#tw: implied/referenced drug use | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

queenofdenest · 2 years

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Title: in the mouth of trauma (is silence not an act of violence too?) Fandom: Hetalia Warnings: creator chooses not to use archive warnings Relationships: Est & Liet & Lat Characters: HWS Est, HWS Liet, HWS Lat, HWS Rus, others mentioned Tags: Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Implied/Referenced Non-Consensual Drug Use, Aftermath of Torture, Psychological Torture, Psychiatric Torture Aftermath, Victim Blaming, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Dissociation, Disordered thoughts, Unreliable Narrator, Mental Instability, Historical Hetalia, Soviet Union Era, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Mentioned Murder, Suicidal Thoughts, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Past Attempted Suicide

Summary: it's time to leave behind everything they have done to him, but how does one begin to heal when the wounds no longer cover his body, just his mind?

AO3: the link to read it on ao3

A/N: So I'm going to be honest, I never thought that the first fic (Isolation) would have a sequel but when I sat down, my brain really said that that story was not done yet. I don't know yet how far I'm going with this, so far there are two more fics set during this time period that are much less *gestures at everything involved in this fic* then this, but those will definitely not be done this month, maybe next month. Though I'm actually hoping to have some happier things to share soon.

I do warn to please look back at the tags as every single one of those are mentioned throughout the fic - unlike with Isolation, I can't give paragraph specific warnings as basically every paragraph has a triggering content in it. Like this fic is more than a tad bit darker than the previous fic, sorry. That being said, I have listed every single tag I believe needs to be there, if there is one missing please nicely let me know. If you need to take a break while reading this, may I lead you to video of mine.craft yt Go.odTimes.WithSc.ar being hilarious?

All mistakes are my own, my beta is asleep so they haven't read this over for me. Information is at the bottom as it always is for my historical works.

Lastly, title is from Blythe Baird – “Pocket-Sized Feminism”, no real reason besides I really like it. Prompt is from Fict.ober 2021, "You have no proof". dedicated to my beta, who's asleep right now, who talked with me about this fic, and to my mother who read the ending to tell me it didn't suck.

Last warning, this fic is dark and to please read the tags.

____

The sun is setting when he’s dragged out of the room – fear in his stomach as they grip his arms roughly, leading him down the hall to the shower rooms.

He hates the shower rooms.

He never used to mind the shower rooms or what they represented – group showers – but ever since he was dragged to one after that tortuously long car ride, thrown to the grimy floor in a building he assumed was abandoned, and all but tortured by the soldiers who seemingly took great pleasure in what they were doing, he has had trouble with them. It’s like they no longer represent the idea of being equal with the other people in there*, instead they are the place where bad things happen.

He hopes that’s not what’s going to happen now.

Not again.

He knows he wouldn’t survive it; his body is weak and tired. The doctors have been raising the dosage of the medication* they were giving him; they wanted him far too docile. And while his nation physiology did wonders to get rid of most medications quickly, even at doses that would incapacitate or kill a human, he was being given doses every few hours. He knows it’s been absolutely annoying the head doctor – the man had threatened to force a bottle of poison down his throat, as if somehow he controlled how his body worked.

Higher and higher dosages and more pills forced down his throat by a maniac and those who appeased him.

He forces himself back to the present, to the soldiers, and tries to even his breath out as rough words are tossed from one and another, their meaning lost on him in his terror. They must be chatting about what they plan to do to him, of what is going on – and if he focuses, he knows that he could understand the words, but there’s a part of him doesn’t want to.

It’s sometimes easier to live in the world where he can feign ignorance; any question they might ask him is in vain if he lets his mind wander away from him to times where things were much easier. To times where the terror is no longer lurking.

He takes a deep breath as the door swings open, the sound of another patient – victim – screams from somewhere in the building as he is thrown into the room, the memory from the first time this happened echoing in his movements.

Get in there!

He is, for once, thankful that they had taken his glasses when he was moved into this particular place; they had made a horrible sound as they had hit the grimy floor once before and he has no desire to hear that same clink, especially since he can hear in his head the sound of throaty laughter and footsteps moving closer to him -

Didn’t hear me, did you traitor? I said get up!

Rough hands grab him once more, “Up, up,” they say, the Russian words falling quicker, “We have no time for this, get up.”

They aren’t shouting. Their words are harsh and demanding, but they’re not shouting and so he manages to bring himself back to the present, to help himself to his feet. More hands touch him and he lets himself be directed to the first open shower, staring at it in fear. He knows how this goes.

“We are right out the door – don’t try anything, we will know,” one of the men says, dark eyes piercing as he points to the entrance. “Shower quickly, shower thoroughly.”

Let’s get this evidence off you, not that anyone would believe a fucking traitorous bastard such as yourself.

(he didn’t believe himself either)

He feels himself nod and watch as they leave the room, doors swinging behind them. Part of it feels that his mind goes with them, sliding out the flesh he’s been placed in and following them across gleaning white tiles, past a set of weak doors, to stand and wait until he’s done with the directive given to him.

It still leaves the body behind though, and he knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told, he’ll be forced to by one of them: the last thing he wants is more hands touching him.

Even if the hands that hurt the most has long since been gone, he can still feel haunted by them; still feel the burn of bruises forming against skin that has grown weak since his first capture – the time when he was young, not the one done by the brutes manning the Soviet army.

His shaking hands drop to his clothing, sea green eyes darting towards the door for a brief second before he starts with the buttons on the shirt. He doesn’t look at his body after the shirt is gone, instead his eyes go distant as he stares at the tiled walls, hands dropping to his pants.

He had been a fighter once*, he thinks as fearful hands shed the last protection he has on him.

Most saw him as a homebody and he is – he’d never argue that he was most at home among his people; farming, learning, living, breathing in the fresh air, but when war had brought itself to his doorstep, he never backed down. He met challenges with a straight back and a fierce strength that had won him many battles and many scars. He had been set against bigger nations, more powerful then he’d been and been told to give up, submit, things would be easier if he did, and he had told them that he was never going to bend, never going to break, and he had never done so.

And yet – right as the water turns on, the sound of the pipes creaking from all around him; the water, lukewarm at best, spraying against his bruised flesh, he feels like breaking now.

He knows he can’t, whatever is going on will need him to carry that same strength that he had carried as a child, but the fragility of his mind after these long months – years, possibly – keeps him flitting between the nation he once was and the man who learned to keep his head down to avoid anymore trouble than his existence already brought him.

He grabs for the soap in front of him, the filthy looking bar slimy between his fingers, slimy against his bare skin. Not that he needs it to feel slimy, but it does it’s job as best as it could. Dirty water sits for a second at the drain before being sucked away, disappearing forever.

Come here, I swear it’s like you live to disappoint – get in the bath already, can’t have the doctors asking questions if you show up looking like a cheap whore.

(the doctors don’t care, don’t care, don’t care, don’t care)

His nails bite into the soap as he grips it hard, two deep breaths in, two deep breaths out.

I don’t want to share my traitorous bitch.

(lieslieslieslieslieslieslieslieslies)

The shower shuts off, there’s a towel sitting on the broken sink and he reaches for it, forcing himself to focus on the story of the broken sink and not that monster’s words. He doesn’t remember who told it – either Dmitri, who was there for expressing disappointment in the current regime, or Linas, who was there because his father had spoken out against the Soviets but who lied to protect the old man – but it was one of them who told him in whispers late at night through the gaps in the solitary wing’s broken walls the story of the broken sink.

It wasn’t particularly interesting, he thinks as he swipes away the moisture on his skin. Mostly he had listened because he had been down there for over two weeks and his voice had all but disappeared from singing and screaming for far too long. It was, though, a sign of what kind of behavior was tolerated there.

A nurse enters a clandestine relationship with a patient. She uses the shower room as it’s the easiest place to clean up and she knows the schedule of her fellow nurses so can tell when will be safe to take her patient lover there to interact. A doctor, one who had been trying to court her, found out one day and decides to do something about it. He decides he will kill the patient and to do so, lures the poor addled man to the space on a night she’s not supposed to be working. While waiting for the other, he rips the pipe from the sink and hides near the door, ready to kill the other when he walks in.

And walks in the other man does but with the nurse. The doctor was shocked and drops the pipe, but in his rage at seeing them together, he kills the patient anyway, bashing his head against the sink, over and over and over again, until the porcelain breaks and bleeds.

While this is happening, the nurse has run off to get help, fear overriding all sense she has as she worries for the man she loves. She returns with help but it’s too late for the patient and the doctor, who is covered in blood, coldly turns to the guard she had brought and tells the man, “The nurse here has been colluding with this patient to kill me – I overheard their plan and decided to act before either could get me.”

He is believed. The nurse is sent away, left to die in whatever painful way they want her to in a gulag somewhere. The doctor continues to work there. No one cares; not about the nurse wrongfully convicted, not about a patient sent there for mental problems being murdered by a man meant to help him, and definitely not for a doctor with blood on his hands and not a shred of guilt in his soul.

He has internalized that lesson here – no one cares about any of them – and it’s been proven far too often as every day passes.

A soldier walks in right as he’s putting his underwear back on and it takes all he has to hold back the urge to cover his body with the towel, to shy away from this man who looks more a child than an adult. But hold it back he does, instead staring at the man as fabric is thrust towards him. Russian is spoken, his brain still far away in another world.

The soldier looks back towards the door before licking his lips and saying, “Clothing, for you,” in a language* he’s not heard from anyone not him in far too long.

Estonian.

His language.

He reaches for them, the sight of his glasses calling to him and the fabric familiar as his hands clenches around them. “Thank you,” he says carefully in that same language.

He’s not scared of what will happen if a nurse or doctor hears him. He’s spoken it far too often for someone who’s been punished for doing so. It – along with the dozen or so other languages he knows – have been the one thing that has comforted him through everything, and while he’s not thankful for having to learn them how he did, he is thankful he did learn them.

The solider – a boy no older than 20 – gives him a smile, as if he’s done something good, and nods again, motioning to his hands. “Please, hurry,” he says, in Russian this time, before turning and leaving.

Despite the thankfulness that comes from hearing his own language from another's mouth after being removed from the two other nations who spoke enough of it to keep him from going crazy, he’s still uneasy; he’d be stupid not to be. He still has no idea what is going on. This was nothing like how they moved him from the first facility to this one – that had been done through drugging him and him waking up in a moving vehicle, his eyes blinded and his hands tied again.

The soldiers, the same from when he was first taken from Mister Russia’s manor, had laughed at his panic.

“Look at the traitor – scared of what might happen.”

Still, he does what he’s told, dressing in the clothing given to him, his glasses first. They look familiar, like something he owns back at Mister Russia’s home, but he can’t see how they could’ve gotten them. To go there and ask for some, or even to go there and grab any clothing, would be tantamount to admitting that he was taken somewhere where his other clothing was either damaged or gone – it’d be admitting something.

Which, he knows for certain, they did not – would not – want to do.

He had yelled it over and over again at the first facility. They had no right to do what they were doing – there were laws* that they had to listen to when it came to people like him, they would be in trouble. Of course, as time puttered by, he had come to the realization that no, they wouldn’t. For that to happen, he’d have to be willing to bring everything to the other nations.

Something that he did not – would not – want to do.

Looking at himself in the cracked dirty mirror, he presses his hand against the starchy feel of the button up shirt sleeves; to the softness of the sweater vest, the stiffness of the pants. He’s even got a belt – for a flash of a second he wants to wrap it around his throat and one of the pipes that line the ceiling – and it’s surprisingly easy how he falls right back into comfort as he coils it around his waist and buckles it.

He looks normal.

It feels weird.

The boy soldier comes back, smiling as he does so. “Ah, Mister Russia said you would like those – your brown haired brother wanted to give you a different outfit but what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets.” His Russian is not as rough as the others are. In fact, he can, for the briefest moment in all of history, pretend not to hate the language, but for him to pretend that it still doesn’t grate at his skin like a serrated blade being drawn down his skin on it’s side, would be a lie that even he can’t speak.

“Mister Russia?” His – Eduard’s – Russian is perfect as always: he’s always been gifted orally.

You’ve got such a talented mouth – makes sense for a traitorous little bitch.

Linguistically talented.

For the most part, it’s been a blessing as no matter how much he argues that he will refuse to learn a new language, the nations who have held his land have followed the same script when it comes to forcing him: refusing to speak to him in any language not their own, refusing him books that aren’t in their language, refusing him time spent on his own land or among his own people, ignoring him should he speak any language that is not the one they were trying to force upon him. He knows that, for most of them, it was never done maliciously, but he still resents them for it*.

He’s always hated that his language was considered lesser by some; hated that he was expected to learn while they were not.

