I once had a guy tell me that he wasn’t really cheating on his girlfriend with me, I was just doing a favor for him because what he wanted me to do was something his girlfriend wasn’t willing to do. And because of the sexual abuse in my past, I did it.
I once had a guy tell me that I was beautiful and he wanted to taste me. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I found out before it was over. I was ten… and he did a lot more than taste me.
Summary:Severus Snape never asked for a distraction, but the one he receives the first morning of a new term will have to do.
Rating/Warnings/Tags: T (Physical Abuse; Black Eye; Professor!Severus Snape; Mentor!Severus Snape; Slytherin!Reader; Hogwarts Student!Reader; Implied/Referenced Child Abuse; Implied/Referenced Abuse; Implied/Referenced Sexual Abuse; Anxiety; References to Depression; Lily Evans & Severus Snape Friendship)
Requester:Anonymous
Request: “Please the one where se*ually and physically abused slytherin comes to Snape for help, without the detailed description of the assault plz. She suffers from anxiety and clinical depression. Snape is cold at first and then gets really protective and angry.”
Notes: Here’s another request from Tumblr, my first Harry Potter one. I’ve never written a platonic relationship between a student and teacher before (or a romantic one, for that matter)—and oddly this is only the first of a handful of these kinds of requests I have on my list now. I hope that I did a decent job.
Please keep in mind while reading this that some of things Severus says may not be the best thing to say in a situation like this. He’s a wizard, and not a trained Healer at that, so I tried to think of what he might say in this situation instead of what he shouldsay.
“Resourceful” Is Not a Dirty Word
Another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry began just as the ten prior for Potions Master Severus Snape. He ate a meager breakfast as quickly as possible so as to avoid spending any more time than necessary with students outside his house or classroom. He made forced polite conversation with Minerva until she finally handed over that year’s class schedule. And he settled at his desk at the back of the dank, cold dungeon to prepare for his first class in the last bit of peace and quiet he could expect until the Christmas holidays.
True, an undercurrent of anger buzzed throughout his body as he went through his annual routine. A typical year would find him more apathetic than furious before he had to deal with the odious task of teaching. But no matter what Severus did that morning, no matter what path he forced his mind to take, he could not keep his thoughts from turning again and again to the fact that Harry Potter now walked the castle halls. He tried to grit his teeth and bear it by manually writing the instructions for his first class’s assignment on the chalkboard. There was, after all, no reason to take out his temper until the boy himself reared his ugly head, and that would not be for some hours yet. Before that happy time, he had an O.W.L. class of Gryffindors and Slytherins and a gaggle of third-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws to endure.
Then he heard the unmistakable sound of someone unlatch the door to the dungeon behind him. They opened said door only as far as they had to to slip inside, after which they pulled the door shut again with great care.
His hackles raised at once. Potter. The thought was ludicrous. Severus knew that as soon as it occurred to him. Potter would likely struggle to find his first class on time, let alone a place as out of the way as the dungeon. Yet Severus could not shake the feeling he’d had since he first set eyes on the boy at the Welcoming Feast the night before: James Potter’s son would not fail to torment him. James would have seen to that.
Severus spun, his black cloak billowing out ominously around him. The threat of taking points from Gryffindor was on the tip of his tongue when he spotted the actual intruder:
“Miss [Last Name],” he said in his softest voice. No one attempted to sneak up on him and got away with it, not even a member of his own house.
Sensing his displeasure, you frozen in the process of sliding into a seat at the very back of the room. Your expression was difficult to read that far away in the dim torchlight surrounding only Severus. He saw no reason to light the entire room up when only he occupied the dungeon. But one thing he could see very clearly: only one eye sparkling in the flickering flames. Vivid purple and green skin swelled the other shut.
“Good morning, Professor Snape,” you murmured.
He did not return your polite greeting. “I do not harbor students after they have been fighting in the halls. You may hide from Filch in your common room or you may turn yourself in to his tender mercies, but I shall not got involved.”
This being the start of your fifth year at Hogwarts, you ought to have known his feelings on misbehavior quite well. He did not care if Slytherins broke the rules so long as they showed brains enough to not get caught. Coming to him in the hope of help once spotted by another teacher or the caretaker would earn you nothing more than Severus’ ire.
Apparently this was one lesson you had not learned. You remained rooted to the spot rather than rushing away at this suggestion. Curious. After all, he made it a point to know the strengths and weaknesses of the students within his purview, and he had never noted you to be unintelligent. Perhaps a firmer hand was needed.
“I also do not appreciate when students come early to proffer their assistance,” he said. “I have no need for the aid of an unqualified witch. Your time would be better spent in the Hospital Wing, Miss [Last Name], and I expect that you will return from there at the proper time for class.”
Such a dismissal could not be mistaken for anything else. He returned his attention to the inventory list on his desk. Only a few lines in, Severus found himself interrupted once more.
“Oh, no, s-sir. I didn’t m-mean to—” The curl of his lips must have made you think better of stammering. You stopped, took a deep breath, and then went on a mite more calmly: “I didn’t come here to disturb you, sir. Or to help you prepare for class.”
“Then what is it that you do want?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir.”
“You would not have sneaked into my classroom while my back was turned for no reason. Spit it out. You are wasting my time.”
An inhale. An exhale. You looked nervously at the door.
“If you expect me to protect you from whomever you are fleeing from, you are sorely mistaken. You must be the one to finish the duels you choose to enter into.”
“I haven’t been fighting at all, Professor!” you protested.
Something about the pitch of your voice rang true. Things added up. He had never known you to pick fights in the corridors. Of course, the more boorish Gryffindors, such as their contemptible quidditch captain, would not care about that if they cornered you alone outside the Great Hall—but even that Severus doubted. Tensions between quidditch teams never rose so early in the term, and only two of the Gryffindors would dare to enrage Minerva before classes even started. What would they get out of doing so by picking on someone like you anyway?
Severus made his slow, calculated way down the aisle between tables to where you sat, back straight and stiff as a wand. Your bruise only grew uglier the closer he drew. Perhaps you knew this, for you ducked your head the moment he stood beside you.
“Look at me,” he ordered, and you reluctantly did so.
Your [color] eyes swallowed him whole. The entire process took a matter of seconds. He found himself standing next to you outside of the heavy door to the dungeon. True to your word, he could see no one in pursuit—and the ghastly muggle wound remained bright around your eye.
So he would need to go farther back.
He followed your memories backward through the morning, though your skipping breakfast, getting out of bed—Severus carefully skipped over your dressing for the day—sulking throughout the Welcoming Feast, and lurking alone in an empty corner of the Hogwarts Express. The black eye never vanished or faded.
“I see,” he said as he exited your mind.
The statement caused the color to drain from your face. “See what? Sir.”
“If you are not having problems with your housemates, I suggest you return to the Great Hall. Fifth year is difficult from the start. You will need your strength to get through my class today.”
“No, please, sir!”
You made a motion as though to grab his sleeve. Did you realize how lucky you were that he did not curse you on instinct for doing so? Severus doubted it. Narrowing his eyes, he took a small step backward and away from your grasping hands. At least you had the grace to look embarrassed for that disgusting display of desperation.
“Please let me stay here until class starts,” you murmured to your feet. “I’ll be quiet. I promise.”
“And how do you intend to keep such a promise?”
“I’ll read my textbook. You won’t know I’m here. Please, sir. Please.”
Upon the second please, you lifted your eyes to meet his again. The mark on your face reminded him unpleasantly of the face he used to see when he looked in the mirror during his days as a student—and more unpleasantly still of those who made his face look that way.
“Why?” Severus asked at last.
“I just…” Taking a deep breath, you plunged forward in as slow an explanation as he thought you could manage, “I don’t want the other students to gawk at me like they always do. Every time I get back from a holiday, it’s the same. I’m tired of it, sir. I just want them to leave me alone.”
I just want them to leave me alone. Yes, he could recall the same words coming out of his mouth once upon a time, and exactly who he said them to, if not who about. He’d had so many tormentors that even staying at the school for Christmas could not keep him away from all of them. Likely you had discovered that yourself over the past five years. What was it that he’d overheard one of your dormmates saying just last September? Something about the red blemishes [L Name] tried to hide as she pulled her robes on in the morning. At the time, Severus had dismissed the conversation as the cattish gossip so typical of fourth-year girls; now he realized it had been something more.
“How long?” he said in his softest voice.
“Excuse me, sir?” Your single huge eye betrayed your feigned ignorance without any need for him to resort to legilimency this time around.
