#and was born a slave and had nothing and never had the mother she wanted so desperately

[1eos]

i was just thinking abt beloved heating up my pizza when i see a literal pro shipper say sethe is wrong for killing her child and that she should have just gone back to the plantation. and its an interesting desensitization to the horrors of slavery where you see being treated as chattel to be worked, beaten and sexually assaulted as a sensible choice over death. like 'oh just go back to the place where you were beaten nearly to death and assaulted by a bunch of men that's easy!' and its funny bc both that fucking idiot and the characters in the book have more revulsion for sethe than for the perpetrators of the other option. there was a high chance beloved would die at the hands of a slave master anyways like toni morrison isnt saying killing your children is the solution its that slavery is also death! it's death of the soul! and oftentimes death of the body! and the book doesn't even think sethe is noble like she suffers for her pride MULTIPLE ppl say this outright while also acknowledging the horrors of slavery. there is no 'right' answer there is literally no lesser evil......bc its fucking SLAVERY LIKE ARE U SHITTING ME RN

[br0kenangel]

LADY LANNISTER QUOTES

"Your life was forfeited the moment you struck him. Consider every breath from now a gift l can take away."

"Such a sweet little piglet. Shame how easily they can be slaughtered."

"Look at these bastards—oh, I mean, little piglets. They do bear a striking resemblance to their real sire, don’t they?"

"Do you prefer your men as strong as Ser Harwin, Laenor? I'm sure you have much in common to discuss."

"Rhaenyra, you must be so relieved to have such loyal men by your side 一though it's hard to say which is more important, their swords or their seed."

"His eye was a gift compared to what I'll take from Rhaenyra. I'll make her wish she had never been born."

"She'll lose more than just an eye. I'll strip her of everything-her dignity, her hope, her life."

"For every drop of blood my son shed, I'lI spill an ocean from that bastard's veins."

"He'lI be blind, deaf, and mute by the time I'm through with him-a living Corpse in all but name."

"Perhaps you should be grateful. I could have chosen a more permanent solution to your little problem."

"Consider this a friendly reminder that I hold all the cards. Your children’s lives are but a whim of mine."

"To the princess-may her comfortable Iife come to an end soon and so my husband's breath. A toast to what's to come!"

"I fight for my children's future, while you let yours be trampled underfoot by a woman who will never honor you."

"At least I'm honest about what I want-a throne for my son. What do you have, Rhaenys? Empty dreams?"

"Her children are no kin of yours, yet you sacrifice everything for them. Who’s the real slave here?"

"You call yourself a dragon, but you’re nothing more than a docile sheep led to slaughter."

"I'm not a monster. I'm a mother."

"For every tear my children shed, I’ll take another breath from your lungs."

"You were never a king, just a weak man hiding behind a crown. Now, not even that can save you."

"The dead have no say in the realm of the living. Kneel before my son, or meet the same fate as your precious king."

"You cling to the words of a dead man, yet here you are, standing before the queen who will decide your fate."

"They can't take him from me! Not like this, not after everything I've sacrificed!"

"If there's any mercy left in this world, let it be for my son. I can't bear to lose him!"

"Please, help him. I've never begged for anything before-now I beg for my son's life!"

[smileyoongle]

Pairing- VampireKing!Jungkook × Human!Reader

Genre- Arranged Marriage AU (Sort of?), Enemies to Lovers, Soulmate AU

Summary- Jeon Jungkook was known to be a tyrant, destroying anything and everything to get what he wanted. And this time, he wanted you.

Warnings- Mentions of blood, gore and murder scenes, eventual smut, JK is definitely a hard dom and mad possessive, vampire bites and blood sucking.

A/N- Even though I have tagged the people who asked to be tagged, there will be no taglist for this series from here on. I only tagged you guys to sort of let you know this series has started. It's a big struggle to keep all those usernames up to date so you might wanna turn on the notifs :)

Please find the introduction to the world of Amour Mort here!

You ran through the forest, tears in your eyes making it difficult to see the path ahead, but you could tell you were venturing deeper into the more dangerous side. At the back of your mind, you were very aware that you shouldn’t be here past midnight, and that if someone found you breaking curfew, you would probably be executed by the throne, thinking you were some sort of rebel revolting in the recent uprisings. But all of that paled in comparison to the despair gnawing at your soul.

The branches clawed at your skin, leaving angry red marks, but you didn’t slow down, only realizing you had come here barefoot when tiny stones began hurting the bottom of your feet. You were being chased—not by a person, but by your own thoughts and the relentless ache in your chest. Your father’s words would not stop playing in your mind, your palms pressing against your ears as you closed your eyes in an attempt to silence his voice.

"You're nothing but a burden to me. I wish you had never been born!"

Suddenly, a sharp pain seared through your right foot, sending you stumbling and falling to the ground with all the air being knocked out of your lungs. You winced, letting out a whimper as you managed to look back, gasping at the bear trap that had clamped around your foot. Its teeth dug into your flesh, and blood pooled on the dead leaves beneath you.

“No…” you cried out, sobbing at your misfortune, the pain from your wound shooting through your leg in waves. A thought came to you: maybe this is how you die, completely alone and unloved, with no one to care that you weren’t at home right now.

‘That’s not true! Lila cares…’

Your mind screamed at you, your sister’s pretty face popping into your head. Well, this was true; your sister did care about you. But really, there was only so much she could do when your father did not even acknowledge you as his daughter. You still remembered the party where a guest mistook you for a maiden working in the mansion. It had truly hurt you, but there was nothing you could say, not when that is probably what your father wanted the world to think. A part of you thinks he hates you because your mother died just five days after you were born, but how could you, a mere baby, be at fault for that?

Gathering all your energy, you began to drag yourself to a tree nearby, wincing and whimpering with every wave of pain that washed over you. You could even feel the burn on the skin of your forearms where it rubbed against the rocky and muddy ground, convinced that the sleeve of your dress was beginning to tear. Were you even going to make it back home? Did you even want to make it back home?

Upon reaching the giant tree, you pushed yourself up, managing to rest your back against the trunk, finally getting a good look at the steel trap wrapped around your foot. Meant for animals, it was likely a tool for the poorer vampires who couldn’t afford human slaves and fed on animal blood instead. It was the one law that favored humans: vampires were forbidden to feed on them freely. But nonetheless, it was always the innocent ones who had to pay the price. The night-walkers were given the gift of strength and brutality that they used against the weak, be it you or an animal.

Your chest rose and fell quickly, your breathing growing harsh, and your vision growing blurry. It was the blood loss, and you couldn’t even feel the pain anymore. Either you were getting used to it, or your body had started focusing on the fact that you were dying instead. Whatever was happening, it was not good, and you had no idea how to help yourself.

“You shouldn’t be here. Not at this time.” A voice broke through the darkness, making you jump in surprise, your eyes immediately landing on a man’s silhouette standing just a few steps away from you. Your heart hammered in your chest, and, swallowing thickly, you pressed yourself further against the tree, hoping that would make you disappear.

Was this someone who was going to turn you in? Maybe the cause of your death was going to be execution and not a bear trap?

Your silence only prompted the man to move closer to you and into the moonlight filtering through the trees, your lips parting as you took in his face. He was truly breathtaking, with black hair that fell across his forehead and eyes that seemed to pierce through the night. There was black ink peeking at you from under the collar of his black shirt on his neck, more patterns emerging from under his rolled-up sleeve right up to his knuckles, making you wonder just how much of his body was tainted like this.

“N-neither should you,” you said bravely, though your voice was small and weak.

He chuckled in response, making you purse your lips as you watched him kneel down beside you, your body subconsciously shifting backward even though there was nowhere to go, every single thought in your mind long gone in the presence of this man.

His eyes slowly moved across your body, taking in your tear-stained cheeks, your tattered dress, and your bloody foot, tutting at the condition of your wound.

“This is why you shouldn’t be here, little human,” he said, your eyes widening as you caught a hint of amusement on his face, your blood running cold at the realization. Your breath was caught in your throat, and you were suddenly very aware of the blood you were soaked in, your eyes nervously flitting between him and your poor foot. If you had to die, you didn’t want to do so at the hands of a vampire. In fact, you couldn’t even imagine the pain that was probably about to suffocate you when he ripped your heart right out of your chest.

“Please don’t kill me,” you begged, staring into his eyes with tears in yours, shaking your head when he smirked and leaned in closer to you. Closing your eyes, you let the tears fall freely and turned your face away from him, his breath fanning your neck and making you whimper.

“You must taste exquisite.” He inhaled deeply, your chest heaving as his words made your heart thump harder in your chest. This has to be it. He was going to drain your body right now, and no one was going to find out ever.

Preparing yourself for the attack, you closed your eyes shut and gripped the skirt of your dress, thinking about your family for the last time before your life was taken from you.

“But I’m not going to do that.” Came his voice, your eyes slowly opening as you glanced over at him, noticing the sudden distance he had put between the two of you. A frown etched on your forehead, your tears drying up on your cheeks as you processed his words. He was not going to hurt you?

“I’m too old to lose control over a bit of blood.” He gestured nonchalantly towards your foot, shocking you at how he thought this was just a bit of blood. You were literally going to pass out soon.

“Wh-why are you here?” you stammered, biting your tongue when his expression hardened, his eyes sending daggers your way and letting you know that you shouldn’t have asked him that. Silence engulfed you both, your eyes failing to look away from him. It was almost as if he was holding you prisoner under his gaze, a flash of guilt disappearing from his dark eyes as soon as it came.

“I had to get away before they caught up to me,” he confessed, a cool breeze ruffling his hair as he stood up and stared down at you, his eyes reading the confusion in yours.

“Who-”

“My sins,” he responded before you could even ask, his thick boots crunching the leaves on the gravelly path as he walked in front of your stretched-out leg and sat down on one knee. A flash of lightning struck through the sky at that very second, as if to show that the heavens had heard his confession too. And when the thunder illuminated his face, you could swear you had seen the very face of evil.

“Are you scared of me?” he asked, tilting his head as you swallowed thickly, shaking your head hesitantly. But you knew he didn’t believe you when he let out a small laugh. It sounded bitter to your ears, like he was mocking you for being so weak yet trying to fool him at the same time.

“Well, you should be.” In one quick motion, his hand ripped apart the trap into two pieces, your flesh being freed from the sharp claws that were jammed into it. Dots filled your vision as your lips parted in a silent scream, your chest hurting as if you were having a heart attack, and maybe you were because you felt your body go limp as your eyes rolled back into your head.

Strong arms held you before you could hit the ground, your head suddenly resting against a firm chest as your breath came out all raggedy. You could feel sweat beading on your forehead, your body not having any energy to even let you open your eyes for a second.

“W-why…” you breathed out, your voice a bare whisper in the night. And the next thing you knew, you felt a hand pressing against your lips before a metallic taste filled your mouth. With all the energy left in you, you opened your eyes wide and grabbed the tattooed arm feeding you blood, your attempts at pushing it away failing miserably.

“Sshh, you need this. You need me,” the vampire whispered above you, his chin resting atop your head as he ran his free hand through your hair. Knowing that you couldn’t fight him off, not like this, you gave up and swallowed the disgusting liquid that made your body feel warm all of a sudden. You could hear your heart pumping and your breathing steadying as the blood worked its way into your system, your senses sharpening, and your strength slowly returning.

After what felt like an eternity, he pulled his arm away, and you let out a string of coughs, gasping for air while the awful taste lingered on your tongue. It was truly ironic how the blood of someone dead could heal a living being. How a killer could give life to someone. And you were sure that this man who had saved your life was a killer too. Why else would he talk about his sins catching up to him?