But that’s bygones – thoughts he uses to distract himself from the terror that he’s been living in. Sometimes late at night he would pretend to argue with nations from his past about it, going over words out loud in the slurred state that he was often left in until he felt like he had properly argued his point.

“Yes, Mister Russia is demanding you home,” the boy solider says, who motions to the door behind him, “We have been sent to do so.”

It takes the air out of his lungs for a moment to hear that. He knows that going home does not mean going back to his country but instead back to Russia’s manor home, and yet he feels the slightest bit of happiness. He hates the idea of going back there – the representation of Russia was not a sane man; history had taken it’s toll on him and he took it out on others* – but it was better than waiting every night to see what torture befell him.

Tell me, are all nations weak like you?

“Why?” It falls out of his mouth before he has the ability to tamp down on it; kill it before it kills him. Especially when he knows the answer – what Mister Russia wants, Mister Russia gets – that will come.

There’s a shrug before, “I don’t know. We were told to get you, bring you to Moscow where you will wait for Mister Russia to pick you up. That’s it,” is said. And like good soldiers who do not question what their orders are, here they are.

“I’m ready then.”

____

If he expects that they’re going to walk him out like he was brought it – dragged by his underarms, blindfolded, clothes a mess, thrown to the ground like a piece of trash they wanted nothing more than to get rid of – then he’s mistaken. Instead, the boy soldier calls for his fellow soldiers, men who look older and as if this job is beneath them. One stands in front of him, one stands in back, and then one on each side.

It’s like he’s being protected but he knows the truth: it’s so that he has no thought of running, no way to try if he even wanted to.

Eduard flinches as the doors to the building swing open, the bright light of the sky burning his eyes a bit. There are two small cars sitting in front of the stairs, the head doctor whispering to another soldier near the passengers’ side of one of them.

He wants nothing to do with whatever conversation is happening, the head doctor is as cruel as the soldiers from before, but as a thick manila folder is passed between the two men, he wishes he could hear what is being said – perhaps it is about him and his mental state.

Perhaps it’s about the drugs given to him that have started to wear off and what they did.

Perhaps it is about the harm that has befallen him while in their care – a soldier who took too much liberties whenever he had the chance, the male nurses who slammed him up against walls and forced his mouth open to push pills past his lips, a female nurse who pinched him whenever he would doze off during the day as she didn’t want him to ruin his sleeping pattern.

Perhaps it is about the other things that even in his thoughts Eduard will not mention.

Whatever it is, the soldier has it packed away in a locked briefcase before Eduard has even approached them, the quartet of solemn faced men marching him slowly.

“Ready?” The man asks and, by the way the others nod their head, it’s obvious that he is the one in charge of it all. “Good, get in the car.”

The door is opened for him, the boy soldier slides in first and Eduard takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he follows. His body wants to shake, the last time he was in a car like this was -

I bet you like being surrounded like this – all helpless and needy.

“Are you okay?”

He wants to scream – wants to laugh – wants to take the knife from the belt nearby and stab until he feels better – but instead he nods and lies like he’s been taught to do since his country was taken from him and his people, “Yes, thank you.”

He’s polite even when he doesn’t want to be.

“Good, soon you will be home.”

It’s not his home, sits snugly on his lips. He had said that once to the Russian nation and received a backhanded slap for it, along with a long, long lecture about not being respectful enough. Eduard had felt he was being respectful, especially given that that time around, he hadn’t added any poison to the taller nation’s drinks.

Instead he says nothing, holding back the flinch that threatens his body once one of the other soldiers slides in to sit next to him. He can’t reach any of the doors, he can’t escape, he can just stare off in the distance and disappear from this world as he learned to do while locked up in solitary.

The driver in front – the soldier that was talking to the doctor – starts the car in silence, a quick bark of orders done too quick for Eduard to focus on translating to the other soldiers, before they’re off; the psychiatric facility nothing more then a minor stage piece in his personal history.

He should feel something, he thinks as they leave what had housed him behind and he’s able to see where he was being held. He should feel anything but all he can think is about how nice the little wooded areas look as they bypass them; how even if he hadn’t been blindfolded on the drive up, he still wouldn’t have been able to see anything with how late he had arrived.

So, in that case, for what other reason then but to make him feel helpless, did the original soldiers have him blindfolded and tied up, knelt on the floor between their clothed legs like a common whore?

But even with that thought, he can’t force himself to feel anything else but a solemn ache in his bones.

He’s just tired.

He wants home – his real home – and to hear his language as he goes about his everyday. He wants to hide away somewhere no one would ever look and pretend he doesn’t exist anymore. He wants to set himself upon the international stage and scream about what they have just let happen, and at the same time, he wants nothing more than to sew his mouth shut and never speak a word to anyone about the crimes committed against his person; against the other patients in the places he was sent to, against his fellow nations left behind in that manor.

He can’t do that though. To sew his mouth shut would be to prove to the psychiatrist who said he had gone crazy right, and they weren’t correct. He was fine – he would be fine, he would be fine and he was going to be fine. He had to be fine.

The definition of fine is different for them all though and Eduard – Estonia – is unsure what it means for him.

He knows how he’s been expected to act by those who’s owned his land, as every single other nation had different expectations of him, and he’s knew what it meant when he had his own bosses recently, and he just barely remembers what it meant the years before his country got taken, but none of those times has moments that come even close to now.

To the fear and loathing he feels.

To the memories that come and go as they please, as if they had etched themselves sharply against his skin and nary a touch would inflame them, jolting him back to the when.

To the sickness that settles in his gut at the idea of not rebelling while at the same time screaming at the idea of rebelling.

He feels hands on him at all times, hears the senseless roar of static in his ears when he loses focus. If he stops to listen for a second, he can hear the footsteps that echo as they walk down hallways, back and forth, back and forth. He feels desperate for something to distract him while at the same time fearful of being distracted by what may come.

If what they had wanted had been to permanently unsettle him, then they have succeeded, because for the life of him – and what a long life that is – he cannot seem to believe that there will come a day when he is not haunted by this; not hopelessly followed from home to home, room to room, city to city, space to space, by the violence that has damaged him so completely.

Damage that, for many reasons, he will have to carry by himself, because who could he even tell?

(He’s not telling, he promises, he would never!)

Who would even believe him?

(No one, he’s heard it all throughout this ordeal. No one would believe him – no one would listen to him – no one would care.)

The thought of telling Mister Russia barely flits in his brain before he’s batting it away. The other nation would not care, in fact, Eduard – Estonia – is sure he can actually hear what the other nation would say if he spoke of the abuse he has suffered at the hands of the other’s men. “You deserved it. You should not have been trying to betray the family. Now you have learned your lesson, are you going to be good now?”

You’ve brought this on yourself.

(pleasestoppleasestoppleasestop)

He internally shudders at that thought.

No.

Out of the question.

(Not that there even was a question – because he’s not going to tell, he swears, he would never.)

Eduard – Estonia – would never tell Latvia, it would traumatize the younger-looking nation and after spending most of his whole (imprisoned, captured) life with the other, the last thing he wants to do is put more of a heavy burden on the poor boy. Latvia has enough trouble, Eduard cannot add more.

No one cares where you are.

No one cares that you aren’t at Mister Russia’s house – it’s like nothing has even changed. It’s because you are not important. You are nothing but a traitor – no one misses a traitor.

And that goes for Lithuania too.

His relationship with the other is still slightly rocky after their fight from a few years ago, when Lithuania had first found out that Eduard – Estonia – was hoarding illegal books and pamphlets. He had been worried about what might happen to him should he be found out; what Mister Russia would do, what the Soviet government might do. Eduard had just told the other that he’d be fine, the worse that could happen was he got on Mister Russia’s bad side for a bit and had to spend time apologizing a lot; things that he basically did whenever he was caught speaking his own language.

“The government can’t touch us and it’s not like they’re going to be nicer to our people if we don’t join in on these protests,” Eduard had said while Lithuania had shaken his head, worried nonetheless.

He has no doubt that the Lithuanian would be horrified by what has happened to him, if he were to speak about it, but he also knows that Lithuania has his own troubles in the form of his abhorrent admirer that is their captor.

(And in that same vein, perhaps the other would, silently, blame Estonia for what befell him. The other had warned him, had expressed worry after worry after worry, and in his utter arrogance, Eduard – Estonia – had just waved him off. Perhaps if the other learned, he’d say You deserved it, I told you so, it’s your own fault, what did you expect them to do? And Eduard would have to live with those words coming from the mouth of his own friend (brother) for the rest of time.)

Even if he didn’t, what kind of person would he be if he forced his own problems onto someone already so troubled?

Not a good person, he hears in his head, the voice of his main tormentor echoing words he had spoken during late night torture sessions and early morning sessions. You’re not a good person at all. A weak nation, a bad friend, a terrible person. You get what you deserved.

Bile rises. His stomach clenches.

Deep breath in.

One.

Two.

Three.

Shaky breath out.

In.

One.

Two.

Three.

Out.

The soldiers in the car don’t notice – or don’t care – which is nice after the incessant watch he had been placed on while in the facilities. He supposes it makes sense to watch him so severely. They had him marked upon arrival, as someone who could, without a moment’s notice, seek to harm himself, even when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. Before they had placed him in the protective care of the doctors and nurses of the Soviet Psychiatric field, he had never once thought about harming himself.

Now it’s a fight to ignore those thoughts.

There was no one, he returns to his previous thoughts, no one in that house he feels comfortable telling. Whatever lie that has been used to excuse away his absence is the lie he will give when asked, as soon as he finds out what it is.

“Look.” The boy solider grabs his arm to get his attention, one gloved hands pointing out the window.

Estonia-

–Eduard, a name passed to him by a brother that betrayed him and held onto after said brother had disappeared out of sentimentality; a name that had been spoken by destruction in the forms of humans trying to get him to break, hoping that he would crack as their own nation had done; a name that he doesn’t really connect to but refuses to leave behind because has he not left behind enough nations to the tide of time—he mourns for the representations of nations that had once existed but who’s existence was not long enough for them to be properly recorded in time—that he wishes to hold onto something from a nation that had once been kind to him?*-

–looks up briefly and sees a city rising from the dusty horizon.

How long has he been in his own thoughts?

Long enough that the drive has passed him by and the city of Moscow looms into view. Long enough that the fear that had been abated by his senseless thoughts comes back in it’s fullest to sit like lead in his stomach, bile displaced and rising to his throat.

He forces a smile. “Moscow?” He asks even though he knows the answer.

“Yes, we are almost there,” says the driver, his accent rougher then the boy soldier – and how long will he stay a boy soldier, he wonders. Maybe he becomes a soldier, no longer a boy, after he has used force to detain a person, following the lies gifted to him by whoever is in charge. The first time he drags a person through the streets, leaving them bloodied? Will he stop being one after his first, but not last, murder? Perhaps he will commit a rape beforehand, signaling to his fellow soldiers that he is a man who can force himself onto anyone he wishes as long as he wears the colors of his army.

Estonia doesn’t have any fairy tale ideas of what war looks like; he sat in the woods with his men trying to fight off an army of stronger opponents, watching them die and suffer, trying his hardest to help where he could, but that doesn’t mean he condones the acts that he knows are committed. Once, war had been ugly, nasty, dirty and drawn out but eventually over – now it’s the aftermaths that people struggle to move on from.

Still, he banishes the thought and instead decides to focus on getting his thoughts together. He can’t keep disappearing into his own thoughts – if he is going back to Russia’s house then he’ll not have the same amount of time to do so anymore, and if he wasn’t truly going back there, then it would probably look better if he was able to pretend he’s still at his best.

He closes his eyes for a second, takes a deep breath in, and like all his people had said back when he was a child nation and the looming threat of the crusades sat like an ugly shadow on his doorstep, locked everything that was not helpful away until he could unpack it at a later day.

____

When they arrive at a building, they speak quickly and roughly to each other, their words sliding from their lips faster than his slightly addled brain can keep up.

When they arrive at the building, the driver – commander? - says that they will be waiting in front of Mister Russia’s office there. He says that he expects Estonia to be on his best behavior because they have no clue how long it will take for the other nation to show up.

When they arrive at the building that decides his fate, Estonia is done packing away all the mental anguish, the trauma, the horror, the terror, and he notices that they are treating him as if he is a child who might wander off if not properly retained.

It’s demeaning.

“I’ve sat through more boring things than you can think of, I’ll be fine,” he says as nonchalantly as he can manage, as they exit the vehicle. The words are much nicer than any of the biting (tearing, searing) words he wants to say. “If I do get too bored, I’m sure I’ll be able to find some way to entertain myself.”

The commander does not find him charming.

