book!"
Roger goes on this tangent about how it's difficult to find a definition of art that would preclude video games. Even the one he settles on, his view that art ought to teach him empathy for other people - which... has its limits and when taken too far, borders on requiring moral didactism in art; my man has never heard of art for art's sake - doesn't necessarily rule out games. Because video games literally require you to step into the player character's shoes.
you are such a condescending ass, oh my God. could you not?
"I don't personally know how gamers can learn about other human beings despite the entire conceit of the medium requiring you to assume the role of another person, but whatever, I'll give you guys this one because I've run out of things to say. Perhaps one day gamers will learn to have refined tastes like me, the Movie Review Man. anyway y'all losers, I got better things to do despite the fact that I typed out this wall of text poorly defending my position"
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Cos they're just fucking idle dossers tossing it off prancing around spending money knowing fuck all about anything.
Everyone loves Anne cos she can name rugby players. But for important issues, the royals are a waste of time.
You have to think, these people can't even wipe their own arses or make their own cups of tea. They're useless, inadequate, and parasitical.
To have a conversation with one would be like talking to a wardrobe - one that condescends you.
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⚠️ Absolutely not fanfiction-related, this is just some rant bc spilling my unstable emotional thoughts here is so much cheaper than therapy :DD
If you're not interested it's 100% normal, keep scrolling and have a lovely day, take care of yourself ❤️
I'm gonna rant because frankly I need to, so there's the thing:
My best friend, whom I know since high school, had moved in Korea around 10 months ago to spent vacation and a break (she didn't like her job so much). I was (and still am) super happy it, I love seeing her so happy and hearing about how excited she is!
Meanwhile, I was in the last year of my master degree, a rather complicated year, then 4 months in unpaid internship (well I was paid but barely enough to cover the transport expenses to go from home to the internship). In the same time my best friend had the time of her life, going to concerts, parties, getting a bf and having fun; still, she complained about a lot of things to me, as I was spending the 3 last months of the internship being bored as fuck, given no work was given to me. Note that internship is a super important part of my studies, because it's how I learn about my future job; so you can imagine how frustrating it was to spend 4h a day in transports to just sit and do nothing but occasionally tidy and stock past exhibitions' flyers.
Plus I've been dealing with depression for a long time and I had a pretty bad setback since May (and guess what: here we go again). In the meantime, who was having a super good time yet managed to still complain about it? The bestie.
There's a thing you need to understand: I come from a divorced parents family, and for the time being I'm living with my mom because things with my dad (and my brother living with him) can be very complicated sometimes. My mom's a social worker and money has always been tight. I always did the best to try to bring some money to alleviate the financial aspect of our lives, mainly by working every summer since I'm legally able to - even if the salary wasn't much. On the other hand, my best friend grew up as an only child (I have 2 brothers), with her dad having a comfortable situation and her mom also working. She had always been one complaining about money; I never said anything, but I found it pretty selfish from her, considering that she got a salary while living with her parents — so paying no rent or groceries, while I was living in my 1 room student apartment and struggling to meet both ends every months.
I graduated in October and ever since I'm in active job hunting; no success so far, one of the museums even turned down my candidacy after saying they'd hire me. I got a random job in retail in December to make some very much needed income; but I quitted after 2 weeks because my boss was a condescending cold bitch who put so much pressure on me about perfection and money to make - she knew I had never worked in retail or in cosmetic field - and I've ended some shifts in tears so I said fuck that I quit.
Now, still no response to the job offers I've answered to. All of my friends have either a job, pursuing their studies, having a purpose. And now my best friend told me super excited that she met someone - possibly new boyfriend hopefully! - and told me something along the lines of 'y'know it's great to feel finally loved and doing happy, right?'
And I was like girl. I live the fucking blankest life ever, I have no goal, no purpose, no social life. I'm constantly living with the gut wrenching feeling that I'm being a financial and emotional burden to my mom, thinking I'm a fucking parasite because I'm not use to literally anyone in society. The only people who had ever been attracted to me was the guys who assaulted me in the street. I'm spiraling down every day because I'm useless, sad, and use to no one. I have graduated with the highest honors yet nobody wants to hire me, not even in random jobs to sustain my basic needs like groceries. And you're complaining to me??
Wth, you never asked me how I was doing since you left, that's okay, but you're expecting me to sob with you because there's a minor - yet legit - inconvenience in your life?
I'm absolutely convinced that I'm no use (I legit am, let's be honest), not even an enjoyable person. People around me don't need me to carry on with their lives (which is rather reassuring honestly lmao), and yet, yet my best friend who's in vacation in her dream country for 10 months is complaining about it.
I know I shouldn't feel annoyed by that; no matter her situation she can have unpleasant feelings, and I'm always here to support her. What she feels is legit, I'm not one to judge.
And well, being without purpose — and being able to get a non-job related one, because I'm in on constant wait of museums maybe answering me, so I can't make any long-range projects — I'm just too fucking emotionally tired to have sympathy for her. It sucks and I'm probably a terrible person for that but, how am I supposed to find the sympathy right now? I'm not even able to be optimistic about my own next day.
But honestly? Fuck that, I'm way to depressed and useless to care right now, and I'm just angry at everything.
Bruh.
#probably gonna delete this later#emotional rant#I'm probably gonna say 'meh that's okay' in like 10min bc ✨feelings repression✨at its finest
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I love reading your Lae'zel thoughts in the tags. She's got emotions other than "angry" and people miss that. Love your takes on her!
thank you! it drives me nuts seeing people dismiss her or say they killed her for being rude or w/e, characters are flawed and in a good narrative experiemce they change and evolve in response to the world and people around them to reflect the plot.
this is true for all the companions, really - gale and astarion get a lot of hate (astarion more on reddit - he's very much the face of the game as far as tumblr is concerned) for very surface-level reasons. gale eats magical items, astarion is a vampire, lae'zel is rude and bossy - and for some people that's enough to just stop engaging with them and/or kill them off. it's a side effect of an interactive medium giving its audience agency over the narrative - it's kind of unvoidable in that respect. but it doesn't make it any less annoying to see people dismiss these richly-written characters out of hand.
since this ask is about Lae'zel, i'll finish answering by talking about her - she has every reason to be aggressive and haughty, and people completely ignore them. she's an alien soldier in unfamiliar territory, infected with a parasitic organism that will slowly but surely transform her into the one thing her entire race and culture is sworn to destroy. itvs the fucking NIGHTMARE scenario for her - to be infected with an illithid tadpole and be far away from any friendly outpost. of course she's bossy, of course she acts like she knows what's best, of course she insults and belittles every distraction in her way - she has a ticking time bomb in her head, and as far as she or anyone else is concerned she's just days away from it going off! she's desperate! from her perspective, she's got the only concrete solution to the party's problem and they're practically ignoring her! of course she's going to be angry, irritable, and condescending! but people don't try and see things from her perspective when playing, so they dismiss her. and for a githyanki - especially one as naive and brainwashed as she is in the early game - Lae'zel is surprisingly compassionate; she's willing to share the cure for the parasites with everyone in the party, even Shadowheart, who she hates during Act 1 (and i'm guilty of not extending the same understanding to poor old shart as i do to lae'zel, but shadowheart has enough people simping for her tbh) and only expects their help to get there in return. having reached act 3 and seen almost all of Lae'zel's arc, (and her romance, natch) i'm very satisfied with how she's written, and her trajectory over the course of the game. best girl, best character, best romaance, 100/10 would let her hit again.
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999 Week Day 9 - The Bottom Feeders
In which the Ninth Man deflects all guilt
Title from the Bastion OST
CWs: Canon-typical death
AO3
---
This wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him with his knife against a girl’s throat. People didn’t change that much. A decade ago, something like this would have never crossed his mind as a viable way to get out of anything. Something toxic had wormed its way into his skull and was controlling him. As Teruaki’s eyes darted around the room, his nails digging into the fourth girl’s wrist, he kept glancing at the suspected parasite for reassurance.
Once Hongou knew he had a former subordinate before him, he’d gone into CEO mode. He’d tented his fingers together and made vague comments that Teruaki implicitly understood as commands. “Was it you who used to carry that silly pocketknife everywhere?” he had said in that condescending tone of his that usually meant he was about to mock Teruaki’s ideas and then use them anyway. “Such paranoia…”
“You-you remember that?”
Hongou had ignored him, waving his hand as he thought aloud. “No, I suppose that wouldn’t matter right now. My wallet is gone. I presume your possessions were taken, as well.”