“What did you do that you had to run away?” you asked as soon as you found your voice, your tired eyes glancing up at the man holding you. His eyes flitted between your eyes and your lips, sending shivers down your spine when he brought up his thumb and rubbed away some blood from the corner of your mouth.

“What’s your name?” He avoided your question smoothly, pretending you hadn’t spoken a word to him. Frowning, you thought about it for a moment, wondering whether it was a good idea to tell him who you were. But at the same time, you weren’t a very valuable human. There was really nothing he could want from you that would make him hunt you down.

“Y/N,” you said, averting your gaze to your foot, which was now void of any wounds. Your skin looked completely smooth and untouched except for the dried blood staining it, leaving you staring in awe.

“Well, Y/N,” he started, regaining your attention, “you’re gonna find out tomorrow.”

You frowned at his words, wondering if this implied that he was going to see you tomorrow to tell you what sin he had committed. Too lost in your head to notice that he had stood up, you saw him offer his hand to you. Your fingers hesitantly took hold of his cold ones. With ease, he pulled you up as you slightly lifted your dress and examined your foot, pleased with the fact that there was absolutely no pain anymore.

“This is-” You turned to glance at the man, only to be met with darkness. The vampire was gone, the forest was silent, and you were alone once again.

______________________________________________________________

Taglist: @scuzmunkie @girl8890 @adasboredom @acrazybiotch374 @tutnotmytea @leilei-9 @yoonjinhusbands @kumakoyan @ttanniett

[thatforkedroad]

Sun-hearted

[ao3] Anakin Skywalker is not human. The people around him try not to think about it.

----

Shmi had always known her son wasn’t like her. 

At first, she had assumed that the pregnancy had simply happened without her knowledge. Or that perhaps her mind had blocked out the event — a slave knew better than anyone how the brain killed the past to protect the present, to keep you surviving. 

But the more she tried to dig up the memory-that-wasn’t-there, the more she ran through scenarios, the more she realised that nothing that made sense. If it had been… any of her theories, she would have known, there would have been evidence, Watto wouldn’t have been so angry when he found out. Eventually, she realised she had to give up logic alltogether. Anakin’s father was not something knowable to her. He (it?) had been something else. Something impossible. 

A miracle.

The theory only grew more convincing as her pregnancy progressed. She began to sense things no human should have been able to. Objects falling before they’d even been knocked. Watto’s bad mood from two rooms away. Her baby’s strong soul, loudly proclaiming it would be a survivor. 

She held her new sixth sense dear for those nine months she had it — but not as dearly as she held her baby boy, to whom the sense really belonged. Her darling miracle baby boy, who always knew too much too soon, who read intentions as easily as he read schematics, and whose quick hands and quicker mind did the impossible on Boonta Eve. 

Slaves were supposed to cling to their miracles, so few and far between as they were. But a mother was supposed to do what was best for her son, and Anakin was her boy above all else. She let him go, hoping the Jedi would understand and care for his impossibility better than she ever could. 

(And as Shmi died, she did not need Anakin’s sixth sense to feel the anger running through his miracle veins. She did not need it to know what would happen next, either. 

She knew with all the certainty her slow-beating heart had that her son’s grief would raze the galaxy to ash.)

—

Obi-Wan knew Anakin didn’t fit in with the other younglings and padawans.

He wanted to believe it was just because of the boy’s upbringing, that it was only because he’d grown up in a much crueler, realer world to the others. Or perhaps it was because Anakin was already a padawan or because of how annoyingly easily it was for him to call the Force. Maybe they just heard the Council had tried to reject him. There seemed to be a few hundred thousand reasons that the children of the Temple would consider him an outsider — but one stood out like a sore and mythical thumb. 

There was no Chosen One or such thing as a child born of the Force. There was certainly no chance that the other children (even the ones who tried to accept Anakin with open arms) could sense otherness in his blood. He was just like any other Jedi, if a little more reckless. 

As Anakin and the other padawans grew, they grew together. He became like well-sewn patch on an old shirt — the difference was there, yes, but only noticeable if you were really looking. It was better for everyone if Obi-Wan stopped looking for the gap, so he did. 

Anakin had never seemed to notice it, anyway. 

(And as he watched Anakin’s slaughter of the Temple, the hot drowning of dread and horror and nausea was joined by a cold, parasitic realisation. The gap between Anakin and the other Jedi had never grown smaller; Obi-Wan had only grown more blind. 

Jedi were taught from a young age that they could not hold or control the Force, that they were to let it flow freely else they would face the consequences. Obi-Wan had been a fool to think that something made of one half Force and one half heartbreak could be held any more than its parent.)

—

Anakin grinned, and Ahsoka felt every clone in the hangar’s mood lift. Ahsoka couldn’t help but smile in return — and then he cracked a joke, and the worry and grief of the battle became a distant, shrouded memory.

It always went like this. They came back from the latest campaign dirtied, injured, and with a tiredness that ached into their very bones. They all wanted nothing more than to eat and sleep and mourn and not talk to anyone for several hours. But then Anakin — still riding the high of a good fight — would clap Ahsoka on the shoulder, make a stupid comment to Rex, and everything would feel fine. Better than fine even. 

Morale seemed so reliant on him that if her master was angry or sad or upset, so was the entire ship. When he was in a mood, meditation became impossible, no matter how at peace Ahsoka felt. She once considered that it was more than just moral, more than just his stupid jokes, but she had grown up in the Temple, raised on lessons of a Jedi’s few limits. A single man could not project his emotions onto an army. 

Anakin just had a friendly smile, was all. 

(And when Maul told her — warned her — of what her master would become, she did not listen. She could not listen. She thought only of his grin, and the sunny sureness in her chest that always accompanied it.

And so she fought for it again.)

—

Rex knew, theoretically, that General Skywalker was human. 

He’d seen enough medical scans from Kix (on the unusual occasion that the general submitted to care) to know that Skywalker’s biology was just like any natborn human’s. He didn’t have strange-coloured blood or an extra eye and all his (mostly-intact) organs were in the right places. The records showed that he was completely, one-hundred-percent human. 

Theoretically, this made complete sense. 

And it made sense he would seem slightly off. Rex had spent the first decade of his life surrounded entirely by his brothers and Kaminoan scientists; his idea of a ‘normal’ person was someone who looked and sounded identical to him, not a tall, barely-tanned Tatooinian with the wrong accent. Even if it hadn’t been, Rex knew Jedi were different from your average natborn. They could do all these crazy things that belonged in storybooks and myths, not the battlefield. Swaying people, moving objects (or clone captains) with their minds, seeing the future — if Rex hadn’t been trained to do so, he wouldn’t have believed a word of it. 

But if being a Jedi had been the reason, wouldn’t Rex have noticed the same thing with Commander Tano or General Kenobi? He understood that maybe Commander Tano wasn’t old enough to develop whatever it was General Skywalker had — but Kenobi was older, more trained in the Force. Surely Rex would have noticed the same thing, that same surely-not-quite-human feeling with him? 

Maybe he just spent too much time around the General. Maybe this thinking was just a part of having a good natborn friend.

He hoped it was, at least. 

(And when Rex heard of the attack on the Temple, he understood his hope was for naught. 

He and his brothers weren’t an isolated incident, he knew; Ahsoka had felt the deaths across the galaxy. He had no doubt the clones on the battlefield cut down their generals — who trusted them like they trusted their own right hand, who stood alone in front of a one-thousand strong army — with an alarming ease. 

But he heard reports of the Temple, of blue-painted clones massacring all there, and knew they couldn’t have done it alone. Only one Jedi was strong enough to take on a Temple of their own kind and win.)

—

Padmé wondered if her husband was made from the stars themselves.

It seemed like the only explanation, sometimes. How could anything mortal be so beautiful? How could anything born on solid ground hold that much love in its heart? He was impossible. He looked her in the eye and saw right through every mask she wore, saw that all she was at the core was an overworked girl from Naboo — and still beamed like she was the most perfect thing in the galaxy. He loved her for who she was, not what she could do for him nor for the stature of Amidala. That seemed rarer than stardust. 

She would see him and her breath would catch with something that had to be more than love. He stood by the window and stared into the Coruscanti night like he could hear every thought in the city-planet, his golden-brown hair catching the edges of the hundred-colour lights. She ought to walk up to him, hold him, tell him she loves him and pepper him with kisses — but all she could do was stare. In those moments, he was perfect and divine, and she could not interrupt them with her mortality. 

(And as Padmé lay dying, her life force dragged out by some dark presence, she thought of her star-husband. And she thought of the refugees she had once helped when their sun imploded. It should have been a lesson learnt; stars were beautiful in the night sky, warm in the summer, but dangerous. Able to end entire planets in their own cosmic pain. 

Some small part of her knew this when she first said I love you. But she could not listen. She saw only the star-beauty in his eyes and all the love he held in his sun-heart.)

—

Anakin Skywalker had long questioned whether he was human or not. 

But as Darth Vader looked down at his mechanical hands, heard his pressurised breathing, and ignored the pain that followed his every half-sedated movement, he found his humanity was no longer a question. 

[novembermorgon]

How do you feel about all of King Jaehaerys' daughters? 👀

all of them... WHEW ! heres a saera to break up the text block

i'm admittedly not the biggest fan of many of the pre-dance targs . not in the sense that i dislike them it's just that i've never been all that invested in their characters the same way i am, say, the dunk and egg era ones ... but theyre fun! i think all of jaehaerys kids are definitely really interesting by default on account of being born to a guy who people in-universe tend to praise very highly only for him to turn out a shitty horrible dad that fucks you over for the sole crime of being born as his child. lets take them in order! (it's been a while since i read fire and blood now so bear with me . might have missed or forgotten stuff ...)

daenerys ... to me she's kind of a victim of grrm seeming to kill off a lot of female characters specifically because they don't have that much of a role in the story. sort of a nothing-girlie unfortunately . i do think it's interesting that alysanne went to jaehaerys with the hope of daenerys being heir as the then-eldest child- sort of a harrowing premonition of his treatment of his future daughters. i wish we got more on her.

alyssa is fun! i think she's one of the stronger (in terms of writing quality) of jaehaerys kids, at least early on. she does end up, again, kind of suffering from grrms writing in the sense that she starts having children and suddenly almost loses that .. spirit ..? of her character ..? if that makes sense. i feel that he fumbled a little bit with wrapping her story up and once again falls into the pit of 'women who die in childbirth just because'. not to say i inherently mind that conclusion to a female character's story.. i think it's necessary in a universe like asoiaf to portray the difficulties that come with pregnancy and how that changes a person, but it often feels like a bit of a crutch in asoiaf to write a female character out of the story . other people have had more eloquent critiques of her character than me. but overall she's up there in the ranking for me :-)

maegelle is one of my favourites if only because she hits on a lot of notes i like in asoiaf! being a septa she kind of escapes a bit of the family horror that her sisters has to endure - but that also means she has to watch it from afar. alyssa, daella and viserra all die in relatively quick succession and she's not in any real position to do anything about it. even having escaped the family terrors you are still a victim of them etc. i like that she's got a bit of an attitude lol even though she's clearly a very compassionate kind person ('This is foolish, Father. Rhaenys is to be married next year, and it should be a great occasion. She will want all of us there, including both you and Mother. The archmaesters call you the Conciliator, I have heard. It is time that you conciliated.') - and her ending i think is very tragic, but in an almost sweet way. caring for children that most others are repulsed by, selfless to the end ... i like her.

daella is just tragic. other people have said more than i could ever about her but to me her marriage is truly one of the most horrific things that jaehaerys ever did in part because it's just so simple and not-so-dramatic. he tells alysanne that daella has to be married at the end of the year and she is. she's excited to be a mother to the children he already has. she's happy, despite the horrific situation she's put in - only to be doomed to die after a pregnancy where she has to beg her mother to come see her out fo fear. so terrible. makes my heart ache.