“How long has someone been hurting you?”
“No one has been…” But you trailed away upon noticing his scowl.
“Do not try to lie to me. We both know you have not been fighting with your fellow students, so where else would you have received such a wound? Let me guess,” he went on over your attempted objection, “someone at home did not appreciate your being sent your acceptance letter.”
Silence. Given how still you kept yourself, Severus expected you were concentrating on not shaking in his presence. He could not see that you so much as breathed.
“Five years, then. At least. That answers my first question. Now on to the next: Who?”
“No one you would know, sir,” you said very quietly.
“A muggle, then.”
“No!”
“Then who? Spit it out, girl! Do you think I care to expose your lineage to your housemates? I have better things to do with my time than facilitate drama for my students.”
Your mouth opened—but only for a moment before your lips clamped shut. Perhaps he should have expected he would have to pull the answer from you millimeter by painful millimeter. He had not wanted to tell Lily, after all, and she mattered to him in a way that Horace Slughorn never could.
“Miss [L Name], I cannot help you unless you talk to me. And if you refuse to talk to me, this begs the question of why you felt it necessary to interrupt my work so early in the day. You have taken up enough of my preparation period. You may not stay unless you begin telling me what I want to know.”
Time passed. With no ticking clock on the wall of his classroom, Severus could not say how long your stare down lasted. He could have entered your mind once more while he waited. Instead, he looked down at you wordlessly. You would leave if you valued your privacy over your pride. It seemed you favored the latter, for in the end you finally replied:
“My father.”
The raw anger he felt at hearing these words must have shown on his face and terrified you far more than any of his threats had that day. You hastily went on:
“He’s not my real father. I don’t know who is. Mum married Edgar while she was pregnant with me, and she left when I was just a kid. It’s just been him and me there ever since.”
“And he does not approve of you or your mother being witches?”
“I think he’s just jealous. He’s a squib, you see. Mum’s family arranged the whole thing before anybody knew, and by then it was too late for her to get out of it. Please don’t tell the other Slytherins, Professor! They think I’m pure-blood. If they knew the truth, between that and my eye and the other bruising, the girls in my dorm would—”
“What other bruising?”
Your face darkened until it reached a shade nearly matching that of your swollen eye. “Things got worse this summer. He—”
Severus held up a hand to staunch the sudden flow of your confession. “I do not need the details.”
“Yes, sir.” Ashamed, frightened, or chastised, you cleared your throat several times before continuing, “Anyway, sir, I just wanted to sit down here in the mornings until my eye fades a bit. Is that all right with you, now that I’ve told you everything?”
Under ordinary circumstances, it would not have been all right with him. He could not risk all the students in Hogwarts starting to believe he would offer them shelter from the harsh realities of life. But as he stared down at you, he thought of his childhood and all the pain and ridicule it had brought him at the hands of James Potter and his merry men. If Horace had offered him respite, would Severus still hate him so? Obviously. The situations were, however, quite different, as Severus doubted Horace had faced a day of adversity in his entire life.
“I will consider your request,” said Severus, “if you also tell me what you plan to do about your situation at home nextsummer.”
“Do?” you echoed.
“Yes, ‘do.’ Do not be dense. It does not become you. No one else is going to ride to your rescue. You will therefore have to rescue yourself.”
“But—But how? I’m not of age! In a few years, maybe I can move out, but until then—”
“That’s not good enough! I have watched you, Miss [L Name], as I watch all Slytherins. You are ambitious, clever, resourceful, determined. That is what makes you a true Slytherin, not whether or not you were raised by a blight upon wizarding society. So what, I ask again, are you going to do about it?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Think then. Have you contacted anyone at the Ministry? There are people in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement who might be able to offer you assistance.”
“Oh, no, sir!” Tears sprang to your eyes. “I can’t ask anyone for help. I didn’t even want you to find out. What will some random Ministry official think? They’ll laugh at me.”
“Such a viewpoint is narrow-minded and foolish to a startling degree. Asking for help is utilizing resources. Did I just not tell you that doing so made you a Slytherin?”
You gave him a hesitant nod. If he let you go now, you would surely promise to owl the proper authorities and never do so. Your tormentor would have free rein whenever you went home until such a day came that you could bring yourself to leave. Who knew what he could escalate to if allowed that kind of freedom? Severus needed to get you acting now.
“Very well. We will forgo the Ministry for the time being. How will you go about fixing your problem by yourself, then? I am sure that you are fully capable of doing so.”
“No, I’m not! Professor, even if I were as smart as all that, I can’t use magic outside of school. You know that.”
“Except in life-threatening situations, I believe the rule goes. It seems to me that you are more in need of the reminder than I. Be that as it may, you don’t need to use underage magic to brew a potion, now, do you?”
An eager light dawned in your eyes as the suggestion sunk in. He could see your imagination unfurling with a hundred different plots at the very idea. Though he did not necessarily disagree with the sentiment behind these plans, he did feel it was his burden as your head of house to dissuade you from the messier ones.
“You cannot kill him with a potion, much as the man might deserve it. That would attract the authorities, both magic and muggle. But you could use your skill in potions to keep yourself safe for the duration of the summer,” he said.
Safe. You mouthed the word rather than say it allowed, savoring the weight and taste on your tongue. Two of your fingers lifted to gently prod the blackened corner of your eye.
“What potions, sir?” Your tone sounded much more confident than it had all day. “Please tell me. I’ll study them. I’ll know them by heart before I get back on the train.”
“I will do better than give you a list. I will teach you myself.”
Your jaw went slack in a truly deplorable display of shock. Severus chose to be relieved you did not hug him instead of frustrated at your surprise. It was unusual for him to invite students for private lessons, especially for students doing adequate work in his class. A few seconds went by before you were able to control yourself enough to say, “Thank you, sir.”
“It will not be easy,” Severus warned. “I expect you to do exactly as I say exactly when I say.”
He allowed you a pause to accept this condition. You did so with a quiet nod.
“Very well. First of all, you will be here in my classroom an hour before class begins each week, starting next week. Arrive late, and our agreement will come to an end at once.”
“Yes, sir!”
“I also have one other condition.”
The happiness dancing in your eyes faded somewhat. “Yes, sir?” you asked guardedly. As though he would ever put you in the same position as that sorry excuse for your so-called “father.”
“You allow me to escort you to the Hospital Wing this morning. I cannot allow your current appearance to distract the rest of the class, now, can I?”
At first, he could tell that you wanted to argue. Accepting help from him was one thing; showing anything to Poppy would be quite another. Most students at Hogwarts knew she didn’t ask questions about whatever magical maladies plagued them—then again, this was not a magical malady. Perhaps you knew his presence would stave off any attempts on Poppy’s part to get to the bottom of things, because after a moment of mental struggle you said:
“Yes, sir.”
“Very good,” Severus said as he went to the door. He made it all the way there while you remained rooted to the spot. “Come along. Unless you want to run into your dormmates on the way.”
With a start, you stood, grabbed your book bag, and rushed right past him into the hall. Severus stopped only long enough to lock the door behind you both. Then the two of you headed side by side toward the stairway leading to the higher floors of the castle.
A tremendous waste of his time, taking a fully-functioning teenage girl to seek medical attention? Undoubtedly. But staying nearby to make sure you didn’t run off before Poppy finished with you did keep his mind off the imminent arrival of one Harry James Potter. And was it truly a waste of time to help one of his Slytherins get through a nasty childhood like his? As Severus watched Poppy tut over your black eye, he thought not—although no one would ever hear him admit it out loud.
Hey guys. I don’t know how long you’ve been on my account, but my og squad will know I was sexually abused by a teacher at 9 years old. I’m bisexual, and my parents aren’t the most accepting either. My mother has just told me that being a paedophile was the same time being gay. I tried to talk to my sister, to make sure that she didn’t think the same, and apparently she does. I can’t breathe rn, I cried for the first time in over a year yesterday (not counting panic attacks) and I’ve been feeling great apart from a few almost-relapses. I also haven’t been getting my period for the last 2 months due to stress, and I finally got it yesterday, I was so happy. This has just completely ruined my day, if i may ask for some good vibes thank you all so so much for supporting me and being there for me, I appreciate you all so so much ❤
(Sorry if this doesn’t make much sense I’m not doing great)
I’ve been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven’t met my stylist. Apparently he has no interest in seeing me until Venia and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems…primarily, ridding my body of hair. My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the stuff… I don’t like it. My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable.
I stand there, completely naked as the three circle me…
I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Cinna, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. […]
He walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with his eyes. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest.
~ Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games, Ch 5
************
(TW: Sexual abuse, sort of?)
One of the most disturbing parts of this book for me is the waxing sequence, and not simply for general cringe factor. Reading between the lines, it appears that Katniss endures not only face and body waxing but pubic hair removal as well - which I would consider somewhere between sexual abuse and sexual assault.
This appears to be the “kickoff” of her Remake, so is this the Capitol’s neat way of “breaking” the newly arrived, acutely vulnerable tributes - especially the female ones? Violating their private places (not in an outright sexual fashion, but we’re talking about non-consensual touch and inflicting pain in intimate areas) and then leaving them naked for dispassionate examination?
If not - if said waxing is simply intended as an “extreme makeover” (never mind nothing is ever that simple or innocent with a Capitol that cruelly pimps out its victors) - what possible reason could they have for waxing the pubic hair of girls aged 12-18? Is it that any sort of body hair is so utterly alien to the Capitol population that the tributes don’t look human until it’s gone?
In Ch 19, Katniss remarks that Naked bodies are no big deal in the arena, which further gives one pause. Unless the audience is watching the tributes’ primitive ablutions, is sexual activity (consensual or otherwise) commonplace in the Games?
In which case, is waxing the girls compliance with a Capitol fetish for hairless females? (i.e., it would be revolting to watch an intimate situation unfold where the girl has pubic hair) Or is it a desire to make even the older girls look prepubescent - like the children that they still are in so many ways?
Sorry if I’ve taken this down too dark a path. IHATE -SO MUCH!!! - that they do this to Katniss here (and again at the start of the Victory Tour), but it’s equally disturbing that they do it to all the girl tributes. And even moreso for this to come right after Haymitch’s warning: “You’re not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don’t resist.”
kageyama tobio was only supposed to deliver the weapons to ushijima’s best customer once every two weeks. he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you—law student by day, top dancer and escort at washijo tanji’s club by night. when you ask the impossible of him, kageyama has to choose: his life or yours.
pairing: adlers underboss kageyama tobio x escort fem!reader (with hair), part two of three ; 6.6k, nsfw (18+, mdni)
warnings:depictions of sex work, plans of violence and murder, implied sexual abuse, physical abuse (a slap), big asshole character; oral (f!receiving), creampie, kageyama’s a simp
thanks to:@anime-nymphand@vanille–kiss for coming up with the ideas for me and helping me look into ways to murder and dick kageyama down like friends should LOL <3 also for betaing, and vani for the amazing banner as always!
Two weeks is a long time when you’re riddled with anxiety, and Kageyama finds that out by the third day without seeing you. The days drag by, slower than the dead bodies he has to haul out to the ocean and tie down so they won’t be found. The Adlers are all about rules: follow them and Ushijima will reward you; break them and try to steal merchandise, and Ushijima won’t bat an eye over your “disappearance.”
Kageyama learned that as soon as he came into the clan at age nineteen, fresh off of failure to get into university again. Failure. The one thing his mother used to call him before she left him in the care of his grandfather and never returned. The one thing he dreaded becoming because his father was exactly the same. A failure of a man who couldn’t keep his family together, his debts in control, and his dick in his pants. Kageyama swore not to become like him, not to ruin his remaining family. Promised to get into a good university and make something of himself. Only he failed miserably, and his grandfather’s forlorn sigh plunged a knife into his heart and carved until there was nothing left.
He got blazingly drunk that night, stumbling all the way home as he yelled at no one. He stopped at a red light, nearly tipping over as he waited, steadying himself on the glass window of a 7/11. When Kageyama turned to look, all he saw was his face: the spitting image of his father, another failure in the Kageyama family line. Failure, failure, failure.
The first punch to the window did nothing but make his hand ache. The second was the same, but the third, fourth, and fifth slowly splintered his reflection, the cracks growing deeper and deeper as he wailed on the window. He didn’t hear the gasps from passersby; he didn’t hear the worker shout that she was going to call the police. All he heard were his own shouts of anguish and the dull thud of his bloody fist meeting the window over and over and over.
“Hey.”
Kageyama stopped punching to turn the voice, ready to throw a hook to whatever officer came to take him away. He had already fucked up his future, so what was another mistake?
“Fight me,” he slurred, wiping a bloody hand over his eyes to clear them from his tears. “I’m not gonna go to the station without a fight.”
“I’m not here to arrest you.”
Standing in front of him wasn’t a police officer at all. It was a tall man, face serious, crisp suit on his toned body. His olive-colored hair was pushed to the side, and his gloved hand held out an off-white business card.
That was the first time he met Ushijima Wakatoshi.
He had started out small, working as a server at one of the clubs. But after he beat up some rowdy customers three-to-one, Ushijima gave him more responsibility. Errand runs, contraband dropoffs, the extermination of some people who refused to follow the agreements and rules. Kageyama did them all without complaint because Ushijima gave him something special: the chance to be the opposite of everything his father was.
Eventually an eagle tattoo sat between his shoulder blades, and he was the first person Ushijima called after Hoshiumi had been disposed of.
“I’m counting on you,” Ushijima said simply before turning back around in his chair. Kageyama bowed and didn’t move for two minutes, too embarrassed to show his boss the hot tears that streamed down his face at the acknowledgement and opportunity.
But all that loyalty means shit to him as soon as he walks into Il Giardino and sees Washijo yelling at you from outside the boss’s window.
When he tries to enter, Saitou Akira puts a hand on his chest and shakes his head. “No one’s allowed inside.”
“It’s our appointment time,” Kageyama tries to argue, but the guard isn’t amused.
“You can wait.”
He’s forced to stand outside, listening to you yell back over money. Even through the thick, closed door and lowered blinds, Kageyama can hear your argument clearly.
“You can’t just raise my prices without raising my cut, too,” you argue, exasperation clear in your tone. “I know you’re my boss, but—”
“I’m not your boss,” Washijo snaps, every thread of patience gone. “You think this is a charity case? No, I ownyou. Just because you’re the best whore in this place doesn’t mean shit. One wrong move and you’ll be turned over to the police for prostitution.”
“You wouldn’t do that,” you counter. “Because then they’ll be looking into you, too—”
Your words are cut off with a sharp slap, and Akira has to restrain him from going inside again. Kageyama tries to fight into the room when he hears the slap again and a light whimper from you, but it’s no use. He has to listen to you cry out as Washijo strikes you over and over, red hot fury burning in his veins. He clenches his fists so tightly that his nails break skin, his teeth clenched so hard he thinks they might crack.
“Remember your fucking place,” Washijo spits. “Or do I have to remind you where you started, Daisy?”
The room is dead silent, and Kageyama can hear his heart pounding in his ears so loudly it sounds like drums. Even the DJ’s soundcheck is drowned out as he waits for your answer, body trembling with the anger he hasn’t felt since the night he meant Ushijima.
Your reply is quiet and broken. “Yes, sir.”
“You look like shit. Get the fuck out of here, and come back tomorrow ready to work. Your earnings for the rest of the week are mine.”
You don’t answer.
The door flings open and you nearly stumble out, eyes locking with his once you push past the guard. Your cheeks are swollen and red, blood dripping from your nose from where Washijo struck you. Your eyes immediately move to the floor, and you scurry past him without saying anything, holding your thin and sheer robe closer to your body. Kageyama wants to chase after you, wants to yell your real name and tell you none of what Washijo said is true, but the owner steps out into his doorway with an annoyed expression.
“These girls always give me trouble. They should be happy with what they’re getting. Isn’t that right, Kageyama?”
The underboss doesn’t look at Washijo as he nods once and only once. Kageyama knows that if he opens his mouth now, he’ll ruin the business relationship Ushijima built and meet the same fate as Hoshiumi, so he keeps quiet. Throughout the whole meeting, he only speaks when necessary, which is not very often. Washijo likes to hear himself talk, likes to ramble on about his mighty guns teaching his “girls” a lesson they’ll never forget.
“Training,” Washijo laughs, polishing the barrel of his latest purchase with an embroidered handkerchief. “It’s what all women need anyway.”
Kageyama can hear Washijo’s disgusting laugh ringing in his mind the entire car ride back to the hideout. You were long gone by the time Kageyama finished, running from the building before he got the chance to see you. It feels strange to be heading back so early, and something seizes Kageyama’s lungs and won’t let go. It feels like they’re in a vice grip, making it hard for him to breathe as he leans forward toward his driver.
“The Cygnus,” he manages to rasp out. He needs to talk to Ushijima immediately.