They make sure to walk in the same group formation as before; only this time, they follow like little rats the driver with his slow gait and commanding eyes. The walk to the building is slow, tension in his body rising sightly as he waits for something to change – for them to grow angry like the first set of soldiers that brought him somewhere or for them to rush him into a room and begin beating him – but nothing does and they enter the building.

There’s barely anybody, he notices as they walk through corridors and up a flight of stairs, nobody but them. It’s unnerving to think of being in a building with just these men, but it gets more unnerving as they come to a stop in the middle of a corridor two flights up, where a small retinue of others are standing in the way. It’s a small group, four men versus their six, but the way those men stand is just wrong. It’s as if there is nothing weighing down their shoulders: they stand proud and smug.

The head soldier – the driver, the commander, the rough and angry and too tired to still be here man – sighs to himself, mutters “What the fuck are they doing here,” under his breath, and squares his shoulders as one of the men in the other group comes to stand in front of them.

“We are here to take the representative of the Estonian Soviet Socialist Republic* to speak with our boss,” This man says, as he approaches. His voice is honeyed, hoarse, and full of warning as he comes to a stop in front of the commander, his arms held behind him. He gives a little nod to the other soldiers before his gray eyes zero in on Estonia. “We will be holding onto him until he is picked up by the USSR.”

His hands form fist, the threat under those words are there, he knows it, and he can see the commander frown. Hopefully the commander won’t let him be taken by these people, but Eduard doubts there is much he could do if they do decide to leave him with them. Logically, a dark part of his brain goes, it’d be easier for them – not having to deal with two nutcase nations.

“No.”

Estonia blinks. His brain is quiet for once as he takes in the sight of the soldiers steeling themselves for a fight while the other group looks at each other in confusion. He understands their thoughts, they are the type of men that one does not say no to, no matter who you are, but the commander does not seem to care about their place in the pecking order and stands plainly in place. But it cannot be that simple, Eduard thinks as the room falls into silence. You can’t just say no.

“What?” The man asks, frowning himself. “We have orders -”

The commander gives a bark of laughter, harsh like the wind against the skin in the middle of winter in poorly dressed clothing and all of the thoughts of how this man seemed weary fades as his true form comes out. His shoulders shrug as he grins slightly, “We were given orders by Mister Russia himself, to keep our eyes on this representation until he, himself, arrived to pick up the ESSR.”

He wishes they would stop referring to him as ESSR - it’s not his name, it’ll never be his name, he wants nothing to do with the farce of a name – but still, he holds himself stationary as those around him decide his fate, as he has been taught to do.

“Our boss-”

“I do not care about your boss,” the commander says, eliciting murmurs from the other men. Their boss must be very important that the words the commander says are met with such disbelief “I only care what my nation has asked of me – he has asked me to stay nearby the ESSR, to deliver the ESSR directly to him upon his arrival, and to then accompany them both back to the manor in which they reside.”

The other man frowns. It feels antagonistic, the way he does so – as if he’s weighing his options on just shooting the commander in order to get rid of him.

Estonia, for a second, feels his heart stop. He doesn’t care for anybody in the hallway, but the idea that he might become at mercy to these sharp angry men, with no one to stop them from whatever they want with him: he feels sick.

Again.

A door opens, bringing the rising tension to a standstill as a secretary exits the room right behind the men, her shoes clacking on the tiled floor. She takes one look at the soldiers and the unnamed men and frowns. Blue-gray eyes narrow as they meet his own, either she’s surprised that there are more people than she expected or she thinks he looks bad. Nevertheless, she shakes her head before she speaks, “He’s ready to see you,” right to him, ignoring the others around.

He’s been spoken at for the past however long he’s been held, but barely spoken to – a few times he’d have a human prisoner to interact with, but those times, were far and few in-between – so for a moment, he can just stare at her before the boy soldier pushes on his shoulder, alerting him back. He gives a nod to her and looks to the commander. “Hopefully I’ll only be a few minutes so you don’t get in trouble with Mister Russia,” he says with a slight smile he doesn’t feel.

The commander gives a short nod before directing his men to stand with their backs against the opposite wall, and Estonia follows the secretary into the room.

His stomach drops upon entry. He’s been here before and he knows it – the memories from that first night echoes in his brain as his feet force him to continue forwards, to the chair sat right in front of him. Estonia doesn’t know the name of the human in front of him, doesn’t know what position in Russia’s government he holds, but he knows that this is the man from that night all that time ago. This is the man that condemned him to two different mental facilities and a long period of torture*.

He lowers himself into the chair, eyes immediately drifting to the ground as he remembered the last time – how he had looked this man straight in the face and been violently assaulted for it. He wants to look up, to let him know that the nation of Estonia has not broken, but even the thought of it brings a shiver to his spine. Still, he takes several steadying breathes before he does let his eyes drift upwards, hiding his fear the best he can as he waits for anything.

“It has been a year and six months since you darkened my office door, do you understand what that means?” He asks, his nasally voice echoing through the room. Estonia doesn’t even get a chance to answer before the man continues, “It means that there will be questions about where you’ve been – do you know what you say?”

Of course he doesn’t, but he knows that whatever the answer is will be the furthest from the truth that they can get.

“You have been helping us with secretarial work; updating paperwork, helping with computers, things of that nature,” The man continues on, hands clasped on his desk, smarmy smile planted on his face. For a second, the man pauses before leaning close and speaking, “We have been very good to you while you’ve been with us; no harm has come to you.”

His breath leaves his body as his eyes widen slightly, staring at this man in disbelief. That lie would work if everyone he interacts with for the next hundred years are idiots, of which his neighbors are not. Some of them are self-centered, but none of them are so self-centered as to be able to believe no harm has come to him when he looks as he does. “No one will believe that.” It comes out without meaning to, just as his slip up did (kill it before it kills you) and the official’s face falls, ever so slightly.

“You have no proof,” He snarls, slamming his hands on the desk and standing, his chair hitting something hard behind him. Estonia flinches as he reels back, eyes closing as he waits for a physical attack. It takes the official a second to calm down before he’s forcing his fake smile back on his face and sitting back down. He clears his throat before he continues, “You must realize that you do not have any proof whatsoever of where you have been, whereas we, if questioned, can produce much evidence of you being in the locations we have given.”

Falsified evidence is not evidence.

“Of course, I worry for your mental state if you truly believe whatever it is you are imagining you have been through. Surely you do not need a stay in a psychiatric facility to help you remember the past year?” Eduard’s heart constricts in it’s cage made of his ribs. It’s not even a hidden threat. The man leans in conspiratorially, his smile dropping. “Because, between just us, I have not heard the best things about those facilities. My colleagues have spoken how they are trying to fix the rampant abuse that seems to breed in those locations but I am sure we can find you somewhere safe if you were to stay in one, yes?”

It’s a verbal slap in the face; an openly cruel one.

It takes him a second to gather his thoughts. Or well, the one thought that he keeps repeating in his head. “I won’t say anything,” he says after a moment. The man seems to wait for a second and Estonia knows what he wants, but all he can manage to say is, “Not that there is anything to say.”

This seems to ease the room a bit but still the official sits still.

“Because, I’ve been-” He can’t lie like this. He can’t say the lie given to him. It sits on his tongue, heavy as the feel of sopping wet clothes, weighing you down in the water. “I’ve been well.” He manages after a second.

The man smiles, nodding slightly as he grabs some papers off his desk. “Good, remember that if someone asks.” The pages are shuffled in his hands before one makes it way to the empty desk space in front of Estonia. “Now, can you tell me about this?”

Estonia stares at it for a second, his emotions haywire. It’s nothing more than a typed page of words, but it’s the words – inflammatory, anti-soviet words – that scream at him. They’re the reason he was sent away, they’re the reason he suffered.

“No, I’m afraid I can’t.” It’s his voice, he knows it is, but it doesn’t feel like it. “I’m sorry.”

This is a lie, much bigger than the one this man wants him to tell to others, but it’s a lie he’ll die with. The man who wrote that has two kids and a wife and takes care of his mother as his father was killed during the war and Estonia will never speak his name.

The man hums and places down another page of words – this time written by a man who left his teaching position in a university when the communists came to power and who survives life on bad humor and copious amounts of liquors – and asks, “How about this one?”

“No.”

The man’s face sours as he nods his head, placing down another one, and another one, and another one. “And these?”

“I’m sorry sir, I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Is his palms sweating and his heart rapidly beating in his chest? Yes. But that doesn’t change that fact that he will not sell out his fellow dissidents.

Narrowed eyes meet his and for a second, he wants to speak out of fear, but instead, Estonia pulls in on himself, allowing a moment of weakness in hopes of that being the thing that forces this man away from him. It doesn’t though and he slams his hands on the desk again, moving to stand.

The door opens.

“Now what do we have here?”

Once upon a time, Ivan’s voice was the one that haunted his nightmares – the abuses that he suffered at the Russian nation’s hands plagued him still – but now other voices take that place and all he feels is a sense of bitter relief at the sight of the other nation. Better the devil you know, his brain supplies for him as he watches the government official straighten up and force a smile onto his face.

“Ivan!” The man greets, walking around his desk to stand right next to Estonia’s shoulder. A hand finds its way to rest on him, squeezing lightly. “You were supposed to check in with my secretary.”

Russia’s smile grows, eyes narrowing as he moves one step forward into the room. The man moves back a step, his hand falling from Estonia’s shoulder before Russia moves forwards again. “I didn’t want to,” he replies, head tilting and shoulders shrugging, “I will be taking this one now.”

The man stops smiling, swallowing a gulp of air before he says, “I’m afraid, sir, that we still have a bit more to discuss.”

“I don’t care.” Russia lays a hand on his shoulder and Estonia takes a moment to deep breath instead of flinching. Reactions make the other nation interested and Estonia has not survived his house with the least amount of trauma – which is not saying much – by showing his interesting reactions the other. “Stand up.”

Stand up or I’ll break your legs!

A hand yanking on his hair. Curses are shouted. Get on your knees bitch.

“Up, up, Estonia, we have places to go.” Russia’s childish voice cuts through the thoughts in his head, the ones trying to slink their way out of the box.

He pushes down on them, closing his eyes before he moves to stand up. Once standing, he straightens his shoulders ever so slightly and tries to force himself back into his normal around Russia. “Yes, Mister Russia, sir,” he says after a second.

There’s a dangerous look upon the other nation’s face and even though it is not directed towards him, Estonia can recognize this for what it is: a power play. It’s not the first time the Russian has fought with his government in this passive aggressive way, but it is the first time that another nation has fallen into harm because of it. Well, that and his own arrogant stupidity.

“We are leaving now,” Russia is saying, his voice sickly sweet. “I’m sure I will see you in a few weeks, Yuri.”

The man – Yuri, a name that rings some kind of bell in Estonia’s head – nods and moves to sit right back down. “Of course,” is said in fake cheer, “I look forward to our conversations.”

Russia turns without saying anything else, Estonia takes one last look at the man – he has a name now, his brain tries, but forever he will only remember him as ‘the man’ – and the stern look that has fallen across his face speaks more words than their previous conversations did.

He will be watching, waiting for Estonia to take one step out of line to drag him back here. Estonia didn’t break how he wanted him to and this man will try for a second time at some point in the future.

It chills him to the bones.

____

The drive back to the manor is shorter than he remembers. It seems that as soon as they get in the car, they are halfway there.

Logically, Estonia knows that’s not true, but he barely remembers any of the drive until Russia is telling him how much Lithuania and Latvia has missed him. A warmth blooms in his chest as Russia says, “Poor little Latvia has worried nonstop even after I told him of your employment as a secretary – you left so suddenly,” that he can even ignore the dig at the lie he’s replied with multiple times already.

It seems the Russian knows that he’s lying but is waiting for him to say it instead of confronting him on it.

Estonia is thankful for that. He knows that eventually it will come to a head, but he has much more practice at hiding his troubles than Russia has with patience, and so he believes that he will be safe for a while longer. Which is good, because with the fear he holds tight in his body, being confronted about everything is not a thing that he really wants to deal with at the moment.

“You will have the rest of today to settle yourself,” Russia was saying, his voice far more relax than Estonia figured he’d be knowing he was being lied to. “I expect you to help around the house though tomorrow.”

“Of course.” He’d need something to keep his mind off his thoughts. “Thank you, Mister Russia.”

A hum, but otherwise, the conversation is dead.

Which is fine for the Estonian. There are no more words that need to be said between them – theirs is not a relationships marked by the tentativeness of scraping past injuries yet a willing eye towards their future, instead it is a sinking ship upon which the captain has chained his men to the mast to await their watery grave. There is no comforting words to be given between the two of them; no apologies for governments overstepping, or trying to incite mass protests, or the past deeds they have done against each other. No sense in looking for forgiveness or anything more than surface level interactions.