Teruaki did have his knife. His wallet was gone, but the knife was hidden in his sock like always. He liked to think that carrying one around was also not like him. He’d been doing it for over a decade, yet he held out hope that one day he would miraculously shake the habit. It was all because that bastard Musashidou got in his head. Blustery, self-important Musashidou thought his own life so valuable he’d hired three bodyguards to wait just for him outside the door during Nonary Project meetings. He’d made Teruaki overly conscious of his lack of self-defense capabilities. Thus, the knife, which had never been used.
Until now, of course. Hongou had mentioned the knife, so it had to be involved in whatever his plans for him were. That, plus the faulty RED and DEAD…
His calculations had been quick; it was either two and three, two young men who could have easily overwhelmed him, or one and four. The pink-haired girl seemed weak enough, and Hongou would surely play along – this was all his idea, after all.
Up close, Teruaki recognized the girl as one of the children from Building Q. He even remembered her name – it really was Clover, how clever of her. He recognized all the pieces that came together to make her a real person deserving of kindness, but that wouldn’t do, so he called upon what he’d learned from Nijisaki.
Hongou’s callousness at least had an understandable medical explanation. Nijisaki, on the other hand, was simply vile, and Teruaki felt his slime all over him to this day. It was Nijisaki who had taught him how to not feel remorse when looking at the children’s bright eyes and chubby cheeks. As Teruaki steered the fourth girl’s hand to the RED, he reminded himself, “These kids have fucking superpowers. They’ll pull themselves back up. Think where you’ll be in a decade if you just take the advantage you’re being given.”
This was where he was a decade later: a husk driven by the wills of three wicked men. Hongou, Musashidou, and Nijisaki vied for control, shoving the girl to the floor, pulling the lever and stepping through the door before anyone could stop him.
Teruaki wasn’t sure who was responsible for his remarks as the door shut. It wasn’t like him to be so smug. He made himself sick. Those three made him sick. He vowed to purge them if he made it off this damn ship. He would become his old self again. It was the least he could do after what had already happened.
The sludge that burst from him moments later was thick and vile. But it was all him.
#zero escape#999 week#teruaki kubota#the ninth man#fanfiction#my writing#zero escape 999#999 spoilers
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Some times it's fucked that you and your surrounding friends are so supportive and like caring that they'll rush to hear you out and comfort you, which is cool and all but then you're an emotional child and can't distinguish between being alone and fake being hurt to grab attention, or hurt cause you are alone and grabbing attention is asking for help.
But then when you shed that emotional paradox and reach out you can't help think to yourself either:
1. "wow I know that you didn't have to spell it out," when they give you proper advice and shit; or
2. feel like they're tiptoeing around you, "you can do, this we believe in you," like thanks for the generic wishing card greeting, any more input?
3. And even if they reach the sweet spot of not too 'condescending' or 'apathetic' you trick yourself into thinking: "they're too nice, they want something out of me. I should distance myself for my own safety, obviously."
Or perhaps the contradicting idea that you're just useless fuck face that needs external validation when you can just pick yourself up, or pride and self-reliance is a capitalist myth meant to divide and conquer the proletariat; Humans are a social animal and work better in groups, but not me! I'm the parasite, however when anyone asks me to do anything for them, I will and must bend backward to do it just to please them so they don't leave me, and when they offer help I decline cause I don't want to be a burden and annoying and they have an excuse to leave me.
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April/2024🌖♍️This was one of those just for me.
🌖 Λ ♆︎ I belong here on planet earth. We all realize now that when billionaires talk about going to ‘Mars’ they are talking about remotely raping women with bio-parasites, right?
🌖🔺🌞 All the doctors, lawyers and police are doing is trying to cover their asses while they protect a corrupt system’s corruption. Americans are the codependent children of alcoholic politicians. We enable the enablers of a corrupt system and the buck doesn’t stop until it goes to the 1%.
🌖 < ☊ These lies don’t look good on YOU.
🌖 < ♀This ‘Venus’ sign looks like an ankh. Why is apple a trans-sexual misogynist? I love you Mascis, btw. I really do love YOU. I promise I’ll be your favorite guitar. You won’t want to tour without me.
🌖 Λ ♇︎ I am probably going to have to represent myself in court since my lawyer is lying and corrupt. I have no idea, but whatever. I can tell the truth, and that is all I need.
🌖 < ☿︎ I am not going to mince words into a mince meat pie for you. I’ll be honest, direct and condescending with you; if you can be honest, direct and condescending with me.
🌖 < 🌽 I suspect my entire family has been experimented on and brainwashed.
🌖 < 🚑 Corporate doctors are here to protect the wealthy and turn the poor into corpse bot slaves.
🌖 ☸︎ 🦺 Anyone want to stand up for my human rights? Last chance before we ALL get turned into Matrix style bots for Bill Gates’ post apocalyptic sex slave dystopia.
🌖 ☌ 🦚 I keep looking more like my younger, healthier self EVERYDAY.
⭐️Let’s have some fucking silence for the death of my last blogs: hulazen, epiplecticinga, rainbowlifehealing & just saying Shakespeare. Those blogs were 14 yrs old and a master work of art, but fuck all of you. Whatever🌈🌞🌝⭐️
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Ableism: this is my final post.
After today, I am done giving this any fucking thought. I need to address this a final time because BULLYING DISABLED PEOPLE IS NOT FUCKING OK.
It's funny to me that a person who talks openly about the systems in the US failing us, isn't cognizant of this same system failing other groups of people.
These are the words {in quotes} from the mouth of a former acquaintance of mine, to me. I was {still am} severely disabled and was unable to work for a year, and voiced my concern about not being able to find affordable health insurance in a state without medicaid.I also told her I couldn’t relate to her anymore at all, which was true.
Her words don’t lie. She can go on and on about how everyone is against her {narcs, you know, all of us } but just read her words and you will know who the bully really is. She puts on a public act pretending to be an advocate for mental health. I’m sure she is...as long as it’s her own mental health only and no one else’s. Privately, she calls me lazy and entitled, and publicly she’s all warm and fuzzy advocate for mental illness and mental health. Could of fooled me.
Most privileged people should really shut the fuck up when it comes to “advice” giving of disabled people:
A sample of her ableist, condescending, abusive comments:
“Dumb and entitled”
“People work hard for the privileges they earn. Maybe do that?”
“Imagine being born in a place with endless opportunities and not realizing it“
“I'm tired of people whining and whinging and doing NOTHING to improve their situation except acting entitled for it to be better.“
“It's pretty entitled to think you and you alone should just get cheap healthcare in a nation without anything.“
“I'm not sure why people start to believe they deserve what others have worked their asses off for, but I bet it starts with entitlement and privilege.“
“GROW UP.“
“Some people go around looking for reasons why they can’t and why they are too special to do what everyone else has to do to survive, like work a full-time job with health insurance.“
“You glorify your trauma and use it as a cudgel to get out of things that are caused by your belief that you get to do whatever you want without natural consequences.“
“It reminds me of that fabulous film out of Korea, Parasite.“
“ YOU ARE NOT SPECIAL IN TRAUMA. “
“Emotional vampires think they have more pain than everyone else. GROW UP!“
“ The point is, when your life isn’t going well, you don’t lash out at people with good lives.”
“Die Alone.“
“I hate capitalism because of exploitation and overvaluing of certain labor over others. She hates it because she doesn't want to work.”
“Lazy entitled projector.”
To sum it up: Disgusting. Lie in your own poison. I hope you do some much needed work on yourself, and some reflections on just how disgusting these comments really are and would be to anyone going through trauma recovery and disability. You are no advocate for mental health. You are a fraud.
P.S....Before and after I was almost killed in my home in 2016, I saw therapists and mental health professionals starting in 2014, when my ex boyfriend was threatening to harm me physically. After the assault, I saw 4 therapists, and had an intensive outpatient therapist(s) complete with tests. Not one mental health professional told me I had NPD. PTSD, yes. NPD, no. No one has ever told me that in my fucking life except the armchair psychiatrist that wrote the ableist as fuck comments above to me last December when I was really ill with PTSD. So, fuck her and all her ignorant bullshit.