He doesn’t remember the rest of the car ride there, or stumbling into the jazz bar. He doesn’t hear the singer warmup either, or Semi playing the piano, his ears drowned out by the crashing of waves in his brain. Ushijima sits in his usual booth, nursing his usual whiskey sour, and the twitch in his eyebrow means he wasn’t expecting Kageyama so early.
“Boss,” he greets with a bow.
“Did you meet with Washijo?”
“Yes.” Kageyama’s mouth is dry no matter how many times he swallows, his arms awkwardly tight down by his sides. “But I would like you to reconsider his contract.”
“Hm?” Ushijima looks up from his glass, his face still as stoic as ever. “He still has about three months left. Does he want to end early?”
“No.”
“Then what is the issue?”
How can Kageyama explain? Washijo’s an abuser, an asshole, a damn stain on the Earth, but Kageyama’s come across worse people in his line of work. People who kill for fun, who laugh at the needy, who think life is a game and take what they want without asking. It’s par the course of mafia business, but—
But.
“I don’t think the arrangement is beneficial anymore.”
Ushijima considers Kageyama’s answer for a split second before questioning, “For whom?”
For her, Kageyama almost answers but bites it back at the last second. Ushijima stares at him like he can read him like a book, and maybe he can. The Adlers’ boss read him that first night after all, taking a chance on a boy punching a window until he bled, when no one else understood what he was going through.
When the silence stretches too long, Ushijima nods and lowers his drink. “There’s three months left in his contract and it will not be broken. You know about the rules.” Then he taps the rim of the glass a few times before adding, “However, afterwards, I will reconsider once more.”
Kageyama bows low and stays there, just like he did when he accepted the position of underboss. Only this time it’s not because he’s crying—it’s because he knows he’ll be dead if he spits out what’s really on his mind.
“Go to my club in Harajuku for tonight,” Ushijima orders. “Keep an eye out on the bouncer. I’ve heard he’s letting in rival members.”
“Yes, Boss.”
Kageyama turns from The Cygnus, repeating the order from Ushijima over and over, glad for a small ember of distraction he can fan to release the fire burning in his veins.
ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ
The next time he goes to see Washijo, the meeting ends early. The owner is in a fairly good mood, buying his firearm without barely any inspection. Kageyama doesn’t question it, because Washijo tells him anyway, not even pausing to let the underboss have a word.
“The best boat my money could buy,” he hums as he sorts through paperwork on his desk, fishing out a picture and sliding it Kageyama’s way. “What I deserve for all my hard work.”
You mean theirhard work, he wants to retort but keeps silent. Instead he studies the picture of the boat on the desk before him. It’s not the biggest he’s seen, especially not after helping Aone and Futakuchi load cruise ships and cargo containers, but it’s a decent size for a yacht. It’s big enough for a few people, a deck on the back leading to a domed inside, the entire thing painted black on the bottom and white on top.
“Name’sHighwind. It’s in Kanagawa Prefecture, perfect for weekend trips out of this hellhole. Ready to set sail on the ocean right now, in top condition.”
“Wonderful, sir,” Kageyama answers politely.
“Tell Ushijima he can join me for a trip one day. I got all the women and booze he could want right here.”
“I will alert him,” he says, but doesn’t mean it. He’s pretty sure Ushijima’s jazz club girlfriend would tear the motor out of the boat before Ushijima could even step foot on it.
“Alright, get out of here.” Washijo flicks his hand toward the door, and Kageyama ignores the old man’s mutter of, I hope that doesn’t mean you’d come, too as he slips from the room.
As he walks toward the doorway leading to the stairs, Kageyama pauses. He hasn’t seen you since the night you were slapped, glaring at him with watery eyes that told him not to come, so he hasn’t booked you tonight. Do you still not want him to come? Or are you hoping he’ll book you one more time anyway? He waits for a bit to see the first performer, and when it’s not you, he slips up the stairs and back to the car waiting for him to finish.
“Go back,” Kageyama tells the driver, shaking his head when the man tries to argue. “I’ll walk. Go back.”
The driver knows better than to question him, so Kageyama is left standing in the parking lot of Il Giardino, staring up at the nearly full moon in the spring sky. The clouds look like they’re threatening rain, thick and grey as they slowly roll in and block out the moonlight. The night is warm enough to loiter outside in his jacket, and he’s been waiting nearly an hour when the door to the restaurant opens.
He doesn’t expect you to be the one to walk out, but you do, clutching onto your bag in regular clothes. You pause mid-step when you see him standing there, eyes silently boring into his, before you turn and keep walking. Kageyama hesitates. He isn’t sure if he’s meant to follow you or if that was your way of dismissing him completely, but just before you’re out of sight, he trails you.
You walk down the main street for a while, crossing two different overpasses before disappearing into a side alley. Kageyama is quick to follow, walking a safe distance behind you as you pull up to an old apartment building that’s surely seen better days. The paint is chipped and fading, and there are newspapers and tape on the windows that are cracked in a few apartments. A thick and charged wind blows and signals the looming rainstorm, and you dig into your bag for your keys as you step into the crumbling archway leading into the complex.
Then you finally turn and stare at him, voice tired as you ask, “Are you coming?”
In the ugly yellow light of the entrance way, he can see the bags under your eyes, the fatigue clear on your face. Kageyama nods once, and you disappear into the stairwell, leading so he can follow. As he steps into the light, a flash of color catches his eye. Amongst all the decay and neglect sits a small bed of purple hyacinth, swaying in the hard breeze but standing tall and firm.
Your apartment is on the fourth floor, and Kageyama mumbles a greeting as he slips inside. There isn’t much to your place—a small TV on a stand against the wall, an older couch covered up by a newer cover, a clean kitchen with a partition attached to the wall that’s stocked with junk food. Books are everywhere, along with notes, notebooks, and pens and pencils. You set your bag on top of one of the open law books, turning to him with a hand on your hip.
“Why are you following me?”
You’re mad at him. Kageyama tries to think about whyyou might be upset with him, what he could have done to receive such a snappy tone, but he can’t come up with anything.
“You left work early,” is his lame response.
“You didn’t come for me.”
At the crestfallen look on your face, he finally understands. You wanted him to come back for you. You wanted him to book you again, to show you that he cared, to show you it was more than a simple transaction: his money for your body.
But he didn’t.
“I… didn’t think you wanted to see me,” he mutters, rocking on his feet as he thinks of what else he can say. “Because… you know.”
“You’re the only thing keeping me going,” you admit with a sad smile, dropping your hand from your hip. “If it weren’t for you, I think I would…”
The silence stretches far too long. Your gaze tears from his to look around the room, bouncing to your open law books and school mess. There are no picture frames on your walls, no proof of friends or family, no awards or trophies or accolades proving your worth. Kageyama realizes with a jolt to his heart that you’re just like he was—stuck in a constant loop of bullshit that’s nearly impossible to escape from.
“Would?”
“I want to kill him.” The impassioned way you say it makes Kageyama regard you again. “He took—takes everything from me, Tobio-kun. Everything. You heard him, didn’t you? I belongto him and he takes what’s his.” The truth weighs heavy on his chest, squeezing his lungs until all he can do is exhale sharply. You’re not just talking about money; you’re talking about you. There’s a catch in your voice when you finish, “He won’t let me leave. No matter what I do… He’ll neverlet me leave.”
The silence is deafening as he stares at you. You try to catch your breath, inhaling and exhaling a few times to calm yourself down. There are no tears lining your eyes, no flush in your cheeks. You’re completely serious, ready to make good on your plea to end the man causing your suffering. Kageyama knows the feeling of being trapped with no way out—well enough, in fact, that he takes a step forward and brings a hand to your upper arm.
“I don’t think that,” he says quietly.
“Think what?” You answer back just as softly, arms still crossed even though the tension in your shoulders has dissipated slightly. “That I’m just Washijo’s prized whore?” Your laugh is mirthless. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you did, the other girls—”
“That you’re property.”
His hushed response stops you dead in your tracks. Your eyes are wet for the first time all night—and Kageyama expects the first time in a long while—and you say his name as barely a whisper.
“You’re your own person. You’re always free to make your own choices.” He sounds like Ushijima, down to the gritty tone he repeats the words in. The boss had said those same words to him when he called and asked for a chance, and now he’s offering them to you just the same.
“Am I?” You question, grabbing onto his jacket and tugging hard on the sleeve. “You say I have a choice, but do I, really?”