The car pulls into the driveway by time Estonia thinks to open his mouth to ask about the others – is Miss Ukraine doing well? What about Miss Belarus? Has Prussia driven Lithuania to murder yet? - and all his questions disappear as he spots Lithuania and Latvia standing next to the open door.

There are bags beneath their eyes but the relief in them outshine anything else.

Estonia waits until Russia opens the door for him, letting the other nation walk ahead like he knows to do. It takes everything he has – and the slimy feeling in his gut – to resist the urge to wrap his arms around both of them and never let go. He’s not one for hugging usually, but he wants the comfort that comes from such a hug.

“Welcome back, Mister Russia,” they greet, a smile on their faces. For once they don’t look as forced. “Welcome back, Estonia.”

“Lithuania, Latvia.” He nods his head in greeting. His eyes meet Lithuania, the all knowing older brother figure, and he knows that Lithuania knows that he is not alright and if Lithuania knows than it’s only a matter of time before Latvia knows.

Russia is speaking though, giving them directions, and Estonia barely listens to a single word he’s saying. Instead he’s cataloging the other two in his mind. It’s been so long and the only mention of the two while he was gone was vague threats towards them and his tormentors telling him how little they missed him.

Lithuania looks as if death has visited him every night; the fatigue in his body is so noticeable that Estonia is worried immediately. The other never lets anyone see him this tired – not unless he can’t help it. The way his body seems to sag even as it’s standing straight makes him wonder what sort of harm has befallen Lithuania while he was gone.

Latvia is, at least, only trembling, but there is something beneath the surface of his eyes that that worries the Estonian. It’s anger, directed straight at Russia. Whatever has gone on while he was gone has brought an emotion to the Latvian that Estonia did not know the other could feel. Of course, he knew that Latvia could feel anger – everyone could, but he truly believed that Latvia’s other emotions were too weigh over by fear and trauma.

“Anyway, go, go,” Russia says, cutting into his thoughts as he pushes on Estonia’s back. The Estonian holds back a hiss as the other nation continues, “Remember, I expect you all to be ready to do your duties early in the morning.”

“Of course,” they all manage to say at the same time as the Russian leaves to go elsewhere in the manor.

The first words out of Lithuania’s mouth as soon as they are alone, Latvia attaching himself to Estonia’s midsection, are, “What did they do to you?” and for a second, Estonia pauses in his movement to welcome the hug, unsure of what to say.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say something, either the truth (he promises he won’t tell, he’ll never tell) or the lie, when Lithuania shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, we’ll deal with that later, let’s just get you safe.”

Not comfortable, safe.

Estonia nods. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever feel that again, but he knows that as long as they are living in Russia’s home, he definitely won’t. There is no safety in a place you cannot speak about – no safety in a place you were forced to come to. There is no safety in a place where you will be watched until you mess up – and Estonia knows himself, he will mess up at some point. He will begin piecing himself back together tomorrow and sometime in the future he will misstep and he will be dragged right back in front of that man to answer for it.

The only way to not be is to let this silence him; let this be the only warning he needs to keep himself in line.

But he can’t, he thinks as he’s lead through the house and towards their shared bedroom. In silence, there is some quiet acceptance that this is what it is now and Estonia, bruises fading, body aching, soul shattered, cannot accept this.

He refuses.

____

Additional Notes: Anyway, sorry for the dark fic yet again, seriously hoping the next thing I have for you guys is a lot more happy. I've got like 80% of a happy fic finished but like the last bit is kicking my ass.

Historical notes && information:

*Takes place literally right after Isolation *Being naked in literally so many other places are not as sexualized as it is in America, and like group showers/saunas/nude beaches are all fine because it's like the great equalizers - which like I get but at the same time I don't really want to see anyone nude ever so *shrug* *There's far too many medications for me to list but like just pick a benzo that was in production during that time and you'll have what I was thinking of. *Ten thousand percent little baby Estonia fought against the Nordics during their viking era (bby!Est as a little sea faring child who just wants the vikings to piss off is a thing thank you for coming to my ted talk) and everything and one day I'll write a fic for that, but like look through their history, Estonians really fought a lot - their resilience in the face of occupation is truly admirable. *This kid's the product of an Estonian mother and a Ukrainian father and honestly only exists for this one series fic. *I have talked about this before and I'll talk about it again, there's got to be some kind of agreement between governments, otherwise any goodwill is immediately shattered. I mean, I'm not politician (I have morals) but I am a person and if I found out that the gov of another nation tortured my nation, I'd have no desire to see any sort of friendship grow. *What is is with occupying governments deciding the native languages are icky and like banning their usage?? Especially since the Estonian language is so pretty??? It's literally like lilting and pretty and !!!! But anyway, historically, Estonian was not considered pretty by all those occupying nations and was either outright banned or just not considered important over said occupying nation's own language. As stated, I don't think the nations who owned Est was doing it maliciously - unlike their govs - but more so in a practical, lets not rock the boat, sorta thing. *There is enough evidence in the manga/webcomics, anime, and other supplemental material that states that Russia was volatile towards the Baltics while they lived with him, ergo Trauma. *This entire paragraph is a headcanon. First bit, 'a brother that betrayed him,' according to an Estonian history book I have, prior to Livonia joining the whole religious thing, ancient Estonians saw them as a (kinda) brother nation, afterwards not so much. (Really sold out a family relationship for a place to live (for legal purposes, this is a joke)). Secondly, "left behind enough nations to the tide of time", there were quite a bit of nations in that area that have come and go: Courland, Semgallia, Ingeria, etc, and I know they most likely don't show up because Hima-papa hasn't done research on them/gone that deep, but I like to think that they probably just faded after a while. Lastly, I don't think some nations got to choose their own name. Like I'm not going to get into it here, but the name Alfred was only really popular in America from the late 19th century to the 1930s, so why would America have that name if it wasn't given to him by the reigning country - Britain? Anyway, I, especially, believe in the way of Est & Lat that they were named by Prussia & Livonia and since human names aren't that important, they just went a long with it. I got more thoughts, but this is already long enough. *Name given to Estonia during the Soviet period. We don't like -∞/100. *This man is/based after Yuri Andropov, the real life chairman of the KGB during the time this fic is taking place. He was really really a bitch who "sought the destruction of dissent" and was lead the way in committing people to psychiatric hospitals for dissidence. I don't know if I have to put allegedly here to avoid any troubles but like it was written about and everyone knows so fuck this guy.

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notiddygxthgf · 3 months

Text

World famous rock star Choso Kamo's new live-in assistant is convinced that she can fix him -- substance abuse issues and all. Tensions ensue, and as new feelings rise to the surface, the two find it difficult to maintain an appropriate workplace relationship.

(or; the one where an unstable musician meets an assistant with a savior complex).

❝I GOT A BRAND NEW PLACE, I THINK I'VE SEEN IT TWICE ALL YEAR. I CAN'T REMEMBER HOW IT LOOKS INSIDE, SO YOU CAN PICTURE HOW MY LIFE'S BEEN. I WENT FROM STARING AT THE SAME FOUR WALLS FOR TWENTY-ONE YEARS TO SEEING THE WHOLE WORLD IN JUST 12 MONTHS, BEEN GONE FOR SO LONG, I MIGHTA JUST FOUND GOD.

WELL, PROBABLY NOT, IF I KEEP MY HABITS UP AND PROBABLY NOT, IF I CAN'T KEEP UP WITH LOVIN'...PROBABLY NOT IF WE TAKE 'EM TO MY SPOT. PROBABLY NOT, IF I TWEAK ALL DAY JUST TO SLEEP AT NIGHT, GOD DAMN, I'M HIGH. MY DOCTOR TOLD ME TO STOP, AND HE GAVE ME SOMETHING TO POP. I MIX IT UP WITH SOME ADDERALLS AND I WAIT TO GET TO THE TOP.❝

╭─ ⋅ ─ ✩ ─ ⋅ ─╮

▷ prologue

▷ the interview

╰─ ⋅ ─ ✩ ─ ⋅ ─╯

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : jan 25, 2024

cover art credits: @/2OARIN on twitter

streaming... Kiss Land (The Weeknd).

cw/tags: rockstar!au, loosely based off of 'the idol', keyword very loosely... bc it sucked., slow burn, mutual pining, sassy reader, not really enemies to lovers but let's just say they drive eachother crazy. toxic relationship, but it gets better, mental instability, mental breakdowns, mentions of relapse (will include tw!), implied/referenced alcohol abuse/alcoholism, recreational drug use, implied/referenced drug addiction, HE GETS BETTER I SWEARRRR, eventual smut, sexual tension, explicit sexual content, oral sex, doggy style, cowgirl position, unprotected sex, vaginal sex, questionable decisions just like all around, dark romance, reader is a little delusional (me too its ok), rough sex, rough kissing, rough angry sex, just read it it'll be a sexy and amazing time, choso my beloved you can do no wrong, except maybe in this particular fanfic, LISTEN TO KISS LAND BY THE WEEKND.

#smoke and mirrors ☄. *. ⋆#choso kamo #choso x reader #choso kamo x reader #choso x you #choso x y/n #choso kamo x y/n #choso smut #choso angst #choso fluff #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n

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secret-gallavich · 6 months

Text

Shameless Whumptober Masterlist

just a list of all the shameless whump fics i wrote in october

Safety Net

tw suicidal thoughts

Mickey has always been there for Ian, even when he's in Mexico and Ian wants to jump off a bridge.

Solitary Confinement

tw mistreatment of mental illness

Ian’s meds were bound to get out of whack at some point in their prison stay.

Made To Watch

tw implied/referenced rape/non-con, implied/referenced child abuse

Ian and Mickey go to a couple’s therapist once a month.

Outnumbered

tw implied/referenced rape/non-con , implied/referenced underage sex , child abuse

Laura Milkovich is 19 years old when she gives birth to her third baby, Mikhailo. It’s the 10th of August in 1994, her husband is in jail and she’s a mother once again

You Said You'd Never Leave

tw suicidal thoughts

Ian comes home from the hospital and Mickey isn't there.

Insomnia

Mickey thought he was just having trouble adjusting to the new surroundings of living in the Westside. He’s not used to the quietness, he’s feeling homesick or the moon is too fucking bright.

Infection

Mickey’s never felt…normal when it comes to Ian. Ian makes him weird and do things he’d never normally do. Like get a tattoo of his name on his chest in prison.

Makeshift Bandages

Mickey hides an injury from Ian while working at the Kash 'N' Grab

Leave Me Alone

tw horror, mistreatment of mental illness, murder, dead dove: do not eat, paranormal, major character death

Ian's convinced something is haunting their apartment. Mickey realises he's telling the truth when it's too late.

Drugging

tw drugged, date rape drug

Mickey’s started going to the club with Ian just to make sure no one takes advantage of him. He lets Ian do his thing, give out lapdances, sweet talk them for some extra cash but he’s always stepping in when they go too far.

Floral Bouquet

tw major character death

Ian passes by a flower shop every day on his morning runs but can't bring himself to go inside.

You Will Regret Touching Them

tw implied/referenced child abuse

S03E06 but it goes differently.

Mickey feels like he’s going to throw up at any second.

He’s got a boy spending the night with him. Not just any boy, Ian. Ian is staying the night and he’s trying to play it casual but he can’t stop glancing over at the red head just to make sure he’s really there.

Don't Move

Mickey is allergic to bees and fucking hates spring

Who's There?

tw thriller, horror

Mickey is home alone and starts hearing noises outside the house.

Storm

tw implied/referenced rape, child abuse, internalised homophobia

Mickey's feeling post S03E06.

The hooker is still here, looking just as scared as he is and putting her purple dress back on under Terry’s watchful eyes. He throws her a bag of coke and she fumbles to catch it. Terry won’t stop glaring at her and Mickey takes it as his chance to look at Ian’s empty spot. He’d taken his clothes, wasn’t sure if Ian was allowed to get changed here or if he left in his boxers.

You Look Awful

tw gay bashing, hatecrime

Ian laughs next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and tugging him close and Mickey laughs back and turns his body into Ian’s. Adrenaline is running through his body and he feels so fucking good right now, it’s the best high he’s ever had.

Mickey's feelings post coming out

Bloody Knife

Ian wasn’t expecting their little trip back to the Southside to end up like this.

‘This’ being the emergency room because Mickey somehow got himself stabbed.

Borrowed Clothes

tw suicidal thoughts, psych ward

The first 24 hours are the hardest.

It’s full of regret on his own behalf, self-loathing and running thoughts of ‘what if’. What if he had been paying more attention, what if he wasn’t so focused on work, what if Mickey had been a good husband?