saera... there's a lot you could say about saera. inherently i'm a little bit opposed to stanning on the basis of the optics of prostitution in asoiaf and what it means for her to become a brothel proprietor in a city where there are five slaves to every free man - you can definitely critique her but she IS exceptionally interesting and i do like her. such a character. i feel like her defiance of her father gives such a good insight into how terrible jaehaerys was as a father- even in a book so almost distanced from its characters (in that it's a history book) you can really feel the frustration both of her parents and of saera herself and it really does make for good family drama. i feel bad for her just as i feel that she falls into the pitfall of the endless, vicious cycle that drives forward so many of the themes in asoiaf. delicious and horrifying . i wish we got to know more details about her children and what happened to her during the dance

viserra... ohhh. she might be my number one! right after the saera situation i feel like viserra, in the eyes of her parents, was almost like a reflection of her sister. there were many reasons for them marrying her off (none of which were good) but i think there really is that bite of saera leaving just a year earlier that stings in the back of their minds. just as with all these girls she's tragic and so very interesting and i wish we got to understand her better. trying to 'seduce' baelon is such a harrowing thought - like a cry for help, a need for somebody, anybody to save her from the same fate as almost all her sisters and grandmothers and great-grandmothers before her. it's horrifying to be a woman in westeros and no matter how loudly she cried for an out, nobody would give it to her. she was only fifteen when she died! how horrific is that! her last ride is such a terrible terrible visual to me. she deserved better and nobody around her was there for her in any regard. jaehaerys alysanne baelon i will haunt you for the rest of time.

gael.. :-( there's not much Here but for what it's worth she does intrigue me. the story of her and the mystery bard seducing her... i want to know more!! her mother dying just a year after losing her last daughter - so, so tragic. i think ive said this way too many times now. i don't know. what a horrible collection of fates. jaehaerys you will burn.

[nardo-headcanons]

About Shisui Uchiha

just some shower thoughts i had about him. this is very headcanon heavy and rather vague at times.

tw for talks about suicide, manipulation, trauma, abuse, etc

tagging: @uchihaharlot @pxssy-stuntin-for-itxchi @lalalover33-blog @burning-bubble @naruto-scribblings-j

Unlike Itachi, who was born during the last year of the great Shinobi war, it is safe to say that Shisui was born while it was still going on. So naturally, he was exposed to the worst side humanity had to offer, most likely traumatizing him in the process.

His mother is never mentioned, so I assume she must have died during his birth or in his early childhood. His father, most likely ravaged by illness before he even entered the battlefield, lost his left leg, leaving him with phantom pains and high medical bills. As a born shinobi, Shisui’s father lacked the funds and education to pursue any other path of career, leaving his child as the only breadwinner of his family. Shisui probably had to spend his entire childhood and youth slaving away just to keep his father and himself afloat. Additionally, he took care of a terminally i’ll man who didn’t even remember his son’s name. Of course, this would lead to Shisui being very perceptive of the psychology of the ones around him, how else could he search for a sign of his father’s state health changing?

Shisui often spent time wondering what it’s like to have a family, a family in which he is allowed to be what he is: a child. Someone who is cared for, someone who is looked after. Despite being an Uchiha, his relation to Kagami Uchiha - the Uchiha allied with Tobirama, the very person planting the seed for all the discrimination the Uchiha would face, up to a point of their genocide, would probably lead him to feel ostracized within his own clan. And like everyone of us, he is trying to find the balance between individuality and belonging - the latter being the one he lacked. His abilities as an Uchiha become a defining factor of identity for him, leading to him being willing to let a comrade via withholding aid - just on the basis of that comrade potentially being stronger than him. Once his comrade dies, the young Uchiha is ravaged by feelings of guilt, by the awareness that the blood of his friend is on his hand.

But nevertheless, he is blessed with a new Uchiha ability - the mangekyou sharingan. His entire life he had to enter a role he didn’t want to be in, robbing him of memories he could have had. So what better mangekyou ability to have than the one that alters memories, and, in extension, alters your role in the world?

Shisui’s resentment against his Uchiha identity starts bubbling up inside him again, and being a shinobi who frequents B- or even A-Rank missions as a literal teenager (how else would you pay for your father’s medical debt as a shinobi, eh?) he was closer to the village from the start. Hailed as the strong and talented Uchiha boy, taking on missions to serve his village, behind the facade a broken kid forced to grow up way too quickly. His first serious doubts begin when he is forced to kill Mukai Kohinata, a direct reflection of Shisui, just the other way around: a father wanting nothing but funds to care for his dying child.

Things don’t get better when the tension between the village and the Uchiha rise. His own brethren or the collective - who will you support? Getting into Shisui’s mind and twisting his perception of what’s right is an easy game for Danzo, almost too easy. A civil war breaking out in Konoha would be a repetition of his initial trauma - the one thing Shisui wants to prevent the most. Shisui starts feeling conflicted, until he finally stumbles upon THE miracle solution: forcefully keeping up the status quo by manipulating the leader of the revolution - an unpleasant reality, but better than the Uchiha clan’s extermination or a civil war breaking out, right? To Shisui, atleast. And honestly, who could blame him? As a ninja who graduated young, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he lacks the methodical and critical thinking outside of the parameters of violence and manipulation he is used to from Danzo and the shinobi world.

And then it happens. He agrees to suppress the revolution of his own ethnic group just for the sake of keeping up a false sense of peace, and suddenly, his co conspirators, the man that is supposed to be guarding him, leading him, suddenly abandons him and steals his eye? Shisui’s entire identity as the Uchiha boy from Konoha collapses and he doesn’t know what to think or believe anymore. In his last moments, he becomes aware of the utter pointlessness of the killing and the brutality of the shinobi system, the sheer feeling of powerless overwhelming him. At this point, death seems like a sweeter option than continuing to live powerlessly in such a system.

Shisui is a skilled ninja, but not always in contact with his emotions. Therapy is a rarity in the leaf, with even the counselors themselves not being able to give advise outside of the parameters of what’s “acceptable” in the hidden leaf.

So, what better way to hide your agony than behind a -albeit manufactured- goofy smile?

[heavenlymorals]

Mary and Arthur: Consumed by Family

(Warning: There are mentions of sexism in this post because I refuse to not acknowledge the time these people were living in and what that entails for men and women.)

The saddest thing about the Arthur and Mary romance is that it didn't happen because they were plagued by the same problem- family in 1800s America and what that entailed for men and women.

In Arthur's case, it was more obvious. He felt he had a debt to the gang, a debt he could never pay back- to Dutch and Hosea, his father figures who saved him, to the men he saw as brothers in arms, to the women he had to take care of and loved, and he could never for once think for a moment that he could also be kind to himself. Arthur Morgan, a strong man, a provider, a protector, someone that people NEEDED. Never once did people in the game ask Arthur what HE wants. It's always about their needs, and Arthur, being who he is, a selfless person to selfish people, would slave away to the ends of the Earth, to hell and back, just to be that pillar that they see him as, for Arthur Morgan is a man who had the world on his shoulders and couldn't, not even once, think about giving that responsibility to another man. He never could. His family consumed him to where his truest self, his most authentic self came only in the thin pages of a leather journal and the voice of lead. His family consumed him and the love he had for Mary, this want to have for once, something truly to himself, was inconceivable. How could he leave them? How? He couldn't. No matter how much he may want to, he just can't.

For Mary? Her family consumed her long ago, as soon as she was born, for she committed the cardinal sin of being born a woman in the 1800s. Whatever ambitions she had, they were impossible. The world made her horribly dependent from the moment she was born. Her prospects was being a lady, knowing department, and securing a marriage for the sake of her family and herself, otherwise, more likely than not, she will be thrusted into poverty or shame or both. And then she met Arthur and he showed her a world beyond the gilded age and she was happy because this love she had for him was her own and her experiences were ones that she wanted, not that her family wanted. She was happy with him, so terribly happy, but her dependence on her family crushed her- socially, economically, culturally. So when her family forced her to marry Mr. Linton, she agreed and forsaked her own love because how could she abandon her family? Her elopement would shame them and make her a disgrace to her sex.

They were both trapped by their families for different reasons but in the end, they decide to put themselves first and it was already too late.

When Mary called for Arthur, it wasn't for him and if it was, she masked it up by asking him for help with her family, the family that she forsaked everything for because how could she not? And Arthur helped. By God, he helped. Not necessarily because he wants to, but that's what love has done to him. It made him the one work stallion out of many who will one day be put down by sheer exhaustion of the weight on its back and the reward of very little. And Arthur would leave and go back to the gang, because how could he leave them?

But after years of abuse, loss of personhood, and the struggles of being a woman in 1800s America, Mary decides to be selfish. She saw how her father saw her as truly less than nothing when he decided to sell a broach that belonged to her beloved mother and then to be passed on to her. All that suffering she went through meant nothing because her father has shamed the family she tried so hard to keep happy and her brother was off to college and was no longer held on by the shackles of the wayward patriarch, Mr. Gillis. She decides to be selfish and asks Arthur to run away with her, so she can finally make do on that proposal long ago to be together, married and happy.

But Arthur then makes the same decision she made all those years ago when he proposed to her. He chooses his family. They need him, but maybe now it's finally over? He can pay his debt to them, have them live happy and free, and then chase his own happiness, his own treasure in the image of a wonderful and beautiful creature by the name of Mary Linton- and maybe in the future, Mary Morgan. After over 20 years- maybe he can be selfish.

But when he realized that these people that he dedicated his life to were draining him of life and hopes and dreams and gave him nothing in return but more troubles, it was too late.

He couldn't let go of these people who ruined him and Mary realized this. Her final letter was a heartfelt goodbye because as she finally broke free of those binds that tied her, Arthur didn't or couldn't. He made the same mistake as she did all those years ago and she couldn't handle such heartbreak anymore, for their souls were slaves to them who didn't deserve it.

And when Arthur finally did break free of those soulful chains, of those people who he loved so deeply, it was too late. Sickness turned a strong man to a husk and as he choked on his blood, he could only get solace from the fact that he tried. He tried to be his authentic self, he tried to be his own man with his own actions, he tried to be good, he tried to change, he tried, and his reward?

Choking and gasping on his blood due to actions in the past he never wanted to do but did anyways because the people he loved asked him to and he just couldn't say no.

Both Mary and Arthur loved each other. Fully and deeply but as their souls were entwined, their bodies and minds were held in bondage by a man's duty to protect and provide and a woman's duty of deportment and honor to families who ruined them. Both of them expect the other to forsake their family for them, but neither of them could do that at the correct time together.

All that remains of that love, true and pure, is Mary's ring on another woman's finger through her wish that Arthur could give the ring to another couple who weren't trapped in the same duty that they were, and that if they were, they had the strength to be selfish.

What a sad, sad story of two poor souls, Arthur Morgan and Mary Linton.

[saminsecret]

How the slashers would react to a male s/o

just a little something to jumpstart this page ❤️

tw for some mentions of homophobia/outdated views

Michael Myers ('78):

He wouldn't care. He's got a lot more on his plate than worrying about whether his partner has a dick or a vagina. The fact that he hasn't killed you yet should be enough for you.

He wouldn't understand your insecurities. Why does it matter so much to you? He thinks you focus on the wrong things, but he won't say that to you. Not because he cares if he hurts your feelings, he just doesn't want to deal with your emotional turmoil at the moment. Although, if someone were to criticize your relationship, he might get irritated enough to kill them. Depends on your reaction and his current mood at the moment. Michael isn't the best at emotional support, sorry.