Kageyama nods stiffly, trying to keep his eyes off the way you lick your lips and part them. He shouldn’t be thinking about how good you’d feel against him, about how he wants to feel you beneath him, those same lips parted in a moan of his name. Shouldn’t be thinking about those lips on his cock, milking him to completion like you did weeks ago. Shouldn’t think about your hand on his body, only it’s impossible with how you trail up his sleeve, fingers running over his sharp chin.
“That means you have a choice, too,” you say as your fingers spread lightning through his nerves as they stroke the side of his neck. “Either you can take me to the bedroom and fuck me like we both want, or you can walk out of this apartment and never see me again.”
Your bluntness causes his throat to go dry, made doubly worse when you run your fingers through his hair and tug at the locks. He can’t stop staring at your mouth, parted and glistening, like you’re ready for him to swoop in and claim you.
So he does.
It’s a much-too-excited knock of your lips that makes you squeak, but it gels into a forceful kiss when you step closer and throw your arms around his neck. He barely manages to grab you when you jump up, and he lumbers over to the table to set you down on the side. His lips haven’t left yours, moving incessantly until you part your lips for him to slip his tongue inside. You wrap your legs around his waist, slotting him between your thighs as you push your tongue against his, twirling and licking until he’s the one grunting instead of you.
He breaks to breathe, then kisses you again and again, until you’re whimpering and tugging at his jacket to get it off. He peels it off of his body without breaking the kiss, throwing it off to the side to be forgotten. Your shirt is next, followed by his sweater and undershirt, until all that’s left between your chests is a flimsy bra that he could probably rip with his fingers if he really wanted to.
The crackle of thunder outside the window makes you jump, and heavy rain begins to pound against the glass. But your breathing is even louder, sharp inhales and exhales as he squeezes at your tits, thumbs circling your nipples as he makes a sloppy and wet trail down your neck. You moan when he sucks a spot on your neck, but your thighs squeeze his waist as a warning.
“No visible marks,” you pant as you run your nails down his back. “Or he’ll kill me first.”
Kageyama grunts his answer, fingers fumbling with the clasp on your bra. When he can’t get it after a few tries, he considers actuallyripping it so he can finally get his mouth on your tits. You snort, quick hands getting it off in one go, and the scrappy piece of fabric joins the rest of the growing pile.
You moan when he licks around your nipple, sucking around it as a tease before taking one in his mouth. He pulls on the other, twisting and rubbing until they’re both hard and you’re arching into him. Your foot travels down his side, shifting to his inner thigh, and when you press against his cock, he groans.
“Missed your cock,” you say as he continues to suck on your breasts, fingers pushing at your pants until you’re lifting to help him pull them down. “I kept—ah, kept imagining what it would feel like inside me.”
Kageyama groans, kneeling down in between your legs to get a good look at your barely covered pussy. He can see how damp the front of your panties have become, and when his fingers press against your folds, you whine. He pushes your thighs open to get closer, pulling the fabric down to your knees so he can get a look at you fully naked for the first time. You’re beautiful, chest heaving and wet with his saliva, thighs trembling as his heavy breaths hit your wet folds.
“Fuck,” he whispers before he parts you, diving in to get his first taste.
You moan when he worms his tongue inside, flicking up and down to get closer. He holds onto your ass, bringing you to the edge of the partition so he can taste all of you. He flicks over your clit and you keen, hands in his hair pushing him so deep that he almost forgets how to breathe. He doesn’t really care, not when you taste so good and whine his name every time his quick tongue flicks over your clit.
It’s easy to slip a finger inside of you, even easier to press in to the hilt. His pace is rough and needy, tongue rolling your clit before he sucks on it. You swear, curling into him as your legs start to tremble. Another finger and you’re practically begging for him, heels striking the wall when he sucks hard again. The squelching of your pussy is nearly drowned out by the thunder, but there’s no masking your heavy breaths and your constant whimpers.
“I’m gonna—oh fuck, like that, like that.”
Your begging spurs him on, and his cock throbs, hot and heavy against his thigh as you moan his name. Your walls squeeze his scissoring fingers as your orgasm crests, and your fingers tug on his hair so harshly his scalp burns. He doesn’t dare stop, milking your pussy for everything you can give him as you shake and whine underneath his mouth. Kageyama keeps going until you’re trying to squirm away from him, sweaty thighs trying to push him out.
“My bag,” you gasp as you try to catch your breath. “Front zipper pocket, and hurry.”
He doesn’t dare say no. His cock pulses so hard it nearly hurts, ready to burst when he checks behind him and sees you starting to bend over the partition. Shit. Kageyama digs in your purse as fast as he can, practically tearing out the condom you have stashed inside. It’s on in a second, the wrapper thrown off to the side so he can grip your hips and maneuver you further down. Your elbows are on the table and you scratch at the surface as he rubs the head of his cock on your slick folds before pushing inside.
It’s even better than he imagined. You’re so tight, sucking him in easily with how wet you are, all the way to the hilt. You whimper and grab at him, reaching a hand back to cover his and tightening his grip on your waist. If you want it hard, he’ll give it to you. He doesn’t give you time to adjust to his long length before he pulls out and slams back in, nearly knocking you forward. You keen, digging into the countertop as he slaps his hips into yours.
You moan with every drag of his cock as he fucks you, fingers digging into your hips to make you match his thrusts. It’s weeks of pent up aggression, wanting nothing more than to be buried into your throbbing heat like he is now. Kageyama supposes he should savor it—memorize every whine, every wet sound, every gasping plea for more—but he’s too lost in the feeling of finally having you. He stares at his cock disappearing into your cunt over and over, your walls molded around him like he belongs there.
“Please,” you whimper, your moans echoing thanks to your buried face in your arm.
“Yeah?” He breathlessly asks back, a hand on your back forcing you to arch even more so he can hit deeper.
Your answer is a garbled moan, your walls squeezing him tight enough to pull a grunt from his lips. His nails run all down your back, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough where he can see the remnants of his presence, to remind himself that he’s finally got you where he wants you. The thought is enough to spike heat in his veins and threaten him to cum already.
“No, no,” you whine when he slows down, craning your head to look at him. Your eyelashes flutter with his deep but slow strokes, a small smirk coming to your face when you see how flushed and breathless he is. “Tobio.”
You’re doing this on purpose. Whimpering his name without an honorific so he’ll fall apart and give you the upper hand. And the worst part is, it’s working. Even his slow strokes can’t stop his rising orgasm so he throws caution to the wind, slamming into you again while he gropes at your tits. Your surprised yelp turns into a long moan when he hits just right, your body trembling as he pulls and twists your nipples.
“Shit,” he whispers hoarsely before letting go. His thrusts are choppy as he chases his orgasm, his fingers clinging so tightly to your breasts that you gasp. There are goosebumps on his arms as he shudders closer to you, sweat dripping from his brow to your back when he leans forward and pulls out.
You’re panting too, turning on shaky legs to regard him with lidded eyes and flushed cheeks. His flaccid cock twitches at the look, so he quickly ties off the condom before he makes a mess. When he turns to throw it out, you gasp, eyes widening at the eagle tattoo that spans his shoulder blades. Its black wings curve toward his shoulders, its mouth forever open in an angry caw. Kageyama eyes you warily as he throws away the condom, waiting for you to ask him what it is or say something about it.
But you don’t.
Instead you beckon him forward with a sly smirk and two fingers.
“I said take me to the bedroom, didn’t I?”
He wastes no time in listening. Kageyama is back on you again, lips dragging across yours over and over to savor your taste. You grab onto his shoulders to drag him toward your bedroom, tongue pressed up against his, so sloppy that his lips are covered in saliva by the time you pull back.
With a heavy push, he falls back to the bed, bouncing a few times as you climb over him. You look so pretty straddling his waist, the light around your head making you look like an angel as you lean over him. Your hips grind into his hardening cock, hands leveraging themselves on his shoulders so you can work him back to hardness. There’s a smirk on your face as you do, fingers digging into his skin as you rock back and forth.
“Tobio,” you whisper.
There’s a twinkle in your eye that tells him you know how much it’s affecting him. Especially when you shift and the head of his cock bumps your folds, disappearing inside for a second. You’re so wet, and it takes everything in him not to beg for you to take his full length.
“Oh, shit,” you whine, rocking back and forth so only the head of his cock disappears into your heat. “Fuck, like this. Can we?”
This is dangerous and Kageyama knows it. Between your job and the possibility of an accident, he should get another condom and fuck you that way. But you press a little further, teasing him with the head of his cock pressing in and out, in and out, over and over. He’s about to go insane, wanting nothing more than to be buried inside you again, but even with his hands on your hips, you evade him.