Body Modifications

tw implied/referenced child abuse

Mickey's always had a love hate relationship with his knuckle tattoos

#shameless #gallavich #ian gallagher #mickey milkovich #whumptober #whump #fanfic

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miscellaneoussmp · 5 months

Text

I'm normal, I swear! (<- a lie of the highest degree). I have some fluff ideas I'll write soon. Anyways, here's Mike trying to watch through static (cw/tw: implied/referenced mental health issues and referenced drug use):

It's the cold or some Federation bullshit that's keeping Mike out of his side of the link between him and Pac. He's tried to reach out more than once, but nothing has come of it. He wonders if Pac has done the same. He hopes that's the case. What he manages to get from the link is full of static. Like watching an old television that only just barely gets any signal.

It had been a while, or at least Mike thinks it's been a while before he gets something through the static. Forever is acting weird, off almost. He presses his palms into his eyes, for a gentle pressure, hoping it would make the image clearer in his head. Mike is caught off guard by what he could make out of a too wide smile and pure white suit. He doesn't understand. He can feel Pac's anxiety mixed with the static. Though, it's an oddly welcome feeling. Pac's anxiety already felt like static because of his attempts to keep it away from their link. He tries his best to reach out. It doesn't work. He loses what little he could see. It's all static now. It's cold.

Pac's anxiety has always felt like static to him. Sometimes, it's barely noticeable background noise. Other times, it feels like an electric shock. Mike has to calm his own breathing down. He doesn't have the energy. The question becomes how close is he to absolute zero, where all motion stops? All he can feel is pinpricks of cold numbing his extremities and the electric shock of his other half's anxiety. Mike closes his eyes again, hoping to see something through the static. What he sees is Pac leaving a note for Cellbit. That's not a good sign. Mike tries to reach out for Pac. It doesn't work. It's back to pure static. He gets closer to absolute zero.

The next time anything appears in the static, Mike's stomach drops. In Pac's hand are two white pills. The pills are familiar in the most awful way possible. He knows the recipe to those pills. He knows the effects won't be good. Oh, and suddenly, it hits him. The Federation must have given Forever, and now Pac, the pills. He tries again to reach out for Pac. It was more of a pull, trying to yank him away. Pac pauses for only a moment, but only a moment. Mike can taste the pills on his own tongue, plastic, and the artificial cherry-grape-strawberry of children's cough medicine. Pac swallows, and Mike loses to the static again. He can't do anything about it.

Everything is great, perfect even. That's all Mike gets now, though the static. He doesn't want to look. He doesn't want the visual to the emotions he gets through the static. The high of the pills and hysteria induced borderline panic attack is an unpleasant combination through the static. He can only imagine Pac feeling it at full force. Mike has to keep his breathing slow and shallow if he wants to survive. It's cold, freezing, and close to absolute zero.

#qsmp #qsmp drabble #qsmp fanfiction (sorta)#qsmp risus arc #qsmp mike #qsmp pac #qsmp tazercraft #we love mike here prommy #<- new tag! to go along with the pac one!#i have fluff ideas i promise ill write them soon!!

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insoukokuhell-434 · 8 months

Text

Chuuya Takes Care of Dazai Fics

Includes:

Emotional Hurt/Comfort (long term & immediate)

Physical Hurt/Comfort

The format I’m using is:

Title - writer (ao3 link) Fic length Time period (teen/mafia skk, 22! Skk, all ages) Additional tags (Tags in bold added by me for extra info) TW

Some fics have parts of the summary/ comments added for additional info

Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Long Term (multiple instances)

hey look, the sky's falling apart - saffroncassis

24.8k TEEN SKK (16/17) AU - Canon Divergence Protective Nakahara Chuuya, Angst, Fluff, Humor, Developing Relationship Found Family (the Akutagawa siblings, Oda's kids, Kyouka, Oda, Ango) TW- Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse and discussions of both these, also cw food for the whole fic

Summary - "At age 16, Chuuya defects from the Port Mafia and drags his partner with him not so much kicking and screaming as silently begrudging, and the rest follow suit in time."

Mostly Chuuya helping Dazai, but Dazai supports him too <33

[Really realistic depiction of the relationship between a depressed person and their supportive partner!]

For the Record - zombiemarker

19.1k TEEN SKK AU- Spies & Secret Agents + Physical Hurt/Comfort Nightmares, Childhood Trauma, they get all dressed up and go to a gala, Implied Sexual Content, Fluff & Angst, Literal sleeping together, Getting together, First kiss, Developing Relationship TW - Blood and Violence, Childhood Trauma

From tags: "Chuuya's a government experiment, Dazai's been with Mori for years, they've both got trauma now"

Mostly Chuuya helping Dazai, but Dazai supports him too <33

A mouth to empty into - series by osamuchuu

Not listing all 4 fics cause this post is already so long, but they’re all amazing pls go read them!

The series depicts depression + CSA trauma so well!

This is my favourite -

Love is not a victory march - osamuchuu

8.7k 22 SKK Soukoku taking care of each other, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Mental Illness, Depression, Drug Addiction, Blood and Injury, Healing, Recovery, Soukoku Tenderness, Light Angst TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide References and Attempts, Addiction, Drug Use

believe me darling, the stars were made for falling -communist_sasuke

14.6k ALL AGES Worried Chuuya, Love Confessions, Dazai is a Mess, Angst, Self-Harm , Fluff & Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon timeline, First Kiss, TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions , Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt

Trust Fall - insi

3.5k ALL AGES (Dark Era, Post-Dark Era, 22 SKK) Emotional Constipation, Mental Health Issues, Dazai has issues TW - Implied/Referenced Suicide & Self-Harm, Suicidal ideation

From tags: Chuuya has met Dazai on the rooftop many times throughout knowing each other.

Immediate

Emotional H/C

Even the Darkness We're Watching Is So Beautiful - NastyaEx

4k 22 SKK (post-109) bsd 109, Fluff, Dazai Needs a Hug, Dazai is a Mess, exhausted dazai, dazai cries but only a little bit, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sharing a Bed, Soft skk, Dazai centered, yosano is a bit here and she's great

I'll Make A Home In Your Gut Because its Somewhere Warm to Sleep - arahabakii

8.9k 22 SKK Fluff, Angst, Mutual Pining, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Making Out, Getting Together, Domestic Fluff, Touch-Starved Dazai, Dazai needs a hug, Chuuya needs a hug TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide References

stay- neon_toad

4.6k 22 SKK (pm!skk flashbacks) Suffering Dazai, Dazai Needs a Hug , Dazai is Bad at Feelings, Oblivious Dazai Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Hugs, birthday, Birthday Presents, soft skk TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide References

where are you? - doeinstinct

2.8k 22 SKK Depression, Disordered Eating, physical symptoms of depression, Mentions of past self harm, m because they shower together, canon adjacent, meal replacements, Love Confessions, They're In Love Your Honor

Run Away With Me - Anonymous

5.3k Dark Era Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, Suicidal Thoughts, Soft Soukoku, Dazai Needs a Hug , Dazai Has Feelings, Pining, Cuddling & Snuggling, Sharing a Bed, Chuuya Needs a Hug, Kissing, Dazai asks Chuuya to run away with him

stay the night - Shinkirou

3.6k 22 SKK Gen or Pre-Slash, Developing Relationship, Character Study, Sharing a Bed, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dazai's depression

Physical Hurt/Comfort

Fool for loyalty, or some other word - osamuchuu

1.7k Dark Era Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Injury Light Angst, chuuya deals with so much tbh, what a champ, Fluff and Angst, Pre-Relationship, Established Relationship, chuuya being Dazai's nurse because he absolutely was Dazai's angry nurse

under wraps - Coffeebiscuits

5k Post-Dark era + Emotional hurt comfort Love confessions, deep talks, Light angst, Fluff and angst, kissing, crushes, sharing a bed, Suicide, Self-Harm, Tending to Wounds TW - Dazai-Typical Suicide Mentions, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm

From tags: “basically chuuya has to patch dazai upand they talk about some things they need to discuss”

Chuuya also gets some emotional comfort

EXHAUSTION

So if you go too far I'll be there - Kimisu

2.5k 22 SKK - Pre-Fyodor | Cannibalism Arc No Plot/Plotless, Literal Sleeping Together, Some Fluff, Canon Timeline

From Summary: Based on a HC that Dazai spends days before every major arc planning and arranging the pieces in order for everything to 'work'. He also pushes his body limits a bit too far when doing that sometimes.

SICK FIC

Nothing More Important Than You - StormDew2

3k MAFIA SKK (15) Sickfic, Soft soukoku, Vulnerability

Please like/reblog if this helped u find a fic, I'd be delighted to know asjsj <3

“Dazai takes care of Chuuya” recs here

Fic rec masterlist here

#soukoku #soukoku fic rec #skk #skk fic rec #soukoku fics #skk fics #really hope the categorizing makes sense!#didn't know how else to do it ;-;#15 in total :D #sierra’s recs #edit: added 'where are you'#Sierra’s posts 🌸

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serickswrites · 3 months

Text

Whump One Shots V

Caretaker snaps request--TW: referenced captivity, referenced torture, broken bones, wounds, drugging

Devil's Advocate--TW: self sacrifice, restraints, gags, implied captivity, implied torture

You Can Lead a Bitch--TW: head injury, blood, amnesia

Coma request--TW: coma, referenced accident, referenced self harm, hospital, suicidal ideation

Good Things Come to Those Who Wait--TW: captivity, torture, blood, restraints, wounds

Bent Out of Shape--TW: head injury, unconsciousness

Hammer Time--TW: scars, healing, wounds, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, hurt/recovery

Second Mouse Gets the Cheese--TW: threat of violence, kidnapping, knife, threat of death

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words--TW: blood, unclear character status, restraints

Lost and Found--TW: botched escape attempt, hypothermia, captivity, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper

Thin Ice--TW: captivity, torture, burns, brands, cruel whumper

You Don't Want To Do That--TW: hidden injury, blood, unconsciousness

Get In--TW: survivor’s guilt, grief, referenced death, referenced mcd

It's Not As Bad As It Looks--TW: captivity, restraints, implied future torture

Threat to society whumpee request--TW: referenced captivity, referenced torture, scars, hurt/aftermath

You're Doing Great--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, drugs, drugging, gag

What's the Bad News?--TW: escape, infection, bite, blood, wounds

Breathe, Damn You!--TW: rescue, torture, electrocution, shock, cpr, restraints

I Should Have Listened to You--TW: captivity, torture, burns, wounds, defiant whumpee

Caretaker and whumpee fight before kidnapping request--TW: kidnapping, restraints, manipulation

Can You Hear Me?--TW: destruction, explosion, rescue, captivity, implied torture

It's No Use--TW: captivity, torture, forced to watch

Suicidal whumpee request--TW: hospital, suicide attempt, unconsciousness, coma, emotional abuse

What Were You Thinking--TW: captivity, torture, escape, blood, wounds, impalement, unconsciousness

Please--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, stress position, blindfold

How Long Have You Been Like This?--TW: captivity, restraints, sleep deprivation, torture, gaslighting

Standing cuffs ask--TW: captivity, restraints, implied future torture

On Three--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, choking, strangulation, forced to watch

How Many Fingers Am I Holding Up?--TW: rescue, captivity, torture, unconsciousness, restraints, poison, caretaker and whumpee

I Made a Mistake--TW: blood, gun, gunshot, wounds, self sacrifice, unconsciousness, unclear character status, cpr

I'm So Sorry--TW: left for dead, abandonment, betrayal, sacrifice, violence, injury, bruises, broken bones

Carving request--TW: captivity, implied future torture, knives, restraints, blood, carving, mutilation, humiliation, cruel whumper, defiant whumpee

It's Really Not That Big of a Deal--TW: hidden injury, bruises, escape

Detective whumpee request--TW: captivity, restraints, drugging, creepy/intimate whumper, confined space, implied necrophilia, trauma, dissociation, did

Deprived--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, gags, blindfold, head phones, white torture, cruel whumper

Stay--TW: self sacrifice, captivity, torture

Unconscious whumpee--TW: blood, head injury, unconsciousness

Buried--TW: buried alive, torture, rescue attempt, captivity

Please--TW: captivity, torture, unclear character status, emotional whump

Whumper tries to recruit whumpee request--TW: kidnapping, unconsciousness, physical violence, defiant whumpee

Earth--TW: blood, stab wound, falling from a great height, left for dead

Unstable--TW: captivity, torture, rescue, collapse, unconsciousness

Whumpee waking from a coma request--TW: hospital, coma, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, caretaker and whumpee

Right Here--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, isolation, hallucinations

King whumpee request--TW: emotional manipulation, control, creepy/intimate whumper, noncon touching, yandere whumper