He'd defend you after a while. Lets not beat around the bush, its the 70s/80s, your gonna experience a lot of homophobia if your openly gay/bi. Michael knows what it's like being tormented by others, he was in a mental institution his entire life. If you end up getting discriminated against, verbally or physically, he'd kill the bully, plain and simple. He doesn't see this as an act of affection though; just something he needed to do. Still, your heart swoons a bit when he protects you. Enjoy it Y/N!

Daniel Robitaille

He'd be...confused. Daniel grew up in the late 1800s, and while being gay wasn't unheard of, it was definitely seen as a sin. He never thought he himself could ever be in love with another man.

He'd need time. He wouldn't know what to do with himself as this was entirely new territory for him. Homophobia was most definitely a value he grew up around, although he himself might not be homophobic. He was the son of a slave, a black man in the 1800s, an artist only loved for what he could make. He understands discrimination more than anyone else, so he defiantly wouldn't use your identity against you. Still, its a change so he'd be cautious to start anything with you.

He loves you no matter what. Ultimately, it only takes him a little while to come to terms with the fact that he doesn't care what you are, he loves you all the same. "We are one of the same, Y/N. Without you, I am nothing. Our pain will be told for generations. Be my victim, Y/N."

Jason Vorhees

Is this okay, mother? Pamela was a christian woman, so its pretty likely she had some outdated views on gay people. Not necessarily homophobic in nature, but she said some questionable things out of ignorance. Jason was raised with her values, so he'd have the same outdated views. He'd have to unlearn a few things for this relationship to really work. That being said...

Jason understands you. This is what really brings you two into an eventual relationship. He was born disfigured, and the world never let him forget it. And you? Well, it was the 80s, so... both of you were treated harshly for things you have no control over. Pamela would be more sympathetic towards you as well, and would eventually approve of this relationship, as you've proven you can give Jason everything he deserves. "Oh Jason, I knew Y/N was a good boy, just like you!'

He'd adore you all the same. Oh, to have someone (other than Pamela) who loves him! He would ultimately not care about your gender, and would make sure to let you know it. He loves you Y/N, don't ever doubt it!

Brahms Heelshire

Realistically... You wouldn't have been considered for the babysitting job as Brahm's parents probably only considered female candidates. That being said, you'd be hired after a slew of failed female nannies; Brahms wanted to try something new!

He'd love watching you. Oh Y/N, you may be a boy, but you're the prettiest boy he's ever seen! Seriously though, he loves to watch you taking care of doll, cooking food, moving around the estate, existing...you're just so different, Y/N! And he'd feel more connected to you because you understand certain problems...especially morning problems if you catch my drift.

He'd fall into stereotypes. Listen listen, Brahms was raised with old values, like 18th century old values, so even though you're both guys, he still expects you to fall into the "woman" role (cooking, cleaning, taking care of him, ect..). Brahms is a man, Y/N! Treat him like a king! Wait, what do you mean you're a man too? I-Its different, okay?! (You're gonna have to sit him down and talk out all those old value views if you want to be able to tolerate him).

[coyote-teeth-poetry]

Anakin is a great character, I will die on this hill

The most frustrating thing about the prequel trilogy is the brilliance of Anakin as a character, that gets buried under all the bad dialogue and poor directing.

Like, you have this kid: he’s born a slave, he has absolutely nothing, not even freedom, he’s an object to be bought and sold. The only thing he has is his mother.

Then he gets taken away by a religious order, suddenly he has freedom. Everyone around him is telling him that he is powerful, more powerful then anyone else. He doesn’t see it in himself, but he wants it more than anything. Because the more powerful he is, the further away he is from being a slave. The further away he is from ever returning to it.

He becomes obsessive, his desire to improve is a way to protect himself, to be more than an object. But even in his freedom, he is still a pawn in someone else’s game. He’s the chosen one, even if he never feels like he is strong enough, he will fight until he is. Because being a pawn is better than being a possession.

And then his mother dies, the one thing he had. She died and he couldn’t stop it.

He wasn’t strong enough, he wasn’t powerful enough. When it came down to it, all his training failed him. His power meant nothing. His compliance in being controlled by the Jedi gave him nothing when it mattered.

He spirals, he becomes paranoid, worried that no matter how much he tries, he will never be enough. He can’t protect the people he loves.

A mentor he trusts and respects sees this paranoia and preys on him. He begins to manipulate him and feed him lies to further his spiraling and use it to his advantage.

When the paranoia is at its worst, he makes him an offer.

Anakin believes that this is finally it. He thought he had freedom before, but the Jedi owned him just like he was owned as a child. Now he has someone offering him escape. Offering him enough power to finally buy his freedom.

Anakin ends up turning to the dark side because he believes it’s the only way to overcome his powerlessness. He has to protect what he loves at all cost. He has to be more than a slave.

But all of this is buried under: “I don’t like sand.”

[acupofqueercoffee]

“A healer, a lover, a killer”

Unohana Retsu x Female Reader

wc : 6700+

cw : arranged marriage // sexual assault towards the very end // ***non-con is NOT between reader and retsu*** // blood and gore // graphic description of corpses // hurt-comfort // fluff and fluff and fluff and fluff // flirting // wives // minazuki is a gentle-giant 🥺 // murderous milf // older woman x younger woman

ffs i just want to spoil my mommy rotten (and be spoiled rotten) is it too much to ask for ಥ◡ಥ i’m desperate to do her justice but bruhh she sure is difficult to write 🥲

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Marriage, in essence, is a sacred binding of two people, or rather two lovers during which they vow as one to cherish the beauties, to endure the burdens of life.

There may have been a time when you have fancied such foolish fantasies, entertained little hope of finding a love so profound that it will bleed colours into your lonely, miserable life.

Alas, fate does not favour you. But of course, it never does. Likely will never do.

You were born earning the resentment of your father, for his beloved wife perished as you came to be. She was the apple of his eyes, the one possession that he dearly cherished, and swore to cherish in perpetuity. With fingers entwined and two hearts as one, they had endured the burdens of life in tandem, and just when it was beginning to thrive, a promising future stretched out ahead of them like a perpetual sunrise, a curse befell them in the form of you, oh evil, despicable you.

Bearing the brunt of the mother’s death is the child as your father treats you with much hostility. Within him resides not a dot of affection for you, and he makes a point of rubbing salt into your wounds, reminding you in every possible way that you are a murderer, an abomination, a hellspawn on a sacred land. Your life is no better than a slave’s, easier perhaps without the need to exert yourself, but certainly not kinder without anyone to converse with, much less to confide in. Even a slave has companions whereas you who is abhorred and forsaken by your own flesh and blood, have no one in this world but yourself.

Thus, in your father’s resentful hands, the flickering light in your heart eventually, completely dies.

When you have finally come to terms with your life as it is, marriage comes to you in the form of a cruel joke.

If you have been none the wiser, you may have believed it to be a chance at a better life, a crack of sunshine through a sky full of gloom. And for a while, you have. Naive enough to hope. Foolish enough to dream. All it takes is a flick of your father’s merciless tongue, and the fool’s paradise, in which you have been taking sanctuary, comes tumbling down.

“You do not deserve to feel happiness as ephemeral as it will be. So, listen to me. And listen carefully. The Gotei 13 wanted me to hand you in saying that while you may not presently look the part, you are a menace to soul society. You should have never been born to begin with. Instead of her, it should have been you.”

“Despite everything, in the end, I very generously agreed to relinquish you under only one condition. That you will be wedded to one of the captains. Such an outstanding opportunity is hard to come by and apparently, they were desperate enough to get their hands on you whatever the cost. I requested that the wedding be held to the nines for the sake of publicity. People need to witness it with their own eyes in order for them not to talk foul of my family.”

“I can’t have the whole boat going putrid because of a single carp, can I? So, enjoy it while it lasts, dear daughter because I can’t promise that you’ll come out unscathed once they’re done with you.”

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Your soon-to-be other half is a stranger. You know about her as much as you know about the outside world: in other words, next to nothing. Except that her eyes are reminiscent of azurites, and her hair, a moonless night, the woman with whom you will be spending the rest of your life is merely a stranger to you. But then again, with their motives kept under wraps, you will be lucky to survive through the night.

Fleeing is out of the question for you understand the extent of your capabilities, and to flee right now will be tantamount to dicing with death. Despite your father’s despicable attempts to trap you in despair, you decide that playing docile is quite possibly your best bet. Come rain or shine, you will survive. You have not endured the torments of your wicked father after all this time simply to be trampled like a weed. What an insult it will be to your painstaking efforts.

So, when you are asked if you will take the stranger before you as your lifelong partner, without hesitation, you say, “I do”. Legions of people bear witness to your false union as your wife echoes your words; her dulcet voice, like the first trickle of rain, slakes your drought.

“Won’t you seal the deal with a kiss, Captain Unohana?”

Amongst the circle of people who are uniformly dressed in white overcoats, the one whose voice has sounded mischievous has been a man with a straw hat and an additional pink garb.

Unohana. Unohana. Unohana.

A pretty name indeed, as befits a pretty woman.

The first half of his statement is entirely lost on you as you repeat the name in your mind over and over and over again. It is the delicate crawl of fingers on your face that rectifies your lapse of concentration. First thing you notice, once you have blinked the haze away, is her violet gaze that is caressing your features and her face that has unexpectedly appeared under your nose, leaving little to no space to the point that your breaths mingle.

The warmness of her breath that ghosts along the apple of your cheek smells faintly of wild flowers and herbs; then comes the silky press of her lips atop the corner of your mouth. Given the circumstances, the kiss is not entirely unpleasant. If nothing else, it is kind, and although you loathe to admit it, your heart sings under her touch.

You fail to mention before that she has rose buds for lips, and now, upon departure, they bestow upon you a beautiful pink blossom smile. It is serene, strangely soothing, and you feel at peace with the woman who is your wife, all kind eyes and saccharine smiles, but whose full name you have yet to learn.

As inclined as you feel to assume that the kiss has somehow irreversibly put you under her spell, the more logical part of you know that neither your mind nor body is tampered with; your admiration for her beauty is born purely of your unadulterated self. Since the dawn of your life, it is ironically in the hands of a stranger whose intentions with you are still unclear that you experience tenderness for the very first time. Some semblance of affection has visited you in the form of a palm cradling your cheek and lips caressing your skin, and although you know it to be nothing more than a performance, it is undeniably the closest that you have ever felt to being loved.

Her gesture has understandably moved you in the warmest of ways, and it is only given that, as she continues to drench you in gentleness and swaddle you in kindness, you will grow to forget the true nature of your marriage.

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“Follow me.”

Such has been your wife’s first words to you, a command that leaves no room for rejection, as she comes to meet you in her, or rather your shared quarters. In her absence, unsure of what to do with yourself, you have been sitting on your heels by the side of a tea table, anxiously awaiting her arrival, but immediately on her command, you arise to your feet. And then, follow her you do as she leads you outside.

In the middle of the veranda, a wooden tray lies in wait, holding on it a ceramic pot and two ceramic cups. The side of the veranda, towards which the pair of you are heading, lacks the railing, and it overlooks the other buildings in Seireitei. When she goes to take a seat beside the tray, you silently watch her. Only upon being motioned to do the same do you mirror your wife. The night is tranquil and the sky, brimming with tiny twinkles. The flickering lights from the buildings below and the glittering celestial bodies above; together, they give you the illusion that you are being swallowed into an infinite pool of stars.

In the quietness of the night, she speaks with a gentle lilt that is carried to you by a zephyr.

“You have questions for me, I take it?”