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have y’all seen the post that starts like “its so difficult to explain the absolute dread and fear to Americans about the Queen dying because they leap immediately to jokes and memes or rolling their eyes and asking if you're a royalist…..” and it gets insanely condescending from there.
you making that post proves you’re a royalist “babes”, we don’t need to ask.
sincerely though, i do not want to see that or any post like it anymore. PROTEST if youre “scared” of “What Comes Next”. ORGANIZE THEN YOU FUCKING SPINELESS PALE BASTARDS??? of all the places white people have power to go and protest and be H E A R D and be PAID ATTENTION TO it’s the fucking England. as far as fears of increased nationalism in that country, i ONLY have sympathy for immigrants and POC who are fearing that. that’s it. saying americans or anyone else “doesn’t understand the fear” is deadass textbook gaslighting because americans certainly the fuck do know that fear. what a privilege for you to only have those fears now, WHITE BRITS because british poc and immigrants + other people across the WORLD already live with those fears. unless THEY are gonna personally go do something to organize or aid in organizing your community in some way, the post genuinely serves no purpose.
people making + rbing posts like that are telling on themselves because in that ENTIRE post and in all the other ones like it that are currently circulating, they very specifically are not centering the british poc or immigrants, theyre using it as an excuse to victimize themselves and to absolve themselves of individual responsibility. maybe consider at least TRYING to be different than your parasitic royal family and not leech off of the hard work of marginalized communities 😘❤️
#white brits never fail to be condescending as hell and remind you THEY need to be the center of attention#also haven’t seen ONE of these posts be made by a poc so that should tell you everything you need to know#i’m HEATED#.txt
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break my heart in two, but when it heals it beats for you
character: zenin naoya
genre: smut + angst
notes: aaaaah this is my lil submission for the sewer’s soulmate syndrome collab (and my first collab ever waaah!!!) it’s a curseless soulmate AU with the tiniest hint of the zenin’s being a prominent crime family. please please heed the warnings!! | title credit: back to you by selena gomez
warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, incest (reader and naoya are half siblings), mentioned death of a family member (mother), naoya being his misogynistic self, excessive use of the word ‘Daddy’ to refer to their biological father, one (1) instance of physical abuse, size kink/size difference, mentioned relationship between a university student (reader) and their TA, infidelity, one (1) mention of Daddy being yakuza, age difference, spanking done by reader’s biological father, toxic relationships, minimal prep, rough sex, a hint of degradation
words: 9.5k
synopsis:
Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the very moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.
It’s a few days after his twenty-ninth birthday, the night you appear—unannounced, uninvited, and an absolute fucking mess—falling into his father’s arms the moment he opens the door, fingers curling in the material of his cashmere button up and tugging as powerful sobs rip through your entire body, violent tremors following.
It’s fucking disgusting, the way his father reacts. Naoya watches the entire thing unfold from the shadows of the living room, nose wrinkled in distaste, features twisted in aversion and saturated in abhorrence.
Because his father lets you cling to him like a child—a grown woman, gripping a seventy-one year old man like a sniveling little girl—as he manages to scoop you up into his arms, collapsing onto his favourite armchair with you in his lap, hushing you gently as he rocks you back and forth, large hands stroking your shuddering back as you nuzzle your puffy, snot-stained face into his chest, wailing out Daddy!
It’s the first time Naoya’s ever seen his father behave in such a way, revolt churning his stomach as he observes the quite frankly unfamiliar man in front of him. It makes him fucking sick to watch, acidic bile rising in his throat until it stings the back of his tongue, face souring as he swallows it back down.
And you can’t even manage to force words through your stuttering breathing and hiccupped little sobs, unable to explain the situation at all without being overwhelmed by another fresh wave of tears, crashing over your body as you fall back into the sanctuary of his father’s arms, face buried in his neck, now soiled with spit and salt water.
“Naoya,” his father calls, voice curt and stern and demanding, snapping Naoya’s gaze to his own in an instant. “A glass of water, please?”
Naoya scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “What the fuck do I look like to you? The help?”
And Naoya’s no stranger to the level gaze his father fixes him with, has seen that same look etched into his father’s face more times than he can count, eyebrows pinched and mouth pressed in a firm, fine line, chest rising as he inhales slowly, calmly, deeply, then exhales through flared nostrils.
“You look like a good big brother who’s on his way to get his baby sister some water,”
Ah, right, that’s who you are—the bastard, Daddy’s little mistake, an ugly, irreversible stain on their family’s prestigious name.
“That bitch is not my sister,” he grumbles as he stomps from the room and towards the kitchen to fetch you a drink, huffing under his breath about being treated like a fucking woman, yet obeying his father’s orders nonetheless.
It turns out, Naoya learns, that your mother has passed away, leaving his poor bastard of a baby sister all alone in the world, with nowhere to go—and you’ve come here to ask for shelter and food, just until you get on your feet.
It’s fucking pathetic, as far as Naoya’s concerned, shaking his head in condescending disbelief with a cruel snort. It’s almost difficult to believe that you, undoubtedly the family disgrace; you, with your dirty blood and the dishonour you haul around everywhere with you, have the balls to come crawling to his father begging for support. You’re an adult, for Christ’s sake, and you should act like one, should be out scouring the earth for some equally pathetic man to serve like you ought to, like you would have, if you knew your place. Maybe then, Naoya would have a shred of respect for you.
Maybe.
“How selfish. Daddy already pays for your tuition, why should he provide you with housing, too? Are you really that incompetent? Can’t do a thing for yourself, huh?”
Your head whips around to face him, almost as if you’re startled by his presence, by his voice addressing you directly, a sharp gasp falling from your lips the moment your eyes meet.
It’s the first time you’ve actually looked at him since you’ve arrived, the first time your gaze has connected with his, eyes bloodshot and gleaming as crystal tears stream down your cheeks, excess water clinging to spidery lashes, clumped together in spikes.
God, you’re beautiful.
It kicks him right in the motherfucking chest, hard enough that he stumbles back a few feet into the stone fireplace, a hand gripping the mantle for stability while his body caves in on itself. A spear of agony sears through his body, slicing clean through all of his vital organs as you choke out an apology punctuated with an honorific, head shaking in jerky little motions as your tongue struggles to form words to explain yourself.
And he’s never felt anything like it in his entire life, skin feeling as though it’s been set ablaze from the inside, thick black smoke filling is lungs as he wheezes on an inhale, strangled by it.
“Naoya,” his father snaps, eyes wide and scorching. “Leave.”
Each step away from the living room feels heavier than the last, as if his blood’s been replaced by lead, by rapidly drying concrete, rendering him incapable of lifting his feet from the floor, dragging them against the tile until it’s fucking painful, calves and thighs tingling as if the blood flow’s been entirely obstructed, muscles quivering and exhausted.
“It’s okay,” he can hear his father’s faint voice soothing you, each of your sniffles feeling like a sharp little thorn straight to his heart, each of your tiny I’m sorry’s carving out a vacant, phantom wound in his chest. “Shh, it’s alright, Daddy’s here, Daddy’s got you,”
“Pathetic,” Naoya spits to the empty hallway, though the word wavers, catching a little in his throat, letters scraping the gummy walls as he forces them from his mouth, leaving scalding little blisters in its wake.
It’s then that Naoya decides he hates you; standing motionless in the dark hallway, feet inexplicably bolted to the floor and chest burning with some unknown emotion, a fire that blazes and rages, flares and thrashes, with each of your hitched little apologies, his teeth clenched together so tightly he’s surprised they don’t crack.
But it’s only after your sobs have calmed, father having reduced them to soft sniffles and half-hiccups through tender words and sweet affirmations, only after Naoya knows that you’ll be staying here for the night—that you’ll be safe—that he regains control over his limbs, that he rips his cement-filled feet from the floor and trudges towards his bedroom, scalding inferno dulled to simmering coals and faint flickering cinders.
He doesn’t think about it—isn’t going to think about it, refuses to waste his time or energy on such absurdity, refuses to allow his father’s preposterous decisions and ridiculous sentiments soak up space in his consciousness.
And he absolutely refuses to think about is the way your sudden presence punched a sharp gasp from his chest, the way he suddenly feels incomplete, like something’s missing, now that you aren’t within arms-reach, the way that he lost control over his entire body for the first time in his fucking life, in that hallway, just a few moments ago.
✰ ✰ ✰
His father—your father—falls in love with you almost immediately; having only met you briefly a few times before this, despite sending your mother multiple cheques every month for over twenty years.
It’s truly deplorable, positively sickening to watch the way his eyes light up when you come skipping into the living room after your afternoon university classes, dropping a fat, almost obscene kiss to Daddy’s cheek before plopping down on his lap as you chatter on about your day—about what you learned in lecture today, about the essay you got back (top of your class, of course), about your cute TA with the white hair and crystal eyes who always seems to conjure a bashful expression the moment you mention his name.
Naoya watches the entire thing unfold day after day, a deep sneer etched into his face, jaw clenched so hard it begins to ache, light eyes glaring daggers in your direction.