Trail--TW: forced to watch, captivity, torture, restraints, blood, wounds

Yandere car whump--TW: kidnapping, restraints, gag, drugging, yandere? Whumper

Fae whumpee request--TW: betrayal, knife

Knuckles--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, bruises, broken bones

I Can--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, forced to watch

Late whumpee--TW: bruises, yandere whumper

Rope--TW: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced restraints, referenced forced to watch, unclear character status, burns

But Now This Room Is Spinning--TW: falling from a great height, head injury, blood, nausea, vomitting

I'll Call Out Your Name--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, cruel whumper

Except the Moon--TW: captivity, torture, touch starved, loneliness, self sacrifice

You Better Pray--TW: captivity, torture, sadistic whumper, broken bones, beating, physical violence, blood, restraints

Do or Die--TW: kidnapping, captivity, restraints, video recording, forced to watch, knife, blood, stabbing, mcd

Slightest of Sounds--TW: explosion, injury

I'm Not a Soldier--TW: kidnapping, implied torture

These Days--TW: kidnapping, restraints, blindfold

Never Leave--TW: captivity, yandere

Going Dark--TW: blood, broken bones, restraint, gun, gunfire, unclear character status, captivity

Slept in Days--TW: referenced captivity, referenced torture, PTSD, nightmares, caretaker and whumpee

Strength in Your Bones--TW: captivity, restraints, rescue, hidden injury, unconsciousness, blood, bloody nose

'Til I Drown--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, forced to watch, water torture, drowning, potential to drown

Forget the World--TW: knife, stabbing, blood, mcd, grief, caretaker and whumpee

Deflect--TW: restraint, captivity, torture, bruises, blood, defiant whumpee

The Chain--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, weapons, forced to watch

Hit the Floor--TW: fighting, physical violence, broken glass, blood, wounds

End of the Night--TW: stalking

Head Full--TW: kidnapping, head injury, blood

So Tired--TW: kidnapping, restraints, gag, torture, video camera

Around My Scars--TW: scars, trauma reference (vague), hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt recovery

Second whumpee in the alley request--TW: unconsciousness, blood, hurt/aftermath

Sink Deeper--TW: referenced captivity, injuries, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort

I'm Not Ok--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, unconsciousness, blood, wounds, unclear character status

Getting Better--TW: mcd, grief, mourning

Second ICU request--TW: referenced captivity, referenced torture, referenced wounds, referenced forced to watch, referenced restraints, hospital, unconsciousness, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Caretaker and whumpee misunderstand each other request--TW: referenced captivity, referenced torture, implied non con, hurt/aftermath

Cup--TW: poison, self sacrifice

Halloween whump request--TW: physical violence, head injury, captivity

Lie to Me--TW: captivity, torture, threats of violence

Drift--TW: head injury, unconsciousness, captivity

Miss Me?--TW: referenced captivity, referenced torture, presumed dead, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, hurt/comfort, kidnapping

Caretaker fails to rescue whumpee request--TW: captivity, torture, bruises, broken bones, blood, rescue attempt, restraints, forced to watch

Cosy--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, gag, stress position, collar, blood, wounds, cruel whumper

Whumper loves caretaker request--TW: kidnapping, restraints, gag, torture, yandere

Precise--TW: captivity, torture, restraints

Rail--TW: wound, blood, knife, captivity, escape attempt

Another catatonia request--TW: referenced torture, referenced captivity, catatonia, caretaker and whumpee, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery

Fever Dream--TW: captivity, restraints, torture, infection, fever, illness

Santa Claus--TW: restraints, claustrophobia

Winter Winds--TW: captivity, fever, hypothermia, hidden injury, blood, infection, sickness

Ebeneezer Scrooge--TW: referenced torture, hurt/comfort, hurt/aftermath, hurt/recovery, caretaker and whumpee

A Good Nightmare--TW: kidnapping, nightmare

Jack Frost--TW: drugging, unconsciousness, captivity, creepy/intimate whumper

Got Away--TW: blood, injury, unconsciousness

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer--TW: captivity, torture, restraints, blood, wounds, cruel whumper

#serickswrites #whump #whumpblr #whump community #not writing #writing organization

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caramel----comforter · 2 months

Text

Category: Gen, Hurt/comfort, Angst, Platonic relationships

Relationship: Slade Wilson and Jason Todd

TW: Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-consensual drug use, Suicide Ideation, Graphic Description of injury, Minor Character Death

The mewling pile of skin and bones croaks hoarsely- a sound something between a giggle and a sob, which cracks halfway. The boy immediately stuffs his deformed fingers into his mouth to muffle the sound, obedient as a dog. But it doesn't work, not completely, and he wants to shoot the source in the head and be done with it.

"Could you shut the fuck up?", he grits out.

So, today was the mother of all shitty days, he takes another swig of the amber liquid, the screaming in his head had reached its peak and he'd finally given in to the alcohol stash.

Grant frowns.

Another sound emanates from the weeping mess on the floor, grating on his over-shot nerves. And he's had enough.

He clicks the safety off his gun and crouches next to the boy, who's gone as white as a sheet, and asks rhetorically, "Why are you so fucking stupid, all of you wannabe heroes-"

The boy whimpers, he's too numb to make anything of it

He lifts the gun, "-Stupid, stupid kids, see, this is where it gets you"

#arkham knight #arkhamverse #batman #Fanfiction #Slade Wilson #Deathstroke #Jason Todd angst #batman arkham knight

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thisismysecondrodeo · 1 year

Note

what if reader went to college w ted (before he met michelle) just someone he casually knew from class and had a crush but never did anything

and they run into each other all those years later in richmond and they talk about how they both liked each other but never said anything

AN: This is such a good idea, which is why it took me so long to get to because I wanted to do it justice. Side note: never seen gone with the wild, this is probably not a scene people would pick. I could have written like 10 times this and maybe I’ll still revisit it!

Rating: General (series becomes Explicit)

Tags: Michelle Lasso, Henry Lasso, Second Chance Romance, Alternate Universe - College/University, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Time Skips, Ted and Beard have the purest friendship, Ted Lasso Deserves Love, Getting Together

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Fic Masterlist

TW: Canon-typical mention of suicide

Of course you recognized Ted the moment you saw him. You’d know him anywhere, even when it had been over 20 years and you were on vacation in a foreign country for the first time ever. You were sitting on the patio of the Crown & Anchor, and had just put a bookmark into your latest science fiction novel to accept a fresh pint from Mae, as Ted Lasso, in all his glory, arrived on the cobblestone path in front of you. He didn’t see you at first which gave you a chance to look him over: the long athletic legs, his middle a little softer and his hair a little more styled, and the ever-present mustache that made you smile just as it had when you met him in college.

He looked up from his stylish sneakers—the khakis were new, but the sneakers he had always been a fan of—and there was a twinkle in his eye when he noticed you. His head tilted, and you could see from his expression that he knew you as well as you knew him.

“Well, I do declare, I was surprised to see you turn out to be such a noble character,” you said playfully, quoting Gone With the Wild, a movie you both had a shared history with. You wouldn’t expect him to remember the next line, but Ted had always been able to surprise you.

Ted stepped closer to your table, placing his hands lightly on the top and leaning in as he spoke, “I can't bear to take advantage of your little girl ideas, Y/N. I'm neither noble nor heroic.”

Heat rushed to your cheeks as you grinned but there was no room to be embarrassed when you were too busy contending with every unrequited feeling you had in college flooding your senses.

22 YEARS AGO

Ted Lasso was a terrible actor. He knew it and so did the rest of the theater arts class but most of the class wasn’t very good either. At least half of them were there for the same reason you were: need of an art credit and no discernable art skills. You’d picked it because you liked words and even if you were occasionally debilitatingly shy, at least you might enjoy reading the plays. From what you could tell, Ted was part of the other half of the class, who picked the elective with pure-hearted enthusiasm. At least you hoped it was an elective, it certainly wouldn’t be a good major for him. Ted was the constant volunteer scene partner, for the instructor and for other students, and despite recognizing that he wasn’t very good, you couldn’t deny that you liked to watch him. He had broad shoulders, a little lanky but strong looking. His hair was unstyled and flopped over his forehead and ears when he was excited and then there was the mustache. You had heard other students poke fun at it in hushed breaths, but you thought it suited him just fine.

For weeks, you doodled Ted Lasso’s name (and attempts at his likeness) in the margins of your notebook, feeling safe to do so because he always sat as close to the front as he could. You waited in your last-row seat until he left, just to make sure there was no way he’d possibly know. He always left with the same person, a spindly pale guy with a scruffy beard and sunken cheeks, who a few times you'd seen leaning in to say something to Ted and then giving you a pointed look that you pretended not to see.

And then one day you were doodling so hard you missed the instructor requesting that everyone pick a partner for your final project. No one wanted to be Ted’s partner, which was a shame because he would certainly make any partner look amazing in comparison. He looked around the room, unphased at the lack of interest, and then he spotted you, in the back row, not paying a lick of attention. If you had been listening, you certainly would have volunteered to work with Ted, but since you were distracted the man in question found you. He cast his shadow over your notebook…which was covered in his own name like you were a middle school girl.

“Y/N, right?” If Ted noticed what you were doodling, he politely ignored it. You slapped the notebook shut, not wanting to look up but also not wanting to be rude. “Do you already have a scene partner?”

“I, uh, no… to be honest with you, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh don’t you worry about that,” Ted slid into the seat next to you and recounted word-for-word everything you needed to know about the final project, and you thanked him profusely. “So what do you say?”

“What do I say…to what?”

“Being my scene partner,” Ted grinned, and now that you were this close you could clearly see his dimples and smell his cologne and it was all so distracting that you were sure you were coming off as an idiot. For Ted’s part, he looked a little nervous—his hands were folded tightly in his lap and one of his lean legs was bouncing. “I know I’m not very good, but—”

“Oh, I thought it was already decided,” you smiled, not wanting to hear him disparage himself. “Of course I’ll be your partner. What scene did you have in mind?”

In an instant, Ted was still. He wiped his hands on his flat front shorts, and smiled, looking up at you through his long lashes, “Ya ever seen Gone With the Wind?”

PRESENT

Ted was now sitting across from you with a pint of his own, and the two of you couldn’t stop looking at each. Short glances, long appraising gazes—anything to center yourselves in the present.

You’d gotten braver since college, for better or worse, and you couldn’t wait any longer to break the silence. “So what are you doing in Richmond?”

“Oh, I, uh, live here. I coach the team. Football—er, soccer,” Ted stuttered through his answer. “Sorry, it’s just been a while since I talked to someone that didn’t know what I do…or that called it soccer. God, I sound like an asshole. It’s just, I’ve been in the papers quite a bit recently and it’s been a little stressful.”

Ted’s hand was resting on the wooden picnic table and you did everything you could to restrain yourself from reaching out to hold it. He’s married, isn’t he, you wondered, but when you looked again you didn’t see a ring.

“You don’t sound like an asshole at all. I’m sorry to hear it's been stressful, but God, coaching in England must be exciting! I, uh, avoid social media as best I can otherwise I’m sure I would have known... Last I heard you were married and coaching the ol’ alma mater.” It certainly wasn’t subtle but hopefully it would get the job done.

“Ah,” he wiggled his ring finger in the air, “divorced. Recently. One son, Henry, who’s in Kansas still, but there’s, uh, room to breathe here if you know what I mean.”

You looked around at the green behind you, the sun setting gently in the distance. “Yeah, I’m starting to pick up on that.”

Ted tapped the table near your left hand and it seemed he wasn’t in the mood for subtlety either. “What about you? Last I heard you had moved clear across the country with a husband of your own.”

“Divorced and quickly. Didn’t even last three years, to be honest with you. No kids. Mostly single ever since.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ted said quickly, but he didn’t look very sorry at all, even a little optimistic, but then he frowned. “Was he nice to you?”

You took a deep breath, thinking deeply about how you wanted to answer that. It was a question you had never been asked before. “It was nothing dramatic, he just…wasn’t a very good scene partner.”

Ted’s eyes locked on yours, and the conversation lulled but in a pleasant, amorous way. The two of you sipped your beers.

“Can I ask you something,” you said softly, not shy but meaningfully. Ted nodded and his hair flopped in a way that immediately sent you back 20 years to the past. “Why did you take theater anyway? I’m sure you told me back then, but I always felt like there was some hidden reason.”

“What, because I wasn’t very good,” Ted asked with a laugh, but you could tell he was deflecting and only gestured for him to go on. “You never did let me talk bad about myself.”

Ted sighed, took a deep drag of beer, and then balled his hands into fists. “I wasn’t ready to talk about it then, and I still don’t talk about it much, but my dad died when I was 16 years old. Self-inflicted.” You didn’t know what your face was doing, but you tried to school it into something neutral. “He loved movies. Loved ‘em. He said if he could do it over again he woulda gone to LA and made a go of it. And so when I got the opportunity I thought I’d do it for him, do something he never got the chance. And it was the first in a long line of lessons about living for myself and not others because I was downright terrible at it.”