Simply sitting still in leisurely contemplation of the stars, she oozes charisma, and you cannot help but admire her. Due to the moon bathing her in its silver glow, her long hair that is tied loosely around the small of her back shines with an otherworldly sheen. She is the juxtaposition of darks and lights as the charcoal of her strands that elegantly frame her angelic face accentuates the milkiness of her skin.

“Am I that dangerous of a person for you to willingly go through with this folly?”

It is more or less a slip of your tongue. There are many questions to which you seek answers, and at the first chance, without really thinking, you end up blurting out the one thing that is on the forefront of your mind.

When her eyes seek your face and your eyes subsequently are greeted by her face, to your surprise, a smile crawls onto her lips.

“My, what gives you the impression that this marriage is a sham?”

“I was told by my father that I was to be surrendered to Seireitei, and that all he had asked in exchange was for a captain to wed me very publicly, because he hated the idea of his family name being tarnished by the likes of me.”

“The likes of you?”

Tea is poured equally into two cups; one finds itself in your hand whereas the other is taken into elegant fingers. The warmth of the liquid as you take a delicate sip thaws the chill in your bones. By the time your voice makes an escape from your lips, it is accompanied by the billowing steam from your cup.

“A menace to soul society.”

“Hmm, is that what he said?”

Your response has been a nod, and she receives it with a hum.

“I see.”

Cradling the cup in your palms, you twiddle your thumbs over the rim, lips caught between your teeth.

“Is it true?”

“Partially, that is.”

At her words, confusion reigns. However intrigued you are, you wait patiently, poising for elaboration as she takes a languid sip of her tea.

Once again, she holds your stare before she speaks. The tilt of her lips that settles back into a line indicates solemnity.

“What I’m about to tell you is highly confidential, but since it concerns you, we’ve come to a collective agreement that it wouldn’t hurt to inform you of it. That, and we necessitate your cooperation.”

“You are not inherently a peril, although if fallen into wrong hands, you will inadvertently prove hazardous to Soul Society. You have innate powers that, while you may not be able to use them, make you a catalyst of sorts. It is not Reiryoku as Shinigami possess which therefore makes you a peculiarly. Even amongst the Gotei 13, only four of us is made aware of this phenomenon, meaning that your father, too, was kept in the dark. We thought it best to take you under our wings before any of the risks become a reality.”

“Simply put, after thorough investigation of your father, we exploited his hatred for you so that you will be relinquished to us without him making a fuss. Additionally, in order not to arouse suspicion, we’ve made a false announcement to our fellow captains and subordinates. They know you to be my longtime lady-love whom I’ve decided to tie the knots with. A flourishing merchant such as your father would surely lust for publicity. He was only playing right into our hands by stating his one condition.”

Even though the bombardment of information is too much to process, now, you know with certainty that you are not necessarily rotten to the core, and that your stranger wife alongside her companions harbour no ill will towards you.

As she takes another dainty sip of the tea in her cup, you silently mirror her, mesmerised all the while by the grace and elegance with which she carries herself.

“Although an apology is in order for my sudden behaviour at the altar, as I’ve explained to you, displays of affection and physical touch are mandatory for the believability of our story. This marriage isn’t merely for show in that we have to talk and act as married couples do. Do try to put up with it.”

Talk and act as married couples do?

The implication alone has your cheeks ripening into cherries, the redness of which is only amplified by the unexpected words that go tumbling down your lips.

“I didn’t particularly mind the kiss, so an apology isn’t necessary.”

“Is that so?” The delicateness of her voice has a playful lilt to it, and it pleasantly tickles your ears. “Then, my dear wife, I’ll be counting on you from now on.”

“I- I’ll do my best.”

“My, my, aren’t you a good girl.” She wears a smile on her face that drips delight while you are painted red to the tips of your ears.

Good Girl.

Those two little words alone has single-handedly put you in a trance that the rest of the night passes in a blur. As far as you remember, the pair of you sip tea in silence until when she suggests retiring for the night, like a lost puppy, you follow her. Her quarters become your quarters and her futon, your futon because, as far as a married couple is concerned, living separately is out of the question.

Suffice to say, on the night of your wedding, you lie awake in bed, unaccustomed to the warmth of another body just inches away from yours. Amidst counting the tiles on the ceiling, you peek a look at your partner to find her at rest. Even asleep, she truly is a sight to behold. However, unbeknownst to you, she shares the same sentiment, and it is proven soon by the voice that calls out to you in the death of night.

“I’m surprised that you took me at my words without the faintest hint of scepticism.”

“Call it a gut feeling if you will but you seem to mean me no harm. Besides, I have nothing to lose by taking a chance.”

On the night of your wedding, you wear a smile to sleep.

Maybe,

Just maybe,

your chance at a better life, after all, is not entirely an impossibility.

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Unohana Retsu.

The name of your wife which you have forgotten to ask her directly has been revealed to you by her Lieutenant in the name of Isane Kotetsu.

Captain Unohana, as her subordinates address her as, is surprisingly a natural at playing lovers.

Likewise, touch-starved and thirsty for endearment, aside from shyness that stems from inexperience and her offhand compliments, you take on the role of a love-struck wife with much ease.

“My, my, darling, is that a proper way to see your wife off? How cold.”

She does a convincing job of sounding crestfallen as you walk her out of her estate, sending her off to work with only a wave of your hand.

Upon hearing her sigh, you walk up to her, letting your palms glide over the chest of your finely-dressed Captain. A kiss is demanded of you, and so, in the presence of her Lieutenant and a few other subordinates, you drop your lips to the apple of her cheek, murmuring your utterances into her fragrant skin.

“Do your best, Hana. I’ll be awaiting your return.”

Genuine surprise can be found in the widening of her eyes, albeit lasting only for a fraction of a second. And then, her lips are curving skyward, settling into a saccharine smile.

If the kiss that finds you on the tip of your nose, like the gentle flap of a butterfly’s wings, is not enough to sweep you off your feet, then the pad of the thumb that caresses the bone of your cheek certainly is. Ample, in fact.

“See you later, little flower.”

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Your wife has an unusual way of styling her beautiful long hair.

She tends to wear it in a thick braid, but instead of letting it dangle behind her back, she lets it hang below her chin almost in the form of a necklace. You will go as far as to say that it is one of her idiosyncratic features, for without it, her attire for work is incomplete. On idler days when she remains at the estate, her hair can be seen tied loosely at the small of her back.

When you have noticed how difficult it is to care for a hair of such thickness and length, you have expressed your desire to do it for her. To your delight, she has let you, and so, here you are, gingerly applying essential oil to a mane of dark hair as you comb it with great reverence.

You admire the way she sits, spine always straight, perfectly poised. The same goes for the voice that softly caresses your ears, warm and tender.

“How was your day?”

“Infinitely better than what I was used to,…” For an answer, it should suffice. And yet, “…but I’ve missed you, Hana.”

It may just be one of your flaws; you never know when to keep your mouth shut. Thankfully, she receives your divulgence with a sweet smile.

“My, you’re quite the charmer.”

Cheeks painted pink and heart thrumming giddily, you continue combing her hair. Surely, she is graced by the gods themselves; lush and healthy, her charcoal mane slips through your fingers like expensive silk.

“You called me Hana.”

“Oh! I- I did, yes. Since we’re supposed to be long time lovers, I thought it was only fitting for me to call you by a unique name. If you don’t find it agreeable, I’ll refrain from-”

“None of that. I’ve never been called a pet name, is all. It’s refreshing.”

Then, after a beat of silence, she chuckles. Until now, you have only seen her smile, having never heard her laugh or chuckle for that matter. It is the most wonderful sound, rich, warm, and the culprit behind your breath that has suddenly been stolen.

“Yachiru would like you.”

You do not know whether to rejoice or lament that such a precious sound stems from the thought of someone else. In the end, you settle on savouring it all the same.

Yachiru, whom you have the pleasure of meeting during your visit to your wife’s Ikebana Club, is quite the boisterous little lass. You feel silly and selfish in equal parts; silly for going green because of a child and selfish because you want to be the sole reason behind all the lovely sounds that she makes. On the other hand, as your wife has expected, the pink-haired girl takes an instant liking to you, sticking like glue to your side. Meanwhile, instead of paying attention to the real task at hand of arranging flowers, you end up being entranced by your wife’s gentle cadence and her distractingly gorgeous face.

When the name which you have uniquely chosen for your wife leaves your lips, Yachiru mimics you.

What you have not been expecting is for your wife to intervene.

“If you could refrain from calling me by that name Yachiru, I would appreciate it. I don’t mind you giving me a new nickname but this one is reserved for my wife. She alone calls me Hana, and I would like for it to remain that way.”

“My, Captain Unohana is very romantic!”

If you are not mistaken, the dreamy sigh comes from Matsumoto, the Lieutenant of the 10th division.

“I understand, Captain HaHa. Can I call you Captain HaHa?”

“By all means. As long as it isn’t Hana, I don’t mind.”

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More often than not, your wife’s placating smile is the testament to her benevolence as a healer, but there are times when she wields them as a weapon.

Having cultivated the habit of preparing lunchboxes for your wife and her Lieutenant, you deliver the homemade meals personally to her division. One of the things that you look forward to every day includes admiring your wife in her elements. Such little glimpses into her work life allows you to understand just how much of an influence she has on her subordinates.

Soft-spoken and kind-faced as the Captain of squad four is, even the rowdiest of Shinigami fear her; they regard her with much respect. You have yet to hear her raising her voice to someone, and even still, she has never had to repeat her will more than twice for the other person to obediently comply with it. There are people from the 11th division, who, according to the information that you have gathered, are supposed to be the most battle-hungry Soul Reapers in Seireitei, that at your wife’s gentle warning and excessively sweet smile will flee with their tails between their legs, leaving a trail of apologies in their wake.

“Oh my, treating me as if I’m some kind of ghost.”

Puzzled, she has wondered aloud, and you have found her expression heart-meltingly adorable.

During one of your visitations to her squad, you have also had the pleasure of befriending a special someone.

You remember marvelling at the giant sage green creature that is aloft; its form, very reminiscent of a manta ray. However, when you see someone climbing effortlessly down the back of the creature, you have been surprised, to say the least, to be greeted by the unmistakable voice of your wife.

Upon striding towards the pair of them, you fall prey to the surprise attack of an extremely wet tongue. Even though it leaves you resembling a drowned rat, what simmers inside you is the farthest from annoyance. If anything, you find the one-eyed giant quite lovable.

“Why, will you look at that.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means, sweet girl, that she likes you.”

Before you hug the bizarre creature, you peek a look at your wife. Only when you see the nod of her head do you advance.

“Oh! Right back at you…?” Another questioning look at your wife earns you her name. “Minazuki.”

“Miki, you adorable little munchkin!”

At your words, she emits a crooning sound that you are inclined to believe is her way of purring in pleasure.

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When your wife has some time on her hands, she has a habit of climbing mountains. It is as much a recreational activity as it is a hunt for medicinal herbs. Having been longing to accompany her during her excursions, you have, after much consideration, raised the question, only for her to readily agrees.

“Can I come?”

“I don’t see why not.”

The silence that cocoons the two of you is anything but unbearable as you amble abreast. Taking it as your opportunity, you voice the query that you have been mulling over for some time now.

“There’s something I’m curious about.”

“What are you curious about?”

“Why you?” When you steal a glance at her, you find her eyes on the track, face impassive. “There were four of you who were privy to the truth, correct? So, how come you were the one to marry me?”

Her response does not come until after a while, voice sounding serene as it usually does.

“The Captain-Commander is out of the question, and among the three of us, I was deemed the most suitable candidate. One doesn’t go out much due to how sickly he is and the other is- well, it’s unthinkable that he’ll settle for one person.”