Something akin to jealousy, a creature with glowing emerald eyes and gnashing teeth and razor claws that slash and tear at the pit of his belly, roars and rattles the ribs that keep it caged within his chest, gnawing on the bones every time his—your—father makes you giggle, your eyes sparkling with adoration as you gaze at him; every time lithe fingers brush hair back from your face or a large palm settles on the crown of you head, petting you gently; every time you nuzzle into his neck, curling up comfortably—perfectly—in Daddy’s big, strong arms that keep you protected from all of the bad, from all of the evils of this world, from him, the big brother that loathes you.
It’s unsettling, almost sad in a sense, seeing his father fall from grace, observing the way you decay his persona so quickly, eating away at it like corrosive acid, rotting him from the inside out; the way he morphs from one of the most powerful and feared Yakuza bosses into soft, sticky, sweet putty in your hands the moment you appear; the way your presence shatters his tough, hard exterior and renders him gentle and tender—gentler and tenderer than he’s ever behaved with Naoya or any of his older brothers.
He can’t fucking stand to watch it, despises every single thing about it, positively detests the inexplicable, uncontrollable sensations that thrash and thunder inside of him, an unusual mixture of envy and melancholy, of wrath and desire, combined to create something toxic, something hazardous, something uncontainable that erodes his senses and mind, leaking into his bloodstream and poisoning his thoughts.
Because his gaze stays glued to you the moment you enter a room, like he’s bewitched by you, cursed by you the way his father has become, unable to rip his eyes from your form until you exit.
Except the torture doesn’t stop, even when you’re gone, because he’s assaulted with thoughts of you the moment you leave—what you’re doing, who you’re with, if he plagues your mind as much as you plague his—you’re like a fucking sickness, a parasite that burrows deep between the folds and tissues of his brain, infecting it, and he’s hopeless to find a cure.
And the worst part, the worst part is that he hasn’t a clue why. He doesn’t know why he feels the way he does, why you evoke such strong emotions—emotions he’s never felt before, emotions he doesn’t have a name for—or why, suddenly, everything feels wrong, off, whenever you’re not around.
It’s fucking annoying. Those tiny, raised bumps on the inside of his wrist—shaped in the form of a zodiac constellation, a mark everyone is born with, a mark that supposedly hints at your soulmate—burn and tingle as he meditates on these notions, blunt nails scratching viciously at his skin.
✰ ✰ ✰
Daddy grants you permission to stay at the estate for as long as you’d like, because of course he does, a victim to the spell you’ve cast. He even gives you your own room, helps you pick out furniture and takes you shopping for new clothes. You promise to do your share around the house—pinky swear—and, to Naoya’s immense dissatisfaction, you don’t disappoint.
No. Instead, you excel.
Those pretty little words weren’t empty promises—you begin cooking all of the meals, taking on the task to do the dishes entirely by yourself, tending to the house and the garden outside, even going as far to aid the help in their daily cleaning routines, until Daddy tells you it isn’t necessary.
And you manage to capture almost everyone’s hearts through your deeds and duties, through your kind and compassionate nature, through your being attentive and, for the most part, obedient—but most important of all, being family oriented.
You do the laundry when it needs to be done. You keep the house spotless and the kitchen sparkling. You learn everyone’s favourite dishes and then dedicate hours upon hours to perfecting them.
Naoya observes you throughout it all, sharp eyes following your movements, watching as you expertly tend to everyone’s needs, almost as if you know what they’ll require before they do.
You’d be perfect wife material, if you weren’t his sister—he catches the thought as it drifts through his mind—a sentiment that’s almost involuntary, unthinking in nature— and strangles it with his bare hands, stomps on it until it’s nothing but dust.
Because what’s more infuriating than anything else is that you are a good woman, a perfect woman, a woman who—for the most part—understands her place and duty in the household; or, at least, you did, before Daddy began spoiling you rotten.
It earns you the nickname princess from your favourite nii-san, hissed through gritted teeth with narrowed eyes and scrunched up noses, drenched in condescension and sprinkled with artificial icing sugar—a nickname Daddy irritatingly and affectionately adopts, extracting all of the patronization Naoya had imbued it with and stuffing it full of love.
You aren’t invincible, though, no matter how precious you are, how sweet your voice becomes when you bat your eyelashes and fix a pout on your lips, how much Daddy is barely able to deny you.
Because Daddy’s incessant spoiling does eventually bite him in the ass, just like Naoya knew it would.
✰ ✰ ✰
“But Daddy,” you whine, wearing your prettiest pout and cutest puppy-dog eyes, lethal weapons that are nearly foolproof, your most cherished expressions that grant you almost everything you want. “It’ll just be for a little, I promise! Just a drink or two!”
“I said no—”
“But everyone’s going! Even my professors will be there; I’m expected to show up!” Voice rising in pitch, your arms cross over your chest as eyebrows knit deeply and a lip juts out further, looking about two seconds away from stomping your foot.
Naoya would be amused, really, to see a grown woman acting like a petulant fucking child over some inconsequential party being thrown by the department, if he didn’t feel like his heart was ripping itself to pieces with your teary expression and soft half-sniffles, with the knowledge that, if you attend, you’ll be with him.
“You have an exam tomorrow,” Daddy reminds you in a sigh, dipping his head to scrutinize you over the rim of his reading glasses. “Are they not all required to write the same exam as well?”
“Well, they are, but—”
“But they didn’t spend their study break out gallivanting with their TA, did they?”
Your eyes widen for a second, shocked by the words leaving your father’s mouth, but the expression is gone in an instant, morphed into incredulousness, eyes rolling as your tongue tuts in disbelief.
“Please, we were studying,”
The chuckle that escapes your father’s lips is anything but warm; it’s cruel and condescending, a sharp slap to the face, your bottom lip beginning to tremble as he snaps his book shut, the sound echoing throughout the living room.
“You must think me a real fool,” he’s almost snickering as he throws his glasses on the coffee table, grunting a little as he stands from his armchair and raises himself to his full height, towering over you. “Do you think Daddy’s stupid?”
“What? No, of course not—”
“Then why are you lying to him?”
“I-I’m not—”
“And you’re doing it again?”
Head shaking in jerky, quivering movements, your lips open and close, emitting nothing more but little squeaks of breath as you try to backtrack, managing to stammer out an apology.
“It’s a little late for that,” your father’s saying sternly, a large hand curling around your bicep as he yanks you towards him, beginning to haul you down the hall. “Good girls do not lie to their fathers,”
Naoya sits tense and coiled in his father’s armchair, a symphony of your cries mingled with harsh slaps of Daddy’s calloused palm against your smooth skin carrying throughout the house, and he swallows thickly, past the lump that’s lodged itself in the column of his throat, past the bitter acid rising in his chest, past the irregular thumping of his heart against his ribs.
Because he doesn’t know why your wails and squeals of Daddy! M’sorry! Daddy! make his cock throb and his chest ache—ache with longing, with want and desire, with jealousy—doesn’t know why he finds himself fucking his fist to those memories that same night, mind fixated on the quick glance he had caught through the sliver of the open door when he couldn’t stand it anymore, when he had to sneak down the hallway just to make sure everything was alright, images of you thrown over father’s knees, bare ass spanked raw materializing in his head.
Or maybe he does know. Maybe he refuses to admit it. Maybe he just pretends he doesn’t, because he wishes he didn’t.
Still, you always get off fucking easy, as far as Naoya’s concerned. He’s never witnessed his father allow any woman to talk back to him with such horrid disrespect, to whine and plead and roll their eyes without a backhand so heavy, so hard it knocks them to the floor.
And yet, you receive a few measly spanks to your ass—a punishment that’s more embarrassing than anything else, terribly unfit for a grown woman—and get sent to your room for the rest of the night.
“She truly is Daddy’s Little Girl,” his mother had snarled after one particular punishment, features curled up in an unattractive sneer.
Naoya can’t help but begrudgingly agree.
✰ ✰ ✰
“Oh, lighten up,” one of his brothers nudges his foot with the toe of his slipper before collapsing next to him one abnormally cold evening in early October, interrupting Naoya’s nightly routine of glaring at you, cuddled up into Daddy’s side as you watch a show. “Just because you aren’t Daddy’s favourite anymore doesn’t mean you have to skulk around looking like you just ate a whole lemon,”
“What’re you on about,” Naoya seethes through clenched teeth, glancing at his older brother through the corner of his eye.
“You know,” he responds airily with a knowing smirk, nodding his head in your direction. “She’s taken your place, huh? Or is that not what’s upsetting you?”