“Tobio.”
“Please.”
The word is quiet, needy, caught in the back of his throat as a mix between a groan and a request. It takes you both by surprise, your eyes widening as you stare down at him. He’s completely hard again, and just a little lower… His face grows even more flushed than it already is when you spread your folds and sink down all the way, keeping eye contact with him the entire time. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, your hips stilling as you breathe.
There’s a moment where you savor the feeling, then you’re lifting your hips and slamming down, holding onto him as you ride him. Kageyama is sure he’s never seen something so beautiful, your tits bouncing, your hands flexing, your cunt warm and perfect for him. Every moan, whimper, and squeeze of your walls drills into his brain, ringing until he can’t think anymore. All he knows is the heat and wetness of your cunt, and the way you bounce on him like his cock is all you need.
His hands grip your waist to help you move, legs lifting to hit even deeper. You ride him so well, head tilted back with a moan as your fingers trail down to your clit. You keen and work quickly, matching his thrusts with your bounces and your gasps for breath.
When Kageyama grips your ass, you groan, fingers rubbing and circling your swollen nub until you’re leaning forward with a hoarse call of his name. Your pussy squeezes him so tightly that he grunts, working you through your orgasm as his own rises.
You open your eyes, cheeks sweaty and flushed, and when you whisper his name, he’s lost. He grabs onto you, fucking up into you as hard as he can. When his orgasm hits, he forces your hips down so he can fill your cunt with his seed, so he can make his mark on you in the only way he knows how. You gasp at the feeling, but he barely hears it, lost in the feeling of you taking him so well.
He opens his eyes and your satisfied smile is the first thing he sees.
“Again,” you beg. “Please.”
Kageyama can think of nothing else he wants more.
ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ ⵈ
The first thing he hears is the pounding of rain against the bedroom window. The second is water running in the room across the hall from your bedroom. Kageyama is groggy when he wakes up, blinking the sleep from his eyes as he sits and tries to re-orient himself. It’s still dark outside, which means he only dozed off for a few hours. You had collapsed on his chest, the warmth lulling him into a restful sleep he hadn’t had for a while.
When he pads out to the living room with his underwear in his hands, you’re still in the bathroom. Kageyama nudges the door open with his foot, watching you scrub your face clean of the product you’re using. You’re still naked, water dripping down your body as you finish up, towel off, then turn to him.
“Do you want to shower, too?” You ask calmly, wrapping the towel around your neck before batting your clean eyelashes at him. “Before you go back to see Ushijima-san.”
Kageyama goes rigid as a board, gaze drilling into your light smile. How do you know that?
“I’ve heard that name before. From Washijo,” you muse, walking forward to move past him toward your bedroom. Kageyama follows you like a lost puppy, unsure of what else to do. You dig into your dresser, pulling out a t-shirt and cotton shorts before you turn and speak again. “The leader of the Adlers, right? He sent you a message.”
The ease in which you discuss the Adlers is disorienting. It’s like you’re talking about what you need from the store instead of mafia business, oh-so-casual as you slip on your pajamas. He hurries to put on his underwear, refusing to have this conversation while standing naked in your bedroom.
You look at him so expectantly now that you’re dressed, but all Kageyama can do is give a stiff nod and a croaked, “Yeah.”
“Then… you work for him?”
“Yeah.”
“Tobio,” you breathe, so dainty, so soft, so beautiful. You take a step forward, grabbing onto his hand and bringing it between both of your own, fingers clutching his like a lifeline. It’s a stark contrast to your next request. “Kill him for me.”
“What?” It falls from Kageyama’s mouth as quickly as a bullet. “Ushijima?”
“No,Washijo.” You cling harder to his hand even though Kageyama tries to pull it away. “Isn’t that what the mafia does? Kill people who go against them? Make them disappear?”
Sure, he’s done that plenty of times under Ushijima’s orders, but…
“If anyone can do it, you can.”
“I can’t.” Kageyama answers, firm and immovable. “I can’t go against the Boss. Besides you…” He sighs, looking out toward the living room, even if he can’t see it. “Aren’t you going to become a lawyer? You can’t have that stain on your record, idiot, you—”
“I’m not an idiot,” you hiss, dropping his hand and pointing a finger in his chest. “You don’t know how much I’ve thought about this. How many times I’ve seen women hit and assaulted, only for the lawto turn their backs on them for trying to make ends meet. No one will do anything about Washijo because he has too much power and money. Trust me, I’ve tried. All he has to do is wave his money around and the evidence is destroyed.”
Kageyama stares at you in confusion, eyebrows creasing together as you force your finger into his chest again to push him away from you. “Then… what’s the point of becoming a lawyer if you hate it so much?”
“The point is to help people like me who are stuck with no way out.” You sigh, dragging a hand down your face before taking a deep breath. “I’ll endure all the bullshit if it means another woman doesn’t have to go through what I have.”
You turn away from him, crossing your arms over your chest. Kageyama wants nothing more than to wrap you up from behind and bring you into his embrace, whispering that it’ll be okay. He, of all people, knows what a lie those words are. He murmurs your name but you don’t turn around; you’re too focused on the rain pelting the window from the storm outside.
“Sometimes the law isn’t enough. For people like me, it’ll neverbe enough.” Your voice is quiet and defeated, something he’s never once heard for you. You finally turn to him, expression grim as you plead, “That’s why I need your help.”
As much as it pains him to say it, Kageyama repeats, “I can’t.”
“So you’ll choose to let me suffer?”
“I’m choosing my life. Ushijima will kill me if I go against his word. Don’t ask me to choose between Ushijima and you, because…” He pauses, swallowing down his reservations so he can bluntly say, “Because it won’t be you.”
“…I know,” you admit quietly, so quiet and resigned that it breaks his heart. “I know. That’s not what I want.”
You exhale, turning away from him again, and it feels as though you’ve closed yourself off from him for good. He won’t let it end like this. Ushijima be damned, there has to be something he can do for you to get you out of this hell. Even though Kageyama couldn’t achieve his own goals, he doesn’t want that to happen to you, too.
“Three months.”
His words make you silently look back.
“Three months,” Kageyama repeats. “That’s how long Washijo has left in his contract. After three months, Ushijima says he’ll reconsider.”
There’s a pinched look on your face that looks like you’re considering something, calculating the best way to use the remaining time. Carefully, like you’re weighing every word that comes out of your mouth, you ask, “That means after three months, I can…?”
“If you’re sure.”
You swallow, taking a deep breath before slowly exhaling. “You know,” you murmur, quieter than the thunder that shakes the window in front of you. “I want him dead, but… more than that, I want him ruined. I want him to suffer. I want to watch the light fade from his eyes, like he did to me. Do you understand?”
Kageyama takes his time to consider what you’re asking. It’s more than asking about his comprehension—you’re quietly asking for his help, for his expertise, for a way to make sure Washijo gets everything that’s coming to him, even if it means going against everything you’re studying for. Can he do this for you? Bring you into the dark and dirty work of the mafia, even as you study to become someone who may take him down?
“Tobio, answer me,” you insist when he takes too long to answer.
“If you want him to suffer,” Kageyama answers slowly, “Then we’ll need a plan.”
You both stare at each other for a long, dragging moment. Lightning outside the window flashes and illuminates the torn look on your face, your tired eyes, your heaving chest. You hug closer to yourself as if you can feel the chill from the rain from outside, even though your apartment is overly warm. The breath you let out is loud, and you blink a few times before you turn around to him fully, arms crossed over your chest.
“We have to make it perfect.”
Kageyama nods once to seal the deal.
If this is all he can promise you, then he’s more than willing to do it.
It happened like this: When he turned nine, he gets called into his office. Until this point, none of them had ever been allowed in said office. It’s that day he’s told to take off his clothes, this is a pattern that continues for eight years.
It happened like this: He’s fifteen, and talking to a reporter. The reporter places his hand on his knee, throughout the questions it slides up his thigh. The reporter calls him pretty, says he’s too pretty. It’s his own fault.
It happened like this: He’s short on money, and the dealer offers him a way to pay the little bit. He doesn’t understand until he’s on his knees. He knows what to do by now.
It happened like this: Someone asked how much, he said fifty.
It happened like this: He’s twenty-two, and sitting in a police station. A cop tells him that it wasn’t his fault, he laughs at her. Because it’s always his fault.
It happened like this: He likes skirts, and heels, and eyeliner, and dancing.