“And what about you, Hana? Have you got no qualms?”

“Whatever the Captain-Commander asks of me, I do without question.”

Oh.

You have asked, and so she has answered. It certainly is not meant to hurt.

And yet,

“I see.”

“That, and I also happened to be the first person to learn of your existence.”

At this, you perk.

“You did? How?”

“Purely by chance, but that’s a story for another day. Now, come. The herbs I’m looking for are just up ahead.”

She teaches you about different herbs and you help her collect them, preening under her complimentary head-pats when you find the right plants, and becoming all the more hell-bent on seeking rarer herbs, for only then will you be rewarded with honey-dewed whispers. Upon stumbling across one such plant, in your excitement, you fail to see a hole in the ground as you briskly make your way through the thickets.

Needless to say, your recklessness leaves you with a strained ankle. It is your pained grunts that garner the attention of your wife. When she finds you limping, the discomfort apparent on your face, she helps you to a tree trunk. You are thankful for the arm that is stably wrapped around your waist for it halves the effort that you will otherwise have to exert.

No sooner has she sat you down onto the mossy trunk than she is kneeling before you. Taking your wounded foot into her hand, she gingerly lets it rest atop her thigh. Forefinger and thumb pluck your sock, peel it down, and doing so reveals your ankle where a bruise is already beginning to bloom.

As she works on your wound, you can feel the pads of her digits ghosting across the naked base of your calf. Her fingers, dainty in appearance, have strength in them along with callouses that you suspect are the by products of her years of sword training. Speaking of which, Minazuki, her Zanpakuto as she has taught you, Miki as you like to call her, is slung over one of your shoulders. Since her Lieutenant is absent, for today’s trip is you and your wife’s alone, you have happily taken the role of the Captain’s blade bearer.

Due to the injury that you have sustained, despite your reassuring that you are fine, your wife does not take no for an answer, and so, the expedition is cut short. Soon after the pair of you have mounted Minazuki, you fall victim to exhaustion, surrendering yourself to the clutches of sleep.

The first thing you notice upon opening your eyes is the shimmering sea of stars, with the first thing you hear being her voice that pulses warmly in your ears.

“Are you awake?”

“Hmm, where are we now?”

When you shift, you discover that your head is cushioned by her thighs.

“Not very far from home.”

You are suddenly awestruck by the vision that appears in your line of sight. Backdropped by the starry sky, she is truly a sight for sore eyes.

“How are you feeling?”

“My eyes feel hot.”

A palm finds home on your forehead. You cannot help but sigh dreamily at her cool touch that seems to instantly soothe the ache in your head.

“You have a touch of fever, I fear. Rest. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

You can only hum, ready to succumb to slumber again. However, when you feel the withdrawal of her hand from your forehead, your fingers catch her wrist, emboldened by a feverish haze. You press it against your neck where the coolness of her flesh offers you sweet reprieve from your body’s heat. If you are not mistaken, you have felt the faintest sensation of a fingertip tracing the length of your nose before you drift.

She does, in fact, not wake you.

By the time you open your eyes, you are already under the comfort of a futon that smells distinctly of her.

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You do not know when it changes, but at one point, it does. Your marriage stops being an elaborate masquerade and starts becoming something more by the time you no longer need reminders to exercise intimacy. A kiss on her cheek, a palm on the small of her back, sweet-nothings dripping with honey; they come to you as easily as breathing, and she responds to you in kind as she always has. But then again, to be unreservedly honest, your actions, from the beginning until now, have never been absent of sincerity.

From sleeping entwined in each other’s arms to walking with your fingers intertwined, even in the absence of onlookers, in the privacy of your quarters, you behave as lovers do. Neither of you seem to notice the change, and if you do, neither of you bother to comment on it. It simply is the way it is.

“Oh, Hana, you’ve returned! Come here. Sit.”

“What is this?”

“I just thought that your feet could use some pampering after walking around all day.”

“My, you need not trouble yourself-”

“But that’s what married couples do. They look after each other.”

“Very well, then, if you insist.”

Adoration, ardour and nothing in between; that is how you sink to your knees before your deity. Raising her feet off the floor, you gingerly place them atop your thighs. When you slip the socks off her feet, you exercise both care and tenderness, barely suppressing the urge to press delicate kisses to her exquisitely dainty ankles. Once her feet are completely bare, you guide them into the bucket that is sitting in front of you. Under the warm water, you trace the little notches of her bone, run your fingertips along every dip and hill the way you want your lips to caress them.

Then, all too gently, you gather them once again into your lap where a towel awaits. You take your sweet time petting them dry, the desire to drench her porcelain skin in kisses now coming back with a vengeance. As if possessing a mind of their own, your hands slips beneath her uniform, fingers leaving playful caresses along the length of her shin.

Suddenly overwhelmingly thirsty, you wet your lips with the tip of your tongue before chancing a look at her. There is a silent question in your eyes, and she answers you with a nod of her head. As soon as the green light has been given, you carefully hike the skirt of her Shinigami uniform over her knee, allowing your fingers to knead the muscles in her calfs without interruptions.

It is true that when you have decided to give her feet a wash and a massage, you have no ulterior motives.

But now,

Now, it is entirely a different story.

The collision of your gazes sparks a flame in you.

Has the blue of her eyes always been this dark, you wonder.

*Knock*

*Knock*

*Knock*

“Captain Unohana, may I please come in?”

Hastily scrambling to your feet upon hearing Isane’s voice has you tripping over your own two feet. Your forthcoming fall is prevented by willowy fingers that latch onto your wrist. One thing leads to another, and before you know it, following a breathless “oomf”, you find yourself seated on the pillowy thighs of your wife.

Seemingly unfazed, she commands, an arm around your waist cradling you close to her chest.

“If it’s nothing important, Isane, I suggest you leave us be. My wife and I are currently in the middle of some important matters that urgently need attending to.”

“U-understood!”

It is beyond your control; your hands finding purchase on her shoulders, even more so the amicable slap that you deliver to her arm.

“Did you really have to phrase it like that?”

“Like what?”

Ah. There is no denying it. From the very first moment you behold this woman, you have fallen irrevocably in love with her.

“Hmm? Care to enlighten me?”

You do not. Care to enlighten her that is, for your lips have found hers, sampling her smile to see if it tastes as sweet as it looks. You have taken a bite out of the forbidden fruit, and there is no going back, although when you feel no reciprocation from her part, you pull back with a heavy heart.

The look on her face is indecipherable; she has always been difficult to read. Completely at a loss, you are tempted to blurt out that it has been a momentary lapse of judgement even though you know very well that it is anything but. The loudness of your rampaging thoughts is instantly lulled as soon as her lips seize yours, the fervent collision prompted by the hand that is holding you at the peak of your nape while wandering digits curl deliciously into your hair.

Likewise, greatly galvanised by the ravenous mouth that is feasting upon your lips, your fingers wander beneath her braid, and further still beneath the lapels of her uniform. It is as you are ghosting along the jut of her collarbones that your fingertips feel a patch of uneven skin just below the dip in her throat. As if electrocuted, she jolts, subsequently discarding you in the process of rising to her feet.

“You should leave.”

Leave? Leave where?

After all, this has become as much your home as it has been hers.

“Hana, I- did I do something wrong?”

“You should leave.”

Ah. Never have you thought that you will find yourself at the receiving end of the generous Captain’s genuine irritation.

As the last vestiges of warmth is entirely replaced by the chill of her stare, you decide that you will smile. You will smile for the both of you, as wide and as big as you can, a farewell to what could have been.

“I understand. I’m sorry.”

Delivering your utterances in the cheeriest voice that you can muster, you smile at her. You smile so broad that the uncomfortable stretch of your lips hurt your face.

But as soon as the door to her chamber closes with a thud behind your back, the first droplet of tear begins to fall.

════════ ∘◦ ✾ ◦∘ ════════

In a wicked twist of fate, you fall into the hands of malicious men who have all the intentions of maiming you beyond repair. It is drizzling, a night befitting your mood, as the cold droplets mingle with your warm tears.

There are hands, hands everywhere, tearing your clothes haphazardly off your body, hitting you when you struggle; your foot has caught one of your assailants in the crotch, and his payback comes in the form of kicks to your ribcage. Blood is leaking out of your nose from being brutally backhanded across your cheek. It forces you into a daze.

A whore. A wench. A witch.

Awful names have been called.

Four versus one; you are helpless against them. Your suffering is their satisfaction, but a rag doll in their heartless hands, as they manhandle you with a single minded purpose of ravishing you.

You feel hands on your thighs that are manipulating your body as they see fit.

You hear the rustles of fabric, frantic and foreboding.

In the face of danger, it is her face that you picture.

And then, you hear screams.

Alas, the raindrops are red, eerily reminiscent of blood.

Hands are retreating. Feet are scrambling.

And suddenly, you are alone.

With much difficulty, you sit up. When you bring your palm up to your face for examination, you find blood. Your eyes follow the scarlet trail on the ground only to be greeted by the lifeless eyes of the man who has kicked you with wild abandon. His body lies a few steps away from his head. Scattered messily across the ground are his companions, and mixed within them are parts of their bodies; a leg here, an arm there. In the middle of it all stands she, holding her blade with a head impaled on it like a grotesque skewer.

Ah. So, this. This is your Hana in her purest form, who has butchered them in cold blood as though they are mere cattle.

Such empty eyes. How merciless. How magnificent. You are not so much surprised as mesmerised. Such macabre display should scare you except that she has killed in order to save, and if nothing else, you feel cherished, you feel protected.

Sore all over as you are, you attempt to stand, immediately shaking on your legs like a newborn fawn.

“Hana.”

It is but a feeble croak that manages to bring her eyes to you all the same. In an instant, she is by your side.

Her hair is unusually undone, and it leaves the scar in the middle of her chest exposed. Surprise colours your features when her sword is unceremoniously dropped to the ground in order for her to slip free of her Captain Uniform. The white cloth is then gingerly draped over your frame which is as good as bare. Your clothes are in tatters, tears and bruises marring your features, and for once, she seems to be at a loss for words.

Although her mien betrays nothing, behind those unfeeling eyes, you can practically see the cogs turning in her head. While she appears to be in a dilemma, you take the initiative to approach her, fingers gripping the dark fabric of her Shinigami uniform white-knuckled tight.

Your forehead collapses onto her shoulder before you whisper against the hummingbird flutter of her pulse.

“Hold me, Hana. I need you to hold me, please.”

And hold you, she does. Oh, how she does, as you weep and weep and weep until with the drying of your tears, your consciousness, too, fades.

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“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Only because I thought she’ll be trea-”

“Whatever you do after the wedding is no concern of mine. Didn’t you say it so yourself?”

“Please. Please, spare me. I beg of you. Please.” The man before Unohana grovels at her feet. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Please.”

“Whatever I want?”

A series of frantic nods ensue. She cannot care less if he looks a crying mess. His state of dress: posh and pristine, his state of being: without a nick, only reminds her all the more of you, bloody and bruised, and her blood boils. Oh, how her blood boils!

“What I want is your head!”

“What I want is your heart!”

“What I want is you sliced in half!”

Looming over the cowering excuse of a man, she sinks her sword into his chest, inch after inch of blood-drenched blade penetrating his flesh.

“Well? Do you think you can give me what I want?”

“Please. I- I’m sorry. Have- have mercy.”

“Mercy, you say?” The moonless night echoes with a maniacal laughter, dark and haunting. “How laughable!”

“No matter, you will die at my hands. And you will die tonight. My bloodlust will not be sated unless you die. So, die you will whether you like it or not.”