And that hurts—it hurts, because he used to be Daddy’s favourite, Daddy’s youngest—the baby—Daddy’s spoiled brat. He’s used to being the center of Daddy’s attention, used to being the object of his praise, used to being the golden child, the prized child, the destined son nurtured and conditioned to take over the Family Business once his father retires.
Light eyes roll back in his skull as he tsks in disapproval, shaking his head and clearing his throat to rid the tremble from his voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,”
“Mm, I think I know more than you believe,”
The words are spoken in a murmur, only loud enough for the two of them to hear, but Naoya’s gaze snaps back to his face immediately as he calls your name, gently pulling you from the hushed conversation you were having with Daddy, full of giggles and murmurs, nonchalantly asking, “When’s your birthday?”
No.
No, Naoya wants to hiss at his pathetic excuse of a brother, large hands curling into quivering fists, nails biting into the fleshy heels of his palms as teeth grit, forcefully swallowing back down the two letter refutation.
No-no-no-no-no, he doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t need to know, throat constricting as you inhale to speak, chirpily responding.
Blood turns to thick ice in his veins when he hears your birth date, when he realizes those raised little bumps he was born with on the inside of his wrist match your zodiac sign. Heavy dread, black and poisonous and akin to thick disappointment, sinks in his chest, latching onto the floor of his stomach and spreading quickly, sticky as it engulfs all of his surrounding organs, coating them in acidic pollution.
He’s up and out of his seat before his brother has even finished asking you his next question, stumbling out of the room on unsteady legs, nearly tripping over his own ankles in his haste to get away from you, to escape.
He doesn’t want to know what the bumps on your inner wrist are, tells himself that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t care, that this is all bullshit anyway, century-old myths created by the dreamers and the sentimentalists. It isn’t like the prospect hadn’t already crossed his mind—drifting through a sick orgasmic haze after fucking his fist to the memory of you—the potential that you may be his ‘soulmate’, a cruel trick played on him by the gods. Except…
Except it isn’t real. It isn’t real. There’s no science backing it up, nothing to concretely prove that the zodiac constellation embedded in his skin has anything to do with his ‘soulmate’—or anyone else’s. It’s just a legend, an old wives tale made up for the romantics and nothing else.
In his alacrity to resist it, he turns fucking ruthless in his verbal assault, but nothing seems to deter you; it barely seems to phase you at all, carrying on your tasks or your cute little babbling as if he hadn’t just insulted you.
Because you’re incessant, almost desperate to gain his approval, continuing to treat him like a god—doing more for him than you do for anyone else, including Daddy—regardless of how many how many expletives and offensive sentiments he hurls at you.
And eventually, he goes a little too far.
✰ ✰ ✰
The night before Halloween is dark and dreary, thick grey clouds stuffed with rain that continuously drizzles over the estate, brutal winds whipping the tiny droplets against the windowpanes, tiny specks and splatters of water decorating the glass, rearranging themselves every time the wind throws another smattering of rain towards them.
You skip into the living room, full of bashful giggles and muted squeals as Daddy fawns over you, awestricken as he murmurs about how beautiful his princess looks.
His princess.
Naoya’s not quite sure what you’re supposed to be, nor does he care, tearing his gaze from your scantily clad form before his brain can even register what the costume is, before blood can rush to his cock, before he can witness the shy little smile on your lips and the pretty way your eyes glitter as you twirl for Daddy.
No, the only thing Naoya cares about is the fact that the dress of your costume is way too short to be considered decent, fluffy petticoat barely covering your ass, fanning out to reveal the edges of dainty pink lace clinging to the supple flesh of your ass as you twist and turn.
And he hasn’t a clue what you’re chattering on about, isn’t listening, can’t hear anything over the roar of blood rushing in his ears as he stands from his seat and stomps towards you, strong, callous voice cutting off your excited babbling as he glowers expectantly at his father.
“Jesus Christ, Daddy, you aren’t actually going to let her go out in that, are you?”
“Why?” you ask before your father can respond, genuinely confused, head tilting cutely. “What’s wrong with it?”
“What’s wrong with it?” he repeats incredulously, thick eyelashes fluttering as he blinks several times, eyebrows raising and huffing out a sarcastic laugh in disbelief. “Are you joking?”
Your head shakes slowly, a frown beginning to materialize on your lips as your eyebrows knit.
“It’s entirely inappropriate,” he scoffs, enunciating his words slowly, like you’re stupid.
You stare up at him cautiously, bottom lip jutting out in a pout so deep your chin puckers. “But nii-san, it’s Halloween—”
“Oh? And what are you going as, a slut?”
A little strangled gasp of Naoya-nii! hitches in your throat, your entire expression crumpling at his disapproval, hands running over the costume in an almost protective manner, smoothing it down.
“N-No, I’m—”
“I don’t care,” he hisses. “There’s no way you’re leaving the house in that—go change. Now.”
The direct order surprises you, shock saturating your features before resentment begins to bleed through. Blinking hard, you force the tears from your eyes, expression hardening and shoulders rolling back, spine straightening.
“No.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“Is there something wrong with your hearing? I said no,”
That sharp, self-assured smile drops from his face in an instant, face screwing up from such defiance, such disrespect. “Excuse me?”
Shivers skitter up your spine, tiny spikes of ice chasing them, but you refuse to back down, even though your voice is beginning to quiver.
“Y-You’re not Daddy! You don’t get to tell me what to do, I don’t care if you’re older!”
And just like that, the sharp smile is back, stretched abnormally wide across his lips—like it had been cut, carved, into his handsome face—uncanny and inhuman as his eyes glint with malevolence, words flowing from his mouth slowly, calmly, almost serenely, as he prowls towards you.
“You’re right—I’m not Daddy, because I would never let a woman speak to me the way he allows you to speak to him, you ungrateful little brat,”
A large hand, decorated with chunky, glittering gold rings, cuts through the air, striking you across the cheek with such force you stumble backwards from the impact, nearly tripping over your own feet only to have Daddy wrap a strong arm around your waist, catching you with ease and pulling you to his chest.
And it’s intense, so intense it kicks the breath right from your chest, barreling up your throat where you choke on it as it tangles with a sharp yelp. Hands fly to clutch your cheek immediately, throbbing thorns of pain shooting through the side of your face.
Daddy’s yelling, but it all sounds muddled, muffled, like your deep underwater and he’s shouting from above the surface, despite the fact that you’re clinging to him, pressed up so tightly against his side you can feel the vibrations of his voice in his body.
Naoya-nii isn’t saying anything, hand dropped limply to his side, pretty gold adorning his fingers coated in gleaming crimson. He isn’t even looking at Daddy—no, his gorgeous light eyes are focused on you, on the sticky scarlet leaking from the wounds his rings left when they collided with your cheek and the glistening tears shielding your eyes.
And for once, he has nothing to say, no sarcastic remarks or cynical little comments, voice evaporating in his throat as his chest burns, scathed with regret, remorse, repentance—all unwarranted, undeserved, unnecessary. Because—because you earned that slap for being so fucking disrespectful; you needed it, were practically begging him to put you back in your place, back where you belong: below him, behind him, and never beside him.
Because no matter how cute you are, how sweet and precious and good, none of it permits you to speak to him in such a manner, to act as though you’re equal.
So why has this inexplicable agony taken root at his core? Why does he feel like his heart is mutilating itself, tearing itself to shreds, with each of your pitiful little whimpers? Why does he feel the overwhelming urge to make it better, to make your pretty tears and precious sobs stop?
Inevitable anger surges through his veins—furious at you, for eliciting such bothersome emotions; furious at himself, for being so weak, so vulnerable, and allowing such pathetic sentiments to take over, to rob him of his control, of his autonomy.
And despite everything, all of his rage and loathing and confusion, his hand buzzes from it, from the sensation of touching your soft skin for the very first time, even in such a brutal and malicious manner, and instantly, he craves more.
✰ ✰ ✰
You don’t speak to him after that. You stop making his favourite meals, stop asking him about his day and then uninvitedly reciting your own in that cute, excited chatter that is so distinctly you, stop doing all of those extra little chores—washing his clothes and changing his sheets and scrubbing his bathroom until it sparkles. You put an end to everything.
And he fucking misses it.
He shouldn’t, but he does.
It’s painful to admit, but he can’t ignore it, notices your lack of presence almost immediately, that gaping void spreading, growing, as it roars in protest, claiming more and more of his body every day, like some sort of inky disease that only your presence seems to calm, to cure.
It fucking sucks. It fucking sucks, because he can’t stop it, regardless of how hard he tries, an impossible ailment he can’t void himself of. It fucking sucks, because you’re eating him up, consuming his very soul, devouring him from the inside out without even sparing him a goddamn glance—and you don’t even know it.