It happened like this: The hands are always rough, and they always leave marks that hurt for days. It hurts, and it’s only ever bad people. People who like hurting other people.
It happened like this: He tries to touch him one night, on the thin mattress in a motel room. He can’t breath, because no, no, no, no. He’s supposed to be good, he’s supposed to be kind. He locks himself in the bathroom and cries.
It happened like this: It’s his own fault, and everybody knows it.
shitty mobile post on desktop view bc I’m trying to stay logged out so idk what this will look like and I’m not in the mental state to make a great post or a dank meme to explain but please please read this if you can handle this stuff that’s been going on. I know it’s negative and I hate that, it’s just I feel like I can’t sleep if I don’t say something about this right now because it’s years too late https://twentytwowords.com/signs-youre-in-a-cult/ Please read this and keep the SCP wiki in your mind as you read the examples. I don’t know how to describe how I feel right now but I just feel like I have whiplash. I seriously fucking sobbed reading this, it hurt so much to immediately realize it was true. I feel SO stupid that I was willfully ignorant to what people had to say about the wiki. please just go down that list and imagine that it’s talking about the wiki. I just did that and to be frank I had a fucking panic attack for the first time in a long time. In hindsight it’s SO. OBVIOUS. they say you’re safe there from the outside world (“LGBT+ inclusive”) even though you’re a massive target for alt-right and Kiwi Farms people and beyond when you put your face or personal info on the SCP wiki. administration does whatever the inner circle wants including throwing out another person entirely. administration’s word is law. they police others’ relationships and they get in inappropriate relationships with their users. like oh my god all the shit in these memes. especially the one about how cult leaders say THEY can break ethical boundaries but others can’t, it’s what SCP admins do when they decide what is “abuse” or not, like with the Roget manipulating the RPC admin thing. and oh my god the grooming? the sex culture?? that’s their fucking psychological manipulation element of choice!!! it’s Pavlov’s Dog shit!!! to make you obsessed with the wiki and the people there, to make you think only they can give you what you want and need, to make you want to stay and give more and more of your time and work and energy to them! Christ above I had just been thinking that I needed to do more research on how SCP was similar to a cult. I just didn’t expect how INSANELY SPOT-ON it is. all I did was I googled “signs of cultism” and got hit with that article and the realization that I truly fucking did spend age 16-21 of my life in a cult, and now the leaders of the cult want me fucking gone and unable to communicate with those stuck in the cult. especially those about to join the cult, aka young people. I’m really starting to fucking add up some shit that happened to my reputation right now. they shut up and destroy anyone who figures out what they’re doing, make it so we can’t talk, make it so we’re so at-risk or so hated that we run away. it’s like almost every single fucking thing the administration of the SCP wiki does is listed in this page on signs you’re in a cult well double triple fuck you SCP administration you’re evil you’re like twisted corrupt occult level sexually depraved plotting level pure evil AND YOU HAVE SO MUCH FUCKING MONEY YOU HAVE 156,000 DOLLARS RIGHT NOW EW EW EW. The Foundation doesn’t belong to you you fucking putrid bureaucrats inner circle authors WAKE UP, holy fuck I would scream it at past me if I could, it’s not just a writing site. it’s not just a fucking writing site!! they tell you it’s just a writing site to fuck with your head and make you think they don’t have the power they do over so many people! fucking hell I don’t care what anyone thinks of me anymore i really don’t I just need people to understand that administration is the enemy of ALL and the SCP wiki is a fucking cult, it terrifies me seeing posts encouraging people to join. encouraging young queer minors to join. people who said it was a cult and got called crazy I’m so so SO sorry that I didn’t believe you until it was too late, I’m so sorry I helped them, I’m sorry I ever made posts encouraging people to join the wiki, I cannot believe what I was a part of and I don’t give a shit if the admins try to KILL me, I will never shut up until their control over the SCP Foundation community is ripped from them by the people they abuse because that is the least I can fucking do after being involved in this nasty depraved circle of sin and lies
Gif 1: Flashback to ten years before the beginning of the show in the junkyard, season 1 episode 6. Teen Isobel is sitting with one hand raised, having just eaten a french fry. She is looking at Michael (off screen) in surprise and shock, she looks taken aback. The text reads “he took a flower in its prime”.
Gif 2: Flachback to ten years before the beginning of the show in a cave, season 1 episode 10. Isobel (who is possessed by Noah) is gripping Rosa tightly, her left hand over Rosa’s mouth. Her fingers glow red, and as the light intensifies Rosa looks more afraid. Isobel’s mouth is open and her brown furrowed as though she is expending effort. The text reads “and then he used it”.
Gif 3: Inside the mindscape at the gala on the dancefloor, season 1 episode 11. Isobel is standing, clearly terrified and unable to move. Noah is behind her, leaning over her shoulder and whispering in her ear; sinister and obviously in control. The text reads “and he abused it”.
Gif 4: Outside in the desert at night, season 1 episode 13. Overhead shot of Noah lying dead on the ground, his shirt open to show marks where he was struck by Max’s lighting. It is raining. The text reads “it was a murder, but not a crime”.
“You’re very young and you don’t realise people can take advantage of you.”
“Very hard to imagine.”
- Lolita (1997)
/ I hate that I lived a life similar to Dolores /
/ I hate seeing it romantized /
/ I’m trying to not do it myself because I’ve trauma bonded /
/ kill all pedos /
Hi. First of all I’m so sorry that happened to you! No words I say can make that better. But you’re clearly a very strong person. I hope you didn’t miss the point of my post. I myself was not romanticising the story. I was showing how Lolita very clearly knew Humph was taking advantage of her and abusing her. I also stated in tags that this is Dolores story, nobody elses. I’d love to see a screenplay with her POV! That would be very interesting
Thinking about the time I posted about Saint Augustine’s views on rape (on twitter), and a non-Christian replied saying he hate me for being a rape victim. Like 1) if that was true, I would simply fist fight him and 2) I can’t imagine ever being so malicious to see a rape victim take comfort in someone’s words and tell them that the person hated them ???
Kind of uncomfortable with Jared Leto being a meme despite the intense sexual assault allegations that periodically crop up about him sleeping with underage fans etc. I hope if any of his victims come forward or file suit (even anonymously) it will be taken more seriously but there seem to be half a dozen new articles about it even in 2022
Grooming is when someone builds a relationship, trust and emotional connection with a child or young person so they can manipulate, exploit and abuse them. Children and young people who are groomed can be sexually abused, exploited or trafficked. Anybody can be a groomer, no matter their age, gender or race. Grooming can take place over a short or long period of time – from weeks to years. Groomers may also build a relationship with the young person’s family or friends to make them seem trustworthy or authoritative.
It can be difficult to tell if a child is being groomed – the signs aren’t always obvious and may be hidden. Older children might behave in a way that seems to be “normal” teenage behaviour, masking underlying problems.
Some of the signs you might see include:
• being very secretive about how they’re spending their time, including when online
• having an older boyfriend or girlfriend
• having money or new things like clothes and mobile phones that they can’t or won’t explain
• underage drinking or drug taking
• spending more or less time online or on their devices
• being upset, withdrawn or distressed
• sexualised behaviour, language or an understanding of sex that’s not appropriate for their age
• spending more time away from home or going missing for periods of time.
• A child is unlikely to know they’ve been groomed. They might be worried or confused and less likely to speak to an adult they trust.
Effects of grooming:
Grooming can have both short and long-term effects. The impact of grooming can last a lifetime, no matter whether it happened in person, online or both. A child or young person might have difficulty sleeping, be anxious or struggle to concentrate or cope with school work. They may become withdrawn, uncommunicative and angry or upset.
Who’s at risk?
Any child is at risk of being groomed. And it’s important to remember that both boys and girls can be groomed. Children who are groomed online could be abused by someone they know. They could also be abused by someone who commits a one-off act or a stranger who builds a relationship with them. Some children are more at risk of grooming, particularly those who are vulnerable. Children in care, with disabilities or who are neglected can be targeted by groomers. Groomers will exploit any vulnerability to increase the likelihood a child or young person will become dependent on them and less likely to speak out.
You can also contact your local child protection services or the police to report your concerns about any type of grooming - whether it’s happening online, in person or both.
I just got out of a year-long relationship with an NT guy. My takeaway: it’s so hard to date someone who’s not autistic. My main reason for breaking up with him was that he kept complaining about how hard it was for him to have an autistic girlfriend. That hurt. I can’t change the fact that I’m autistic, and I need someone who’s willing to take care of me when I have shutdowns and meltdowns. When I broke up with him, I immediately felt so free. But now, I feel anxious and scared. I had forgotten what it was like to be single, to be anxious when talking to people you like, to have a crush.