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“I received a letter this morning.” You speak into her chest as you lie cocooned in her arms. “Father has passed.”

“Does it upset you?”

A fervent shake of your head should suffice for an answer. Still, you voice your reason.

“He may have been my mother’s devoted husband but he was never my father.”

Silence reigns. Her fingers trace patterns on the small of your back while your face nuzzles the little notch of her throat.

“Thank you, Hana, for being my sunshine after the rain.”

In a show of sincerity, you press a delicate kiss to the scar beneath your lips. When your face is brought out of its safe little cocoon, it is only so that she can take a bite out of the sweet, succulent fruit. She conquers your lips in the same way she has conquered your heart, and all too happily, you let her consume you. Body, mind and soul.

By these hands that are no stranger to bloodshed, you have been healed. In more ways than one.

In these arms that are capable of destruction, you have found solace.

A healer or a killer, Retsu or Yachiru, she is your beloved wife all the same, and you intend to cherish her for all that she is.

In sickness and in health.

In good time and in bad.

In perpetuity. In tandem.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

[shitwillnotbegiven]

For those who haven't read Archangel's Storm, Jason, the MC compares Mahiya, the FMC, to his mother. Did that prevent them from becoming a couple? No, so some people better sit down on this one.

His renewed anger at her behavior was visceral, a raw, bubbling thing. After near to seven hundred years of living with memories that had never faded, he knew the cause of his turbulent response, knew his fury was fed by the memory of another woman who hadn’t fought the violence meted out to her.

.

Neha’s treatment of Mahiya was nothing so obvious as a physical blow, but it was as effective a weapon in erasing her personality.

Jason gets mad at Mahiya because she is letting her aunt, Neha, mistreat her.

The quote some people really like to use is this one from Acofas :

I met Rhys’s stare across the table. What was that about?

Rhys sliced into his glazed ham in smooth, skilled strokes. It had nothing to do with Cassian.

Oh?

Rhys took a bite, gesturing with his knife for me to eat. Let’s just say it hit a little close to home. At my beat of confusion, he added, There are some scars when it comes to how his mother was treated. Many scars.

His mother, who had been a servant—near-slave—when he was born. And afterward. None of us bother to wait for everyone to sit, least of all Cassian.

It can strike at odd times.

Trying to make this into a weird thing when Azriel really cares about his mother and tries to protect her in any way he can isn't the take some people want it to be.

[cienie-isengardu]

❤ - Family Headcanon for Shang Tsung please!

And ☠ angry/violent headcanon for our boy Bi-Han!

Oh, nice ones! Thank you and sorry it took me so long to answer!

❤ - Family Headcanon for Shang Tsung please!

Shang Tsung barely remembers his family, which is understandable as more than a thousand years have passed since the last time he saw them. It was the natural order of things after all, for memories to fade after so long, to be superseded and replaced by vast knowledge and even vastier numbers of collected souls, as each carried their own weight, their own complicated history.

When you have memories of hundreds of mothers, it is easy to forget your own. Sometimes Shang Tsung couldn’t tell anymore where his memories started and where they ended, all feelings mixed and confused between all the souls if he did not focus well enough, if his control slipped even for a bit.

(And it did slip in the past often, when he was younger and less experienced, and then flooded with memories of different life, different times before he became Shao Kahn’s slave apprentice. But did the warm laugh of mother, and work-worn yet gentle hand of father was true, or just imagined, he could not tell anymore). 

But the thing is - Shang Tsung doesn’t care to remember. It is not like his family was bad, at least not by the standard of the era they all lived together back then. Even now, even despite himself, he still has some fondness for his mother (he was not a heartless monster, not yet, anyway) but what he remembers best about his parents and brother is how little they understand him, how little truly they accept his weirdness. As far as Shang Tsung can recall the old, faded scraps of his former life, they have never hated him outright but they did resent him in a lot little things, never letting him forget there was something abnormal about him.  Because Shang Tsung was a different child, too smart for his own good, too curious about magic around him, too eager to shift, to change. Everyone wanted him to stick to one, designated shape and position, to live the meaningless life but why should he limit himself with such a boring thing? Why to spend all his life on hard, thankless work that only the rich benefit from, instead of pursuing his own dreams of knowledge, of adventure, of something, anything, more than gods allowed him to have?

Which is why he did not hesitate once he stumbled upon something that turned out to be a magic portal to Outworld. It was there he learned not only magic but also how surprisingly little he missed his family.

And ☠ angry/violent headcanon for our boy Bi-Han!

Since he was little, Bi-Han was taught the importance of duty. Duty to Earthrealm and its protector, Fire Lord Liu Kang, duty to the clan he was born to lead one day. Everything resolved around those two things and nothing had the right to matter more. Not personal happiness, not desires, not even family could stand above duty. 

So he trained, and trained and trained, until his body became a deadly weapon, until his heart was cold enough to accept there may be a day when the duty will demand to sacrifice his own flesh and blood for a greater good. He pushed himself beyond own limits, until his heart was cold enough to look at his brothers - one from the same mother and one adopted - and not see the silly children with silly dreams they were but the future Lin Kuei warriors honor bound to serve.

(He did not understand his father’s fierce devotion to Liu Kang but then his father was full of fire he could never identify with. His heritage was the ice and coldness, the same blood that flowed in his mother's veins. She made sense to Bi-Han in a way the father never did, no matter how hard he tried to connect with the man. There was always an unseen barrier separating them like they were two different worlds. It was Kuai Liang, not Bi-Han, who inherited Grandmaster’s fire, this stubborn passion for tradition that shackled Lin Kuei for ages, that killed members of their family generation after generation.)

The Grandmaster always assured his sons that serving Earthrealm was the greatest honor that befallen onto Lin Kuei and for a long time, it was all Bi-Han had. But then his mother died in the line of duty and Bi-Han forever will remember the battered, bloodied body carried to the home. 

He did already see many dead bodies before, both of Lin Kuei members and those he killed for Earthrealm’s safety. It wasn’t the first time he heard Fire Lord speaking of the great sacrifices, of sadness for their loss. And like always, all his father did was to bow, to thank, to be honored by so oh magnanimous, so reverent god and his kind words that for Bi-Han meant nothing. 

It was not the first time Bi-Han was angry yet it was the first time the anger burned through his veins like a true fire. He wished his ice powers could develop faster, stronger, for a cold heart would feel no pain. His heart was on fire, choking anger held back only by the sheer stubbornness and sense of duty. Yet Bi-Han knew it was a matter of time, either he will find a strength to cool down this ire or let the anger at Liu Kang consume him wholly, let it to burn down this unfair bondage that was put on his clan for ages.

Father always spoke of honor but he has never explained Bi-Han what was so honorable to die for a realm that did not care at all for your sacrifice. Why train since you could walk, if all you get for your dutifulness is a meaningless pat on the head and pitiful thank you? Why to die for a god, who may call you a friend for doing his bidding yet won’t blink at all, when it is time to sacrifice another pawn for the greater good?

This time it was the battered body of his mother, but so easily could be his own. Or Kuai Liang. Or Tomas. Or Sektor. Or Cyrax. Or anyone born into Lin Kuei and its never-ending servitude. 

No, for Bi-Han honor was just a word everyone brings as an excuse when they want too much from you, when they demand another and another sacrifice. 

(And then Grandmaster died. Bi-Han could save his father but he didn’t. He followed what he was taught since he was a little boy: his duty was to clan, not to the blood. And it was father that let Lin Kuei to be shackled, the one that led his mother to death. When he returned home, he looked straight in the eyes of the Fire Lord, not an ounce of guilt in his heart - Liu Kang again spoke of great loss, of sadness and Bi-Han bowed, and thanked, and spoke of honor he did not believe for years. If the god knew what happened, he said no word about it and it was the only time Bi-Han wished to see his father’s face again, solely to let the dead man know how little he meant for his precious godly friend at the end of day.)

Kuai Liang thought Bi-Han was merely frustrated and it is the greatest irony of all for a pyromancer to see a fire in his brother’s cold heart and not recognize the anger that burned there for years.

Headcanon meme

[celestial-citrus]

Also. Blair is the same character who used to be Penny, right? Guessing from context clues?

The thorn in my side. Nebulous girl who haunts my story.

Blair is technically my oldest OC. Went from Rose->Rosie->Penelope->Blair. Basically never got a solid stake in the plot.

Until Sunday. Everything changed Sunday.

Estranged daughter of King Bridei and Fay Princess Morven. Fraternal twin of Robert/Graham. Blair was born with a damaged voice box and thus is mute.

A powerful, handsome husband. A child on the way. A modest kingdom at her disposal. Loyal subjects. Morven had almost everything. Yet something itched in the back of her mind. Was this really what she wanted? She had spent the majority of her life chasing power, sowing discord for her own enjoyement. Was settling down even possible for her? She pondered this question almost her entire pregnancy, never breathing a word to Bridei. She gradually became more and more agitated, feeling trapped.

Eventually, she went into labor and birthed a healthy baby boy, who Bridei named Robert. He was tinier than expected, but, as a surprise to everyone—out came another. A girl. It was assumed due to Bridei's statue, they were simply having an appropriately sized child. They were quite mistaken.

Morven didn't take to her at all. She felt nothing but hatred for this little girl, it burned even brighter when she saw Bridei fawning over her. Tiny hand grasping his finger, he ever so gently kisses her little head. He's grinning from ear to ear, and has never been happier. Bridei looks to her to share the joy, but she is unable to return it. It concerns him. She would feed and hold Robert, but refused to look at or even give a name to the girl. This made Bridei angry.

They got to arguing, Morven eventually snapping and railing at Bridei. Spilling all the anger, fear, and doubts that had been building up. She was too good to be a wife or a mother, she wasn't made to be bound to a man or slave to children. She would have none of it. Naturally, Bridei was horrified. Morven dragged herself out of bed and attacked in a blind fury, striking Bridei and partially the babies. Bridei clawed his way to the screaming child, bleeding profusely. Morven stormed out and ordered the children be taken to her parents abode, and Bridei be locked away. Once the children had been ripped away from her hysterical husband, Morven had all the human staff executed before sealing Bridei in his library, also using a 'Ceangail do Thoil' to block his magic, rendering him helpless and trapped. Some time after, Morven summoned thick walls of thorns around the castle, to keep visitors out.

Once they were almost a year old, Robert was kept with the fay nurses at Beira's palace; the girl was sent off to a secluded cottage in the woods in a neighboring country. Beira named her Blair.

Blair was raised by a single caretaker; an elderly fay woman, Órlaith—around a millennium old. She taught Blair everything she knew. A wickedly smart and intense child, Blair caught on quickly to most things Órlaith demonstrated. When she was barely an adolescent, their home was attacked by a passing group of orcs. Órlaith, frail, but with centuries of experience, ordered Blair to flee while she fights them off; long enough for her to get to safety. Blair protested, but her stern guardian had no time for arguments. She managed to kill most of the attackers, but was overcome in the end.

Blair returned later on to a pile of corpses, and the house burnt to ash. She carefully dragged Órlaith's body away from the carnage and buried her, placing flowers over her grave. She pulled the armor off the smallest body, donned it, and wandered off into the countryside.

After a few days—dehydrated, starving, and exhausted; Blair came upon a tower, built just before a bridge. She sized it up, and, determining it to be abandoned, declared it as her new home. She collapsed, falling asleep right in the middle of the floor.

At dawn, Blair was rudely awakened by something pecking her armor. She jolted upright and came face to face with an angry rock ptarmigan, its feathers all fluffed up in annoyance. She went to shoo it away before it screamd, flying a few feet away from her. That wasn't a squawk, that was a scream. It then proceeded to chide her for intruding on it's property, in full common tongue. It ranted for about fifteen minutes before realizing Blair was still staring at it in perturbation. "What? Are you daft, or something?"