And it’s getting exhausting, putting up this front all the time, fighting against the intense feelings you swirl around in his chest, in his cock, without a hope, without a chance in hell. Fighting for nothing, because he knows he’ll never win. Fighting for nothing, because he isn’t sure he wants to anymore.
They’re unruly, voracious and rabid, tearing up his chest, his lungs and his heart and his throat, with sharp piercing claws and becoming increasingly difficult to overlook, to disregard.
Still, he’s too stubborn, too proud, to give in, to give up, even though the thing living inside him grows stronger every day, even though he knows that one day, it will overpower him.
✰ ✰ ✰
It’s windy—the estate quiet as the wind howls softly through the dense pines outside and ruffles them—the night it finally does, the night it takes over entirely, bursting through the barriers he keeps rebuilding and repairing around his soul and his sanity, writhing inside him when he hears soft sobs, muffled by the wood of your bedroom door, just past three in the morning.
It possesses him, like some sort of eternal spirit sinking deep into his bones and sewing itself into his soul, revoking his control over his body as a sudden, intense need to comfort you, to find out what’s wrong and make it all better, courses through his veins, entirely unaware of his actions as he pushes past the door and into your room.
“Naoya-nii?”
It’s the first time you’ve spoken to him, the first time you’ve even looked at him, since he struck you.
And he aches to apologize, I’m sorry’s and I shouldn’t have done that’s blistering his throat as they linger, just behind the back of his tongue.
But his pride outweighs them by a hair, despite how much his chest stings with the need to make things better, to make things right, for a reason unbeknownst to him. It’s just a sense—vague in meaning but strong in feeling—that longs for reconciliation, that’s desperate to rid your pretty face from the permanent scowl his presence etches into it.
That’s the first time he creeps into your room, the first time he loses his autonomy to the thing inside of him as he takes you into his arms and comforts you, the first time he allows you to cum from grinding on his cock.
Except it becomes a habit, an addiction, a nightly routine, cravings becoming stronger and stronger with each passing night. And for a brief span of time, it’s enough to appease the creature, the short nights spent with you in his arms, body trembling against his as you whimper out his name and his honorific, tangling on your tongue.
Because it feels right. It feels righter than anything in his life ever has, uncharacteristically gentle hands guiding your hips as they rock against his, soaked cunt gliding over the flannel of his pajama pants with ease as you huff out the prettiest little mewls into his neck.
It feels right only when he’s here with you, alone with you. Suddenly, it’s like everything makes sense again, like the world is in colour again, like the planet balanced again. He can no longer deny this feeling, this ache deep at the very pit of his soul that throbs and stings and burns mercilessly without your presence. You’re the only thing that can heal it, that can quell it, that can complete it.
So he gives in. It’s just for the nights, he promises himself, vows never to allow such sentiments to trickle into the daytime, to save it for when the sun sinks beneath the horizon, pledges never to permit these nightly escapades to advance from anything more than dry humping, nothing further than your cum on his fingers and your thighs stained with sticky cream.
But eventually, that isn’t enough, either.
And he was stupid to think it would be.
✰ ✰ ✰
The harsh slap of Testoni loafers against stone echoes out among the immaculately landscaped front yard, bouncing off thin tree trunks and being absorbed by tall, thick shrubs. Silver light, cast by the haloed moon hanging high in the clear navy sky, illuminates the garden, the foliage faded and washed out, painted by the moonbeams. Somewhere in the distance, the gentle trickle of water mingles with Naoya’s harsh breaths, cellphone gripped tightly in one fist as he paces back and forth like a rabid dog, small rocks popping under his feet.
It’s late. It’s too late—you were supposed to be home hours ago. Naoya’s tried calling—seven times, now, his phone buzzing in his palm to warn him of a low battery—but you haven’t picked up once. But that isn’t new, nor is it unusual; you rarely answer his calls while you’re out with Satoru.
So, really, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm. It shouldn’t.
Except he knows the man you’re out with, knows what you’re doing with him, and he can’t get it out of his fucking head, assaulted with fabricated images of you trapped under a large man with ivory hair and crystal eyes, back arching in ecstasy, his name leaving your lips in the prettiest gasps, in the way Naoya’s name leaves your lips during his habitual sneaking into your room in the middle of the night.
He’s terrified it’s going to drive him insane, eyes pricking and throat burning as his nose twitches with the threat of tears, eyelids shut so tightly his whole face scrunches up, tense and crumpled every time a new wave of contrived memories of you cumming all over that asshole’s cock crash over his mind.
Copper stings his tongue as sharp front teeth nibble at the raw cuticles surrounding his nailbed, face puckering at the taste and ripping his thumb, glistening with saliva, from his mouth.
This is pathetic, goddamn it! It shouldn’t even matter who you’re with and what you’re doing with them, shouldn’t be any of Naoya’s concern at all whether you’re safe or not, shouldn’t fucking hurt nearly as much as it does, a heavy ache that weighs on his chest more and more and more as each second ticks by, ribs caving in and splintering under the force, snapping into sharp spikes that puncture his lungs and make it painful to breathe.
“This is such a waste of fucking time, I don’t even—” he’s muttering to himself when you step out of Satoru’s car, his internal monologue beginning to leak from his head out his lips, your presence immediately cutting it off as his head snaps up, light eyes paler than normal, practically glowing in the moonlight.
A startled little whimper pries its way past your lips when you see him, stomping towards you with a heaving chest and a growl ripping from his throat.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he’s seething as a large hand seizes your arm, wrapping around your bicep and yanking, bring your face closer to his. “Huh? Do you know what fucking time it is?”
Frenzied eyes search your face, wild and erratic in their movements, sharply zeroing in on the tiny galaxies of swirling lilac and cobalt peppered with little pinpricks of scarlet that’ve been sucked into the flesh of your neck.
He chokes on something—a gasp or a snarl or a sob, maybe a mixture of all three, you aren’t entirely sure—pearly teeth gnashing together. “You’re a little slut,” he spits the word out like venom, harsh and biting as it whizzes past your cheek, slicing into your skin.
“That’s it, that’s all—that’s all you’re fucking good for,” his grip tightens with each word that flows from his mouth. “At least you’ve picked a rich man to sell your pussy to, at least you aren’t a total idiot, just like your mother, huh?”
“What is your problem?” little hands claw at the fingers latched around you, finally breaking free from him, ripping your limb from his grasp with such vigor you nearly fall on your ass, teetering backwards on unsteady feet. “You know, just because you can’t own up and face your feelings, doesn’t mean you get to take it out on me. This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Isn’t my fault.”
“This?” he spits, face screwing up in scorn. “There is no this,”
“Oh my God,” eyes rolling, you shake your head, exhaling a dubious laugh. “Shut up. There’s no one here—you can be real with me, I’m not gonna tell anyone,” you snark, arms crossing over your chest as you level your gaze with him.
He glares back at you, sharp jaw rhythmically clenching and unclenching with the grinding of his molars, large hands balled into tight, trembling fists on either side of his body.
“You know there’s something here, between us, within us, even if you refuse to admit it,” you continue after a beat of silence, voice softening.
His whole form is beginning to quiver and he jerkily shakes his head, exhaling harshly. You think he may be crying, but in the faint moonlight it’s hard to be sure.
Holding your wrist up, you swallow thickly, glancing at those little bumps embedded in your skin, watching the tiny shadows that form when your arm twists. “I have your sign,” your voice is quiet as you look back at him, flashing the inside of your wrist to him. “And I know you have mine,”
A cynical smirk spreads across his lips, but it looks more like a grimace, like a flimsy mask desperately attempting to cover something else, tongue tutting in disbelief. “Yeah, and there’s millions of people in this world with any given sign. It’s all bullshit—it could be anyone,”
“It could be anyone,” you agree, nodding. “But it isn’t.”
“You don’t know that!”
“I do! I know you feel it too! Christ, why are you so—so adamant on denying this, even when it’s just the two of us? What’s the point?”
“You’re my fucking sister, that’s the point. This is inappropriate, it’s wrong,”
“If it’s so wrong, then why do you sneak into my bedroom every night? Why do you let me cum on your fingers? Why do you fuck my thighs?” your footsteps speed up, jogging a little to catch up to him. “Huh? Huh? No answer? Or do you know the answer, and you’re too afraid to say it?”
“I don’t know!” he explodes, whirling around on you and trapping you against the brick, palms laid flat against the wall. “Alright? I don’t fucking know why I do those things. They make me feel sick afterwards, but I…”
But I can’t stop.