Now I get so scared when I think about someone I like. It’s terrifying. And not in the socially awkward way. I’m scared. Even when I’m not thinking about dating, I’m 10x more anxious than when I was with my ex. I used him as a crutch for my anxiety. I had way less panic attacks when I was with him than since breaking up with him. Lately, it feels like I’m having panic attack after meltdown after panick attack. It’s awful. He was kind of like a service dog, in the sense that him being there would calm me down, and if I did have a meltdown, he could handle it and take care of me. So, since he started complaining about how hard that was and it felt like he was blaming me for my meltdowns and shutdowns, I had to break it off, but now I feel alone and scared. I’m also so freaking scared to date, because I’ve only met a few autistics that I have enough in common with to date them, and absolutely none that I’m attracted to and who are attracted to me.
It feels like I can’t date anyone NT again, because it was so. Freaking. Hard. But, it also feels like I won’t find anyone who’s autistic. Neurotypicals are hard to understand and talk to, but I tend to see the very few autistic people I’ve met at school as friends. It’s so lonely. I feel like I’ve lost a service dog. It’s not just wanting a boyfriend or girlfriend. It’s needing a crutch. And I don’t know what to do. I asked my therapist to recommend to my doctor that I get a service dog, but who knows if my doctor will sign off on it? I really think I need one, and my therapist agrees. In the meantime though, as it could take years until I actually get one, I’m so lost. Fidgets don’t work and neither do chewys, and I’m so anxious all the time.
Hi! It’s been about a year since I wrote this post and I’ve noticed I’ve been getting notes on it so I figured I should update you guys.
First, I totally forgot about that feeling. It’s been so long since then and I can’t even remember how I felt right after breaking if off with my ex. Second, while I didn’t realize it then, my ex had sexually abused me, and it would take months to heal. I still haven’t healed, but maybe that was the reason for my anxiety and fear. I don’t think I used him as a crutch. It think when I broke up with him I realized how scared I was when I was with him. It broke me down mentally for a while. I started having nightmares and flashbacks and I would just start crying around friends or family.
Third, I have a boyfriend now and he is neurotypical, but he understands me and has never complained about my autism. When I ask him, because it’s part of my trauma from being mentally abused by my ex, if he wishes I weren’t autistic, he says, “if you weren’t autistic you wouldn’t be you. I would never have met you, and I wouldn’t be as happy as I am now.”
Fourth, while I am certainly not healed, I think my ex was good for me in that he taught me how to tell if people are bad for me. He taught me the kind of person I don’t want around me and the kind of person I should run as far as I can away from. I know a lot of it comes from ignorance (and his horrible home life, which does NOT excuse his actions), but I know it’s best for me to be around people I know are informed about my disability and who I know I can trust.
My current boyfriend has helped me so much, and it’s not because he’s neurotypical. It’s because he understands me, he’s compassionate, loving, thoughtful, and patient. What I felt over a year ago about dating has been flipped completely upside down. He has taken my trauma and given me a safety net. I can’t believe how far I’ve come
I am absolutely seething about what Disney just did to Bobby Driscoll again 54 years after he was buried a John Doe (his corpse was found by two children playing an abandoned tenement building–his death date is actually unknown and the date given is the day he was instead found) in an unmarked mass grave in Hart Island’s potters field (not identified for a year until his mother pressured Roy O. Disney to make the NYPD care enough to match his fingerprints) where he still is surrounded by prisoners and unidentified vagrants (literally referred to as the “poor, unable and unwanted” on a sign)…
And 69 years after they fired him by letting him read it in a gossip column. Walt had his secretary call security on him and he was thrown out of the building crying at 16 years old (near his birthday–he was 14-15 during Peter Pan’s production). The film was #1 at the box office and in release for two weeks when he was fired. There’s also a rumor that Howard Hughes was also pressuring the firing, as he absolutely loathed child actors in general, and was in charge of RKO.
Bobby was the voice and rotoscoped character model for the titular Peter Pan. He was also in Song of the South, Melody Time, So Dear to My Heart and Treasure Island. His live-action movies literally saved the Disney company from total bankruptcy in the ‘40s. He was the very first actor ever signed to the company. He was only one of twelve child actors to ever receive a Juvenile Oscar (with such company as Judy Garland, Mickey Rooney, Shirley Temple, Margaret O'Brien and Hayley Mills) for his performances in 1948/9’s The Window and So Dear to My Heart. And for the record, Walt didn’t treat Adriana Caselotti (Snow White) much better, to the point where he denied her the ability to ever get work with her voice ever again. It’s just that Bobby is possibly the most horrific ending of a child actor ever in Disney’s history (there are many).
Disney just made Peter Pan the villain in the new Chip ‘n Dale abortion that gives the animated character Bobby’s actual backstory (this is not an evil Peter Pan take based on the book and not in any way comparable to Once Upon a Time!) of being an actor fired for hitting puberty and having acne. That’s not Peter’s backstory; that’s Bobby’s. And it’s too specific to be a coincidence. They drew a character, who was drawn unmistakably with the actor’s real features and acting performance, as a middle-aged, fat man, despite the fact that he died at 31 and Peter’s voice basically was his post-pubescent adult voice. They made him a hideous monster aged far past an age he ever reached.
The film also ends with the character incarcerated, which happens to be yet another thing from the man’s real life. By his own words, he was raped in prison. His spiral on drugs sent him to Chino, which didn’t happen until he was bullied mercilessly in public school after being pulled from the actor kids’ school (he also had stage parents who beat him and locked him in a closet to the point that Disney had earlier stepped in to send him to live with costar Luana Patten’s family as a child–there are also allegations he was molested while working at Disney) when Disney basically ended any chance of steady work. He was a straight-A student prior.
I’ve been telling this story every chance I’ve gotten for nearly two decades. Few today know who he is, because Disney does everything to keep the story hidden and him forgotten. Bobby is not a Disney Legend, despite fans lobbying for decades. The Peter Pan DVD/Blu-ray avoids mentioning him as much as they can. Another one of his films is de facto banned.
That Disney just pulled this with a disgusting, sick joke that laughs at his backstory and misfortune, then turns him into an irredeemable villain in a plot that essentially turns themselves into the victims of copyright theft (they’re responsible for lobbying to get copyright law extended indefinitely). So, in other words, Disney has framed themselves as the victim of a heartlessly-fired child actor who died tragically instead of the villain and framed themselves as the victim yet again.
If there’s any silver lining, it’s that Twitter and social media just learned about him for the first time because of outrage over Disney spitting on this dead man’s unmarked grave yet again. I knew this story decades ago (I had a Peter Pan obsession). Undoubtedly, nobody working on this stupid film was with the company 70 years ago and most were likely not even alive when he died, but somebody there had the bright idea to put the biographical data of a person Disney has spent decades trying to make everyone forget as a villain origin story.
“I have found that memories are not very useful. I was carried on a silver platter and then dumped into the garbage can.” -Bobby Driscoll
Sharing this again because I didn’t realize the depth of how much the film pulled from his life, having not watched it myself. The fact that they seem to have even used the acne thing specifically and apparently used some of Driscoll’s own words against him (“getting thrown into the trash”)…this keeps getting worse and worse and part of me needs to watch it to see how bad it gets but…ugh. This is just sickening.
One of us realized yesterday that we’ve been out of our anti-depressants for days and none of us knew it or remembered to refill it. It explains why we had an emotional breakdown a few days ago, why we came as close as we did to suicide, why we felt like self-harming for the first time in years, and why everything has been so hard in general. Now Alan refuses to leave front until we get back on our meds because of how bad it’s gotten. Its scary to see him on alert like this.
I hate having to go to pharmacies i hate having to go see a counselor i hate knowing my freedom could be taken away at any time for wrongthink (i.e. for suicidal thoughts/behaviors) and that i feel so fucking isolated in my troubles. I fucking hate sanism and the impossible goals abled people put on disabled people.
I was gonna try to put a positive spin on this, but fuck that. I cant even get my& fuckin meds until monday because my psychiatrist is out and my alternatives for getting an emergency supply are going on an endless game of phone tag with my pharmacist and my clinic’s after hours’ line or voluntarily admitting myself into a mental hospital that’s known for it’s cases of sexual abuse against patients.
Fuck all of that. Fuck the USA and fuck the psychiatric industrial complex.