The bird strutted around, muttering and shaking its head at her. Blair goo to her feet and bowed in apology. It asked why she isn't speaking, and she gestured that she in unable to. The bird felt pity, flying up onto her shoulder and fluffing out its feathers again. His name is Cuinn. He's a talking bird. He was the pet of a fay noble for a while, before his cage was lost during transport some time beforehand.

They strike up an unusual friendship. He showed Blair the surrounding areas and where to find fresh water. There's a town some miles north, where she searches for supplies. She has little money. Cuinn has questionable morality and snatches a purse or a few stray coins when he can, so she can eat. She procured a quaint little abode for herself, passing the time by guarding the bridge from shady travelers and the like. Cuinn stuffs himself in her helmet and bellows at anyone who comes across them, giving people the impression Blair is a fearsome knight, ready for battle. Blair plays into this role to the maximum, adopting a noble and foolhardy disposition, challenging people to duels and strutting around obnoxiously.

When Ross, Percy, Farron, and Sigurd come across her tower, she leaps out and demands they explain their intentions, daring to cross "his" bridge. Ross has little patience for this, and tries dodging around her and sprinting across. She is quicker than she looks, and sweeps his legs from under him. This makes him very upset, naturally, and he leaps up to fight her. Farron and Sigurd come to assist. It's a close match, she beats them mainly due to her haphazard swordsmanship, but at the end, Farron outsmarts her, knocking her to the ground and sending her helmet flying off. Sigurd becomes distressed at having fought a girl, and Ross simply screeches at her. Farron on the other hand, is immediately smitten. Cuinn darts out of her dislodged helmet, berating the boys, and suddenly it clicks for them. He says she cannot speak and is the ruler of this bridge, and they must abide by her rules. Blair shakes her head, signing to Cuinn that they defeated her, and it is her noble duty to assist them from now on. Cuinn protests, but then begrudgingly follows her to begin packing the small amount of belongings they had. Soon enough, they were on the road, headed towards what seemed a grand adventure with a band of nutjobs.

[sunlitsorrows]

i think it’s well past time we retconned Shmi Skywalker don’t you?

(oh she can still die tragically in Anakin’s arms to start him down the path of darkness, but give her character some character)

give us Sky Walker Shmi, give us the child who was stolen from the sky (canon; she was the daughter of some spacefaring traders who ran afoul of pirates and sold into slavery), but who’s fall was broken by the Desert

give us Amavikka Shmi—give us Bride of the Wind, Wife of the Sand, she who took up the mantle of the All Mother and refused freedom while any of her children still wore chains

(Anakin can still be the snapback in the Force caused by Palpatine’s experiments—I quite like the idea he unknowingly seeded his own downfall, but)

give us a reason it was Shmi this life sparked within—not a Force User, but like her grandson-to-be, named for Lukka, the sandstorm, Force Used, a conduit, a vessel—

you want to lean into the Mary Mythos angle? Give us Bendu coming to her in a dream and asking her to swallow a stone—

Not justice, he warns her, but vengeance, and many will fall so that he will rise, but in the end there will be balance—

(give us Shmi who was not a saint mother, but an angry one)

Shmi who can’t do anything flashy like move a tin can across the table but who can feel where the bombs in her fellow slaves are, who learns to use a scalpel to free the truly desperate (or to free them, because to the Amavikka the words for death and freedom are the same—where there cannot be one, there is always the other…), who the eyes of others slide off like water—even the seeking—even Qui-Gon Jinn—

give us a Shmi would wouldn’t have gone with the Jedi even if they had been able to barter for her freedom—

(though she would have been tempted)

(so tempted)

(because he was so small and so soft and he smelled like water and his eyes were the color of the Sky and his pudgy baby little fingers wrapped around hers so tightly and she never knew you could love anything so much it terrifies her—take him take him take him do not give me this choice—vengeance is nothing—and justice is nothing—I can’t do this—but I can’t do this—how can I do this—how do I do this—don’t look back vikka you were born to Walk the Sky)

—because her work is here on Tattooine, and it will never be finished, but she cannot abandon it.

i love seeing what everyone does with Shmi in fanfiction but I feel like canon writers really wouldn’t have to stretch very far to give us a Shmi with character/agency/reasons for what she did in canon.

(it would also plug the debatable plot hole of why Anakin didn’t go back and free her sooner if as a child he knew just enough about his mother’s secret work freeing slaves to know she wouldn’t come away with him)

[isadomna]

The Death of Galswintha

Brunhild’s elder sister, Galswintha, arrived in Frankish lands as Chilperic I of Neustria’s betrothed in July of 568, trailed by even more treasure and finery than her sister had been. At Rouen, Chilperic tripped over himself to provide an even more spectacular reception than his brother had given Brunhild. He marched his army more than one hundred miles west, so they might meet his new bride ‘near the curved bed’ of the river Seine as she disembarked from her ship. Rather than being greeted by a palace hall full of nobles, Galswintha was welcomed by Chilperic’s entire army on bended knee, swearing an oath of allegiance to their new queen. Chilperic never did anything in half measure. And Galswintha was married not in the great hall of a converted basilica, but in the cathedral at Rouen.

Less than six months later, though, a third wedding would take place. No cathedral this time, just a handful of nobles quickly assembled in the great room of a royal villa. A week before this third wedding, King Chilperic and Queen Galswintha had been fighting. As she stormed and raged, messengers were seen riding out from the palace at all hours, delivering missives and pleas to her sister and her mother. Galswintha had caught Chilperic in bed, again, with the slave girl Fredegund. The queen was furious that ‘he showed no respect to her at all’; she was distraught over ‘the insults which she had to endure’. She wanted to return home. Was it truly so unendurable? Yes, to be made a fool of like that. And Chilperic had such a temper! She would return home, even if it meant leaving her enormous dowry behind. One morning, soon thereafter, the palace woke to a horrible scene. Galswintha had been found dead in her bed, strangled in her sleep.

Chilperic did not once address his subjects on the matter of Galswintha’s untimely demise. There were no searches for her assailants or rewards offered for their capture. No one was ever questioned or punished, not even the guards who had been posted at the door of the royal bedchamber that night. It was Fortunatus’s friend Gregory who stated plainly what the whole of France was thinking: ‘Chilperic ordered Galswintha to be strangled… and found her dead on the bed.’

Just months after Galswintha’s wedding, Brunhild had received word that her father had dropped dead, presumably of a heart attack. When the next message arrived, this one from Galswintha’s terrified nursemaid, it was reported that Brunhild went into shock. In less than eighteen months, Brunhild had lost her homeland, her father and now her only sibling. At the news of Galswintha’s death, Spain falls into even greater lamentations, and her grieving mother ‘collapses in distress, her knees giving way’ and faints. The enraged mother of the murdered princess was still a major player in international politics; after the death of King Athanagild, she had married his successor.

The few tears Chilperic reportedly shed shortly after Galswintha’s murder may have even been genuine: he was sad that things had come to this. It was nothing personal; Galswintha was simply no longer useful to him. But Fredegund was. Chilperic was obviously incredibly attracted to her. And his attraction also solved several problems. A low-born woman came without the complications of a powerful family; she would be happy with whatever meagre morgengabe he gave her. Three days later, arrayed in the brightly dyed linens and jewels of her predecessor, Fredegund stood at the altar, smiling up at Chilperic.

Galswintha’s murder has been portrayed in art numerous times throughout the centuries since, and the blame always rests on Chilperic, so much so that illuminated manuscripts and paintings portray the king of Neustria himself, wearing his crown and grinning rakishly, wrapping a cloth around the neck of his sleeping wife. In some versions, Fredegund looks on. Whether Fredegund really urged him on or not, she knew people would always assume that she had, cleverly disposing of yet another rival for the king’s affections.

Source:

Shelley Puhak, The Dark Queens: A gripping tale of power, ambition and murderous rivalry in early medieval

[redrikki]

Mother's Day Master List

Avatar: The Last Airbender & Legend of Korra

Gather Up Every Wayward Lock - The girls do their hair (Katara, Azula, Toph)

Ten-Thousand Words (Which Won't See the Light of Day) - There are things they can't say. There are things they wont say. There are actions which speak louder than words. A series of short stories about the ladies of Legend of Korra. (Katara, Asami, Ikki, Pema, Lin, Senna, Zhu Li, Ginger)

Chips and Blocks - Lin called Toph 'Chif' for years before some well-meaning busybody taught her to say 'Mom' instead. Toph isn't sure what kind of mom she is, but she knows which kind she doesn't want to be. (Toph, Lin)

Sweep, Stir, Slow - When your daughter is the Avatar, motherhood is an exercise in letting go. (Senna/Tonraq, Korra)

Batman Comics

Mother of Pearl - Damian knew nothing about his grandmother aside from the manner of her death. It was time to change that. (Damian Wayne, Martha Wayne)

The Boys

Maybe It's Maybelline - Maybe she's born with it, or maybe it's Compound V. What kind of parent lets someone inject their kid with an experimental superpower serum? (Donna January)

Earth's Children

Only a Motion Away - But the mother and child reunion/Is only a motion away (Durc, Nezzie)

Ms. Marvel (Comics)

After Curfew - Disha Khan lay awake and wondered what she had done that Allah would give her such a daughter. (Disha Khan)

She-Ra and the Princesses of Power

Shadow Over Mystacor - After Shadow Weaver's attack on Mystacor, Adora just wants to relax, but that's hard to do when it's all your fault. (Adora, Glimmer, Bow)

A Song of Ice & Fire

Strange Children In Our Bed - It had been seven long months since Catelyn's husband had been home and in her bed. Theon Greyjoy was the only thing spoiling their reunion. (Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark)

Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse

One Last Leap - Telling his parents he's Spider-Man is a leap of faith Miles can't bring himself to take. (Miles Morales, Rio Morales, Jeff Davis, May Parker)

Star Wars

May the Force Get With You - The night her son is conceived Shmi has the best sex dream of her life. Something with a krayt dragon or a bantha or maybe just a ray of light. Too bad that's not what happens. Turns out, the Force is a lousy lay and a worse father. (Shmi/The Force)

Pain Management - Anger can get a slave killed. Shmi teaches her son some coping strategies. (Shmi, Anakin)

The Force Is In The Details - Continuation of The Force is in the Details. Slavery is as much a state of mind as it is a bomb under her skin. The chance cube lands on red and Shmi struggles with being free. (Shmi, Anakin, Padmé, Qui-Gon)

The Anchor That You Can't Leave Behind - On the queen's yacht headed back to Naboo, Anakin and Padmé miss their mothers but Obi-Wan doesn't get why. (Anakin, Padmé, Obi-Wan)

Domestic Life Was Never Quite My Style - Despite her best efforts, Padmé is pregnant. Now she has a difficult decision to make. (Padme/Anakin)

Second Wind - Ahsoka takes the wrong exit from the world between worlds and ends up with a second chance to save her master. (Ahsoka, Shmi)

Red Fish, Blue Fish - Leia bought an aquarium for her child like her father before her. In a perfect world she could raise Ben to fill his grandfather's legacy. Too bad he had more than one. (Leia Organa, Ben Solo)

The Last Truce We Ever Came To - Darth Vader is dead but he won't leave Leia alone. (Leia Organa, Anakin Skywalker, Ben Solo)

White Collar

Eyes on the Target (The Solid Ground Remix) - Peter asked her to keep an eye on Neal for him while he's stuck in jail. It could be going better. (Diana Berrigan, Neal Caffery, Peter Burke)