But I need you.
But I love you.
Chests heave with harsh exhales that mingle and echo in the garden, your eyes studying his face intently, in a way that makes him feel naked, exposed, makes him want to turn and hide from you.
“I’m not asking—” you start, words catching in your throat and blinking hard to clear rapidly welling tears from your eyes. Your voice is softer, more fragile and weak, when you speak again. “You don’t have to marry me, for Christ’s sake. I just—I just want you to—I need to know you feel it too,”
“Why?” he hisses, acidic envy bubbling in his chest, beginning to erode his resolve, walls crumbling to rubble. “What is there to know? You already have him,”
“But I’d rather have you,” the words materialize on your tongue before you even know what you’re saying, earnest eyes boring into his.
“God, don’t—” eyelids shut tightly, lithe fingers tangling in blonde hair and tugging. “Don’t say shit like that,”
He can feel them, those three little words thrashing in his chest, desperate to claw up his throat and spill from his lips, but he grits his teeth and swallows them back down, letters lodging and forming a painful lump.
And you notice. You notice, because you’ve studied him extensively, have learned to read him—his mannerisms, expressions, behaviours—well.
And you’ve just found his weakness.
“Do you want to know what I think of when he fucks me?” you ask, eyes searching his face in an almost frenzied manner, breath accelerating as you quickly push the words from your lips, worried if you don’t speak fast enough, if you don’t vocalize these sentiments now, you’ll lose him again. “It’s you. It’s always you. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to think of someone else, of anyone else, but you just…you just won’t leave my brain! It’s like a—a sickness, or something. Like a chronic illness, and it’s only getting worse,”
A strangled growl rattles in his chest as he tears himself away from you, fists violently rubbing at his eyes.
He knows. He knows, because he’s tried the same thing, attempted to desperately forget you, to disintegrate the weird feelings you endlessly evoke in his chest by losing himself in women night after night, often multiple women at once, drowning himself in their moans and gasps and soft bodies to no avail.
“There’s no cure,”
He doesn’t even mean to say it, words slipping from his lips unconsciously as he gets tangled in his thoughts, flipping through the countless memories of faceless women of all shapes and sizes, faceless woman that somehow always mange to morph into you.
“No,” you respond, shaking your head. “There isn’t. But at least I’m trying!”
He spins around, gleaming eyes flashing, brimming with bewilderment, features falling in surprise for just a moment before they harden again, varnished in offense.
“What’re you talking about,” he seethes, eyebrows furrowing deeply as his eyes narrow into sharp slits, scrutinizing, analyzing, dissecting.
“I-I’d rather have you, yes, and he’ll—no one will ever compare, will ever even come close to how much I—” you cut yourself off, swallowing the thought, then clearing your throat and beginning again. “At least I’m trying to find someone, though. At least I’m trying to find just a shred of what I feel for you, instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself, alone and miserable,”
“Oh,” he laughs humorlessly, a callous little sound that viciously tears from his chest, that scrapes his throat and comes out strangled, full of incredulity. “You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve tried endlessly to forget you? To cleanse you from my mind? To move the fuck on from something that had never begun in the first place? You’ve imprinted yourself in the tissues of my fucking brain in a matter of months. It’s tiring. It’s hopeless,”
His voice breaks on the last word, some of the merciless heat fading from his features as he glares at you, eyes almost pleading for you to understand.
Because you’re the only one that can.
You’ve been in this together the entire time, right from the start, from the moment you walked through that front door.
And he’s been resisting it, fighting against it, against himself, all while the current only becomes stronger, only continues to grow in strength and size, and he’s motherfucking exhausted at this point, sick of battling some invisible force he was convinced didn’t even exist, sick of waging a war he will forever be destined to lose.
You’ve broken that wall, shattered it to dust, destroyed all of his weapons of defense and robbed him of his sovereignty, and now it’s all pouring form his mouth, an endless, uncontrollable stream of confessions, of thoughts and desires, of agony and misery.
“But it doesn’t even fucking matter, because I love you. I love you and I fucking hate you for it. And I’ve been trying, alright? I’ve tried not to, I’ve tried every single trick in the fucking book to stop it, to get over you, to forget you—and none of it has ever fucking worked, not even for a second. I don’t want you; I—I don’t want to be, but I’m in love with you,”
It looks as though your breathing has ceased, chest halting in its rapid movements, body gone still, static, stagnant. Your silence is deafening, has his ears ringing and his heart pounding, thrashing against his ribs as it aimlessly attempts to crawl through the cage, to present itself to you, bloody and beating and all yours. It’s all yours—take it, kill it, end its suffering.
“And there’s nothing—”
Surging forward, your lips crash into his, body following as it smacks against his own, effectively cutting him off. Naoya freezes, eyes wide and breathing stopped, entire body turned to ice, rigid and tense, but you are not deterred, arms winding around his neck as fingers thread through the gold and ink at the base of his skull.
“I love you, too,” you mumble into the kiss, refusing to break contact for even a second, lips brushing his as you speak. “I love you so much,”
The confession—an admission he already knew, deep down in his very bones, an admission he can no longer ignore, now that you’ve said it—snaps him out of his trance, and something switches, something breaks. Because then he’s kissing you back, tongue forcing its way through your lips to assault your own as calloused hands find purchase on your hips, squeezing your flesh hard enough that you yelp.
He chuckles against your lips, and then he’s pushing forward, forcing you to walk backwards, too fast for you to keep up, his legs longer than yours, body bigger than yours, stronger than yours.
Even with all of his shoving, you still aren’t moving quick enough for him, clumsy and stumbling over your own feet, whimpering hushed apologies into his mouth, a response to the growls that rumble in his chest each time you trip, your pitiful little sorry!’s consistently being cut off by his tongue.
Large hands hoist you up without breaking the kiss, mouth still attempting to devour you whole, to suck up your very soul, and your legs automatically wrap around his waist, latching onto him.
Either of your bedrooms are too far, and he can’t take it, he can’t wait—not with the way your fingers are tangling in his shirt and tugging, the way needy little whines are hitching in your throat, the way you’re squirming in his grasp, trying to grind against his half-hard cock.
You’re fucking desperate, but so is he, thigh whacking off the edge of the wooden coffee table as he blindly staggers towards the kitchen, tongue hungrily dragging against yours while he does so.
The cold marble stings your skin as he deposits you onto the nearest countertop, hips wedged between your thighs keeping them spread.
Little fingers immediately go for his belt, nonsensical whimpers sounding in the back of your throat as you fumble and struggle, hooking your fingers through his beltloops and pulling.
“Eager girl,” he chastises, a little breathless as nimble fingers find the soaked lace at the apex of your thighs, pushing it to the side. “Nii-san has to prep you first,”
“No,” you whine, pitched high and much too loud. “M’wet enough. Want you, want you now, nii-san, please, just give it to me, been waiting so long, please,”
The words are slurred together as they tumble from your lips, infused with a potent lust that casts a dense haze over your mind, rendering you capable of only focusing on what you need.
Light eyes dart up, holding yours through fanned lashes for a moment, as if they’re searching for any hesitancy, before his lips form the most genuine smile he’s ever given you.
“Yeah?” he huffs out, finally breaking your stare to watch his hands undo his belt, continuing to speak as he shoves his jeans down his thighs and frees his cock. “You think you can take it?”
“Yes, nii-san,” you nearly mewl, gazing at him with blown, glazed eyes and a cute pout. “Please, give it to me, I-I want it, please,”
His gaze finally flicks up, that sincere smile stretched wider across his face, a playful glint in his eye, voice void of any of its usual derision. “You want what? Hmm, baby? Come on, nii-san wants to hear you say it,”
A low whimper leaves your throat and you shift on the countertop, as if trying to wiggle closer to him. “Your cock, nii-san, want your cock, please-please-please, gimme-gimme-gimme,”
It sounds as though you’re close to tears, voice cracking and thick with desire, Naoya’s cock twitching in his palm in response to the sound, and, God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that, absolutely adores it when you beg, thinks you sound so pretty when you’re pleading for him.
“You’re a greedy little girl, you know that?” he pants while he pushes in, a muffled yelp prying past your lips. “Shh, hush now, nii-san will give you what you need,”
The stretch is incredible, cute little cunt throbbing around his thick cock as it struggles to adjust to the sudden intrusion, feeling as though he’s going to tear you into two, leaving stinging micro-fissures in the delicate flesh.
Yet despite the burn, the ache that settles deep in your core, that feels like he’s splitting you in half, a satisfied moan leaves your lips, head falling forward and resting against his broad shoulder, fingers curling in the cotton that adorns his torso and pulling him closer, closer, closer.