This time you gave in. You let yourself reach across the table and slide your hand into his. He smiled, gently squeezing and you squeezed back. He had probably heard all the platitudes, it was 30 years ago, after all, so instead, you talked about class.

“You know, I didn’t expect you to remember those lines. It’s been, what, 22 years? Clearly, you couldn’t have been that bad.”

Ted smirked, “I don’t know that I could forget those lines, we worked on that for weeks… and maybe I just so happened to watch Gone With the Wind again a few weeks ago.”

“God, I hate that movie,” you laughed, and Ted sputtered on his beer.

“What?! Why didn’t you ever say anything? We could have done something else, anything else!”

“Well, Ted,” you responded carefully, taking a sip of your beer, “when your crush asks you if you want to be Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler, you definitely don’t say no.”

Ted’s cheeks pinked furiously and he looked down at his lap but he couldn’t hide his smile. “You know, Beard told me I should ask you out 1,000 times and I chickened out every single one. On the last day of class, I, you know, asked for your number and you gave it to me…and I wrote it down wrong. I asked around for a while and tried to run into you, but a few weeks later I met Michelle and, well I thought it was fate. Silly me, huh?”

“Not silly at all,” you responded seriously and before you could say anything else, Mae announced last call and you looked at him pointedly, hoping he’d invite you home.

Ted’s hands were folded in front of him and one of his lean legs was bouncing, and it was easy to picture the flat front shorts and band T-shirt of his youth. “What would you say if I asked you to come over and watch Gone with the Wind?”

You dissolved into giggles and Ted joined you with a little apprehension, worried he was about to be rejected. “I’d say I’d love to come over but I’d like to watch literally anything else.”

“You got it,” Ted laughed, for real this time, and pulled his coat on. He picked up yours and held it up for you to slide your arms into and it made you feel like you were being courted. And you nearly swooned when he picked up your book and tucked it under his own right arm, and then stuck his left arm out for you to hold. You considered, briefly that this is what you could have had 22 years ago, but somehow you knew that it wouldn’t have been better than right now.

Part 2 ->

#ted lasso #ted x reader #ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fanfic #ted lasso x yn #ted lasso fluff #fluff #au

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wonderland-journals · 7 months

Text

round two ☆

🔞🔞**CHARACTERS ARE AGED UP 21+**🔞🔞

★ pairing: Manjiro "Mikey" Sano & f!reader ★ word count: 4.8K

When he came to, the rattling in his inebriated mind clearing at the feel of cold steel against his heated skin, he made no effort to move. “You vicious little whore.”

You leaned in so your lips were next to his ear, the pressure of your chest pushing the blade just enough to draw a drop of blood. “That sounds good… Say it again.”

“Enough.”

The familiar, commanding voice that boomed across the room made you straighten up immediately. Your eyes met the onyx black ones of Manjiro Sano, the leader of Bonten.

“Mi-key~” Immediately jumping to your feet, you skipped over to the snow-haired male with a smile. “I’m back~”

“I see.”

★ cw/tw: illegal Activities, underground fighting, gambling, implied/referenced drug use, violent thoughts, hair-pulling, weapons, makeout, gun kink, knifeplay, choking, breathplay, branding, bloodplay, degrading,light sadism, possessive behavior, aged-up character(s), post-time skip, Bonten future timeline

This fic is also located on my AO3. Feel free to like and kudos ♡

**This fic is not intended for immature audiences and does contain dark content. You must be 18 or older and mentally mature to enjoy. Don’t like it, don’t read it. The author is not responsible for your sense of comfort and your preferences.**

The roar of the crowd always made your blood thrum through your veins. A rush of excitement shot up your spine with every swing that missed you by inches. This is what euphoria must feel like, dancing around this makeshift, underground ring. Dodging swing after swing and occasionally dishing out a few of your own with such tactical precision that you were guaranteed to never miss. You were always paired with the meatheads who swore they could take you down, making your earnings so much higher when you proved them wrong.

Just like the asshat before you, already swaying from side to side from exhaustion. You smiled at him, taunting him with a flash of your teeth in that faux smile you liked to give to the unfortunate victims who ended up on the receiving end of your wrath. It shouldn’t be this fun hearing the crunch of bone and tissue when your fist collided with his nose. You shouldn’t be this… aroused at the sight of another man’s blood on your fists. Even when your opponent went down though you simply jumped on top of them and kept swinging until someone finally came and pulled you off of them. The corners of your vision blurred dark with an immediate spike in rage, but after a few deep breaths and the pinch of your nails digging into your palms, you calmed down.

It was so easy to lose yourself in the cheers of the crowd, easy to disregard the boos of the men who lost their money to you. Money that you were more than happy to now claim as yours. Though it wasn’t the only reason you were here tonight… Eyeing the man that led you down an empty hall, devoid of photos, security, or any other way in or out other than the path you followed behind him. Sometimes they just made it too easy…

“Looks like another good night for you.”

A small smile graced your features as you hummed, shifting your gaze to the pink-haired male who leaned back comfortably on one of the single chairs with his gun on the small table in front of him. You had only walked into the building a few minutes ago, your high still thrumming through your system. His piercing, ice blue eyes would have intimidated anyone else, but not you.

“Always a good night.” Adjusting the strap of the duffel bag on your shoulder, you searched the room for any of the other members that normally hung around. “Big bad pup left on his own?”

You didn’t have to look at him to know that he was glaring daggers at you. The empty bottle and array of pills before him were set aside as he stood from his chair, letting it scrape across the floor. He always hated that nickname, you knew this, but it was just too fun to pick on him.

“Be a good pup and go find Mikey for me.”

You walked over to the table he had his spread set up on and dropped your duffel bag on the empty chair next to you. Regardless of any personal feelings you had towards him or any of the other Bonten members, there was still a certain level of respect you all had for each other – most of you anyways.

You could see the vein in his neck throbbing in irritation, his hands clenching and unclenching with a need to wrap themselves around your neck. Maybe squeeze until that irritatingly pretty smirk that seemed to be a permanent fixture on your face more often than not fell and your eyes widened in fear. He could practically see it, and it was beautiful. His hand moved quickly for the weapon he kept tucked into the waistband of his pants, aiming for you without a second of hesitation.

“You forget your place here, bitch.” Sanzu hissed, taking a single step in your direction.

His words only made you laugh, the sound grating against Haru’s ears like nails on a chalkboard.

“Sanzu, you forget yourself!” Not even a tremor in your squeal. He watched you with narrowed eyes as you turned to face him and stepped forward until your forehead was directly against the barrel of the gun. “Did you forget where you stand next to me?” Before he could blink, your hand was cupping his cheek. Thumb gently caressing the outline of his diamond-shaped scar on the corner of his mouth “You are in my shadow.” Your smirk only grew, enjoying the rolling waves of tension and anger that came off of him. “Act like it.”

With one hand you grabbed the weapon from his hand, tossing it somewhere across the room behind you. The hand on his cheek slid back to grasp at his hair and tug it backward at the same time you hooked your leg behind his to trip him to the floor on his back. Spit flew from his mouth at the impact, and you took advantage of his momentary lapse to straddle his chest between your legs and pull the knife you carry on your back holster out to force it just under his Adam’s apple.

When he came to, the rattling in his inebriated mind clearing at the feel of cold steel against his heated skin, he made no effort to move. “You vicious little whore.”

You leaned in so your lips were next to his ear, the pressure of your chest pushing the blade just hard enough to draw a drop of blood. “That sounds good… Say it again.”

“Enough.”

The familiar, commanding voice that boomed across the room made you straighten up immediately. Your eyes met the onyx black ones of Manjiro Sano, the leader of Bonten.

“Mi-key~” Immediately jumping to your feet, you skipped over to the snowy-haired male with a smile. “I’m back~”

“I see.” He answered plainly, face devoid of any signs of emotion save for the small sparkle of life in his eyes when they flicked over to you.

Mikey had always held a sort of soft spot for you, his favorite little assassin.

Placing the knife back in its sheath, you cocked your head to the side curiously eyeing the short-statured mafia leader. “Did you want to see my winnings, boss?”

“No.”

He lifted his chin only slightly to you. A silent motion for you to follow him when he turned on his heels. Having known Sano for more years than you wanted to count, you could read his subtle tells and decipher his secret requests even better than his subordinates. That was why you wordlessly walked away from Sanzu, who was still on the ground dumbfounded by your mood shift, and followed Mikey into his office. Not even phased by the click of the lock behind you, making yourself comfortable atop his desk after pushing some of the papers aside.

“You love to antagonize him.”

It wasn’t a question, but you answered anyways. “He makes it too easy.”

“Tch.” He sucked his teeth, walking over until he was in front of you, eyes darting down to your closed legs and back up to your eyes. Already you could see the arousal swimming in them. “You’re trying to bait him.”

“How so?” You played coy, blinking innocently at him. A single finger tapping your chin. “He started it.”

Honestly, you didn’t hear his response, too lost in your rampant imagination, as it did earlier in the ring, watching his lips move to form his words. The soft pout of his lower lip made your imagination run wild remembering the long nights after a hit when you would come back, and he would ravage you until you were a whimpering mess for him. Picturing all the pretty ways he could bring you to your knees. Your nails drag over your covered thigh in an attempt to pull your focus back on reality. It didn’t work, your mind replacing your touch with his. Stoking the pooling desire in your core, its heat flowing through your body, making your heart flutter in your chest and your palms tingle with the need to reach out and touch him.

“Well?” His curt question brought you back to the present.

“Sorry I think I zoned out there.” Slowly you spread your legs just wide enough for him to stand between them. Your words a low purr as lust clouded your mind, admiring how he took his place between your legs so naturally with that lazy, amused smirk gracing his features. “Could you say that again?”

“My dumb little whore…” Mikey reached up to caress the apple of your cheek with the back of his hand. Obsidian eyes watching the stuttered rise and fall of your chest and chuckling at how easily affected you were. “I haven’t even done anything and you’re already putty in my hand.”

A soft sigh left your lips when his fingers drifted over the expanse of your neck down to your collarbone. Something in his touch hooked you, pulling at your strings with ease to bend to his will. From the moment you first had him, the night you shared the first of many kisses with him, you knew you would do anything, everything for him. Your eyes had already fluttered shut to enjoy the simple pleasure that was his touch, so you didn’t see him lean in until his mouth slotted over yours.

Lips moving in tandem with each other, speaking words that would otherwise never be said aloud. Such an effortless action, yet it made your heart soar. Beating so loudly in your chest there was no doubt in your fuzzy mind that he could hear it, though he never commented on it if he did. The kiss grew quickly in intensity, lips parting to allow his tongue to slide over yours. Your hands come up to grab fistfuls of his hair to pull him closer to you. Your body was acutely aware of him, a shiver of pleasure running up your spine when his other hand gripped your waist and forced it to press against his. The feel of his hardening cock straining against his pants made your mouth water. You could feel your clit already throbbing with the need for some kind of friction, his hand that had been gently tracing from the left collarbone to the right, yanking your top down until it ripped from the force enough to expose your chest to him.

Shoving his hand into your bra to fondle your breast, his thumb swiping over your already pebbled nipple. “Sensitive.” He murmured against your lips.

You couldn’t help but shake your head at the word, squirming where you sat.

“Mikey…”

“I know…”

Grinding his hips against yours, you threw your head back and mewled at the pleasure of the friction you desperately craved finally being given to you. Teeth tugging on your lower lip for a second before releasing it. Parting your lips with his own to slip his tongue in your mouth, letting it battle for dominance.

The quiet moan of his name that slipped past you was cut short by the familiar click of a safety being released. You didn’t even realize that he has released his hold on your waist until the cool metal of the barrel was pressed against your left temple. It should have made you flinch, push him away, something. Instead, you just pulled back, so your face was a few inches from his. Eyeing the string of saliva that connected you when you broke the kiss. Not even batting an eyelash at the fact that if he wanted to, he could pull the trigger with ease. Wouldn’t even think twice about it.

“Now that I have your attention-“

“You always have my attention.”

He pushed the pistol harder against your temple. “Only because you want my cock.”

Meeting his gaze, your smile grew wider. “Does it matter how you have it?”

Sano’s eyes narrowed slightly, observing you with that cold, calculating look in his eyes. Standing in front of you silently, the air was calm between you, for a few minutes before speaking again. “Strip.”

The urge to resist, talk back or do anything that may push his buttons further attempted to push reason to the side, but you resisted said temptation. You craved this man like a drug. Your mind filled only with the thought of him bending you over his desk and filling your cunt with his essence. A comforting warmth creeping over your skin, whispering promises of pleasure in your ear if you just obeyed. So, you did as he asked, a single digit on his chest to compel him to step back so you could slide off the edge of his desk and begin shimmying off your pants. Mikey was kind enough to move the pistol from your head, watching you remove the garment from your body with no more expression on his face than if he were in a board meeting. Any other girl would’ve taken offense to that, but not you. No, you knew better, knew him better. He was aroused, needy. The tent in his pants was obvious and it took everything in you not to drop to your knees before him.

“Well, this isn’t very fair…” You pouted playfully, fingers reaching for one of the loops of his pants. Tracing over his belt buckle, your eyes cast down to eye the bulge that strained against his slacks. “You’re still fully clothed and-”

A hand shot out to grasp your neck in a tight hold, effectively cutting you off. Your hands scrabbled behind you for the edge of the desk to keep yourself upright when you felt cold metal press itself against your sensitive clit.

“Have I ever let you down?” Mikey cocked his head to the side, eyeing your immediate reaction to the stimulation. Rubbing the ridged slide of the gun against your clit, he leaned in with the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “I asked you a question, sweetness.”

All you could do was nod at him. Eyes wide in surprise from the pleasure rushing through you.

“Use your words.”

“Y-Yes- No! No.” The subtle threat of not getting to reach your peak made only known by how he slowed down his actions despite tightening the hold on your neck, had you correcting yourself quickly for him. “No. Sir. No, never.”

“Have a little faith in me, yeah?” He continued his ministrations, rubbing the weapon against you with a little more pressure. It felt like the air was punched from your lungs when he taunted you, slipping the barrel in and out of your entrance. “Little slut, getting off to me fucking you with my gun.” Manjiro laughed, a taunting sound that tugged at your focus to stay on him, though you wanted nothing more to give in to this toe-curling high your body was chasing. “Haven’t even gotten to the question-answer portion of the night either.”

You could only respond with babbles of his name, keening and spreading your legs wider when he pushed the weapon further inside of you.

“Always playing the line, aren’t you?” He leaned in to whisper in your ear. “You know just easily I could-” You screamed as he shoved it even further in, the raised sight on it scratching over your g spot. “-slip and pull this little trigger.” Squeezing the sides of your neck with his thumb, index, and middle finger, he pushed you back onto his desk. “You don’t care though. You just want to be fucked.”

His name was a mantra, the only thought in your fuzzy mind was him and the pleasure that ebbed and flowed through your system. The snow-haired male didn’t expect you to answer him but was impressed at your stubbornness to try.

“Want your cock, Manjiro.” You moaned out, fingers finding purchase on the hardwood surface of his desk. “Can I- Can I please?”

Though your immediate desperation amused him, a sure sign of how he’s broken you – trained you – for his use only, there was a tiny bit of information he wanted to know first.

“Not yet, pretty girl.” He hummed. “Just need you to answer one. tiny. question.” Each word was punctuated with a shallow thrust of the gun.

You nodded your head, trying to clear your mind long enough to hear his question. “Yes, yes, yes. Anything-Anything just – oh fuck – just wanna- wanna cum please. Please!”

“Dirty girl…” Sano chuckled, the absence of his warmth over your body from him standing up straight making you whine at the loss. Stuttered gasps escaped you with each slow twist of his wrist, turning the weapon on its side before beginning to pull it out. “Did you take care of your mark?”

“My- My what?”

The Bonten leader had to stifle a laugh. Only a few minutes had passed and already it looked as if he had pushed all thoughts from your mind.

“Your target.” He reiterated. “Your job. The whole reason I let you out to begin with. Ringing a bell?” He relished in the keen of your voice from the sudden emptiness. Licking the side of his piece, letting the sweet essence of your slick burst across his tongue. Suppressing an inward groan, he looked at you with a new fire in his obsidian eyes. “Did you take care of him?”

“Yes.” You propped yourself up so you were leaned back on your forearms, staring down the man that could either be your heaven or hell depending on his fickle mood. “Have I ever let you down?”

The clink of his belt being undone excited you. “Tell me.”

“Tell you what?” You eyed how he undid his pants smoothly, pulling them down just enough for you to get a clear view of the bulge in his boxers.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers and teasingly pulled them down. “Tell me what you did to him. How did the little rat suffer?”

Grinding his erection against your core, you threw your head back from the sensation. The material of his boxers catching on your clit so deliciously that it made your mouth water. Your breaths came out as ragged gasps, hands curled tight so that your nails dug into your palms and made you hiss.

“Tell me.”

“Fuck! I-” You had to rack your brain for a second of clarity, praying for this sensation curling in your belly to subside for a brief moment to answer him. “I- I followed him. To his office.” A forceful thrust against you made your eyes flutter shut and your mouth falls slack. “One-way hall, no security.”

“Go on…”

He pulled back for a moment and you gasped at the feel of his bare cock thrust against your waiting cunt. Eyes shooting open to see the engorged tip tucked between your folds. Every thrust of his hips smearing your leaking juices on the underside of him. The reddened tip caught against your puffy clit, hips against hips met on every pulse felt below.

“He-” You gulped for air, trying to push past the invisible obstruction blocking your airway. “He congratulated me. On winning the f-fight.”

“Of course you fought.” Though his words seemed to come out easily, you could see the flush crawling up his neck, painting the tips of his ears a bright red. Hear the hitch in his voice. He never stopped his agonizing pace, swatting your hand away when you would reach for him. “Go on.”

“My-My winnings. In the bag.” You struggled to get your words out, watching him pull back again to fist his cock, spreading the pre that spilled from his slit along his length, and tease the tip against your fluttering opening. “Manjiro- Mikey please sir.”

“Keep. Going. Use your big girl words for me.”

His voice, his words, all of it matched with the way he was toying with you, dragging you back and forth on the edge of insanity, it felt like, made your head spin. “I made- I won a lot of money, Mikey. All for you-u!” You laid flat on the desk, teeth clenched together, and legs locked around his waist in a weak attempt to pull him in when he pushed the bulbous head of his cock past the tight muscle of your entrance. “Please, please, please. Want you to fill me already!”

“Keep. Going.”

Groaning in frustration, you threw your arm to cover your face. “Fuck me… Fine!” He pushed an inch inside and then pulled out. “I told him – shit – I told him I was after – fuck me, Sano, feels good~” This aggravating man pushed back in, punching the air out of your lungs with the feeling of being so full, though you knew he wasn’t even all the way in. Still the slight curve he had pressed his tip just right against your soft spot, making you let out a choked moan from the pleasure.

“After-?” Mikey prompted.

“After- After a different reward.” In through the nose, out through the mouth. Deep breaths that burned as they filled your lungs. Thighs shakily squeezing tight on either side of his waist. “I sat- on his lap.” Your words were forced through gritted teeth as he pushed in another inch or so. “Took his face in my hands and-” You could feel the lusty fog drawing you under its spell. Eyes glazing over, tongue poking out to lick across your lower lip.

“Hm?” Pinching your cheeks between his fingers, he made you to look at him. “My pretty little whore sharing what’s mine?” The last word was emphasized by a particularly hard thrust that fully sheathed him to the hilt. You shook your head, a strangled, unrecognizable sound escaping you. “Maybe – hah – I should be selling you on the corners with the others. Since you’ll take anyone apparently.”

“N-No! No! No.” You exclaimed, the corners of your eyes stinging with the onslaught of oncoming tears. “It wasn’t – please! It wasn’t like that!”

Another thrust that had him kissing your cervix. “No?” The demon before you laughed. “Then tell me exactly what it was like.”

You cried out as he pinched your clit. “Manjiro!”

Angry Mikey was actually the safest of all the different sides of him. He was predictable. Releasing his hold on your face, he pulled out his own knife from the back horizontal carry sheath. Lightly skimming the jagged edges of the blade along your jawline, placing the sharpened edge under your chin.

“I wanna hear what my little toy has to say for herself.”

There was that thrill that came in associating yourself with the likes of him. Never knowing if today would be the day he would fully give in to his dark impulses, his rage, and end your existence. You didn’t care, you never cared. You loved the thrill, lived for it. It was a hard sought rush of adrenaline to the system that you craved in the day-to-day. Paying no mind to the warm liquid that rolled down your neck from where the knife bore into your skin.

“I wanna show you…”

When he hesitantly removed the cool metal from your overheated skin, you released the breath you didn’t know you were holding. “No.”

There was no bite to his word, but he wanted you to tell him what happened. You could see the silent plea to reassure him that his irrational fear was just that: irrational. You had to read the silence between you to understand that, though, as all that could be heard was soft breathing and the humming air conditioner that hung on the wall of his office running. He was watching your movements, body on edge. Prepared to react at a moment’s notice. Tentatively you held his face in your hands, bringing him down to you as if you were going to kiss him.

“I took his face in my hands…” You whispered, lips a breath away from each other. “Brought my lips this close to his, and-”

Wincing, you were cut off by the jagged touch of metal pressing into the soft give of your skin above your hip. A single, slow long slice downward that sent a shockwave of pain through you, and you had to resist the urge to flinch or move, or else the semi-deep cut he was making would become fatal. Another smaller cut next to the one he just made, then another, and then a final long cut.

Oh.

“And then?”

You peered down between your bodies to see the bright red ‘M’ that was now carved into your skin. Ignoring his lust-blown eyes that studied you, taking in the way your brows furrowed together and your left cheek was a bit more sunken from your habit of biting on the tender skin on the inside to hold back any other external sign of pain or discomfort. Deep in his twisted mind, he still admired just how perfect you were for him. Your demons dancing alongside his own without overpowering them.

Bringing your lips next to his ear, you answered him. “I broke his neck.” You released a shuddering breath, smirking at him when you met his gaze. “He made it too easy for me.”

“Is that right?” He noticed the twitch in your eye when he pressed his thumb down on his mark. Eyes flickering down to watch the beads of red well up from the cut and spill over his fingers as they dripped down to the desk underneath you. “Well, who wouldn’t get distracted with a pair of tits like this in their face?” His other hand grabbed at your breast roughly, rolling his thumb over your nipple. Setting a slow, hard pace that had him knocking the entrance of your cervix with every thrust. “The bastard only got to look, didn’t he?” Another thrust, this one was harder as he tried to stop you from holding your voice back. “Who do you belong to?”

Shifting your legs so that they sat on his shoulders, he held the back of your knees and pushed them until they practically touched your chest. Exposing you to his hungry eyes and the bite of the air. You hissed when the soft flesh of your thigh was pressed against your fresh wound, eyes shut tightly, and jaw clenched to bite back the curse you almost let out.

“Look at me.” He growled.

And who were you to disobey your leader?

His thrusts alternated between fast and hard to slow and teasing. Bringing you to the brink of a high and then ripping you away with little remorse. “I asked you a question and you won’t cum until you answer it.” A wicked smirk stretched across his face. “Dumb little thing,” he cooed watching your eyes roll back. “Can’t even think straight anymore, can you? Does my cock feel good?”

Nodding, you grabbed his forearms unsure if you wanted him to let you go or fuck you harder. “Feels good. So good. Feels good – fuck! God, Mikey-”

“That’s fucking right.” The heavy sound of his balls slapping against the curve of your ass as his thrusts got harder again. “I’m your owner, your god. You serve me. Now say it. I wanna hear you scream out and tell everyone who you belong to.”

Try as you might, there was no holding back your moans of pleasure anymore. His pace was harder, faster with every second you fought back. Moans of his name as your nails clawed down his forearms, unable to get your arms to respond to your mental command to reach out for him and hold him close. That tight knot inside of your core wound tighter and tighter until-

“Fuck! You, Manjiro! I’m yours!” You keened as your orgasm crashed over you.

“Fuck fuck fuck!”

The muscles in your lower abdomen convulsing from the intensity of it. Back arching off the desk as a silent scream left you. Powerful as he was, Mikey didn’t last too much longer after you. Hissing from the way your cunt squeezed around him, milking him of every drop that spilled inside of you. Cursing under his breath as he continued to fuck you through the pleasure until it bordered pain. When he was sure there was nothing left in him, he lowered your legs to lay flat on the wooden surface. His fingers gingerly pressed against the brand on your skin, tracing it, and smearing your blood over it.

“That’s my girl.”

You wanted to ask what compelled this possessiveness in him tonight, but you knew he wouldn’t give you a real answer, so you left it alone. Nodding in agreement to his claim over you. Besides, since the day you swore your allegiance to him, he owned you anyways.

#tokyo revengers #mikey x reader #aged up characters #manjiro sano #manjiro x reader #manjiro sano smut #dark content #not suitable for minors #minors dni

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