Because, finally, you feel whole, more whole than you’ve ever felt in your entire life, satisfying an inexplicable desire buried at the crux of your very soul, something you didn’t even realize you were missing until you finally had it.
“S’not enough,” you mumble into him, nuzzling your face against him like a cat. “Need more, nii-san, need more,”
“You really are a selfish little fucking brat,” he grunts as fingers flex on your hips, tips digging into the pliant flesh and gripping, singeing his name into your skin in rapidly blossoming indigo and ultramarine.
“Nii-san was going to try and be nice,” the words, strained and husky, spill from plush lips as his hips begin to thrust, slow and hard, winding back as they draw the force to ram forward, slamming a cry from your chest as his cockhead pounds against your cervix. “But you’re too impatient for that, aren’t you?”
It’s a fucking lie; his self-control had been hanging by a thread, barely restraining the primal need to wildly buck into you, but you just snapped it, just tore the last of his treasured discipline to fucking shreds with nothing more than a few words.
The pace is ruthless, your head bouncing off the cabinets with each powerful snap of his hips, an endless stream of cries pouring from your lips, one hand curling around the edge of the counter as the other grips his shoulder, nails burying themselves in the hard muscle through the thin cotton of his shirt. Sharp bones carve a spot just for him, made for him, between your legs, into the tender flesh of your inner thighs.
“You’re mine, you hear me?” he pants out, eyes so bright they’re practically glowing. “Mine.”
“Yours!” you gasp out, head nodding in sloppy little movements against his shoulder as you fall forward, wrapping your arms around him and squeezing. “Yours, yours, yours,”
Everything feels hazy, almost dreamlike in a sense, vision blurring over with a thick shield of tears that you can’t quite explain, his name and the honorific becoming muddled on your tongue, fusing into one as you wail it out, clinging to him in a way that’s almost possessive.
“Nii-san’s here,” he promises you, voice hoarse. “Nii-san’s yours, too,”
“Mine,” the arms thrown around his neck tighten, fingers tangling in soft gold and wrinkled cotton. “Mine, mine, mine—”
“Mine,” he echoes, hips never faltering even as you wind your body around his, large hands keeping your hips still as he fucks into you. “And only mine—”
“Forever and ever and ever—”
“You belong to me, were made for me, put on this earth for me,”
Words of confirmation are escaping from your lips, you’re absolutely sure of it, can feel them vibrating up your throat as you speak them—but it’s so much, too much, all of the feelings swirling around in your chest, sending spikes of pleasure and thorns of pain shooting through your veins as they clash together. A sudden wooziness settles over you, brain fogging over as he becomes the only thing you can think of, the only thing you want to think of, nonsensical babbling still slipping from between parted lips in hitched puffs of breath.
“So full,” you nearly sob, one of Naoya’s hands tangling in the hair at the back of your skull and yanking, pulling your face from the sanctuary of his neck and exposing your expressions to his scrutinizing eyes, devouring the beautiful tears streaking your cheeks, the contorting of your features as pleasure washes over them. “M’so full, nii-san, it’s so much,”
“Yeah? Better than he could ever stuff you?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re wailing out, affirmations falling from your lips with each brutal piston of his hips. “More, need more,”
Because it’s like an addiction, an innate need for more of him, for all of him, ravenous and unquenchable, that’s always existed within you, that his cock stretching you out, filling you up, has only just awakened.
His aura is positively intoxicating, overwhelming your senses and becoming all you can see, all you can hear, all you can smell, taste, touch. His taste lingers on your tongue, faint notes of minty pine and sharp nicotine dancing with your tastebuds; his touch brands itself into you, bruises and bitemarks carving his name into soft skin; his scent assaults you, envelops you, overpowers everything else as it wraps you in a shackled embrace of expensive aftershave and cedar wood.
A growl tears from his chest, so rough that it vibrates throughout his entire body, and his pace quickens, cock plunging into you and an incredible speed, dragging against that one spot that has you nearly screaming, that has your eyes rolling back and your little hole fluttering around him as a blistering fire sparks to life in the pit of your belly.
You can feel it, furling in on itself with each vicious rut of his hips, each relentless bang of his cockhead against your cervix, a concentrated ball of scathing heat pulsing, quaking in your stomach as it curls tighter and tighter and tighter with each plunge forward—until it bursts, a fiery explosion that buzzes through your veins as your cunt clenches, gushing on his cock as he praises you—yeah, that’s it, make a mess on nii-san—entire body coiling from the sheer strength.
“Tell me,” he keens almost desperately, voice pulling you from the clutches of post-orgasm unconsciousness, hips stuttering for a moment before he regains his finesse. “Tell me how badly you need it,”
And you don’t need to be told what, pleads pouring from your mouth in an instant, before your brain can even comprehend what you’re saying, an instinctual reaction to his command. “Need your cum, nii-san, need you to full me up, fill my tummy with it, stuff me full of it, need it so bad, nii-san, please gimme your cum, please, please,”
The words are all jumbled together, thick with tears and wet with saliva and imbued with delirium, quivering and breaking as your body trembles from overstimulation.
“Fuck,” he chokes on the curse, hips stilling, pressed flush against your ass as his cock throbs, filling you with spurt after spurt of thick cum, a broken whine catching in his throat as endless words spill from yours, peppered with the sweetest moans—yes, nii-san, thank you, nii-san, fill me up, fill my body with it, my brain with it, I need it, I need it.
And he does, pumps you full of so much that it begins leaking out from your abused little hole—still stuffed with him—and down his cock.
And it’s then—after he has filled you up, with your precious little cunt still pulsing around his length, whimpering out his honorific as you hold onto him, voice raw and wrecked and cracking with residual tears—then that Naoya’s sure you were meant for him, made for him, perfectly tailored to him; he knows you were, his very own gift from the gods.
#zenin naoya x reader#zenin naoya smut#jjk smut#zenin naoya#zen'in naoya#tw:incest#tw death#tw toxic relationship#tw abuse#tw physical abuse#WAAAAAAH FINALLY HE IS DONE HEHEHE YAAAAY#whew okay
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Incoming rant about witchblr curse mentality, caused by a post I just saw from someone saying you need to have it confirmed by at least two other psychics even after doing your own divination on it.
It's funny to me that this is the general consensus that it's unlikely you've been cursed when The Evil Eye is a thing. It can literally be caused by jealousy or someone thinking ill of you. It doesn't even take much. And it can be wildly out of control or relatively mild. Even if it's not a curse, cleansing yourself can still help remove any random negative energy built up, any negative or parasitic spirits that may have attached themselves to you, or just general bad luck. Hell, make it a part of your weekly routine so you can keep anything from even building up in the first place. If you practice magic, and are online with others who practice, there's always going to be negativity and bs in the community you interact with, and some of that negative bs might splash back on you regardless of whether or not it was intended to. Bottom line, if you feel like you need a cleansing, do a fucking cleansing. Don't let people be condescending about it, cleansing takes care of a LOT of things, not just curses.
And another thing, with the sheer amount of people now practicing magic, curses being flung around are going to be a LOT more common. They may not be particularly bad, but they'll fucking happen. The idea that you need to get it confirmed that you've been cursed by at least 3 sources is absolutely ridiculous to me, especially if you work with spirits of any kind, or can do divination with any level of accuracy. I'm not gonna spend money to get two other practitioners/workers/witches to "confirm" that it's a curse if I did the divination or ritual to find out myself. Cause I trust in my own ability and my spirits to give me accurate information.
As a folk witch, whose practice is based around making my own life easier and better and actively changing negative situations into positive ones using magic, cleansing is a pretty big part of that. Not to mention, we don't exist in a vacuum. Shit that happens with your family can cause negative energy to build up or worse, attract parasitic spirits to you. It's not always a curse, unless you've specifically made an enemy. But god damn, you don't have to sit there and accept bad luck and a "rough week" if you practice magic! You can do magic to clear up whatever's blocking you, to shut up someone who's gossiping about you, to convince your boss to give you a raise, to find a better job. Cleansing to remove anything keeping you down, or causing issues, is a NECESSITY to keep the other spells you do going nicely. So ESPECIALLY if you practice magic, and you feel like something's up, do a fucking cleansing.
#divination#witchblr#witchcraft#spirit work#ancestral veneration#ancestor work#familiar spirits#cleansing#cleansing spells#spell work#folk witch#folk witchcraft#traditional witchcraft#tradcraft#occultblr#evil eye#malefica#maleficium#curses#curse work#mal ochio#hex#jinx#bad luck
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